Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11404578.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Tom_Riddle, Harry_Potter/Voldemort
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Tom_Riddle_|_Voldemort
  Additional Tags:
      Crack, Crack_Treated_Seriously, Alternate_Universe, Drag_Queens, Drag
      Lord_Voldemort, Drag_Queen_Death_Eaters, Makeup_Artist_Tom, terrible
      puns, Not_Beta_Read, Chatting_&_Messaging, Unresolved_Sexual_Tension,
      Sexual_Content, Canon-Typical_Violence, Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-05 Completed: 2017-07-13 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 8018
****** Harry Potter and the Drag Lord Prince ******
by Katsitting_(Nekositting)
Summary
     "Quite right." Riddle replied, before grabbing his black beauty
     blender and blending his concealer into his skin. "The boy will
     submit to me completely. And that includes those disastrous brows."
     Riddle smirked, setting the sponge down after smoothing the colors
     until there were no lines on his face.
     Or:
     This is a tale of makeup, melodrama, and murder.
     Tom Riddle is a makeup connoisseur. Harry is the unwilling target of
     his affections. Lord Voldemort is Tom Riddle's drag persona.
     Harry never stood a chance.
Notes
     This is absolute crack and unlike the majority of what I write for
     this fandom. This started off as a simple shitpost and it has evolved
     into...this. I hope you get as much a good laugh out of this as I am
     because you're in for quite the ride.
     Be prepared for intrigue, for drama, and for a flustered Harry that
     has no clue what he is getting himself into.
     This is rated E for a reason.
***** Rouge For Your Liege *****
This could totally combine with the leather.
"Leather?" Riddle scoffs, raising a perfectly sculpted brow he spent hours
shaping. "Unless it is lined with satin woven by the most skilled Wizarding
seamstress, I would never fall so low."
"...however, if it will get the bloody child to notice how much effort it takes
me every morning. Perhaps, I shall consider it." Riddle purses his blood red
lips, before sighing rather dramatically.
 
===============================================================================
 
I'm thinking about Snow White Tom now.
"Snow White? I am not quite convinced." Riddle turns his attention to his
mirror as he speaks, regarding the different patches of color on his face. He
hadn't finished his contour yet, and lord it was taking ages to bake. "Everyone
knows Maleficent is a much better choice."
 
===============================================================================
 
I want to pin all of these.
Riddle stopped for a moment, suddenly seized by a bright idea. "Perhaps I
should pin Harry here. Seal him in this room. I'm sure there will be much more
for him to learn." Riddle gestured to all the makeup products in the room,
books lying about with pictures of refined makeup models.
===============================================================================
 
I  just imagined Tom trying to put lipstick on Harry, but Harry bites off a
chunk and spits it out.
 "Do you realize how much this costs?" Riddle sneered, suddenly possessed with
rage. "If he dares to do such a thing, nothing short of his blood could ever
satisfy me." Riddle grabbed a brush then, removing the thin layer he'd applied
on his cheeks. "...Though, this tube does remind me of that delicious liquid
running through his veins."
 
===============================================================================
 
I love drawing Harry with undone, huge eyebrows. I bet Riddle would feel
uncomfortable with them.
"Quite right." Riddle replied, before grabbing his black beauty blender and
blending his concealer into his skin. "The boy will submit to me completely.
And that includes those disastrous brows." Riddle smirked, setting the sponge
down after smoothing the colors until there were no lines on his face.
 
===============================================================================
Imagine Harry shaving off Tom's eyebrows.
"When you have no brows, it opens many doors." Riddle grabbed his better than
sex mascara, choosing to forego eyeshadow and eyeliner this time. Sometimes
even he could be tired of his dramatics. "I can simply draw my own if the urge
ever manifests."
 
===============================================================================
"A-are you wearing makeup, Riddle?" Harry finally asked, no longer able to
remain silent on the matter. Riddle raised a perfectly sculpted brow in
response, before winking at him. Harry tried not to gape. "Oh? So there is
still hope for you yet." Riddle purred, his blood red lips curling into a
wicked grin. All Harry could think of was just how white his teeth looked.
Harry pinched himself, just to be sure he wasn't dreaming.
"Do you like the color?" Riddle purred, stepping closer to Harry's shocked
form. Riddle practically preened when Harry tried to form some sort of
response, but failed. "Jeffree Star's Red Rum. Just recently released these in
créeme form. It feels quite nice on my lips. Would you like to try it, Harry?"
Riddle smirked when Harry's cheeks flushed with color, resembling the rosy hue
of Riddle's lips the longer they remained in the darkened corridor.
How...endearing, Riddle thought.
"Ah, erm." Harry felt Riddle press so close to him that he could smell a faint
fragrance. It was light, something that Harry himself would never have
associated with Riddle. Almost fruity? Harry tried to make out just where he
had smelled this scent before, but when Riddle pressed his fingers to Harry's
cheek and lightly trailed his fingers over to Harry's parted lips, all thought
fled Harry's mind. "You're looking quite flushed, Harry." Harry wanted to say
something, but then Riddle leaned in closer. Harry's tongue refused to move.
"Perhaps I should hold off on the blush? It seems you don't quite need it."
Riddle mused, eyes twinkling with something mischievous
"You have such lovely skin, Harry. It is the perfect canvas." Harry was
reeling, his stomach fluttering strangely at the feeling of Riddle's fingers
teasing his lips. He didn't know why the action had floored him so completely,
why he didn't think to move away. Harry should have smacked Riddle's hand away
instantly rather than allow this. "I could make you into something exquisite. I
could make you into art, Harry. You need only say the word." Harry choked on
his saliva in disbelief, the shock of it enough to propel Harry away from
Riddle's bold fingers. "That's not quite necessary." Harry refused immediately,
cursing when he realized just how warm his cheeks felt.
"Are you quite sure? I could make the world worship you." Riddle's voice was
smooth, a heat in the depths of his eyes that made Harry sweat nervously. "They
would be blinded by the glow of your cheeks, mesmerized by the rosy hue of your
lips, if you allowed me to touch you." Harry shook his head firmly, unable to
speak because this was just bloody ridiculous. "With the right shade, I could
really make your eyes shine. You already have long and thick lashes, a little
mascara can go a long way."
"No." Harry's response was firm, his lips pressed into a hard line despite the
redness of his cheeks.
"I absolutely refuse." Harry finally gathered the courage to shove past Riddle,
ignoring the sound of Riddle's laughter as he fled. Harry wondered if he could
ask Ron to erase these last few minutes from his memory. He doubted he could
ever look at Riddle without recalling this...bizarre conversation. Harry was
halfway down the corridor when he heard Riddle call out, his voice silky.
"You know where to find me, should you ever change your mind." Harry needed a
drink.
Badly.
***** Cat That Ate The Cream *****
Chapter by Katsitting_(Nekositting), Nekositting
Chapter Summary
     The crack saga continues. I give you Drag Mort. Enjoy!
     (If you noticed the word count plummet, it is because it did after I
     noticed I tacked on chapter 1 into this one. Whoops.)
When Harry heard that there would be a performance at the center of Hogsmeade,
he felt both excited and nervous for it. He had never personally witnessed a
wizarding show—aware only of the different muggle performances the Dursley's
often went to.
Harry, of course, had never been allowed to personally attend, but he knew
enough. The Dursley's were not particularly the most silent bunch. Often
describing the grandeur of the theatre and the skills of the actors.
But this performance—would it be anything like what the Dursley's described?
Harry supposed not, considering that everything here was magical. There would
be no doubt that this would be a night he would never forget.
And then they arrived, well, Harry felt vindicated at the fact that surelynone
of the muggle performances the Dursley’s attended could compare to this.
"Mate, are you okay?" Harry faintly heard Ron ask, but Harry did not have the
presence of mind to truly acknowledge his friend.
Harry was awed by what he was seeing, unable to quite comprehend that he had
been missing something this magnificent. If this was how all wizarding theatres
looked, then Harry would never miss a performance in Hogsmeade again.
Harry was sitting at the front row nearest to the stage, eyeing the way the
columns at either end of the stage suffused the air with power. It reminded
Harry of those old Roman fixtures he had seen pictures of—the resplendence
enough to strike all that gazed upon them dumb.
But this was not something of the past, but of the present.
"I'm fine, just a little surprised is all." Harry managed to whisper after
drinking in his fill of the room, waiting with great anticipation for the
performers to get on stage.
Harry paused, then.
Harry didn't know what to make of what he was seeing.
He had expected to see groups of wizards and witches come onto stage. But there
was only one figure on stage once the lights dimmed. The person was completely
shrouded in darkness, the room falling into silence the only indication that
the show was about to begin.
Harry felt his excitement running through his veins, waiting with great
anticipation for what was to come despite his confusion. He could faintly hear
Ron mutter something under his breath, but he ignored it in favor of focusing
his attention to the figure on stage.
"And now, for the moment you have all been eagerly waiting for. I give you,
Lord Voldemort!" Harry heard a voice shout into the silence and then, Harry
felt all the color drain from his cheeks.
If Harry had known that it was this sort of show, he never would have agreed to
come at all. Hell, he would have planted his arse in The Three Broomsticks and
called it a night.
But that was not the case.
Before him, several feet away, stood the lone figure on stage, dressed entirely
in skin tight leather with the highest thigh-high boots Harry had ever seen.
The heels at least five inches high.
Harry's heart felt like it was about to give on him. He was unable to look
away, noticing then how inhuman the man looked.
Lord Voldemort resembled more a serpent than a man, a strange conglomeration of
the two. He had bright red eyes and slits for a nose--the sheen of his skin
silvery beneath the glow of the one light above the man. It was only when the
man began to walk towards the front of the stage that Harry noticed Lord
Voldemort was wearing makeup.
Harry regretted instantly sitting front row.
"Ron!" Harry whispered fiercely, trying to get the ginger's attention as
Voldemort strutted to the front row, his cheek bones glowing a bright silver,
so heavily contoured that Harry wondered idly if those cheeks could cut stone.
Voldemort's eyes were fringed with thick, heavy lashes that accentuated rather
than detracted Voldemort's smokey eyeshadow. Harry was dismayed at the fact
that he even noticed this at all, but it was only natural that he'd take note
of such a thing. He'd spent too long staring at Riddle's face most of the term
to not pick up a couple things.
A secret, he would take to the grave.
And then Voldemort's crimson eyes were on his, and Harry felt all the air leave
his lungs.
Harry tried to look away, but there was something holding him back. Perhaps, it
was the sudden brilliant smile that lit the man's face—or the bright red
lipstick. Harry could not be sure.
Harry's cheeks colored a bright red when Voldemort winked at him then, the
tight leather corset over the skin-tight catsuit scrunching in the complete
silence that had fallen in the room.
The music had yet to play. And rather than stand around in silence, the man
chose instead to stare deeply into Harry's eyes. The crimson in the orb
swallowing Harry up so rapidly that he didn’t even notice Voldemort lift his
arm into the air, his bare fingers pale as his face.
As if summoned by the simply gesture, a bright light suddenly flashed,
practically blinding Harry and all the onlookers in the room. Harry immediately
closed his eyes in a poor attempt to blink away the dark spots dancing in his
vision.
Once Harry blinked away the spots in his eyes, he noticed immediately that
almost directly in front of Harry, stood a long metal pole.
Voldemort, finally, turned his powerful gaze away, allowing Harry a chance to
take in the breath he did not realize he was holding, to walk around the pole.
Seeming to look out to the crowd as if in acknowledgement before returning his
burning stare back to Harry’s own, rather wide, eyes.
The man hardly seemed to notice that there was a large audience outside of
Harry, the boy helplessly watching how Voldemort’s legs slid around the pole.
"Such an obedient audience, are you prepared to worship your lord?" Voldemort's
voice was all silk and dark promises, carrying out to the deathly silent
audience.
Harry could practically feel the tension in the air.
No one said a word for a few scant seconds before the audience suddenly erupted
with cheers.
Harry could hear several—was that Malfoy!?—calling for Lord Voldemort to begin.
For the man to look upon them and give them the attention Voldemort seemed to
be reserving solely for Harry. But the man did not spare the rest of them a
glance, the brows he had drawn on his face raised up questioningly when Harry
had not erupted with cheers as had everyone else.
Was the man expecting Harry to do something?
 Harry was not sure of what to do, almost tempted to turn his attention away to
ask Ron just what to bloody do. But Harry did not know what would happen if he
looked away—there was something in Voldemort's eyes that urged Harry from doing
so.
And Harry, trusting his instincts more than anything, listened.
It was in the instant that Harry tried to come up with something to say that he
finally noticed a long zipper to one side of Voldemort's leg. Completely
distracted by the fact that there could even be one there at all.
Harry swallowed the words back into his lungs, and simply shook his head. He
didn't trust himself to speak. It was all Voldemort needed him to do before
Voldemort smirked and pressed his hand to the pole to slide his hips closer to
it.
And then, almost as if summoned, smoke began to creep through to the center of
the stage. It was a heavy green, suffusing through the air like some malignant
specter. Harry felt like he was going to choke from how thick it was, the
texture heavy in the back of his throat as a group of seven robed individuals
suddenly flew in from the darkened corners of the stage. They wore white masks,
the color streaking through the darkness and the emerald smoke.
Voldemort did not react to them, his lips curved into a self-satisfied smirk as
he slid the hand holding the pole upwards, and curled his leg around it. Harry
felt lightheaded in that instance, faintly hearing Ron curse under his breath
when the heavy bass started to pulse in sync to the rapid beating of Harry's
heart before settling to a slow crawl.
When had the music even started?
It was the calm before the storm, in Harry's honest opinion, completely thrown
by the instrumental playing. The song sounded familiar, something he recalled
Dudley had listened to once before, before his parents quickly shut the song
off.
"You let me violate you."
And then, Voldemort was spinning on the pole, bending upwards so one leg was
parallel with the pole. "You let me desecrate you." Harry felt completely
ruined, the image of a toned leg wrapped in tight leather high in the air
burned into his mind as he watched. Voldemort's eyes never turned away from
Harry's own gaze as the man sang, arching his back before dropping the leg high
in the air, and wrapping both around the pole.
He held onto the pole with one hand, spinning before the cloaked figures in the
back were suddenly at either side of Voldemort, three grabbing onto the arm the
man had stretched outwards as he spun, and another three grabbing both his legs
when Voldemort had ceased to spin.
Harry's jaw felt like it was somewhere on the ground. He was tempted to look
away to be sure he had not in fact lost it somewhere, but he abandoned that
useless endeavor when the heavy cloaks the dancers were wearing evaporated to
reveal a group of men dressed in tight, black latex rompers. The material
leaving so little to the imagination that Harry's face burned hot.
 Voldemort winked at him before singing "You let me penetrate you," motioning
for Harry to come onto the stage with a come-hither motion from his finger.
Harry knew that Voldemort was gesturing for him to get on stage. He could see
it in the burn of his gaze, the red in his eyes made more crimson by the
charcoal around the man's eyes. But Harry was frozen in place, a cross between
running the hell out from the place and remaining perfectly where he sat.
He did not, at any moment, consider actually getting up and going up that
stage. But when he felt hands settle onto his shoulders, the force of it
propelling him towards the stairs that were a couple feet away from where he
was seated, he knew he did not have a choice.
His fate was sealed.
The dancers helped Voldemort to his feet, their hands pushing and prodding at
the skin Voldemort willingly offered to the dancers. Their hips were gyrating
to the intoxicating beat of the song, Voldemort moving his lips perfectly in
sync with the artist crooning the lyrics as he moved his hips, kicked his
heeled feet in the air.
Harry did not realize he was on stage until he felt Voldemort's fingers latch
tightly onto his shoulder, the touch burning Harry through the material of his
robes. Voldemort's eyes were glittering with something feral, the glitter at
the corner of Voldemort's eyes doing little to settle Harry's nerves when he
felt rather than saw the dancers swarm him.
The dancers' fingers embedded themselves into his hair, touched and teased at
his ribs through his robes, and—Harry gaped, a protest leaving his lips when
they pressed their hands against Harry's thighs. "W-what--" Harry was beyond
mortified when the dancers practically molested him in front of an audience,
Voldemort gyrating his hips to the beat of the music before pressing his body
ever closer to Harry's own.
Harry felt like he might pass out at that very instance—his brain unable to
comprehend just what was happening.
"I want to fuck you like an animal."
Harry felt something hot and hard press against his stomach, and he knew that
he did not need to look down to know just what that was. Voldemort ground it
there, lifting his hands high above his head as if he were reaching for
something before dropping to his knees in front of Harry's splayed legs. The
dancers held his legs open, their fingers tight on his thighs despite the fact
that Harry stopped resisting from the moment he realized Voldemort was hard.
"You can have the hate that it brings."
He was moving, twisting and bending between Harry's legs like an expert
courtesan—the feeling of Voldemort's clawed nails digging into the fabric of
his trousers doing little for Harry's sanity.
"You can have my absence of faith."
Voldemort trailed one hand up his thigh until it was a breath away from the
zipper of his pants, playing with the button of his trousers for what felt like
an eternity, before twisting his body around to press his arse against Harry's
hips.
Harry felt a dancer suddenly dig his hands into his hair, the sharp pain enough
to rip a startled cry from Harry's lips, as he was forced to arch his back and
press his hips flush against Vodemort's undulating hips.
"You can have my everything."
Harry was jolted from his stupor from the sensation of Voldemort's arse on his
crotch, the pressure enough to make something warm curl in his stomach.
Harry wanted the ground to swallow him up. The force of Voldemort's allure
enough to erase all thought outside of the man currently giving him the best
lap dance of his life.
Harry felt himself respond to the way Voldemort rubbed his arse against him,
mortified when he hardened from the constant stimulation.
"Help me, it's your sex I can smell."
Harry caught the lyrics, but didn't have the time to feel appropriately ashamed
when suddenly, Voldemort was pressing closer. So closely that there was no
space between their bodies—Voldemort's back flush against Harry's front.
Harry gasped when Voldemort twisted his arm back to replace the  hand that had
sunken into his hair earlier, the sensation drawing shivers up Harry's spine.
The claws scratched pleasantly against his scalp, the sensation feeling so good
that Harry could not stop himself from parting his lips to release a soft,
appreciative moan.
He regretted instantly what he had done, but there was no taking the sound back
now. Then Voldemort's hand was forcing Harry's face closer, the man's red lips
flashing before Harry's gaze to indicate that Voldemort had turned his head to
look at Harry's flushed face.
Their lips were so close that Harry could taste the inside of Voldemort's
mouth—chocolate and mint coating the back of his tongue.
"I want to feel you from the inside."
Harry gasped, gaze trapped by Voldemort's smoldering red gaze as he tried to
breathe. He wanted to speak, to say something over the loud music as Voldemort
continued to recite the lyrics to the song as if they were the most complex
magic, but he failed miserably each time.
He had no words to give, his mind blissfully blank and unaware that he was in
fact still on stage.
The hands holding Harry firmly in place were ignored, dissipating like the
thick green smoke oozing from the stage like blood. There was something pulling
Harry into Voldemort's eyes, as if he were falling into the endless pools
rather than standing quite still on the stage as Voldemort twisted his
hips—kicked his leg out to show a tantalizing thigh to the audience—as he
moved.
Harry was so engrossed by the man's eyes that Harry did not notice Voldemort
pull his face forward until it was too late, his lips pressing against
surprisingly warm lips that melted all remaining resistance from Harry's
thoughts.
Why was he even fighting this?
He could not help but respond back, the tightness in his trousers urging him to
move simultaneously with the man moving so pleasantly between his thighs.
"I drink the honey inside your hive." Voldemort murmured against Harry's lips,
tongue teasing along the rim of Harry's lips before pulling away entirely.
Voldemort's body moving to the beat of the song as he cat-walked away from
Harry's shocked form, to transfigure a long, thin rod out of thin air before
cracking it in the air.
It resembled a wand, but something inside Harry told him that it most
definitely wasn't. Wands definitely did not crack like that. "You are the
reason" Voldemort sang, lips moving in time with the music as he twisted and
twirled right back to Harry. "I stay alive." And then the rod was smoothing
over Harry's cheek, Voldemort's lips curved into a devious smirk that made all
the blood in Harry's veins rush south.
The sound of Trent Reznor's voice faded completely from the stage, the only
reprieve Harry had before the music shifted again to something Harry never
expected to hear.
"Every time they turn the lights down, just want to go that extra mile for
you."
Harry felt the dancers begin to move then, as if some covert signal had been
given. They were forcing Harry back, their fingers so tight on Harry's skin
that he knew he'd have bruises for weeks if he survived the night.
He was twisted around, his back turned to face Voldemort as they forced him
against something comfortable—the surface plush and leathery against his cheek.
He was breathing so hard that his vision blurred at its edges, his anxious
energy making it difficult to hold still despite the rather firm grip the
dancers had on his arms and legs.
They were no longer groping him, but he could feel the way their bodies moved
in time to the beat of the music in background, Britney Spear's voice the only
thing keeping Harry together. He couldn't quite see Voldemort at his back, but
gauging from the sounds of cheering that suddenly broke out in the time Harry
was pressed to the soft surface, Voldemort was still performing for the crowd.
Harry was relieved that the fire was no longer on him. Though he couldn’t help
but wonder if this was the calm before the storm. There was something tingling
over his skin, an energy not his own that made the dancers holding him down
practically vibrate.
Harry could feel the storm brewing there and he was unable to resist its pull
as he jerked along with the dancers.
"W-hat is--?" Harry could not finish his statement, the feeling of his shirt
suddenly vanishing eliciting a gasp mid question.
He felt exposed—the hungry gaze of the audience practically a caress. Harry
could see their blurred faces with the way his face was pressed into the
surface, his glasses still miraculously on his face despite being shoved and
moved about like a rag doll.
"Cameras are flashin' while we're dirty dancing, they keep on watching." Harry
heard Voldemort whisper the lyrics into his ear and Harry trembled, feeling the
rod's smooth surface trace along his spine.
“They keep on watching.” Harry felt Voldemort’s hot breath on his neck, and
could not bite back his moan when Voldemort pressed his lips briefly against
his quivering skin, tasting the nervous sweat beading at his neck.
The moan came out breathless, a mixture of a plea and cry when he heard
Voldemort chuckle through the blaring music, his teeth grazing him just soas he
did. It was a high voice—a decadent sound that Harry never would have
anticipated liking. He doubted he would ever forget it.
Though it was arguable that this night would be unforgettable, regardless.
And then Voldemort was stepping away, taking his warmth with him as he exposed
Harry to the hungry eyes of the audience.
Harry could not stifle the shudder that crawled up his spine—cold now that he
was no longer soaking in Voldemort’s warmth or had a shirt on to hide his
flushed skin. “Feels like the crowd is saying…” It was the only warning Harry
had before the lights suddenly shut off, plunging the room in total darkness.
He cried out when he felt a sharp pain burn cut across his shoulder blades
suddenly.
The burn was jarring and unpleasant despite the haze that had settled in his
gut, the contrast between pleasure and pain, a fine one.
“Gimme, gimme, more. Gimme more.”
Harry twisted and jerked in the hold of the dancers, mouth opening to release a
silent cry when he felt one, then two, then three, and then an insurmountable
amount of hits rain across the exposed flesh of his back. He could hear the
music playing faintly in the background, but had neither the interest nor the
wherewithal to figure out just where they were in the music.
The sensation of the rod hitting his flesh took up more than his
attention—seeming to home in on just where it hurt him most.
He groaned when a particular hit smacked him right in the ribs. Embarrassment a
hissing serpent in his gut.
If he was only suffering, Harry would not have minded this display as much.
He’d simply grit his teeth and bear through it to the end—a little bruised and
embarrassed, but he’d live.
However, to Harry’s dismay, that was simply not the case. Harry could feel a
cloying sweetness pooling south, the electricity of Voldemort’s abuse doing
strange things to him as he continued to draw pained grunts from Harry’s lips.
The sensation at the pit of his stomach felt familiar, like the heart-wrenching
moment before plunging low to the ground after a snitch. But for all its
similarity, this was something else entirely too—it felt like he was burning
up, and he hated it. Loathed the fact that he was so affected.
Harry released a breath he did not know he was holding when Voldemort suddenly
stopped hitting him for a moment, finally noticing that the beat shifted again.
He had just about relaxed in the dancer’s hold when instead of feeling the firm
rod press against his skin, fully expecting it, he felt a bare finger trail up
from where the waistband of his trousers to the nape of his neck.
He could not help the way he tried to twist away from the contact, feeling his
stomach flip with his desire to back into it and run away. The sharpness of
Voldemort’s claws making the heat twisting in the pit of his stomach swell.
It was humiliating.
Then, Voldemort’s fingers were in his hair again, sinking into his unruly mane,
before pulling until Harry could not help but arch his back from the force of
it. “I just want more!”
“Gimme gimme, gimme.”
 Voldemort closed the distance between their bodies, his mouth sinking into
Harry’s neck to bite at the skin, sucking in the flesh hard enough to bruise as
Harry was pressed more firmly against Voldemort’s chest. He could feel
Voldemort’s breasts against his back, the softness to them making something
clench in his stomach.
Harry tried to say something, lost again to the beat of the music as Britney
Spears repeated the words over and over, but his breath caught when Voldemort’s
other hand was suddenly skimming along the bare skin of his waist.
The long fingers were gentle as they traced each individual ribcage, skimming
past his left nipple as he did, before settling on his navel, dangerously close
to the waistband of his trousers.
Harry felt like the touch had physically burned him, his skin hot to the touch
as he swallowed and tried to compose himself. Key word being tried.
“W-why are you doing this?” Harry muttered, shocked that he managed to get the
words out despite how heavy his tongue felt in his mouth. Harry knew the man
could not have possibly heard him, not when Britney was still singing. But he
sincerely hoped that he was heard, he doubted he could take much more of this.
“Gimme gimme, gimme.”
Harry shouted when Voldemort yanked his head more harshly back, Voldemort’s
teeth clenching so hard on his neck that it threatened to break the
skin—already feeling a bruise forming where Voldemort's mouth tasted his skin.
“Because I want to watch you break.” Harry whimpered at the unmistakable desire
in the man's voice.
Voldemort’s hand unbuttoned the top of Harry’s trousers, the hand slipping the
button from its place so quickly that Harry would have missed it had he not
been so hyperaware of that hand. Harry swallowed hard when Voldemort scratched
along his skin, the motion almost pensive, as he teased along the exposed skin.
The ticklish feeling enough to renew his squirming once more as Voldemort then
slowly began to unzip Harry’s trousers, cool air meeting hot skin as Voldemort
practically bared Harry’s shame to the audience.
Harry hoped sincerely that no one could see it—that no could note the obvious
tent in his trousers as Voldemort continued to rock his hips into his arse as
he undid him in front of the crowd. “You don’t even know me—” Harry whispered,
convinced that despite the loud blaring of the speakers, Voldemort could
somehow hear him.
It was both distressing and convenient—knowing for a fact that Voldemort had
likely heard every sharp inhale, every breathy moan, and every soft whimper
he’d released since coming on stage.
“But I do, Harry, better than you even know yourself.” Harry made to protest,
but the sound came out more a hiss when Voldemort’s hand slipped inside the
parted fly of his trousers to prod at his clothed cock.
Harry immediately closed his eyes, embarrassed that he was practically coming
apart at the seams in front of complete strangers and his own classmates. Harry
doubted he could ever look anyone in Hogwarts in the eye again. Not without
Harry knowing for a fact that they’d seen Voldemort touch him—watched the way
Voldemort debauched him.
"Scream for me, Harry. I want to hear your voice through the jeers of the
crowd." Voldemort purred into his ear and Harry grit his teeth to prevent
himself from doing exactly that when Voldemort suddenly whirled them around,
hand still clutching harshly at the strands of Harry's hair as Harry was forced
to face the gazes of the crowd.
Harry felt faint, cock hard and straining in his trousers as Voldemort
continued to tease him through his boxers in spite of the new position. It was
unbearable—his blood boiling beneath his skin at the threat of Voldemort
sinking his bare fingers down there. Of Voldemort's naked flesh on his own
naked skin, no barriers to prevent the contact.
Harry felt like he was being pulled in two directions, the voice of reason in
his mind shouting for him to struggle while a louder, breathier croon urged him
to give in.
The air felt cold against his naked chest, goose flesh forming along his skin
now that he was no longer pressed into the leathery surface, or held down by
the dancers. Harry was facing the crowd entirely—the urge to open his eyes a
tempting one, but he held fast.
If he looked, it would only prove that what was happening was real.
Voldemort's arm wrapped around his middle then, his grip on Harry's hair so
tight that Harry did not think to struggle. There were no other bodies holding
him down, nothing but the arm at his waist and the hand in his hair. It would
be easy for him to fight him—but the crowd. Harry didn't want to make this into
more of a spectacle than it was.
The music shifted again, the beat slowing into a crawl and the sound darkening
into something distinctly not Pop.
Harry tensed when Voldemort's hand teased along his boxers, sinking one lone
finger below the waistband.
"Walking, waiting, alone without a care." Voldemort sang into his ear, the
gesture forcing Harry to open his mouth, to say something as Voldemort ground
his hips into his arse.
“I-I’m a student. This is w-wrong.” Harry hissed, unable to repress his shudder
when Voldemort’s fingers delved lower into his boxers, the finger so close to
his cock that it made Harry tense with horrified anticipation. “Do you r-
realize what you’re doing!?” Harry continued, shoulders tense as the man
caressed the sensitive skin.
He felt like a tight spring—ready to snap in that very second, dreading and
anticipating the moment Voldemort would shame him further.
Harry could see into the crowd, but he could not identify a single face among
the looming bodies. His glasses on his face, but it may as well not have been
there at all considering how distracted he was by the feeling of Voldemort’s
body against his own.
He felt Voldemort’s hand stop just centimeters above where Harry’s thatch of
hair began, teasing at the fine hairs lightly as if mulling over whether he
should probe further. It was absolute torture.
“Hoping, and hating, things that I can’t bear.” Voldemort’s lips pressed
lightly against his neck before Voldemort’s forked tongue licked over where the
man’s teeth had been clenching on earlier, tracing over the enflamed skin to
trail his moist tongue along Harry’s ear. “Did you think it's cool to walk
right up, to take my life and fuck it up?” Harry shivered when he whispered the
lyrics, noticing how Voldemort’s fingers in his boxers tensed.
Voldemort’s tongue felt long and wet against his skin, something Harry should
have been disgusted by. But there was no time for Harry to ponder on this
perfect stranger licking a burning path over his neck. Not when Voldemort
slipped his hand inside his boxers to palm his cock, his grasp firm.
“Well did you?” Voldemort sang, and Harry was absolutely lost. He was drowning
in his emotions; horrified and pleased at the feeling of Voldemort’s palm
suddenly rubbing his cock, jerking him in time with the beat of the music.
In front of an audience, no less.
Harry was bloody mortified. So embarrassed that Harry tried to jerk out of
Voldemort’s hold immediately, but Voldemort held him fast—his thin body
shockingly stronger than it looked. “Well did you?” Harry bit back a groan when
Voldemort suddenly sank his teeth into his neck for the consecutive time that
evening, mouth closing around a spot higher on his neck than where the man had
bitten him previously.
It burned, and Harry wanted nothing more than to tell him to stop. Before he
could think to ask him to do just that, however, Voldemort’s jaw unclenched.
His wet tongue tracing over the mark Harry knew was there.
“I see hell in your eyes.” Voldemort whispered into his ear, a husky note to
the voice that made something within Harry clench. The sound making something
build in his gut, the pressure beneath his naval similar to the tight spring
before apparition. Like something hooking at his naval, pushing and prodding,
before being squeezed through a small tube.
But Voldemort had not apparated them anywhere. They were still in front of a
crowd, his hand still pumping him with a shocking ease that belied just how
experienced the man was.
It made Harry faintly wonder if Voldemort made it a habit of grabbing
unsuspecting spectators and molesting them in the crowd. If this was the true
reason why the room was filled to the brim with people of all nationalities
excited to watch this man perform? Eager themselves for a chance to get a bite
of the apple?
But Harry did not pursue the thought further, ripped from his musings when
Voldemort suddenly squeezed him, his hand hot and slick with Harry’s pre-cum as
he coaxed sound after sound form Harry’s lips. Harry’s muscles rippling as
Voldemort pushed Harry further and further over the edge.
Harry cried out when Voldemort’s nail suddenly pressed against the sensitive
head of his cock, the pain a shock to his senses after drowning in the pleasant
feeling of Voldemort’s touch for so long already.
“Taken in by surprise.” Voldemort groaned the words out when Harry leaned back,
finding the courage to grab Voldemort’s wrist and snake his other arm back to
clutch Voldemort by the back of his head, the skin beneath Harry's fingers like
velvet.
Harry didn’t know what he looked like in that second, but couldn’t find it in
himself to care when Voldemort’s hand just felt so good. When the man's
whispered yess into his ear undid him.
“Touching you makes me feel alive.”  And Harry could not help but agree with
that.
Voldemort’s touch made him come alive—unable to keep his eyes open any longer
when Voldemort sank his teeth into his neck again, teeth pressing hard enough
to break skin
“Touching you makes me die inside.”
Harry crested, his mouth parting into a wide “O” from the strength of his
orgasm. His essence coating both Voldemort’s hand and the inside of Harry’s
trousers, sound muted completely by the power of his climax.
If Voldemort had not been holding onto Harry as tightly as he was, Harry was
sure he would have toppled like a useless doll into the ground. His limbs felt
weak, trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm as Voldemort finally removed
his hand from his pants, his hand sticky with Harry’s essence. The feeling of
his wet fingers trailing across Harry’s skin enough to draw a low moan from
Harry’s throat, still rather sensitive from his intense orgasm.
It was almost a shock that he had zoned out so completely from the world around
him when Harry finally noticed that the music had moved on to an entirely
different bridge in the music.
“I hateyou.” Voldemort whispered as he continued to rut into him, his hands
still clutching Harry possessively into his chest. Harry was breathing harshly
when Voldemort suddenly raised up his soiled hand for the audience to see,
Harry’s embarrassment reaching new heights at the way the light caught on his
cum.
“W-what the bloody hell are you doing?” Harry hissed underneath his breath, his
throat tight with his anger and shame. “I see hell in your eyes,” Voldemort
continued as if he hadn’t heard Harry ask him a question.
“Taken in by surprise.”
Harry yelped when Voldemort suddenly shoved him then, Harry’s body bending and
feet twisting painfully in a poor attempt to orient himself. He’d managed to
turn enough to catch the mischievous gleam in Voldemort’s eyes, before he
landed roughly on a chair, his eyes snapping shut from landing so painfully on
his arse.
A chair, that seconds earlier Harry was sure, had not been there at all.
His arse felt like it was going to bruise, but at least, his back was now
mercifully facing the audience. Harry was grateful for the mercy that that was.
Harry tried to get up from the chair then, no longer restrained by Voldemort’s
seductive touch or the arms of the dancers performing at the other side of the
stage. However, as if Voldemort had sensed his intentions, shackles rose from
the armrests and the back of the chair to snake tightly around his wrists and
ankles, the pressure so tight that Harry knew for certain he was not going
anywhere.
Dread danced along his gaze when Voldemort smirked at his gaping face, his face
looking more demonic in that second, before he pressed his soiled hand to his
own face. Harry hoped he wasn’t going to do what he suspected Voldemort was
going to do—Harry’s disgust and shock obvious on his face.
“And touching you makes me feel alive.” The song crooned, but Harry was sure
that if these were Voldemort’s words, they’d likely have been the same. The
intensity behind the man’s eyes making his eyes glow a bright crimson beneath
the light.
Harry swallowed when Voldemort pressed his soiled hand into his mouth, his
unnaturally long tongue peeking out to taste Harry’s essence.
Harry felt like his cheeks were permanently going to be stained a bright pink,
watching as Voldemort slurped at his hand as if he were drinking cream between
his fingers and not-not…
Harry turned his head away, unable to take any more of this. But then magic was
wafting in the air, heavy and foreboding as something forced Harry to turn his
head back to face the man.
Voldemort’s face was impassive, but Harry, gauging from the brightness in the
man’s gaze, could sense that Voldemort was upset. Harry did not know how he
knew—but he just knewand that was worrisome as it was.
When Voldemort finally finished licking his own hand clean, the man winked at
him—his wet lips glinting brightly under the flashing lights. Harry could not
look away, mouth parting in shock because Voldemort had drank his cum. In front
of an audience.
 Harry forced his gaze away, noting the way Voldemort’s hips twisted to the
beat, his back arching as he sang “touching you makes me dieinside.”
Harry struggled within his bounds as Voldemort sashayed towards him, almost
like moth to a flame considering how not once the man’s attention had strayed
to the audience. Harry was honestly shocked no one had complained about that in
the crowd.
Their voices oddly silent.
 The music shifted slightly again, and then Voldemort was suddenly on his lap,
his legs on either side of Harry’s splayed legs as his hands wrapped softly
around his throat—the touch searing Harry to the bone.
“I’ve sleptso long without you.”
Harry inhaled a sharp breath, his lungs constricting tightly when Voldemort
undulated his hips over Harry’s lap.
Harry watched Voldemort’s muscles ripple as he moved, the way the muscles in
his abdomen tensed, the way the man’s forearms pulled taut beneath the smooth
material of the catsuit. Harry tried to blink his eyes closed, but each time he
tried, Voldemort’s hands around his neck tightened—a promise in the power of
those hands that forced Harry to open them and watch.
 “It’s tearing me apart too. How’d it get this far? Playing games with this old
heart.” Voldemort sang, his expression shifting to one that perfectly mirrored
the frustration in the lyrics of the music, his glamorous face looking more
forlorn and sinister the longer Harry looked upon him.
“W-what do you want?” Harry croaked, trying to ignore Voldemort’s grip on his
throat, to ignore the fingernails that sank deep into the delicate flesh of his
neck until it burned. Harry felt something trickle down his neck, but wisely
chose not to ponder on just what that was.
“I’ve killed a million petty souls. But I couldn’t kill you.” Voldemort pressed
his arse down on Harry’s cock, the friction forcing a soft gasp from Harry’s
lips. Entirely surprised by the motion as Voldemort began to grind in earnest,
his hips rolling in a way that completely captivated Harry’s bewildered gaze.
Harry was getting hard in his trousers once more, the constant motion and the
tight feeling of Voldemort’s hands around his neck doing strange things to his
sanity the longer Voldemort continued to touch him.
Harry was lost to it all when Voldemort’s fingers tensed, pressing over the
artery in his jugular—a lightheadedness seizing him almost instantly when
Voldemort continued to push, and pushuntil Harry was suffocating, scrambling
just as frantically as his brain for oxygen. Harry’s cock near bursting from
the delicious heat building in his gut, and the glittering of malice he could
see in Voldemort’s eyes.
Am I going to die?Harry wondered idly as darkness crept through his vision and
Voldemort had yet to release his grip, his body going completely slack on the
chair.
 Funny, Harry thought as he tried to cling to his awareness, that the last
thing I will see while alive is the color of Voldemort’s eyes and those bloody
lashes.
“I see hell in your eyes.”
With one more powerful thrust of Voldemort’s hips, Harry saw white. Climaxing
for the second time in that night as Voldemort watched him with a smug
expression on his face, drinking in the way Harry's lips fell open into a
silent cry.
Voldemort hips continued to grind and jerk for several seconds before stopping
then, the music fading out into eerie silence as Harry tried to gather his
thoughts through the high of nearly fainting on stage. The lightheadedness from
being choked and the pleasure thrumming through his veins intoxicating.
 There were no murmurs, no calls for Voldemort to continue his
performance—everything sounding muffled to Harry's ears, as he trembled through
the force of his orgasm. Harry did not know when he had closed his eyes, but he
noted just then how his own lashes fluttered against his cheeks—the feeling
reminding him of Voldemort's own lashes as he watched Harry come undone beneath
him.
Voldemort's hands had yet to fall away from his neck, but the pressure eased
into a soft caress—the nails dragging lightly against his nape now, rather than
cutting into the flesh as if he were trying to brand a mark into Harry's body,
soft.
"A gift, to the most beautiful boy here." Voldemort crooned before leaning
forward to press a soft kiss to his lips, the sensation enough to compel Harry
to blink his eyes open and watch Voldemort's face as he drank his fill of
Harry’s mouth.
The kiss so unlike the last kiss they'd last shared—tender and almost sweet.
 It left Harry reeling completely as he tried to make sense of what was
happening now. Harry looked into his eyes, and could see the promise of more,
of a dark hunger coiling its tendrils to consume.
But the man did nothing more than kiss him lightly, one hand slipping from his
neck to drag his fingers along Harry's side and down his lap. The pressure
eliciting a soft moan from Harry's lips.
Harry wanted to look away from Voldemort's eyes, but the red of his iris
consumed him.
"I have seen your heart, and it is mine. You belongto me."
And with those whispered words to Harry's lips, Voldemort vanished like smoke.
The green of the vapor drawing gasps from the audience that reminded Harry in
that moment, that he wasn't alone.
Harry wished Voldemort had taken him with him.
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