Time and Tithe - For marksykins

Title:  Time and Tithe
Author: cedarlibrarian
Recipient: marksykins
Pairing: Harry/Lucius/Draco
Rating:  NC17
Length:  5349 words
Warnings: Bondage,incest, minor use of an Unforgivable Curse, non-con
Summary: Draco finds himself on the losing side of the war, and Lucius's offer to save Draco's life doesn't go quite the way Draco wants.
Author's notes:  Marks's request included (but was not limited to):  dubious consent, graphic (almost obscenely) described kisses, androgyny (not out-and-out cross-dressing, though), eyeliner, bondage, claiming, morbid humor, cleverness, and Dark Lord!Harry.  Many, many thanks to my beta readers.



Time and Tithe

Everyone on Lord Voldemort’s side, even Draco Malfoy, knew about the prophecy.  They fought a war against Albus Dumbledore, and after his death at the end of Draco’s career at Hogwarts, Dumbledore’s followers.  Everyone on both sides believed that either Harry Potter or Voldemort would emerge victorious.  “Neither can live while the other survives,” they repeated among themselves.  Both sides knew the final battle could only be fought one to one, but that didn’t stop them from fighting for a better chance for their favored candidate.

What no one predicted was the explosion of white light that stopped the smaller battles.  At midnight, everything in the field at Godric’s Hollow looked like midday.  All the fighters, temporarily blinded, stopped to see where the light came from.  With the light came a cloud of thick white smoke, and when it cleared, Potter stood alone. 

No one spoke or moved in that moment.  Potter flexed his wrists and inspected his wand.  Something about Potter’s stance seemed odd to Draco.  In an instant, Potter stood straighter, his movements more refined.  Snape, Draco’s mentor in everything duplicitous, whispered, “No...I couldn’t be right....”

Draco didn’t have a clue as to the meaning of Snape’s words until Potter raised his wand, pointed it at Hermione Granger, and shouted, “Crucio!”

When Granger screamed everyone broke from their trances, and soon the air was filled with red and green sparks.

Snape took the opportunity of confusion to pull Draco away from the battle.  Once they Apparated to a quiet, solitary place, Draco said, “What the hell was that all about?”

“I did not believe it would happen.  The chances were highly unlikely, near infinitesimal.”  Snape shook his head.  “No matter.  With the prophecy written the way it was, there was no way I could have prevented it, even if I had believed it was the likely outcome.”

“The likely outcome of what?” 

Snape sighed and, for the first time since Draco had met him, looked frustrated.  “The prophecy was absolutely right.  Neither can live while the other survives.  Neither survived that battle, but neither quite lived.  Voldemort and Harry Potter are now one, and there’s nothing we can do to change it.  It is Potter’s form, but I promise you he has Voldemort’s skill, and his lack of regard for anyone who isn’t one hundred percent loyal to him.”

“He’s going to kill us.”

“He’ll do worse than kill us.  Knowing what I’ve seen over the years,” replied Snape with a quick glance over his shoulder, “we’ll see torture on our way to death.”

“Delightful.”

“From this point on, we can never be seen together, do you understand?  That is the only way you can hope to survive.”

Draco tightened his jaw.  “What about you?” 

“I can take care of myself.”

Two weeks later, Draco found himself prisoner in his father’s house, bound magically to a wall while Potter eviscerated Snape.  Ignoring everything Snape had taught him about guarding his emotions, because none of it did any good anyway, Draco cursed and struggled, powerless.  Lucius stood on Potter’s side of the room, quiet and immobile. 

Making sure that Draco had a clear view of Snape’s body, Potter folded his arms and spoke calmly.  “He was not as lucky as you are.” 

Though his throat hurt and he was exhausted, Draco couldn’t give Potter and his father the satisfaction of meekness.  He looked at Potter, not at Snape, even though he knew his rebellion could hand him Snape’s fate.  “I must have a slightly different definition of ‘lucky’ than you do.”

Potter and Lucius left the room together.  It was clear to Draco by now that his father’s place among the Death Eaters was right at the top.  Lucius, to Draco’s disgust, was right hand, left hand, and fucktoy to Harry Potter, everyone’s favorite Dark Lord.  If Potter asked Lucius to tattoo himself on the cheek with the Dark Mark, he would probably do it, and in florescent green glittery ink.

Not long after Potter and Lucius left, a guard led Draco to a cell that, while small, was clean, with a bed and a bookcase and a bathroom off one end.  With no windows, no clock, and no wand, Draco didn’t know how much time passed.  The guards outside the door wouldn’t talk to him.  Food appeared on the tiny desk three times a day, but he didn’t eat much of it.  With nothing else to do, he read the books in the bookcase.  The collection was an odd mix of magical history, plays by someone named Shakespeare, and fantastical stories he figured to be some Muggle creation.  Over and over he read the tale of the man in the cave that only opened when he said “Open Sesame,” the one of the girl who silently sat in a tree weaving six shirts for her brothers, and one of a girl who rescued a boy taken by an evil court of faeries.  By the time Lucius came to see Draco, Draco knew more than he ever wanted to know about goblin wars, all the world being a stage, and witches who insisted on poisoning apples when a perfectly good hex would have done the trick.

“Father,” said Draco, placing his book on the bed.  “I’d say it was good to see you, but you raised me to be a gentleman, and a gentleman doesn’t lie.”

“You’d rather spend the rest of your life in this room with nothing but Muggle stories to keep you company?”

Draco sat up on the bed and crossed his arms over his chest.  “I haven’t forgotten what you did to Severus.”

“What Lord Potter did to Severus, you mean.  Severus knew the consequences of his actions.  His fate should not have been a surprise to you.”

“Why are you here?”

“To tell you that I’ve saved your life.” 

That interested Draco.  “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch.  You are my gift to the new Dark Lord, now that the war has ended and his power is full.”  Lucius’s gaze stayed fixed on Draco, and Draco realized his father was, for want of better words, dead serious.

Draco stood, stepping close to Lucius.  Without his wand and weakened from too much time with no exercise and little food, the best he could hope to do was stand tall.  As he was four inches shorter than Lucius, he knew he couldn’t do much to intimidate, but anything at this point was worth a shot.  “You’re...giving me to him?  Like I’m a...a piece of crockery or a quilt?  What do you need to give me to him for, anyway?  Seems to me like you two were always on pretty good terms.  Good enough to sleep together and commit murder together, in any event.”

“I have not always been in such favor with the Dark Lord.” 

“Why?”  Crossing his arms over his chest, Draco spoke in mocking tones.  “Besides the incident in the Department of Mysteries our fifth year at Hogwarts, and the debacle with Ginny Weasley and Tom Riddle’s diary, what did you ever do to piss off Potter?  Excuse me, Lord Potter.”

“I contributed to your existence.”

Lucius closed the door a split second before Draco’s book hit the doorframe.  “Fuck you!” Draco yelled.  “Fuck you and your Dark Lord and fuck Potter and—"

Someone knocked at the door and Draco yanked it open, shouting into empty air.  “What the fuck do you want?”

“Master Lucius ordered Nebby to dress Draco Malfoy for tonight,” came a small voice from somewhere around Draco’s knees. 

Draco raised an eyebrow at the house-elf.  “All right.  Then where are the clothes I’m supposed to wear?”

“They is here, Draco Malfoy,” replied Nebby, presenting a spool of shiny black ribbon.

“Those aren’t clothes.”  Draco was neither in the mood to play games nor create robes from the ribbon. 

“These is the clothes Nebby is to put on you.  Master Lucius has instructions for Nebby.  And Master Lucius says that if Draco Malfoy hurts Nebby, Draco Malfoy will hurt, too.”

Draco, fairly sure either his father or Potter or both would hurt him regardless, allowed the house-elf into his cell.  When Nebby told him to strip, something that felt like a lump of ice formed in Draco’s stomach.  He stood perfectly still, hands apart from his sides, eyes closed, breathing evenly to allay what he knew was fear as Nebby tied one length of ribbon after the other onto his arms and legs.  When Nebby took Draco’s cock in one hand, a long ribbon in the other, and Draco opened his eyes, jumping back.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“These is Master Lucius’s orders.”  Nebby, clearly not intimidated by Draco, tied the ribbon.  The hanging ends tickled Draco’s thighs.  “Draco Malfoy is to sit at the desk now.”

“My father has some very strange ideas of what constitutes a gift,” muttered Draco, sitting in the chair at the desk. 

Nebby started brushing Draco’s hair, which covered his shoulders and upper back.  “Nebby is to give Draco Malfoy’s hair one hundred strokes.  Master Lucius says that if Draco Malfoy refuses he shall receive one hundred strokes with the brush, but it will not be to his hair.” 

“He’d probably enjoy that.”

The repetition of brushing relaxed Draco a little.  He leaned into the back of the chair, shutting his eyes. 

“Draco Malfoy is not to go to sleep!” shrieked Nebby.  “Nebby has one more job to do for Master Lucius!”

“Oh?  Does it involve origami birds and a broom?”

“Nebby does not know what Draco Malfoy means.  Draco Malfoy must sit on the bed now.”

“I’m already sitting in this chair.  Can’t you do whatever you need to do right here?”

“Draco Malfoy must sit on the bed and close his eyes.”  Nebby was clearly agitated, and Draco felt a little sorry for him.  Her.  It.  Whatever.  Draco sat at the edge of the bed and watched as Nebby produced a tiny paintbrush and a jar of what looked like black ink.

“What are you going to do with that?” 

“Master Lucius says it will not hurt.”

“Somehow that promise means a little less coming from him,” grumbled Draco. 

The next thing Draco felt was the paintbrush against his eyelids, applying a line of liquid near his lashes.  Draco braced himself for pain, but all he felt was a cool, slightly sticky sensation as the liquid dried.  Eyeliner.  He knew he’d seen the little jar somewhere.  His mother, back before the war, used to sit at her vanity table and apply it with the same type of brush. 

“Is this my father’s idea, too?” 

With a steady hand, Nebby applied the eyeliner under Draco’s lower lashes.  “Nebby does not know.  Nebby only follows orders.”  The house-elf looked critically at Draco’s eyes and applied a little more of the liner on the outer corner.  “Nebby must make it even on both sides.” 

Once satisfied with his handiwork, Nebby stood and collected the brush, eyeliner, and the remainder of the spool of ribbon.  Two guards and Lucius entered when Nebby left.  Draco had no plans to move from the bed, but with one guard at each arm and the pressure of the point of his father’s wand in his upper back, he didn’t get a choice.  They steered him through halls and up two flights of winding stairs.  Lucius knocked at a guarded door, and it swung open.  Draco recognized one of the spare bedrooms and wondered what was wrong with meeting in the parlor.

Potter, taller than Draco remembered and wearing black robes, stood at the front of the room.  The wand in his hands looked familiar to Draco, who recognized it as his own.  Undoubtedly another one of his father’s sick jokes.

“Lucius.  I see we have company.”

“A gift to you, my Lord,” said Lucius after a guard shut the door.  “To honor your ascension and the dawn of a new era.”

Draco could have done without the formalities or the ridiculous overstuffed language, but with his hands behind his back, he wasn’t in much of a place to protest.  He sighed, looking at the guard who held his right arm.  This would be the way the war ended: He was doomed to a life of serving whatever kind of omnipotent being Potter was now, because Lucius had a stronger sense of ego than of family.  And bloody hell, it was cold in this room.  He shivered, and the guard tightened his grip.

“Bring him here.”

The guard shoved Draco forward.  The long ends of the ribbon tied choker-style around Draco’s neck brushed against his back.  The feathery sensation made Draco shudder. 

“I see you’ve come dressed for the occasion,” mused Potter, tracing the tip of Draco’s wand over the ribbon at his neck.  Instinctively, Draco stepped back as Potter touched a second length of ribbon, which crossed behind Draco’s back, over his bare chest, and tied behind his neck.  As per Lucius’s instructions, Draco wore ribbons, tied tight with long hanging ends, above each elbow, knee, ankle, and wrist.  And the one tied at his cock, tied to humiliate. 

“Happy fucking Christmas,” Draco spat.  He trembled from cold and fear, but above both of those, he was angry.  Anger alone, at Potter, at his father, at everything that happened since the last time he knew what day it was, kept him standing.  It had to.  It was all he had left.

He stumbled as Potter grabbed a length of his hair.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Draco, but your days of backtalking are over.  You’re a traitor to your family and the side they fought for, and you’re damn lucky I let you have a choice in what happened to you.  It’s not too late to change your mind if you want.  We can always do to you what we did to Severus.  Otherwise, I suggest you shut your trap and fulfill your end of the bargain.”

Pressing his lips together, Draco curled his hands into fists.  He dug his nails into his palms to keep from gagging at the memory of Snape’s last moments.  Two deep breaths in and out settled his stomach but not his mind.

The wall behind Potter was adorned with candles.  When Potter leaned down, his shadow fell over Draco, his robes velvety against Draco’s bare legs.  The last thought Draco had before Potter’s lips met his was that Potter’s shadow covering him pretty much summed up everything that happened since the explosion. 

And like the explosion, Potter’s kiss shocked Draco.  Temporarily blinded white, Draco reached forward to steady himself, shaken by Potter’s strength, by his preternatural heat.  Draco expected Potter to be cold, a kiss to match the sadistic nature.  Potter held Draco’s head, fingers twined in his hair, and took Draco’s lower lip between his teeth, increasing the pressure of the bite until Draco protested in pain.  Draco’s cry resonated in their mouths, and when he relaxed his jaw Potter let go of his lip, kissing Draco full on and sliding his tongue over the bite, already swollen and slightly numb.  Refusing to stand in place and allow Potter to orchestrate only what he wanted from the kiss, Draco tightened his grip on Potter’s arms and parted his lips.  The edges of Potter’s teeth were uneven under Draco’s tongue.  As they kissed, Draco lost his sense of awareness, the knowledge that his father was in the room watching.  Warmth spiraled through Draco, moving from his heart into his arms and legs, loosening the joints in his fingers.  Frictionless, their tongues curled against each other like a pair of snakes.    Draco felt Potter’s hands at the small of his back and he pressed against Potter, who was hard beneath his robes.

Draco got the message.  His wand, his mouth, his hair, his days and nights, all of it belonged to Potter now.  Even if he had his wand he had nowhere to go, no way to survive.

When the realization hit Draco, he pulled away from Potter, studying his enemy.  In the backlighting, Potter looked somehow infinitely both old and young.  His skin glowed with the cream and orange light of fire and his hands, though smooth, were sinewy and strong.  Somewhere in the amalgamated mind was Harry Potter, thirteen years old and fainting in the presence of dementors, but that thirteen-year-old boy was also a man with nearly a hundred years’ worth of magical knowledge, capable of incandescent cruelty.

“You’re staring at me, Draco.  I’m sure your father taught you that it is never polite to stare at your master.”

Saying nothing, Draco looked away.  Potter’s kiss had melted something in him, a layer of defiance, his icy armor.  The words on his tongue wouldn’t form sentences. Until this moment, his rage, grief over Snape, and sarcasm felt enough to guard him from Potter’s gaze.  He was fooling himself.  All the cutting remarks in the world couldn’t fix the fact that he wore nothing except for the black ribbons and that Potter, if he wanted to, could snap his wand in half a second.

Someone standing behind Draco caught the long ends of the ribbons above his elbows and tied them together.  He twisted his head to see who it was and caught sight of Lucius, the fire reflected in his eyes.

“Your gift is appreciated, Lucius,” said Potter.  “I think in time he might even learn his place.”  With a small smile, he added, “Much like his father.”

Lucius tied a second set of ribbons, the ones at Draco’s wrists.  While stroking Draco’s hair, he said, “You should know that my place is always in your service, my lord.” 

Draco rolled his eyes and tugged at his bonds, but they wouldn’t move.  The ribbon was probably charmed one way or the other.  Lucius, still gripping the ribbons in his left hand, stepped forward to embrace Potter.

Held in place at his father's side, Draco sensed the close nature of his father's relationship with Potter. Killing was their aphrodisiac, and they doused themselves in it. Each knew how to please the other in ways that no one else could, and they communicated everything from lust to murder with the minutest gesture. The small hairs on Lucius's chin glittered in the firelight when he tilted his head to kiss Potter. As their kiss deepened, Lucius pulled tighter on the ribbons at Draco's wrists.  Low moans vibrated in Lucius’s throat.  To keep from losing his balance, Draco pressed the length of his body to Lucius. Though all his fondness for Lucius as his father had disappeared months, maybe years earlier, he somehow felt safe pressed to Lucius's body, the way he used to as a child. Perhaps there was some shred of hope that Lucius wouldn't let Potter do too much to him. Right. And after tonight, they would give him back his wand and set him up in a flat in London.

The warmth of Potter's breath caught Draco's ear as Potter whispered to Lucius, "Take him to the bed. I want to open my present."

"What was that kiss?" said Draco, irritated. "Chopped--oof!" Draco, hauled backwards by Lucius, fell over the edge of the bed and landed with his hands at the small of his back.  Lucius pulled him up so he could sit back on his knees in the center of the bed. Potter, in an oddly tender gesture, brushed the stray hairs from Draco's face.

"He's so much like you," Potter said to Lucius, lifting Draco’s chin. "It's the eyes, and the sharp tongue." He looked away from Draco and lowered his hand. "Should he be both of ours tonight?"

"If you are willing to share."

“Tonight, I am.  You’ve done well.” 

Firelight rippled over Potter’s arms and back as he undressed, handed his robes to Lucius, and sat on the bed. He reclined against the pillows at the headboard, legs open, one on either side of Draco.  “Aren’t you thankful we spared you?” he asked.

Silently, Draco nodded.  He studied the bare lines of Potter’s torso and the dark hair that gave shape to his chest and legs.  Draco figured by the way Potter sat, positioned nude for Draco and Lucius to admire, that he hadn’t lost any of his ego in the explosion.  Dark Lord or not, some things never changed.

“Come here, Draco.”  Potter reached around Draco’s back for the ends of the ribbon tied backwards at Draco’s neck, and the satin slipped around his fingers.  He wound the ribbons over the backs of his hands, forcing Draco to walk forward on his knees.  “Nebby did an excellent job dressing you tonight.  I think I might like to see you in this outfit again sometime.” 

Draco didn’t want to, couldn’t, look away from Potter, but he heard the heavy rustle of his father’s robes and felt a shift of weight behind him on the bed. That same cold fear Draco had felt in his cell returned, but it settled in his spine rather than his stomach.  Lucius took the ribbons at Draco’s elbows as Potter shortened the ends of the choker.  Inches from Potter’s face, Draco wet his lips and drew only minimal breath.  The hairs on his arms stood on end and he felt gooseflesh form on his back. 

“Do you want another kiss, Draco?  I know you liked the way the last one made you feel.”

Still unnerved from the first kiss, Draco couldn’t lie.  “Yes.”  He thought of his manners and said, “Please.”

Potter transferred both ribbons to his one hand and caressed Draco’s lips with the thumb of the other.  When they met for a second kiss, Draco felt the tight muscles around his vertebrae relax.  Potter’s taste, like iron, like flames, filled his mouth.  He pulled against the ties, wanting just for a second to touch Potter while they kissed. 

Smiling, Potter said, “Struggle more, Draco.” 

Draco sat back against his heels, lowering his head.

“Oh, and pout, too.  You’re cute when you pout.”

Cute?  The shroud of compliance and tranquility disappeared at the sound of that word.  Of all the words Potter, the Dark Lord, could have used, he resorted a descriptor for infants and kittens?  Ridiculous.  Lifting his head and tossing his hair out of his eyes, Draco retorted, “You’re one of the most powerful wizards in the world and all you can come up with is ‘You’re cute when you pout?’ You must be joking.” 

Potter dropped the ribbons and crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.  “That mouth of yours, Draco.  Do you have to use it to talk?”

“I would use it for eating if you’d feed me anything decent.  Or for talking.  Thanks to you I’ve become quite the expert in Muggle fairy tales.”

“I understand you used to be good at a fair number of things involving your mouth.”  Potter reached for the ribbons that crossed over Draco’s chest.  Holding them in his right hand, he brushed Draco’s nipple with the fingertips of his left.  When Potter pinched the nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, Draco took a sharp breath.  Behind Draco, Lucius laughed softly.  Cold swept over Draco when Lucius laughed.  For a while, Draco had forgotten Lucius was in the room.  Despite the chill, Draco’s cheeks grew hot. 

The satin pillows behind Potter shimmered as he leaned back against them.  “You know, I’ve spared your life.  Showing a little gratitude wouldn’t hurt.”  Potter ran his hands over his chest, dark hairs curling around his fingers.  To Draco, Potter’s skin looked unearthly pale, almost translucent.  As Potter circled his hands lower and lower, stroking to the tops of his thighs and up again, grasping his cock, Draco’s mouth went dry.  The ribbon on his own cock felt uncomfortably tight, as did the one at his neck when he tried to swallow. 

“Show a little gratitude,” said Potter, “and I won’t snap your wand.”

Hating Potter with a strength he didn’t know he had, Draco leaned down and took Potter’s cock in his mouth.  His hair fell around his face.  Without his hands for balance he felt awkward.  Potter’s scent surrounded him, a musk that sent a spike of heat through Draco’s blood.  Against Draco’s tongue, Potter’s skin was smooth.  It felt to Draco like Potter was pushing him out of his body one sense at a time.  First sight, then smell, then touch.  Relaxing his throat as Potter pulled his head closer, Draco glided his tongue up Potter’s shaft and around the head, tasting fluid.  It had been weeks or maybe months since he’d eaten anything that wasn’t completely bland, and Potter’s essence of salt startled him.  Draco nearly pulled away when the overtones of salt gave way to bitterness, but no matter how Potter tasted, he had to act in the best interest of his wand. 

Somewhere distant, Draco heard Potter’s voice.  “Lucius.”

Draco sat up.  Strands of hair fell in front of his face and stuck to his cheek.  Lucius knelt behind him and placed a hand on either of his shoulders.  Looking over his shoulder, Draco saw that Lucius was naked, his skin gleaming white, luminescent.  Focusing on Potter, Lucius gathered Draco’s hair into one hand and kissed the curve where Draco’s neck met his right shoulder.  His free hand skimmed down Draco’s side to his waist, stroking against the grain of the hairs below Draco’s navel.  As he moved his mouth across the top of Draco’s back, Lucius reached for Draco’s cock, wrapping his fingers tight around the base.  Draco hadn’t been touched like this for a long time, and he didn’t fight his instincts.  He let the sensation of building pleasure encapsulate him and make him forget where he was and who was touching him.  Tilting his head back, he pressed back against Lucius, whose skin felt like satin against his own. When Lucius bit Draco’s earlobe, Draco gasped.  Potter laughed.

“Let him go, Lucius.  I want him again.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you have any other phrase in your vocabulary besides that?” snapped Draco, glaring at Lucius.

Turning Draco’s head forward by grabbing his jaw, Potter said, “That will be the only phrase left in your vocabulary if you don’t learn to control yourself.”  To Lucius, he said, “Make sure the ribbons are sufficiently tight.”

Potter lit several more candles around the bed, and the surfaces of the windows glimmered.  Reflections of the flames sparkled in mirrors.  In the relief from the shadows, Draco saw Potter’s eyes.  Unlike Voldemort’s, they were a clear, true green.  For some reason, this surprised Draco.  He didn’t think Potter would retain that part of his humanity.

“You’re staring, Draco,” came Potter’s voice through Draco’s trance.  “One would think that in your twenty years you’d have learned some manners.  I want you to take me in your mouth again.  And this time, act like you enjoy it.”

Once more, Draco leaned forward at the waist and lowered his head, taking Potter slowly in his mouth.  He felt Potter take the ends of the choker as he set a rhythm that Potter seemed to like.  The silky material of the bedcover was slippery beneath Draco’s legs, and he moved his knees apart for balance.  His jaw ached and his neck felt stiff, but he said nothing, just hoped that Potter would tire of him soon.

The sudden tight grasp of his father’s hands on his hips made Draco pause, and he drew his head back and looked up at Potter.

“No one told you to stop,” said Potter, holding the ribbons like a pair of reins.  Draco hesitated, but something in Potter’s gaze made him resume his position.  Cool air hit his cheeks as Potter stretched his legs wider.  Lucius took hold of Draco again, one leg on either side of Draco’s. 

“Slowly, Lucius.  There’s plenty of time.”

As he entered Draco from behind, slick and taut, Lucius replied, “Of course, my lord.  I have no intention of ruining your gift.” 

Draco’s scream never left his voice box.  If Potter had pushed away all his senses, Lucius brought them back fiercely, and they flared through his stomach to his chest to his throat.  Phosphorescent spots blurred Draco’s vision as he fought against Lucius.  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.  Potter and Lucius were one through him.  In and out of Draco they moved, malevolence in synchronization.  This time, there wasn’t enough warmth to cloud the fact that this was Lucius inside Draco, Lucius who had sold him, no, gifted him to Potter.  Draco couldn’t help but think of the story of the girl and the evil court of faeries.  The faeries paid their tithe to Hell, and Lucius was paying his.  With Draco.

Potter was close to release.  Tension changed the taste of his skin and the fluid that formed a sticky film over Draco’s tongue.  But as Potter’s breathing and thrusts accelerated, so did Lucius’s.  Draco licked faster, hoping that the sooner Potter finished, the sooner he could go back to his cell.  And then what?  How many more nights like this?  How many more nights was he going to spend tied like a box of sweets with Potter’s dick in his mouth and Lucius’s in his arse?  Angrily, not caring if he caused pain, Draco sucked harder, letting his lower lip slide back from his teeth.  Potter was a thorn in his side from day one and now, well, now he was the whole fucking rosebush.

In a simultaneous final thrust, Lucius and Potter came.  Nothing Draco did to brace himself prepared him for the feeling of being so used, of feeling impaled from both ends.  Draco relaxed his jaw, unable to swallow, and Potter’s seed covered his chin.    He squirmed beneath Lucius, wanting freedom, but Lucius had a grip on him tight enough to bruise.  Draco’s shoulders and knees ached, and Potter’s acrid taste permeated his palate.  Every time he looked at Potter, Draco knew he would remember that taste.  Potter leaned back slowly, the ends of the ribbons still in his hands, and when Draco looked up, Potter nodded to Lucius.  Taking his time, Lucius withdrew, making sure that Draco felt every inch of him. 

Free of both of them, Draco sat up.  He was dizzy, too tired to be angry, or defiant, or anything besides frail and empty and thoroughly fucked.  He was still hard and his pulse echoed in his cock, trapped by the ribbon.  The skin at his wrists was raw from the ribbon, but he pulled against the ties anyway. 

“They won’t come off until the guards remove them,” said Potter.  Lucius moved around Draco’s side to join Potter against the pillows.  They kissed once, gently, and the sheen of oil and sweat on their skin hurt Draco’s eyes.  Potter continued, “The guards will return you to your cell until I want to see you again.  Don’t worry,” he said, his voice like waves of water. “It won’t be long.  We won’t let you get too bored.”

Two guards in masks and shapeless robes pulled Draco off the bed, and he stumbled, his knees still sore.  Potter smiled and slid closer to Lucius as the guards dragged Draco to the door. 

The stone floor, though smooth, was cold under Draco’s bare feet as he walked back to his cell.  A wave of the guard’s wand and the ribbons were gone.  Before Draco could ask anything, the guards shoved him into his room and closed his door, locking it from outside. 

After washing his face and clearing the rivulets of eyeliner from his cheeks, Draco stretched out on his back naked on the bed.  If he lay on his side, he could feel the bruises Lucius left, and Draco didn’t need any more reminders of the evening’s events.  His erection, powered by thoughts of Potter’s mercuric grace and the taste of his kiss, was too much reminder on its own. 

There was very little Draco wouldn’t have done in that moment for a spool of ribbon.  With the next eight hours all to himself, he was sure he could find a good use for it.