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Ever since Voldemort had been very, very young, he had known that he had no equal.
Nobody could measure up to him in any way; not in intelligence, not beauty, not inhibition, and - above all - most certainly not in raw power. Truthfully, not a single person throughout his adolescent life had come even close to beating him in any aspect, let alone all of them. Dumbledore had his power and wit, yes, but he was a senile old fool bound by morals - and Grindelwald a senile old fool bound by madness.
And Voldemort, knowing he himself was the most perfect being he would ever find, also knew that mortality was not an option for him - would never be, in fact. So he fixed it; researched for several long, long years, filled with dead ends and hopelessness and rituals far more capable of ensuring death than preventing it, prevailing - another thing he remained unmatched in - through every frustration and impasse until, at last, he stumbled upon the solution, an offhand mention hidden in the furthest corner of the Restricted Section in a book that truly had nothing to do with death at all.
His first horcrux was his legacy - the ring of his ancestors, embedded with the stone fabled to hold the ability of recalling souls from death, created with aid of the death of his father - the very man who had abandoned him to the very same Muggle London streets he had cast his mother. Ripping the truth from his mind had been satisfying, and doing upon him the very same fate he had hoped for Voldemort, as of that time yet unborn, was extremely gratifying. Do upon others as they do upon you, and all that. The ring, at least, ensured that even if his body was destroyed, he would be tethered to the earth, able to return with enough time.
His second horcrux was a masterpiece. His journal, the only steady company he had since he’d stolen it in his childhood and later engraved his name in with gold at the ripe age of thirteen, turned into a tertiary vessel for his soul - taking with it the possibility of him pushed into untimely mortality by his first horcrux being destroyed along with him if it remained on his person. And, of course, there was the aspect of the… physical.
The ritual had hurt, as had the first one, and he hadn’t quite learned how to seal his soul back shut, how to heal it, so he had resisted the seductive call of his journal and ring for years, not afraid, but close, that it would be reabsorbed into him - and that he’d have to do the entire process of ripping himself apart again. Still he warded it from a careful distance, prevented it from obtaining damage that might affect normal leather bound books, and kept it safe inside the bottom of his locked and warded trunk whenever it was not in his direct sight.
Now, though, several dozen years later and having placed the sixth shard of his soul inside the body of his adored snake, the rest cauterised safely so that there was no risk of any of it coming back together, he allowed himself to indulge in the pull - to let it soothe him through sheer proximity alone.
Voldemort ran his fingers gently across the leather that bound the book harbouring a piece of himself, and found the ricochet of sensations traveling up his arm to be… not unpleasant. Unexpected in its intensity, yes, and certainly odd, but definitely not unpleasant at all. Pressing the pages open, flat against the table, he pushed his palms down against the soft paper, allowing the trickle of electricity to reverberate through his arms into his chest, filling his lungs. There was a pull, and -
He found himself righting up inside a monochrome world, the familiar walls of Hogwarts twisted to his soul’s liking around him.
“Oh,” said the voice of his younger self, sounding petulant, “it’s you.”
Voldemort turned, letting his eyes fall on his own face from decades ago. “Were you expecting someone else?” he asked casually, reclining slightly against the same desk he had been leaning over earlier. There was no need to pretend, here, where his only witness was himself.
His younger counterpart shifted, irritation flicking across his face. “Not exactly.”
Voldemort smiled. “You felt someone and became too eager to think this through, didn’t you?”
The boy stiffened, to Voldemort’s amusement. That was a yes. Fifty years of entrapment had eroded his horcrux’s occlumency, with nobody around to have any use for it, and so Voldemort could read his every reaction off the boy’s face. It would have to be fixed shortly, of course, but for now he could take simple pleasure in the fact.
“Come here,” he said, amusement bleeding through his tone. His counterpart looked at him, incredulous, and Voldemort tilted his head. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Slowly, unsure, the boy took a few steps toward him, coming to a halt some feet away.
“There we go,” Voldemort hummed, letting out a quiet breath as he hooded his eyes. “Closer.”
“What are you…” His younger self began hesitantly, taking a half-step back. Voldemort reached out and grabbed his arm firmly, pulling the boy up against his chest. Wide, reddish-brown eyes met his own crimson ones, and Voldemort sat back on the desk, pulling his horcrux into his lap so that he was straddling Voldemort.
“That’s better. Now,” Voldemort purred, “I should really get you a name to call you by, shouldn’t I?”
His younger counterpart looked at him incredulously. “We’re the same person.”
“Is that so, Tom?” Voldemort asked absently. The boy bristled, trying to pull away.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. Voldemort hummed, uncaring, and grabbed him by the hips, pulling him closer. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing you would object to, if we’re truly the same person,” Voldemort answered, one of his fingers dipping below his horcrux’s waistband. “Will you?”
He wouldn’t. Because, truly, that was indeed what he had created this horcrux for - there was nobody quite like him, quite worthy enough. So he had to be… inventive. If there was nobody in this world he deigned worthy of his physical affections, he would simply have to make someone. Or - remake someone. Namely himself.
True enough, despite his horcrux’s clear annoyance at having been left to sit in a diary for years on end and not having been used as he should have been, he didn’t say a word, biting the red of his bottom lip instead, eyes dilating. “Good boy,” Voldemort praised, undoing Tom’s belt buckle with a mere thought, one of his hands coming to rest, loosely cupped, against the front of the boy’s trousers. A masterful swipe of his thumb, and the button popped loose, the zipper tugged down by his clawed nail moments later. Tom’s breath stuttered and he shuddered.
Delightful boy.
“You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” Voldemort murmured against the boy’s ear, pleased at the flush that tinged the tips of them a gentle pink. “To be used by me, like the sweet, darling boy you are.”
A tiny, hitching moan escaped from his horcrux’s throat, and Voldemort answered it by pushing his hand into the front of the boy’s pants, cold fingertips meeting hot, stiff flesh. Hips bucked, and Voldemort dug the fingers of his other hand into Tom’s hip, feeling the bone of his pelvis starkly beneath his touch. He’d always been a very lean boy. Tom got the hint, though, and whined softly in his throat as he fought to stop the instinctive roll of his hips. He must have been very desperate, awfully frustrated, if he was this sensitive, this needy.
“I’ll make you come, sweet thing, if you stay very still for me,” Voldemort said gently, curling his fingers around the shaft leaking against his palm. His horcrux made a desperate noise, hands flying up to curl almost painfully into Voldemort’s shoulders, nails biting into the fine scales there. Before Voldemort could even ask for confirmation that the boy had understood his command, Tom nodded, eyes squeezed shut and lips already bitten raw.
“Please,” he moaned, high-pitched, losing all composure in the face of himself. Voldemort made an appreciative noise in return and grasped his boy’s cock more firmly, then, with a thought, banished Tom’s trousers and underclothes, leaving him in his shirt, socks and garters. His horcrux practically collapsed into him, fighting against the twitches of his hips. Such a lovely, lovely boy.
Slicking his hand slightly with another fleeting thought, figuring his horcrux would chafe otherwise, he began tugging firmly at the flesh pulsing in his grip, setting a harsh, unforgiving pace. He’d promised relief, and, being a man of his word, he would give it.
Tom curled up against him, hot, panting breaths fanning across Voldemort’s chest through the gap of his undershirt, where the first four buttons had been undone, pressing his cheek against the no doubt cool skin there. His horcrux’s skin was heated and flushed, and he could see the boy’s thighs trembling in an effort to keep his composure - not out of any measure of pride, not really, but to prolong the pleasure he was no doubt receiving and re-receiving in a rebounding echo through the connection between their parts of his soul. Voldemort, for his part, was also beginning to feel affected by the arousal ricocheting between them, his own cocks pressing against his slit. He forced it down for the moment, though, wishing to see to his horcrux’s pleasure first.
“Come for me, darling,” he murmured into the boy’s ear, wanting to see himself unravel - and Tom did, beautifully, head tossing back as he tensed, eyes going round and blowing wide as his back arched and he came over Voldemort’s hand, cum landing thickly on the black of Voldemort’s robes. Voldemort kept moving his hand through it, coaxing his boy toward the end of his orgasm, uncaring of the cum covering his fingers - until at last, with harsh breaths, Tom began squirming, trying to pull away. Granting him relief - for now - Voldemort pulled his hand away, and his horcrux slumped against him, hands falling off Voldemort’s shoulders and falling limply against the desk.
Tom pulled back slightly and blinked in confusion when Voldemort lifted his hand toward his face, then reddened as Voldemort let his tongue run along one of the thick lines of semen covering his fingers.
“Sweet,” Voldemort murmured teasingly, eyes hooding over as he moved to another finger, and Tom shivered, eyes glued to the sight. “Do you want to taste?” Voldemort offered, holding his cum-covered hand out to the boy still in his lap. “You can compare later, if you wish.”
Tom barely hesitated a moment before he leaned in, warm tongue licking his cooling release off Voldemort’s fingers, far more thorough than Voldemort himself had been. When he sucked Voldemort’s index finger into his mouth, though, Voldemort stopped him. Upon Tom’s questioning noise, Voldemort smiled at him.
“Hold that thought,” he said, amused, and lifted Tom off him, setting him down on shaky legs, before pulling the chair from behind the desk to in front of it and sitting down, parting his robes and undoing his own trousers, quickly working both of his cocks out of his slit so they sat heavily in the lukewarm air, covered in their own lubricant. One of the perks of this body, Voldemort supposed, amused at the awestruck look his horcrux gave them, was that he didn’t need to use any outside substances for his own pleasure. “There. Continue,” he said mildly - and Tom dropped to his knees, placing his hands on Voldemort’s thighs before leaning in.
“They’re large,” he complained mildly. “I’ll never fit both.”
“Then start with one,” Voldemort instructed, entertained at his horcrux’s theatrics even as arousal pooled tangibly in his gut, more blood pulsing to the twin phalluses that sat so close to Tom’s lovely, inviting mouth.
Thankfully he didn’t have to wait much longer, and Tom leaned forward, licking up one and gathering the slippery substance covering it with his tongue, eyes glued to Voldemort’s own as he sucked the tip of it into his mouth, cheeks hollowing. Voldemort watched him, keeping his breathing steady as his horcrux slowly worked his way down his shaft, breath hitching when his boy swallowed unthinkingly, trying to stave off his gag reflex. The hot, soft press of the inside of the boy’s mouth stretched wide around him, the slow working of that lovely tongue against his shaft and the careful wrapping of lips over teeth, ever so delicate, all worked to move him to a state of increased arousal - but it wasn’t enough to send him into orgasm, not at all.
So, curling his fingers lovingly into Tom’s hair and scratching gently at his scalp in soothing motions, he muttered a word of praise - “Lovely boy,” - waited for Tom to breathe in, and then pulled, forcing the head of his cock into his horcrux’s throat.
Tom made a surprised noise of protest through his nose, which was now pressed against the smooth skin of Voldemort’s pelvis, choking as he went deeper, and Voldemort groaned as the boy’s throat contracted around him, eyes slipping shut for a moment before he opened them again, wanting to see himself debauched, debased, kneeling with his mouth stuffed full of his own cock. The sight of it was like ambrosia, slipping like fine whiskey down his oesophagus and landing hot and deep, filling him with burning warmth from the inside. After a moment, an eternity yet far too short, Voldemort let up.
Tom pulled back, breathing heavily through his nose as he choked, swallowing around the head of Voldemort’s cock still in his mouth, teeth grazing his hard flesh by accident - and Voldemort let him, for a moment, before he pulled him back down and kept him there, hands pressing firmly against the back of the boy’s head, moaning appreciatively. This, this, careened him far faster towards achieving orgasm than the amateurish attempts his dear horcrux had made. Feeling Tom spasm around his cock, throat convulsing reflexively in an attempt to expel him, and yet being unable to…
Voldemort pulled back as his orgasm washed over him, the first burst of his cum spilling across his boy’s choking tongue - the rest painted across his face, catching on his lashes and dripping down his red, abused lips, a particularly harsh spurt even painting its contrast against the boy’s hair. Tom moaned wantonly at the feeling, keeping his eyes closed, his lashes damp with reflexive tears from his choking on Voldemort’s cock - and Voldemort found he could not make himself wait any longer for what he wanted to do next.
He pulled Tom to his feet and banished his outer robes before spinning them both around and pushing his horcrux down across the desk, a feral smile stealing across his face upon the startled gasp the boy made. Tom’s cock was once again hard, red and weeping at the tip like before, and Voldemort delighted in the knowledge that simply choking on his own cock was enough to make him desperate and wanting once more. Tom opened the eye that wasn’t covered with a stripe of cum a bit, then reached up, wrapping his arms around Voldemort’s neck and pulling him down for a heated, messy kiss. Voldemort could taste his own release on the boy’s tongue still, more bitter than Tom’s own, but no less sweet - and kissed back hungrily, one of his hands reaching down and tracing across the decline between Tom’s supple arse until he found the very thing he was looking for, rubbing at it teasingly with his dry finger with its sharp claw. Tom tore away to moan invitingly, rolling his hips against Voldemort’s hand.
Grabbing the still-hard cock that hadn’t yet seen orgasm, Voldemort gathered the lubricant coating it thickly and covered his fingers with it before pressing insistently at that tight, untried hole, his finger slipping in with little resistance. Tom arched into him at the intrusion, another moan ripped from his throat. Voldemort sank his finger in to the hilt, then pulled back slightly before pushing in again, impatient, getting the tight, clenching walls of his boy’s arse used to the intrusion. Before long he could fit a second finger, swallowing his horcrux’s moans as they kissed, pressing them both in deeply before pulling back again. He pushed his fingers apart rhythmically inside Tom’s body, stretching him just that little bit more as he pulled them out, then pulled Tom down the desk a little further, settling into place between his spread thighs.
Voldemort paused for a moment, appreciating the contrast between his horcrux’s black woollen socks and garters and the milky skin of his legs, considering biting into the flesh there and marking it, blemishing it with the perfect print of his own teeth - before Tom moaned impatiently and pushed his hips up, the head of Voldemort’s cock brushing against the smooth skin of his thigh, smearing sticky lubricant and precum there.
“Impatient, aren’t we?” Voldemort said, sounding far more breathless than he intended, but it didn’t matter. This was himself, after all. “Don’t worry, darling,” he murmured, feeling the term of endearment warm his horcrux from his ears to his toes through their skin contact. “You’ll get your fill soon enough.”
He pressed closer and allowed Tom to wrap his long, coltish legs around Voldemort’s hips, the boy’s heels digging into Voldemort’s lower back, just above his own arse. Voldemort took his cock in hand and lined it up with the reddened hole he’d just fucked his fingers into, then grabbed Tom by the hips and pulled him down as he thrust forward, allowing him to sink inside in one smooth thrust - his other, reawakening cock pressing insistently against the crook of his boy’s pelvis and thigh.
Tom moaned, high and desperate, more a gasp of surprised pleasure than anything as he was filled entirely. He threw his head back, clenching reflexively around Voldemort’s cock - and Voldemort cursed at the tight, hot heat surrounding him, not allowing his horcrux another moment to acclimate before he pulled back and snapped his hips forwards again, seeking that incredible friction, punching another lovely sound out of his horcrux’s throat.
Then he did it again, and again, and again, until he’d established a fast, unforgiving rhythm, the rituals providing his stamina and strength allowing him to sustain this almost inhuman pace. Before long, their bodies moved in tandem, Tom rolling his hips up to meet Voldemort’s harsh thrusts, his boy’s head tossing this way and that as Voldemort’s girth stimulated just about every nerve inside him. They were one for as much as they could be, in that moment, every sensation echoing between them, amplified like a shout in a heated cave, formed of two perfect bodies moving in sync.
Then something built, a pleasure igniting slowly behind Tom’s eyes - or Voldemort’s, he no longer knew - with every snap of Voldemort’s hips as the head of his cock brushed against Tom’s prostate with Tom’s hips angled just the right way.
“Yes,” Tom gasped out, eyes meeting Voldemort’s desperately for a moment before they closed again, face twisting in pleasure as he moaned, long and high. “There! There!” he demanded breathlessly when his hips fell back down, exertion catching up to him. Voldemort obeyed, angling his thrusts just so that every time he pushed in Tom made that lovely, high-pitched moaning sound, the feeling of fullness and completeness reverberating through their bodies.
From there, their release was inevitable. Tom fell first, gasping out a shout as he seized and came all over his chest, his cock jerking as stripes of cum landed on his stomach, and he clenched, oh so deliciously, around Voldemort’s cock, which was still moving inside him. Voldemort let himself go, then, too, pushing deep inside Tom’s warm body and spilling himself there, painting the inside of his horcrux just the same as he had his face, the action coaxing a primal, possessive greed to the surface of his mind - demanding more. To satisfy it, he pulled out shortly after when Tom was still catching his breath and quickly stroked his other cock, fully hardened once more, to completion, leaning heavily over Tom’s body as he watched his seed paint the boy’s stomach and hips in thick spurts, mixing with his horcrux’s own release.
They stayed there, breathing harshly for several moments, Tom’s hair disheveled and laid in a halo around his flushed, tear-stained face, his lovely lips bitten and swollen and drying seed caught in his lashes. Voldemort watched, enraptured with his own beauty, holding himself up on his arms, all too tempted to let himself fall down and crush his horcrux’s body under his own - but he refrained, wanting to commit the sight, the feelings of it all to memory.
After a few seconds Tom opened his eyes, blinking away the dried cum still stuck on it with a mere thought, and looked up at Voldemort, his red-tinged brown eyes curious as they searched Voldemort’s face. Then he laughed, open and delighted, a little bit self-deprecating, and hooked an arm around Voldemort’s neck and pulled himself up, pressing his swollen lips messily against Voldemort’s mouth, nose pressing into Voldemort’s cheek. When he pulled back, he looked exasperated.
“I was going to be angry, you know,” Tom told Voldemort, looking into his eyes, a frown marring his perfect, lovely eyebrows. “You cold-cocked me for fifty years.”
Voldemort blinked lazily at him, unrepentant. “A few things have happened since that prevented me from doing what I wanted. I only really learned how to cauterise my own soul in the early seventies, you know.”
Tom rolled his eyes and pressed another kiss to Voldemort’s mouth. “I am well aware. If you leave me here for another fifty years, though, I will not be convinced so easily - and you, my Lord, will see yourself out with a painful stiffy.”
Voldemort tisked. “Such crude language,” he chided without heat.
“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” his horcrux crooned, smiling at him, eyes flickering red.