Chapter warning: Graphic content. Non-con. Pain. Potential triggers.
He’s bound with countless coils of green. I like to see him in restraints, and I like them to be enchanted snakes. He’s a Slytherin after all; they suit him. Sometimes I use so many of them that just his mouth and ass are left exposed to my manipulations; to kisses and caresses and a hundred kinds of exquisite cruelties.
Tonight I just tied up his ankles and wrists, forcing him to stay on his elbows and knees, ass in the air, but leaving him room to writhe. I like seeing that, too, I love it when he’s trying to get away.
Not that I’d let him.
“Harry…,” he gasps into the mattress. I’ve just shot into him yet another time. I’ve used a whole array of erection rings on my cock over the course of the last hours, with each ring working a stronger size magic so the strain on his ass has built up with each round of fucking.
I get rid of the ring to give my cock a little respite.
He’s pleading with me, but he can’t talk. Looks like I’ve fucked the capacity to build a coherent sentence right from his brain. Stripped of his usual cool and sass, and bound like he is, ass on offer, creased wings uselessly twitching, he’s nothing but a helpless angel made for me to fuck senseless.
An angel with his hole prised wide open. It’s pinker and puffier than ever, and gleaming with ass juice.
God, he’s beautiful.
I loosen the snake around his right wrist and turn him around a bit, just so that I can get a look at his front for a moment.
An invisible clamp charm is pushing his nipples out, continually twisting them. His lovely face is sweaty and drawn from the pain of it, and from the endless row of climaxes I’ve put him through. The sight alone is enough to give me a new boner, no erection ring needed.
He’s just the perfect blend of whore and martyr. And I’m so not done with him.
“It’s okay, baby,” I say, gently stroking the sweat-soaked golden strands from his brow. Then, just as gently, I push him back down onto his elbows, refasten the snake cuff around his wrist, and move behind him to take care of his ass again.
I’m going to try out his new hook on him before the next round.
It’s an anal hook I bought at the Muggle sex shop. No magic there, simple metal. When I press the bulky steel ball against his rosy entrance, he readily opens and sucks it inside. His breath hitches as I steadily push the hook deeper into him. It’s impossible to tell whether the penetration is a grace for him, or torture.
I softly twist the hook, imagining his tight channel bulge and deform inside him. He moans, his face pressed into the mattress. His ass, leaking slick, strains sideways. He’s trying to somehow lose the hook, but he can’t, he only gets drilled into more deeply with each move he makes.
I order him to keep still for his own good, and he obeys, thighs trembling. I can fuck him with the hook at leisure now. I do it gently, because his choked whimpers tell me he’s got trouble dealing.
In the end, he asks to be, yeah, let off the hook. Not that he could come up with even such a simple pun at the moment. But I know him well enough to make sense of the stuttered bits of sound he utters.
And I really need to get back into him. So, enough of this.
I pull at the hook, my eyes fixed on his opening as it slowly yields the metal rod. There’s a moment of delicious resistance when the steel orb at the end becomes visible.
His rim stretches and lengthens around it, like his hole was trying to keep the thing inside. One hefty tug, a rich, wet plop from his rear end and a yelp from the other, and he has produced it.
“Well done, fairyboy,” I tell him, patting his ass cheek as I Vanish the hook. He heaves a shuddering sigh in premature relief.
hex the erection ring I kept for last to the base of my cock. Those rings don’t go around the balls or prevent orgasm; they are made for one thing only: maximal cock size, maximal friction.
Trying to rein in my throbbing anticipation, I let the head of my freakishly enlarged cock dab at his guileless entrance. In a reflex, it draws open, revealing its glistening inner walls. Nothing could look more lecherous, or more vulnerable. O Merlin, I so need to get in there.
He strains his neck to look over his shoulder, to find out what he’s in for next. I let him get a glimpse of my erection. Thanks to the ring, it’s more than double its normal size. As an added bonus, the ring is fitted with rubber spikes on the outside. They are curling around the base of my fat shaft like a black dragon’s tail. His wide fairy eyes flare with fear, and his hole flutters as he tries to shut himself.
“No, please, Harry…”
“Harry, please, I can’t…”
With a quick wave of my wand I work the clamp charm on his nipples, pinching them so he hunches forward, hoarsely crying out and forgetting to try and keep me out of his ass. Swiftly, I guide my cock in. He deliciously clenches around me, curling up on himself, but it doesn’t help him. Holding his cheeks apart with both my hands, I go deeper and deeper, slowly, steadily, savouring his tightness and agonized moaning.
But in the end it turns out he’s right, he can’t take it. He’s so taut he won’t swallow my cock’s base with the ring.
I don’t pull out though, because I know that all he needs is a bit of comfort. Just a little dose of sweet, and he’ll be able to do his thing.
I force myself to stop pushing. Panting disconnected words of reassurance, I caress his distended rim.
When I reach below his belly for his cock, I catch it helplessly poking about in thin air; all plumped up and ready to be made to explode. Just a few pinches and tugs, and it’s spurting precome all over my hand. I knew this would do the trick. His hole like hiccups, and suddenly something gives. Quickly, I wedge my index fingers inside him on either side of my cock. Crooking them and pulling, I say the three magical words.
"I love you."
And as if on cue, he cramps up and comes.
His fingers claw into the mattress, and then his cruelly stretched opening starts gushing its gallons of come, in synchronicity with his erupting cock. All I have to do is flex my hips forward.
He utters a little scream as his flesh is made to allow the spikes in, and his ass cream wells out of him like blood from a wound. He doesn’t tear, thanks to his wetness and the protective hex I put on him. It guarantees he can’t suffer any damage, but it does nothing to lessen the sensations.
Rooted into him and relishing the feel of him going through his spasms, I wait till he's done. Only then, I slip my fingers out and pull back, watching the spikes flex back out of him, followed by the rest of my cock. It’s looking like a red python, glistening with fairy juice. I pull it fully out so it can catch a breath of air, and so I can breach him again.
But his hole doesn’t shut itself; it’s gaping like the shock of what just happened to it made it forget how to constrict. I guide myself back between the slobbering lips and thrust, hard, pushing them back into his butt.
He lets out a hoarse cry that morphs into an endless whimper as I slide all the way in again, like he’s singing somewhere in the far distance. When the spikes are being forced through his entrance yet again, his voice gets stuck in his throat. But I don’t stop. I fuck him fast and full length now, making his hole swallow the springy spikes over and over. It looks beyond vicious, and it is. But he's already approaching his next climax.
When he's there, I pound him right through it, spikes and all, yanking him towards me by his wings with one hand and pressing a slippery ass cheek to the side with the other, using what breath I have left to tell him what a slimy little Slytherin he is.
The words seem to boost the discharge even more. His juices squirt everywhere; the mess he’s making is incredible. The mattress is so soaked with his come it gives a squishy sound each time my knees press down with another stroke.
I want to shoot into that slopping, convulsing ass, but I need to see how I’ve opened him up. Digging my fingers into his hips for leverage, I pull out, and there’s his hole, gaping and twitching with the impact of that final, cruel fuck.
I don’t have time to get back inside him. My orgasm coils through me, tight and hot like liquid fire. I grab hold of myself for a better aim and shoot at his consumed open core, hitting it with load after load of come.
Only when I run dry I hear it.
He’s crying. Draco is crying. Suddenly I see him again.
My Draco, my angel.
Soiled, broken. Crying, because of me.
God, he's looking like the victim of gang rape, his wings rumpled and standing away from his back at an odd angle, his hole turned inside out, glistening in all the shades of purple.
O my God, I hurt my angel. My sweet, sweet angel.
And he’s still splayed out in front of me, helplessly bound.
“Liberta,” I cry hoarsely.
The snakes fall away, leaving red marks on his pale skin. His head sinks down between his shoulders, but it seems he can’t close his legs.
I need him to close his legs.
I need him to go back to being himself.
I need him to look at me.
He feels like a wax figure when I turn him over, cold and immobile. His eyes are squeezed shut. His nipples stand out like nail heads, still slowly revolving.
It’s the clamp spell, I forgot the clamp spell.
His nipples turn a fierce red as they fill with blood, and he arches his back like in a seizure, screaming in pain.
I put my hands to his twisting shoulders, close to panicking, and he curls up, straining away from my touch. He’s trying to shield himself from me, both hands reaching down between his legs, covering his butt crack.
He’s shaking all over now.
And all the time, the tears are gushing forth from between his closed lids, coating his beautiful face in gold.
O God, what did I do to him.
What did I do.
As I cautiously retreat, our bedroom rematerialises around me, a peaceful space of darkness. The faint, soothing rustle of leaves drifts through the open window, and the curtains gently billow in the night breeze.
I inhale the scent of nature, and slowly my heartbeat evens out.
I’m at home in Godric’s Hollow, and in my own head.
I’m Draco, and none of all that sex and suffering ever happened.
I still run my hand down my crack to make sure. I put a finger to my entrance, half expecting to find dripping intestines hanging out. But there’s just the perfectly regular feel of the circle of soft padding around my neatly closed hole.
Neatly closed, if lightly coated with precome, like the tip of my half-hard cock.
“Draco, please, oh my angel, oh no…”
Harry’s agonized voice.
He’s talking in his sleep.
Sitting up, I look at him in the twilight.
He’s heavily breathing, with his black strands clinging to his scarred brow. Clutching at his pillow, he’s shifting under the damp sheets, over and over gasping out my name.
I put a hand to his forehead to calm him. It works, for now. He sighs and goes still.
Taking care not to wake him, I gather my wand from the bedside table and clean him up with a silent Lavatio Amatoria. I change the bedding, too. He sighs again, sounding almost content this time. Stretching out under the fresh sheets, he pulls the fluffed up pillow up against his chest possessively.
If I’m lucky, he’s done for the night. But I know that it’s much more likely that in a couple of minutes, he’ll slip back into his nightmare and get on with freaking out.
I know because he's got these dreams almost every night.
And because this is not exactly the first time I’ve used Legisomnium on him.
He could have done the same to me last winter, back when I was having nightmares about Lupin’s boggart. But he’d never dare do this to me. He knows I can’t have anyone look into my mind, not even him. And he respects that. Because he’s noble and decent like that.
I’ve just become too desperate to know what’s going on with him, what’s up with his fitful sleeping of late, and Legisomnium is the perfect means to find out. So I’m using it.
It’s a sneaky thing to do.
But then I guess I am a slimy little Slytherin.
The truth is, I might have grown wings on my twenty-first birthday, but else I haven’t changed as much as he likes to believe.
He has told me he loves me like a million times since we came together; especially after he found out about the boggart. And I believe him. Because I know that for some reason he sees me as this kind of saint.
I think it’s because of my wings. The whole angel lore associated with people who got those. Mine aren’t classical angel wings, obviously. No feathers or anything. They are plain old fairy wings.
But I can still tell that when Harry calls me angel, he means it literally.
The thing is, he thinks my fairy magic is like unicorn magic; that it’s rooted in a superhuman kind of essential innocence.
It is true that it allows me to ward off attackers, and that Fairy Force, the potion I can distill from my blood, grants a witch or wizard a few hours of invincibility. But there’s absolutely no scientific evidence for Harry’s theory that this is due to an inborn moral purity on my part.
But no matter how often I point that out to him, he sticks to his conviction that I’m like supernaturally nice.
He says it’s why everybody loves me.
They so don’t. There’s tons of people who hate my guts.
Like the guy whose ass I’ve been kicking at World of Witchcraft over the last couple of days. Black Boss. He got so mad when I laughed at his laughable vintage wizard’s hat and his even more laughable strategies that I did it twice as much.
Or Madam Malkin. She wouldn’t ever say anything, obviously, but when I last saw her to tell her I won’t have the blue silk smoking for my wedding after all because I realized a puffapod leather dress suit would be just so much smarter, it was pretty obvious she had to fight off an urge to put her fitting pins right in my butt.
I’m sure she thinks I’m exactly the same spoilt, annoying little git that stood on a chair in her shop next to Harry Potter twelve years ago.
And that’s fine by me, because basically, I am.
But Harry thinks I’m perfect.
It’s absurd. A little bit crazy, really.
I thrive on wiping the floor with clueless noobs in Y-pad games, I drive my dressmaker to hysterics.
I snoop on my fiancé.
And I used to try and do my father proud, even though he was the right hand of Voldemort, and when I found out about everything, and was expected to become a Death Eater myself, all I came up with by way of fighting back was kid’s con tricks, like corrupting my Mark.
I’m ever so far from perfect, I’m no angel at all.
And frankly, sometimes I’m not all that happy about being called that. Frankly, sometimes it kind of piques my pride.
The thing is, when you hear angel, you think cute and puffy-faced. And I’m neither. I’m a successful scientist and businessman, and I know how to duel, not just in gaming.
Maybe I got no beard and my eyes are too big, but I’m still tougher than most. –
Harry has started to mumble something.
I knew it.
He’s back to beating himself up. He’s pleading my forgiveness, and telling me he is too foul a man to be with me.
That means that next he’s going to start crying. I know it, and I can’t bear it. O Merlin, I can’t bear watching him cry.
I can’t let this go on. I need to do something about this. Tell him it’s okay or something, without admitting to the fact that I’ve been watching his dreams. Or the fact they leave me scared and confused, if kind of weirdly, disturbingly turned on.
Hell, I need a plan.
Harry utters a choked whimper. My throat constricts.
Leaning over him, I say his name and kiss him on the lips to wake him up.
Chapter End Notes
A few words of context:
"Shades of Black" explores a darker side of intimacy. Some might call it deviant. Some might expect me to denounce my Harry as sick, use his difficult childhood as the explanation, and have him learn to forsake his wicked ways.
But this is not another Shades of Grey.
The point is, there will be actual cruelty. And cruelty actually is deviant. But it’s also canon:
As Amycus spun around, Harry shouted, “Crucio!”
When I read this for the first time, I felt like the whole of the HP universe had turned upside down. Everything Harry stands for suddenly didn't seem to be valid anymore.
I read the rest of Deathly Hallows waiting not so much for Harry’s victory, but for his redemption. –
But then I guess it’s the same in fiction as in real life: You can’t expect to find something like deliverance of the soul outside of a love story. Which is basically why I wrote this fic :)
About Shades of Black:
Orion Black II is the last of the Blacks. Or he would be, but he’s an illegitimate son, and it’s Harry Potter who is considered the heir of the Black family fortune, together with his fiancé Draco Malfoy. And once they tie the knot and their offspring hatches, there will be a whole bunch of kids with a claim to the estate. Kids with pointed ears and fairy wings.
Well, Orion Black doesn’t intend to be cheated out of his inheritance by a family of freaks. –
Draco has laid those seven fairy eggs, but it’s Harry who needs to finally confront a birthing trauma of his own. Since that Voldemort baby thing came out of him when he got hit with Avada Kedavra five years ago, he has never really trusted himself again. And the dark desires he has developed concerning his mate must mean his soul is corrupted beyond salvation, or so he is convinced. –
Draco has found out about Harry's secret desires and woes and concocts a plan to help him be more relaxed about things. Its key element is this genius new potion; Obliquid. Draco has designed it himself, so he knows what he’s doing, right?
But then things go terribly awry.
Can Draco and Harry recover from a half hour of cruelty that neither of them will ever forget?
Will they stand together and save their family from the murderous machinations of Orion Black II?
And will that fairy tale wedding extraordinaire Draco had all planned out ever come to pass?