Fic: Broomstick
Title: Broomstick
Author: ???
Prompt: #4: Stockholm Syndrome
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Voldemort/Oliver Wood
Word count: 3.6k
Warnings (Highlight to view): *Stockholm Syndrome, mild AU, anal, mild abuse, slavery.*
Summary: Oliver bargains with his master.
A/N: Thank you so much to Lady Slytherin for the beta work! I'm always so happy to have her. ♥.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. Please don't copy/archive/re-post/re-blog this work without the explicit permission from the author/artist.
Oliver’s eyes snap open the minute he hears the door of the bedroom unlock. He rubs at the back of his neck above his collar and straightens out - he almost fell asleep.
Bubble baths are relaxing like that, but Oliver shoos the bubbles away from himself as footsteps head towards the enclosed bathroom. He doesn’t want anything obstructing his body. He sits up stiffly, brushing his hair back and running water along his chest, rubbing his nipples hard. The steam in the bathroom is thick and warm, and Oliver’s golden skin is glistening with sweat and water. He lowers his eyelids and bites his lip as the door opens. His master steps inside, dark robes billowing behind him.
“Master,” Oliver purrs raunchily, leaning forward as if drawn by some invisible force. A grin twitches on the Dark Lord’s face, and he sweeps towards the tub, bending down to stroke Oliver’s cheek.
“Did you miss me, pet?” The Dark Lord’s voice is a deep hiss - almost Parseltongue. That’s how Oliver knows he’s prepared well. It’s hard to look his master in the eyes for too long, but when he does, he’s sure he sees lust there. Perfect.
Oliver croons, “Yes, master, I missed you so much.” He leans into the bony, pallid hand against his cheek. He closes his eyes and kisses his master’s wrist. When the Dark Lord doesn’t say anything more, Oliver adds, “...Did you have a good meeting, master?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. We’ve secured Hogwarts.” The Dark Lord looks pleased with himself. Something tightens in Oliver’s chest.
He isn’t sure how he feels about that. On the one hand, he’s loyal to his master. Of course he wants his master to reign strong, doesn’t he? To conquer everything? But on the other hand... Hogwarts, his old school... before... before he was taken...
The Dark Lord chuckles, probably at the confliction in Oliver’s eyes. Oliver tries to shake it off - tries to concentrate on what he originally wanted. As if to reassert his servitude, Oliver leans over the edge of the tub and nuzzles his face into his master’s robes, hoping he won’t be punished for getting them wet.
Tactics are one of Oliver’s specialties, though, and he knows that sometimes risky plays are necessary. Often, the Dark Lord likes his tenacity. Oliver closes his eyes and inhales his master’s musky scent, rubbing his nose against his master’s crotch. Long fingers land on and stroke through his hair, and Oliver sighs contentedly. He isn’t being particularly subtle, and he isn’t surprised when the Dark Lord asks, “What is it you want, pet?”
Oliver bites his lip. The moment of truth. He turns his body around in the tub, facing his master properly. The water splashes around as he arches his body over the edge, thighs lifting so his ass peeks out of the water, and he braces his hands on the dampening tile. He can feel the water licking at his cheeks and slipping between his crack. He keeps his toned arms folded over the edge of the tub, and he’s careful to keep his cheek pressed into his master’s crotch, as he turns his head upwards, eyes wide and as innocent as possible.
He practically moans, “Please, please, master, if I’m very, very good today... please can I play Quidditch tomorrow? It’s just that I saw some of your follower’s children out the window, and when they flew past I heard them saying they were going to play again tomorrow, and I saw the Quaffle fly by...”
The Dark Lord arches an eyebrow - Oliver does his best puppy face. As much as he adores being nothing but his master’s bitch, he does miss Quidditch. He can’t help it. No matter how much he grows out of his older, ‘free’ life, it’s the one thing he can never seem to forget: the one addiction that won’t leave his veins. He knows he isn’t to leave his master’s quarters, of course, but perhaps if he’s supervised...
Nervously, he watches the Dark Lord frown. Looking cryptically neutral, the Dark Lord asks, “Didn’t you play against young Draco when you were in school? I don’t imagine he’ll want to play you again.”
“Please, master - I’ll make sure I lose to him.” Oliver has to fight back his wince. He doesn’t want to lose at Quidditch, of course, but he’ll do whatever he has to to get on a broom again. Then he tries, voice careful, “...But... but it doesn’t really matter what he wants, master, only what you want, and I promise I’ll be so good for you... I’ll look good on my broom, and I’ll perform any tricks you like, just for your entertainment...”
“But what about your clothes?” his master asks, brushing his wet hair back. Oliver preens under the attention like a dog being pet. “You know I don’t like you to wear any clothes, Oliver... it would be such a shame to cover up that body of yours...”
“I won’t wear any clothes,” Oliver says, instantly. The Dark Lord chuckles again. Oliver forces himself to look up and hold his master’s gaze, trying desperately to show how much this means to him. “Please, master, I’ll do anything.” When the Dark Lord’s brow arches, Oliver blushes, adding quickly, “I mean, I would do anything for you already, I just mean-”
But he’s silenced with a spindly finger over his lips. Oliver sucks in an anxious breath as the Dark Lord slowly drawls, “...I suppose you have been good, lately.... Perhaps you deserve a reward...”
Oliver tries to show how grateful he is all over his face, and he instantly kisses his master’s finger. As soon as it leaves Oliver starts furiously kissing his master’s crotch. If his master weren’t wearing robes, he’d bend over the tub and kiss his master’s feet. Then his head’s yanked back by the hair. Oliver gasps in pain, neck snapping back. The Dark Lord tugs him up by it, and Oliver stands awkwardly, the water sloshing all around him and slipping down his form.
When the Dark Lord lets go of his hair, and he’s standing upright, Oliver keeps his head where it was pulled. His master’s fingers trail all down his body, caressing every muscle and every hard curve. Oliver isn’t as toned as he once was - he doesn’t get to play Quidditch every day like he used to. But he’s still kept in shape; he’s taken for walks, and he does pushups some days when he waits for the Dark Lord to come for him. His master likes him fit. Oliver couldn’t imagine not being fit. But then, he supposes, he could be anything the Dark Lord wants him to be.
He wasn’t like this at first, of course. He used to fight. He used to be such a brat, trying to escape and spitting fire at anyone who touched him. He used to blink back the tears at night and ball his hands into fists, and he used to be sick every time his master touched him.
But that was so very long ago. Since then, he’s been well trained, and he’s learned that this really is the best place for him - that he belongs with his master, and the Dark Lord will bring about such a wonderful new era. Oliver’s blood is pure, after all, and he’s treated well because of it. He’s punished when he misbehaves, and he’s rewarded when he’s good, and if he ever wants to ride a broom again - which he very, very much does - he needs to behave.
Oliver gasps as the water dries from his skin. His master is excellent at wandless magic. The Dark Lord is the most powerful wizard alive, and Oliver can feel the remnants of that power sparking along his body.
Even if Oliver were to obtain a wand, his collar effectively stops him from being able to use magic. He found that out the hard way, about a week after he arrived. It’s been months since he’s tried. He doesn’t care. His master doesn’t like Muggles, so he figures if he’s good enough for long enough he’ll be able to use magic again. Perhaps he’ll even be allowed to wear clothes and to leave his master’s quarters. He can be so much more than his master’s concubine - he could be a proper lover. And then maybe, just maybe, he could even be given a broom, and allowed to fly around his master’s grounds...
The Dark Lord hooks one finger in Oliver’s collar, tugging him out of the tub by it. Oliver steps out of the water, legs drying as fast as the rest of him. The tile floor is cold against his feet, but the steam is warm all around him. Once they’ve left the bathroom, the Dark Lord lets go, and Oliver drops obediently to his hands and knees. He crawls after his master, across the plush carpet, right up to the foot of the bed. Oliver practically hops onto it, turning around instantly.
The Dark Lord’s robes are nothing more than shadows. They fall away as soon as he opens the front, and he climbs onto the bed in the same movement. Oliver’s skin prickles with anticipation. His lips are open before his master’s mouth even reaches his, ready and hungry. The lips that smash into his are cold and dry, but Oliver moans happily into the touch anyway, eyes falling shut. Oliver is playful and active. He doesn’t like being tied up, and when he doesn’t cooperate, that’s what happens. He needs to be extra good, now, and the very thought of being on a broom again makes him moan.
Then his master pulls back and slaps him hard across the face - Oliver grunts and falls over on the mattress. He doesn’t dare retaliate, though, even though it’s his instinct. He just whimpers and looks up at his master, wondering what he did.
“You will not think of that silly game while I fuck you,” the Dark Lord hisses. He doesn’t look particularly angry; cruelty is simply his default. Oliver instantly nods, feeling foolish. His cheeks are burning. He knows his master owns his mind, too - he should know better.
Oliver rolls onto his back and waits for his master to descend on him again, which doesn’t take long. The Dark Lord’s hands run all over his body, touching and squeezing, and Oliver schools his thoughts away, focusing on nothing but the taste of his master’s tongue in his mouth. The Dark Lord’s body is taller than his, older, but no thicker, and it’s much, much paler. He can feel his master’s hard cock rubbing into his stomach, and it’s as long, thin, and rigid as the rest of him. Oliver’s fingers itch to touch it, but he isn’t sure if he should. Instead he lies still, letting his master ravish his mouth and ravage his body. When his master pulls back, Oliver coyly bites his lip, twisting his body around on the sheets, trying to look as much like a pornstar as possible. His master chuckles - Oliver grins and continues posing.
“You’re a whore, Wood,” the Dark Lord practically whispers. One of his hands runs up to stroke Oliver’s cheek affectionately.
Oliver kisses the palm, moaning, “Your whore, master.”
The Dark Lord chuckles and tugs at the back of Oliver’s neck. Oliver knows what that means, and he sits up to crawl out from under his master, turning around on all fours. The Dark Lord is sitting up, perched on his knees. Oliver lowers his head to the Dark Lord’s pallid cock, already pointing up for him.
Oliver only gives the head one lick before shoving his whole mouth down it, starting to suck immediately. He bobs up and down like the practiced fuck-toy he is, hollowing out his cheeks and taking as much as he can. His tongue is flat along the base, and the spongy tip presses right against the back of his throat. He relaxes it, trying to take more down. Oliver was good at sucking cock even before becoming the Dark Lord’s slave, but since then he’s become nothing short of an expert. He sucks and sucks, fucking himself on it, not even coming close to gagging, even though he can get it almost all the way in. His master is smooth and completely hairless, and Oliver uses his hands to play with his master’s balls, fingering them and squeezing them lightly.
Oliver only pulls off to run his tongue down to those heavy balls, sucking them one at a time into his mouth. Then he licks his way back up, and his master grabs his hair, holding him in place. The Dark Lord rubs his cock all over Oliver’s face; Oliver keeps his mouth open and tries to follow it with his tongue.
But then the Dark Lord pulls him up again, tossing him aside. His head lands in the pillows, and he turns onto his stomach, lifting his ass tantalizingly in the air. Oliver knows he’s got a great ass - it’s tight, and taut, and juicy. He wriggles it and looks over his shoulder, trying his best to do a ‘fuck me’ look.
The Dark Lord purrs, “My, aren’t you a spicy one tonight?”
Oliver just bites his lip and holds his ass up higher. He tries his best not to think of why he’s acting like this. When a broom materializes in his mind, Oliver strains to turn it into his master’s cock instead. He thinks the Dark Lord must know, because he gets a smirk. Oliver tries to look sheepish, then fiery. Finally his master takes the bait, crawling over to him and slapping his ass. Oliver grunts, but happily takes the next few blows. He isn’t being punished - when he is, he gets spanked with master’s whip or paddle. This is just his master playing with his ass, and Oliver takes every squeeze and bruise like a badge.
His master doesn’t finger him first or prepare him. Oliver does that himself, any time he thinks his master might be coming. Oliver stretches himself open several times a day - he’s even been known to fuck himself on a chair leg or, when his master’s kind enough to leave them out, a toy. The Dark Lord grabs one of his ankles and abruptly turns him over, Oliver gasps as he’s jerked around in the blankets. The bed’s a mess, even though he made it this morning. The Dark Lord bends Oliver’s legs right back, knees to his shoulders, so his ass is open and exposed. Oliver’s cock bounces against his stomach, and the Dark Lord unceremoniously lines himself up with Oliver’s hole.
Oliver knows he prepared himself in the bath, but he still screws his face up, waiting for the impact. He knows he can take the Dark Lord’s girth, but there’s no preparing for the length. The spit-slicked tip of the Dark Lord’s cock presses at his hole, pistoning against it. Oliver wantonly tries to press his ass up into it, and the Dark Lord chuckles, patting one of his ass cheeks.
“Greedy little slut.”
Oliver just nods. He throws his head back as soon as the Dark Lord’s cock breaches him, the head popping into his tight ring of muscle with a wet squelching noise. Oliver bites his cheek to stop himself from screaming. The Dark Lord slides in all at once - he’s never a gentle lover. The further he goes the harder it is to take it and the more Oliver scrunches up his face, until he’s making a pained grunting noise through his clenched teeth.
The Dark Lord simply keeps going, and he bends down over Oliver to scatter kisses and bites all across his cheek and neck. Fortunately, Oliver doesn’t bruise easily, or he’d already be covered in teeth marks and the indents from fingernails. Not that he doesn’t get bruised, sometimes, but then the Dark Lord usually heals him - Oliver is preferred perfect.
Oliver isn’t stupid enough to try and touch himself, so he keeps his hands at his sides, balled in the sheets. The Dark Lord pulls out just as quickly as he went in, slamming back in a minute later. He goes in and out with a wild intensity, fucking Oliver hard into the mattress. Oliver takes it, moaning and writhing, hard cock trapped between their stomachs. The Dark Lord’s fingers continue to caress his sides and his chest, smoothing over his biceps and playing with his nipples. Oliver lets himself get lost in the sensations - he won’t let himself thing about Quidditch, and how wonderful it would be to feel the wind around him, see the ground beneath him, climb into the clouds and look for the Quaffle headed his w-
Oliver cries out as he’s slapped again, hard across his cheeks. He keeps his face turned in the mattress where he lands, whimpering, “I’m sorry, master, I’m so sorry...” And he tries very hard to think only of his master, filling him and taking him, utterly owning him.
The Dark Lord hisses something at him in Parseltongue, probably without even realizing it. Oliver assumes it’s something derogatory that he deserves. Tentatively, he wraps his legs around his master’s waist, and the Dark Lord continues to furiously fuck him. Each thrust hits that perfect bundle of nerves inside him, and Oliver concentrates on that wonderfully pleasure. He smiles happily when his master’s mouth closes back around his. He lets the Dark lord plunder his mouth for a bit before he lets his tongue fight back, pressing against the one busily exploring him. The Dark Lord kisses him harder, grinding his head into the pillows and his ass into the mattress
It’s always a gamble with the Dark Lord how long it will last. Oliver does his best to squeeze his ass around the Dark Lord’s cock, trying to milk it out, and he kisses back and arches into every touch. What seems like an eternity later, the Dark Lord gives one particularly hard thrust, which slams Oliver right up the bed and into the headboard. He screams out as the Dark Lord explodes inside him, hips stilling, cock buried as far as it will go. Oliver’s still hard as hell, and the sensation of being filled with his master’s cum makes him desperately want to come, too.
But he doesn’t, and he can’t. He waits for the Dark Lord to collapse atop him. Oliver’s panting heavily, but the Dark Lord’s breath is only a little shallow. He doesn’t pull out right away. He strokes Oliver’s face, pulling his lips back, and he growls, “Good boy.”
Oliver moans, “Thank you, master,” and tries to still look alluring.
Chuckling, the Dark Lord pats him again, before reaching down to roughly fist his cock. Oliver gasps, and the Dark Lord pumps him out. Oliver comes almost instantly, thinking only of pleasing his master. His master chuckles - he always likes to see just how much he owns Oliver: mind, body, and soul.
As soon as he's finished Oliver slumps back into the blankets. He expects them to sleep now - it’s mostly dark outside the closed curtains. The Dark Lord is looking at him fondly; Oliver thinks he might’ve done well.
Then the Dark Lord suddenly slips out of Oliver, slipping off the bed, and he grabs Oliver by the collar again, tugging him forward. Oliver follows, dropping down to the floor. He crawls curiously after his master, but is stopped in the center of the room. Oliver sits on his bum, wondering what’s going to happen now.
The Dark Lord holds out his hand, and his wand instantly flies into it. With a simple flick, magic begins to fill the empty corner of the room, materializing something familiar. One of the cages from the dungeons - something Oliver was first trained in - forms in the corner. Oliver blinks at the wrought iron bars before blinking up at his master - wasn’t he good?
The Dark Lord reaches down to ruffle his hair, cooing, “Don’t worry, pet, you aren’t be punished. ...But if you want all the freedom of a broom one day, it’s only fair that you should give up some freedom the next. If you want to fly in the morning, tonight you’ll sleep in a cage.”
Oliver wilts, but nods. He feels like he’s being given a choice, but it isn’t one he can think over. He wants to fly so badly he can’t even explain it, and he hangs his head dejectedly. The door’s already open, and Oliver crawls towards his cage, right over the bar at the bottom. Once he’s inside the door swings shut, and with a flick of the Dark Lord’s wand, it locks. The cage isn’t big enough for Oliver to stand up in - not even to fully sit up in. He can’t stretch out, but he can curl up on his side. At least the carpet is relatively soft. The Dark Lord comes to stand over him, smirking down through the bars.
“Why so sad, pet? Do you think I’m being unfair?”
Oliver shakes his head instantly. The Dark Lord looks at him questioningly, and Oliver blushes.
Oliver leans up to press his nose through the bar, straining to be touched. The Dark Lord laughs and bends down to pet him; Oliver smiles happily and croons.
Then he says, quite sincerely, “You’re too good to me. I love you, master.”
The Dark Lord bends down to kiss Oliver one last time, before sweeping back towards the bed. The Dark Lord calls, “Good night, pet,” and the lights flicker off.
Oliver curls back up to sleep, already dreaming of Quidditch.
Author: ???
Prompt: #4: Stockholm Syndrome
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Voldemort/Oliver Wood
Word count: 3.6k
Warnings (Highlight to view): *Stockholm Syndrome, mild AU, anal, mild abuse, slavery.*
Summary: Oliver bargains with his master.
A/N: Thank you so much to Lady Slytherin for the beta work! I'm always so happy to have her. ♥.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. Please don't copy/archive/re-post/re-blog this work without the explicit permission from the author/artist.
Oliver’s eyes snap open the minute he hears the door of the bedroom unlock. He rubs at the back of his neck above his collar and straightens out - he almost fell asleep.
Bubble baths are relaxing like that, but Oliver shoos the bubbles away from himself as footsteps head towards the enclosed bathroom. He doesn’t want anything obstructing his body. He sits up stiffly, brushing his hair back and running water along his chest, rubbing his nipples hard. The steam in the bathroom is thick and warm, and Oliver’s golden skin is glistening with sweat and water. He lowers his eyelids and bites his lip as the door opens. His master steps inside, dark robes billowing behind him.
“Master,” Oliver purrs raunchily, leaning forward as if drawn by some invisible force. A grin twitches on the Dark Lord’s face, and he sweeps towards the tub, bending down to stroke Oliver’s cheek.
“Did you miss me, pet?” The Dark Lord’s voice is a deep hiss - almost Parseltongue. That’s how Oliver knows he’s prepared well. It’s hard to look his master in the eyes for too long, but when he does, he’s sure he sees lust there. Perfect.
Oliver croons, “Yes, master, I missed you so much.” He leans into the bony, pallid hand against his cheek. He closes his eyes and kisses his master’s wrist. When the Dark Lord doesn’t say anything more, Oliver adds, “...Did you have a good meeting, master?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. We’ve secured Hogwarts.” The Dark Lord looks pleased with himself. Something tightens in Oliver’s chest.
He isn’t sure how he feels about that. On the one hand, he’s loyal to his master. Of course he wants his master to reign strong, doesn’t he? To conquer everything? But on the other hand... Hogwarts, his old school... before... before he was taken...
The Dark Lord chuckles, probably at the confliction in Oliver’s eyes. Oliver tries to shake it off - tries to concentrate on what he originally wanted. As if to reassert his servitude, Oliver leans over the edge of the tub and nuzzles his face into his master’s robes, hoping he won’t be punished for getting them wet.
Tactics are one of Oliver’s specialties, though, and he knows that sometimes risky plays are necessary. Often, the Dark Lord likes his tenacity. Oliver closes his eyes and inhales his master’s musky scent, rubbing his nose against his master’s crotch. Long fingers land on and stroke through his hair, and Oliver sighs contentedly. He isn’t being particularly subtle, and he isn’t surprised when the Dark Lord asks, “What is it you want, pet?”
Oliver bites his lip. The moment of truth. He turns his body around in the tub, facing his master properly. The water splashes around as he arches his body over the edge, thighs lifting so his ass peeks out of the water, and he braces his hands on the dampening tile. He can feel the water licking at his cheeks and slipping between his crack. He keeps his toned arms folded over the edge of the tub, and he’s careful to keep his cheek pressed into his master’s crotch, as he turns his head upwards, eyes wide and as innocent as possible.
He practically moans, “Please, please, master, if I’m very, very good today... please can I play Quidditch tomorrow? It’s just that I saw some of your follower’s children out the window, and when they flew past I heard them saying they were going to play again tomorrow, and I saw the Quaffle fly by...”
The Dark Lord arches an eyebrow - Oliver does his best puppy face. As much as he adores being nothing but his master’s bitch, he does miss Quidditch. He can’t help it. No matter how much he grows out of his older, ‘free’ life, it’s the one thing he can never seem to forget: the one addiction that won’t leave his veins. He knows he isn’t to leave his master’s quarters, of course, but perhaps if he’s supervised...
Nervously, he watches the Dark Lord frown. Looking cryptically neutral, the Dark Lord asks, “Didn’t you play against young Draco when you were in school? I don’t imagine he’ll want to play you again.”
“Please, master - I’ll make sure I lose to him.” Oliver has to fight back his wince. He doesn’t want to lose at Quidditch, of course, but he’ll do whatever he has to to get on a broom again. Then he tries, voice careful, “...But... but it doesn’t really matter what he wants, master, only what you want, and I promise I’ll be so good for you... I’ll look good on my broom, and I’ll perform any tricks you like, just for your entertainment...”
“But what about your clothes?” his master asks, brushing his wet hair back. Oliver preens under the attention like a dog being pet. “You know I don’t like you to wear any clothes, Oliver... it would be such a shame to cover up that body of yours...”
“I won’t wear any clothes,” Oliver says, instantly. The Dark Lord chuckles again. Oliver forces himself to look up and hold his master’s gaze, trying desperately to show how much this means to him. “Please, master, I’ll do anything.” When the Dark Lord’s brow arches, Oliver blushes, adding quickly, “I mean, I would do anything for you already, I just mean-”
But he’s silenced with a spindly finger over his lips. Oliver sucks in an anxious breath as the Dark Lord slowly drawls, “...I suppose you have been good, lately.... Perhaps you deserve a reward...”
Oliver tries to show how grateful he is all over his face, and he instantly kisses his master’s finger. As soon as it leaves Oliver starts furiously kissing his master’s crotch. If his master weren’t wearing robes, he’d bend over the tub and kiss his master’s feet. Then his head’s yanked back by the hair. Oliver gasps in pain, neck snapping back. The Dark Lord tugs him up by it, and Oliver stands awkwardly, the water sloshing all around him and slipping down his form.
When the Dark Lord lets go of his hair, and he’s standing upright, Oliver keeps his head where it was pulled. His master’s fingers trail all down his body, caressing every muscle and every hard curve. Oliver isn’t as toned as he once was - he doesn’t get to play Quidditch every day like he used to. But he’s still kept in shape; he’s taken for walks, and he does pushups some days when he waits for the Dark Lord to come for him. His master likes him fit. Oliver couldn’t imagine not being fit. But then, he supposes, he could be anything the Dark Lord wants him to be.
He wasn’t like this at first, of course. He used to fight. He used to be such a brat, trying to escape and spitting fire at anyone who touched him. He used to blink back the tears at night and ball his hands into fists, and he used to be sick every time his master touched him.
But that was so very long ago. Since then, he’s been well trained, and he’s learned that this really is the best place for him - that he belongs with his master, and the Dark Lord will bring about such a wonderful new era. Oliver’s blood is pure, after all, and he’s treated well because of it. He’s punished when he misbehaves, and he’s rewarded when he’s good, and if he ever wants to ride a broom again - which he very, very much does - he needs to behave.
Oliver gasps as the water dries from his skin. His master is excellent at wandless magic. The Dark Lord is the most powerful wizard alive, and Oliver can feel the remnants of that power sparking along his body.
Even if Oliver were to obtain a wand, his collar effectively stops him from being able to use magic. He found that out the hard way, about a week after he arrived. It’s been months since he’s tried. He doesn’t care. His master doesn’t like Muggles, so he figures if he’s good enough for long enough he’ll be able to use magic again. Perhaps he’ll even be allowed to wear clothes and to leave his master’s quarters. He can be so much more than his master’s concubine - he could be a proper lover. And then maybe, just maybe, he could even be given a broom, and allowed to fly around his master’s grounds...
The Dark Lord hooks one finger in Oliver’s collar, tugging him out of the tub by it. Oliver steps out of the water, legs drying as fast as the rest of him. The tile floor is cold against his feet, but the steam is warm all around him. Once they’ve left the bathroom, the Dark Lord lets go, and Oliver drops obediently to his hands and knees. He crawls after his master, across the plush carpet, right up to the foot of the bed. Oliver practically hops onto it, turning around instantly.
The Dark Lord’s robes are nothing more than shadows. They fall away as soon as he opens the front, and he climbs onto the bed in the same movement. Oliver’s skin prickles with anticipation. His lips are open before his master’s mouth even reaches his, ready and hungry. The lips that smash into his are cold and dry, but Oliver moans happily into the touch anyway, eyes falling shut. Oliver is playful and active. He doesn’t like being tied up, and when he doesn’t cooperate, that’s what happens. He needs to be extra good, now, and the very thought of being on a broom again makes him moan.
Then his master pulls back and slaps him hard across the face - Oliver grunts and falls over on the mattress. He doesn’t dare retaliate, though, even though it’s his instinct. He just whimpers and looks up at his master, wondering what he did.
“You will not think of that silly game while I fuck you,” the Dark Lord hisses. He doesn’t look particularly angry; cruelty is simply his default. Oliver instantly nods, feeling foolish. His cheeks are burning. He knows his master owns his mind, too - he should know better.
Oliver rolls onto his back and waits for his master to descend on him again, which doesn’t take long. The Dark Lord’s hands run all over his body, touching and squeezing, and Oliver schools his thoughts away, focusing on nothing but the taste of his master’s tongue in his mouth. The Dark Lord’s body is taller than his, older, but no thicker, and it’s much, much paler. He can feel his master’s hard cock rubbing into his stomach, and it’s as long, thin, and rigid as the rest of him. Oliver’s fingers itch to touch it, but he isn’t sure if he should. Instead he lies still, letting his master ravish his mouth and ravage his body. When his master pulls back, Oliver coyly bites his lip, twisting his body around on the sheets, trying to look as much like a pornstar as possible. His master chuckles - Oliver grins and continues posing.
“You’re a whore, Wood,” the Dark Lord practically whispers. One of his hands runs up to stroke Oliver’s cheek affectionately.
Oliver kisses the palm, moaning, “Your whore, master.”
The Dark Lord chuckles and tugs at the back of Oliver’s neck. Oliver knows what that means, and he sits up to crawl out from under his master, turning around on all fours. The Dark Lord is sitting up, perched on his knees. Oliver lowers his head to the Dark Lord’s pallid cock, already pointing up for him.
Oliver only gives the head one lick before shoving his whole mouth down it, starting to suck immediately. He bobs up and down like the practiced fuck-toy he is, hollowing out his cheeks and taking as much as he can. His tongue is flat along the base, and the spongy tip presses right against the back of his throat. He relaxes it, trying to take more down. Oliver was good at sucking cock even before becoming the Dark Lord’s slave, but since then he’s become nothing short of an expert. He sucks and sucks, fucking himself on it, not even coming close to gagging, even though he can get it almost all the way in. His master is smooth and completely hairless, and Oliver uses his hands to play with his master’s balls, fingering them and squeezing them lightly.
Oliver only pulls off to run his tongue down to those heavy balls, sucking them one at a time into his mouth. Then he licks his way back up, and his master grabs his hair, holding him in place. The Dark Lord rubs his cock all over Oliver’s face; Oliver keeps his mouth open and tries to follow it with his tongue.
But then the Dark Lord pulls him up again, tossing him aside. His head lands in the pillows, and he turns onto his stomach, lifting his ass tantalizingly in the air. Oliver knows he’s got a great ass - it’s tight, and taut, and juicy. He wriggles it and looks over his shoulder, trying his best to do a ‘fuck me’ look.
The Dark Lord purrs, “My, aren’t you a spicy one tonight?”
Oliver just bites his lip and holds his ass up higher. He tries his best not to think of why he’s acting like this. When a broom materializes in his mind, Oliver strains to turn it into his master’s cock instead. He thinks the Dark Lord must know, because he gets a smirk. Oliver tries to look sheepish, then fiery. Finally his master takes the bait, crawling over to him and slapping his ass. Oliver grunts, but happily takes the next few blows. He isn’t being punished - when he is, he gets spanked with master’s whip or paddle. This is just his master playing with his ass, and Oliver takes every squeeze and bruise like a badge.
His master doesn’t finger him first or prepare him. Oliver does that himself, any time he thinks his master might be coming. Oliver stretches himself open several times a day - he’s even been known to fuck himself on a chair leg or, when his master’s kind enough to leave them out, a toy. The Dark Lord grabs one of his ankles and abruptly turns him over, Oliver gasps as he’s jerked around in the blankets. The bed’s a mess, even though he made it this morning. The Dark Lord bends Oliver’s legs right back, knees to his shoulders, so his ass is open and exposed. Oliver’s cock bounces against his stomach, and the Dark Lord unceremoniously lines himself up with Oliver’s hole.
Oliver knows he prepared himself in the bath, but he still screws his face up, waiting for the impact. He knows he can take the Dark Lord’s girth, but there’s no preparing for the length. The spit-slicked tip of the Dark Lord’s cock presses at his hole, pistoning against it. Oliver wantonly tries to press his ass up into it, and the Dark Lord chuckles, patting one of his ass cheeks.
“Greedy little slut.”
Oliver just nods. He throws his head back as soon as the Dark Lord’s cock breaches him, the head popping into his tight ring of muscle with a wet squelching noise. Oliver bites his cheek to stop himself from screaming. The Dark Lord slides in all at once - he’s never a gentle lover. The further he goes the harder it is to take it and the more Oliver scrunches up his face, until he’s making a pained grunting noise through his clenched teeth.
The Dark Lord simply keeps going, and he bends down over Oliver to scatter kisses and bites all across his cheek and neck. Fortunately, Oliver doesn’t bruise easily, or he’d already be covered in teeth marks and the indents from fingernails. Not that he doesn’t get bruised, sometimes, but then the Dark Lord usually heals him - Oliver is preferred perfect.
Oliver isn’t stupid enough to try and touch himself, so he keeps his hands at his sides, balled in the sheets. The Dark Lord pulls out just as quickly as he went in, slamming back in a minute later. He goes in and out with a wild intensity, fucking Oliver hard into the mattress. Oliver takes it, moaning and writhing, hard cock trapped between their stomachs. The Dark Lord’s fingers continue to caress his sides and his chest, smoothing over his biceps and playing with his nipples. Oliver lets himself get lost in the sensations - he won’t let himself thing about Quidditch, and how wonderful it would be to feel the wind around him, see the ground beneath him, climb into the clouds and look for the Quaffle headed his w-
Oliver cries out as he’s slapped again, hard across his cheeks. He keeps his face turned in the mattress where he lands, whimpering, “I’m sorry, master, I’m so sorry...” And he tries very hard to think only of his master, filling him and taking him, utterly owning him.
The Dark Lord hisses something at him in Parseltongue, probably without even realizing it. Oliver assumes it’s something derogatory that he deserves. Tentatively, he wraps his legs around his master’s waist, and the Dark Lord continues to furiously fuck him. Each thrust hits that perfect bundle of nerves inside him, and Oliver concentrates on that wonderfully pleasure. He smiles happily when his master’s mouth closes back around his. He lets the Dark lord plunder his mouth for a bit before he lets his tongue fight back, pressing against the one busily exploring him. The Dark Lord kisses him harder, grinding his head into the pillows and his ass into the mattress
It’s always a gamble with the Dark Lord how long it will last. Oliver does his best to squeeze his ass around the Dark Lord’s cock, trying to milk it out, and he kisses back and arches into every touch. What seems like an eternity later, the Dark Lord gives one particularly hard thrust, which slams Oliver right up the bed and into the headboard. He screams out as the Dark Lord explodes inside him, hips stilling, cock buried as far as it will go. Oliver’s still hard as hell, and the sensation of being filled with his master’s cum makes him desperately want to come, too.
But he doesn’t, and he can’t. He waits for the Dark Lord to collapse atop him. Oliver’s panting heavily, but the Dark Lord’s breath is only a little shallow. He doesn’t pull out right away. He strokes Oliver’s face, pulling his lips back, and he growls, “Good boy.”
Oliver moans, “Thank you, master,” and tries to still look alluring.
Chuckling, the Dark Lord pats him again, before reaching down to roughly fist his cock. Oliver gasps, and the Dark Lord pumps him out. Oliver comes almost instantly, thinking only of pleasing his master. His master chuckles - he always likes to see just how much he owns Oliver: mind, body, and soul.
As soon as he's finished Oliver slumps back into the blankets. He expects them to sleep now - it’s mostly dark outside the closed curtains. The Dark Lord is looking at him fondly; Oliver thinks he might’ve done well.
Then the Dark Lord suddenly slips out of Oliver, slipping off the bed, and he grabs Oliver by the collar again, tugging him forward. Oliver follows, dropping down to the floor. He crawls curiously after his master, but is stopped in the center of the room. Oliver sits on his bum, wondering what’s going to happen now.
The Dark Lord holds out his hand, and his wand instantly flies into it. With a simple flick, magic begins to fill the empty corner of the room, materializing something familiar. One of the cages from the dungeons - something Oliver was first trained in - forms in the corner. Oliver blinks at the wrought iron bars before blinking up at his master - wasn’t he good?
The Dark Lord reaches down to ruffle his hair, cooing, “Don’t worry, pet, you aren’t be punished. ...But if you want all the freedom of a broom one day, it’s only fair that you should give up some freedom the next. If you want to fly in the morning, tonight you’ll sleep in a cage.”
Oliver wilts, but nods. He feels like he’s being given a choice, but it isn’t one he can think over. He wants to fly so badly he can’t even explain it, and he hangs his head dejectedly. The door’s already open, and Oliver crawls towards his cage, right over the bar at the bottom. Once he’s inside the door swings shut, and with a flick of the Dark Lord’s wand, it locks. The cage isn’t big enough for Oliver to stand up in - not even to fully sit up in. He can’t stretch out, but he can curl up on his side. At least the carpet is relatively soft. The Dark Lord comes to stand over him, smirking down through the bars.
“Why so sad, pet? Do you think I’m being unfair?”
Oliver shakes his head instantly. The Dark Lord looks at him questioningly, and Oliver blushes.
Oliver leans up to press his nose through the bar, straining to be touched. The Dark Lord laughs and bends down to pet him; Oliver smiles happily and croons.
Then he says, quite sincerely, “You’re too good to me. I love you, master.”
The Dark Lord bends down to kiss Oliver one last time, before sweeping back towards the bed. The Dark Lord calls, “Good night, pet,” and the lights flicker off.
Oliver curls back up to sleep, already dreaming of Quidditch.