Amnesia
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
7,805
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
7,805
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Amnesia
Title: Amnesia (1/1)
Date of completion: November 27th 2006
Genre: Slash, PWP
Time: 1993, Prisoner of Azkaban time.
Rating: R
Word count: 1596
Pairing(s): ?? / Oliver Wood (mystery pairing)
Characters: Oliver Wood, ?
Warnings/Spoilers: mind control, therefore vaguely non-con
Disclaimer: The character and the place belong to J.K. Rowling, and I am making no profit from this at all.
Summary: Oliver is once again made to please the unknown figure that has been manipulating his mind.
----------------
He never remembers anything.
He never remembers how he got there, or why he went. He never remembers the room he goes to, but he knows there is a bed in there. He doesn't remember where it is, but he knows he shouldn't really be there. He was brought there the first time. Each time after that, he was silently summoned. He always knows the way.
He doesn't know why it happens, or when it started. It always happens at night. The call always comes at supper time, a voice sneaks into his mind from across the hall and tells him he must come again, that he wants to, oh yes he does, he wants to very much.
He never remembers what he does, and he never remembers returning to his own dormitory, but he always feels like hell the next morning. He feels dirty, somehow, like ten cold showers wouldn't begin to make him clean. But when that summon comes, he always feels good.
It's driving him mad, slowly, but he hasn't told anyone about it. What would he say? He doesn't know what is going on. He keeps it to himself as he sits quietly in class, as he exhaustedly mounts his broomstick. There's something awfully embarrassing about it, he thinks, but he doesn't know why.
He often wonders who it is that's doing this to him, but every time he asks himself his mind tells him that it knows nothing. The slate is wiped clean each time.
Tonight he is making his way to a different place than the usual. He doesn't know how he knows its different, but he knows they have never met in the Quidditch storage room before. He's still wearing his kit, and he's damp from the rain that's been drizzling.
The person is already waiting for him as he enters the dark room. He reaches for his wand to make a light but he is told not to. There is a lantern glowing on one of the shelves.
He closes the door behind himself, as he is ordered to, and looks up at the person he recognises in an instant. He always knows who it is at the time, but he is still powerless. If only he could hold the image in his mind, so he might look at it again later, but the memory is always stolen from him.
He swallows tightly and shudders as hypnotic eyes slowly roam over his figure.
"Good evening, Oliver."
He opens his mouth to reply, to speak the name of the person he sees in hope that his face will stay in his mind afterwards, but he is silenced as the dividing space of several feet between himself and the other is closed in a heartbeat. His words are smothered by pale lips as a cool tongue enters his mouth.
He whimpers and tries to fight it. In a moment he will be lost to the feeling, he has to try to stand firm. He struggles away.
"Please, Sir, I..."
The lips that just kissed him are smiling at him. It's a sweet smile, but there's something a little cruel about it. He shivers.
"Oh, Oliver, you always say that." The tongue sweeps across his lips. "If only I could believe you meant it. You're not very convincing, are you?"
He tries not to press his hips forward as a gloved hand presses firmly between his legs. He tries not to get hard. He fails dismally. He wants to protest, but his voice is stolen away, replaced by a wanton gasp as the hand slips into his trousers, the softness of the glove gliding warmly over his length, just one stroke, before it withdraws. His own hand is urged into his pants to take over. He feels his cheeks colour up but he does as he's ordered to anyway. There's no point in resisting now. He's past the point of being able to.
He whimpers as he takes himself in his hand. He stumbles as he's pushed back against the wall, held by the shoulders in strong hands, shoved back by a tall body pressing against his own. The wall hits his shoulders suddenly and he's pinned there. He wants this. It's like a drug and he has become addicted to it, even though it frightens him. He tries to cling to a little sense; a memory of spending lunchtime with his girlfriend, the image of this man's face, his own name, but all are soon swallowed up into the darkness that's creeping in from the corners of his mind.
The kiss is broken and moved to his neck, and he leans his head back to grant more access. One soft kiss is placed at the side of his neck, then he cringes as he feels teeth against his skin. Such bites should leave bruises, but they never do. He loves the feeling. It makes him throb all over. It makes him feel wrong, and guilty, but it is too good to resist. He no longer has a conscience; he is reduced to a bundle of tingling nerves.
His free hand is urged between his captor's legs and he fumbles awkwardly to get the buttons of the velvet trousers undone to slip his hand inside. He looks up as the man shakes his head. No. That is not what is required of him.
Fingers wind into his short hair, tug slightly, then he is urged downwards. He crouches in the small space between legs and wall, confined and claustrophobic, but he doesn't care about the discomfort. He wants to perform this service as well as he's able to, that way he'll be allowed to come. He's still stroking himself, but his hand has slowed. He knows he's not supposed to do too much to himself until he has pleased his master in a suitable manner.
He lets the pressure of the fingers on the back of his head guide his face forward, and he opens his mouth to take in the smooth, hard cock that touches his lips. He glances up as he hears a soft moan of pleasure, but he cannot see anything, the light is obscured by a long robe. He closes his eyes, stilling his own trembling hand as he begins to suck firmly and slowly, in a way he knows should be perfect. His own cock aches for more friction but he doesn't dare to administer any.
"Keep going, Oliver. I did not tell you to stop."
He whimpers and starts to stroke himself again, as slowly and lightly as he can. It's so frustrating. He has done this before, he knows, but he can't properly recall the feeling of other times, only an immense sensation of frustration. He wants to go faster, to get it over with, to be able to come then be allowed to go. He wants to take a shower, he wants to curl up in his own bed. He wants rid of this feeling as much as he never wants it to end.
But he's not allowed to go any faster. He's reminded of this quickly enough. He whimpers and shifts a little to try to stop his legs cramping up. Long minutes later, he's still working just as slowly, his own desire welling up painfully inside him. He's trembling and he can feel tears in his eyes, tears that are wiped away gently by the gloved hand. He doesn't know what makes him like this so much, what makes him feel more turned on by something he's being forced into doing -something to a man at that - than if he was comfortably having sex with his girlfriend. It doesn't make sense. He isn't gay. He knows he's being forced into liking it, but that doesn't make it any better.
He's thankful when the hand at the back of his head urges him to go faster, and knowing that he's allowed to, he puts all he can into it. His jaw is aching, his tongue is numb, his throat is dry, but the thought of being allowed to finally end this encourages him.
He moans and shudders as hot fluid fills his mouth and he swallows it quickly. He didn't realise that he had been stroking himself harder, and before he can do anything to stop it, he's spilling over his own hand, crying out even as more sweet tasting liquid fills his mouth.
He wasn't supposed to do that. He expects the blow that lands to his face, but he doesn't react quickly enough to avoid it. He falls to the floor, grazing his elbow. He can taste blood in his mouth. He holds back the tears that are stinging in his eyes and keeps his eyes cast down as he scrambles to his feet, putting his clothing back into place.
"I'm sorry, Sir," he mumbles, flinching as the hand that just struck him pets his cheek in an almost loving manner. It's sinister and he wants to run away from it.
"Go now." The door is opened for him. "You've been a bad boy, Oliver, you don't deserve any more."
He doesn't know whether he's glad to be released or heartbroken. For now he wants to flee, but in a moment he knows he'll wish he'd begged to stay. There will be a next time. Next time, he knows he won't be allowed his own release, but he will return for more. By the time he gets outside and the door closes, he has already forgotten what just happened.
Date of completion: November 27th 2006
Genre: Slash, PWP
Time: 1993, Prisoner of Azkaban time.
Rating: R
Word count: 1596
Pairing(s): ?? / Oliver Wood (mystery pairing)
Characters: Oliver Wood, ?
Warnings/Spoilers: mind control, therefore vaguely non-con
Disclaimer: The character and the place belong to J.K. Rowling, and I am making no profit from this at all.
Summary: Oliver is once again made to please the unknown figure that has been manipulating his mind.
----------------
He never remembers anything.
He never remembers how he got there, or why he went. He never remembers the room he goes to, but he knows there is a bed in there. He doesn't remember where it is, but he knows he shouldn't really be there. He was brought there the first time. Each time after that, he was silently summoned. He always knows the way.
He doesn't know why it happens, or when it started. It always happens at night. The call always comes at supper time, a voice sneaks into his mind from across the hall and tells him he must come again, that he wants to, oh yes he does, he wants to very much.
He never remembers what he does, and he never remembers returning to his own dormitory, but he always feels like hell the next morning. He feels dirty, somehow, like ten cold showers wouldn't begin to make him clean. But when that summon comes, he always feels good.
It's driving him mad, slowly, but he hasn't told anyone about it. What would he say? He doesn't know what is going on. He keeps it to himself as he sits quietly in class, as he exhaustedly mounts his broomstick. There's something awfully embarrassing about it, he thinks, but he doesn't know why.
He often wonders who it is that's doing this to him, but every time he asks himself his mind tells him that it knows nothing. The slate is wiped clean each time.
Tonight he is making his way to a different place than the usual. He doesn't know how he knows its different, but he knows they have never met in the Quidditch storage room before. He's still wearing his kit, and he's damp from the rain that's been drizzling.
The person is already waiting for him as he enters the dark room. He reaches for his wand to make a light but he is told not to. There is a lantern glowing on one of the shelves.
He closes the door behind himself, as he is ordered to, and looks up at the person he recognises in an instant. He always knows who it is at the time, but he is still powerless. If only he could hold the image in his mind, so he might look at it again later, but the memory is always stolen from him.
He swallows tightly and shudders as hypnotic eyes slowly roam over his figure.
"Good evening, Oliver."
He opens his mouth to reply, to speak the name of the person he sees in hope that his face will stay in his mind afterwards, but he is silenced as the dividing space of several feet between himself and the other is closed in a heartbeat. His words are smothered by pale lips as a cool tongue enters his mouth.
He whimpers and tries to fight it. In a moment he will be lost to the feeling, he has to try to stand firm. He struggles away.
"Please, Sir, I..."
The lips that just kissed him are smiling at him. It's a sweet smile, but there's something a little cruel about it. He shivers.
"Oh, Oliver, you always say that." The tongue sweeps across his lips. "If only I could believe you meant it. You're not very convincing, are you?"
He tries not to press his hips forward as a gloved hand presses firmly between his legs. He tries not to get hard. He fails dismally. He wants to protest, but his voice is stolen away, replaced by a wanton gasp as the hand slips into his trousers, the softness of the glove gliding warmly over his length, just one stroke, before it withdraws. His own hand is urged into his pants to take over. He feels his cheeks colour up but he does as he's ordered to anyway. There's no point in resisting now. He's past the point of being able to.
He whimpers as he takes himself in his hand. He stumbles as he's pushed back against the wall, held by the shoulders in strong hands, shoved back by a tall body pressing against his own. The wall hits his shoulders suddenly and he's pinned there. He wants this. It's like a drug and he has become addicted to it, even though it frightens him. He tries to cling to a little sense; a memory of spending lunchtime with his girlfriend, the image of this man's face, his own name, but all are soon swallowed up into the darkness that's creeping in from the corners of his mind.
The kiss is broken and moved to his neck, and he leans his head back to grant more access. One soft kiss is placed at the side of his neck, then he cringes as he feels teeth against his skin. Such bites should leave bruises, but they never do. He loves the feeling. It makes him throb all over. It makes him feel wrong, and guilty, but it is too good to resist. He no longer has a conscience; he is reduced to a bundle of tingling nerves.
His free hand is urged between his captor's legs and he fumbles awkwardly to get the buttons of the velvet trousers undone to slip his hand inside. He looks up as the man shakes his head. No. That is not what is required of him.
Fingers wind into his short hair, tug slightly, then he is urged downwards. He crouches in the small space between legs and wall, confined and claustrophobic, but he doesn't care about the discomfort. He wants to perform this service as well as he's able to, that way he'll be allowed to come. He's still stroking himself, but his hand has slowed. He knows he's not supposed to do too much to himself until he has pleased his master in a suitable manner.
He lets the pressure of the fingers on the back of his head guide his face forward, and he opens his mouth to take in the smooth, hard cock that touches his lips. He glances up as he hears a soft moan of pleasure, but he cannot see anything, the light is obscured by a long robe. He closes his eyes, stilling his own trembling hand as he begins to suck firmly and slowly, in a way he knows should be perfect. His own cock aches for more friction but he doesn't dare to administer any.
"Keep going, Oliver. I did not tell you to stop."
He whimpers and starts to stroke himself again, as slowly and lightly as he can. It's so frustrating. He has done this before, he knows, but he can't properly recall the feeling of other times, only an immense sensation of frustration. He wants to go faster, to get it over with, to be able to come then be allowed to go. He wants to take a shower, he wants to curl up in his own bed. He wants rid of this feeling as much as he never wants it to end.
But he's not allowed to go any faster. He's reminded of this quickly enough. He whimpers and shifts a little to try to stop his legs cramping up. Long minutes later, he's still working just as slowly, his own desire welling up painfully inside him. He's trembling and he can feel tears in his eyes, tears that are wiped away gently by the gloved hand. He doesn't know what makes him like this so much, what makes him feel more turned on by something he's being forced into doing -something to a man at that - than if he was comfortably having sex with his girlfriend. It doesn't make sense. He isn't gay. He knows he's being forced into liking it, but that doesn't make it any better.
He's thankful when the hand at the back of his head urges him to go faster, and knowing that he's allowed to, he puts all he can into it. His jaw is aching, his tongue is numb, his throat is dry, but the thought of being allowed to finally end this encourages him.
He moans and shudders as hot fluid fills his mouth and he swallows it quickly. He didn't realise that he had been stroking himself harder, and before he can do anything to stop it, he's spilling over his own hand, crying out even as more sweet tasting liquid fills his mouth.
He wasn't supposed to do that. He expects the blow that lands to his face, but he doesn't react quickly enough to avoid it. He falls to the floor, grazing his elbow. He can taste blood in his mouth. He holds back the tears that are stinging in his eyes and keeps his eyes cast down as he scrambles to his feet, putting his clothing back into place.
"I'm sorry, Sir," he mumbles, flinching as the hand that just struck him pets his cheek in an almost loving manner. It's sinister and he wants to run away from it.
"Go now." The door is opened for him. "You've been a bad boy, Oliver, you don't deserve any more."
He doesn't know whether he's glad to be released or heartbroken. For now he wants to flee, but in a moment he knows he'll wish he'd begged to stay. There will be a next time. Next time, he knows he won't be allowed his own release, but he will return for more. By the time he gets outside and the door closes, he has already forgotten what just happened.