Daily Deviant
- there is no such thing as 'too kinky'
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24th January 2012 21:46 - FIC: "Artifacts" (Tom Riddle + various, NC-17)
Title: Artifacts
Author: [info]thegildedmagpie
Characters/Pairings: Tom Riddle, observing others
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Everything old is new! Sex shops, magical charms, pervertibles; dark wizards, begging, cuffs, snuff films; bathing/washing, hygrophilia, tears/crying; mirrors, genital enhancement, fingering
Other Warnings: Sadistic noncon fantasies, BDSM, implications of possible incest, loving couple including third partner, Tom being voyeuristic at various gender combinations
Word Count: 2175
Summary/Description: Borgin and Burkes customers are rarely making their purchases for innocent reasons, and they provide Tom Riddle with many excellent opportunities to practice his Legilimency on unsuspecting perverts.
Author's Notes: I was doing sex shops and magical charms! That was it! Then I noticed the tears and the rest happened. Lachrymatories are a real thing. And as for who the side characters are … well, some of the surnames give clues to which canon characters they're related to (though this is '47), and I'll write a drabble of choice for whoever correctly guesses all of them.

Miss Arachne came to Borgin and Burkes often. She was a woman of a certain age, ever ostentatiously hatted, who aggressively maintained the outward stylings of her girlhood in a way that awed other women rather than making them laugh. Her purchases followed a pattern. Every couple of months, she would come into the dark but handsome Knockturn Alley shop and approach the pale but handsome nineteen-year-old clerk who administered the shop on Mondays. Tom would look up from the inventory of pieces he had acquired for sale in his previous week's work; modestly, he would smile at her. It was important to know just when to smile.

She would ask him what had just come in. Tom, knowing exactly what she liked, would show her the innocent-looking crochet hook that, once awakened by a touch of magic, worked patterns in the entrails of the slain; the strand of pearls that strangled the unwary; the beaded handbag that bit people. She'd drift around and look. She'd ask him for a few more details upon the items that caught her fancy. She'd make a choice, complete the purchase, and leave for a few weeks before coming back in (always on Monday) to find a new curiosity.

Curiosity; that was what led Tom to risk trying, that first time, to see what she was up to. And what he had seen …

”Would you like to try this on next, dear?” said Miss Arachne Rowle to the wide-eyed, milk-faced girl who perched nude on the boudoir stool.

“If you don't mind, Miss Arachne,” said the girl – diffident, worried, but intoxicated by the sparkle of the things that spread over the surface of the dressing-table.

Arachne stroked a comb through the girl's unimpressive locks and patted her pulled-back arms. The girl's toes twined nervously against the stool's legs. Her well-rounded forearms met just above a pair of gilded cuffs at the peak of her pretty rump. Straight-backed, lip-biting, she tipped her head up, nervous but eager to please and enjoying the attention. She avoided looking at her own pale flesh in the dressing-table mirror. A serving-girl, Tom knew from Arachne's mind as he watched the image; a blooded witch (Miss Rowle would not have touched a Mudblood) but a poor one, one of many children, one who would not be missed so terribly much.

Humming softly to herself, Arachne lifted one of her oversized hats, smoothed back the girl's fine hair, and set the feathered cap on her head. A spritz of perfume next, the scent recognizable as Arachne's own; a dab of rouge on the decolletage. A necklace of gleaming jewels around the girl's throat.

Still the servant girl was tense in her bonds, but nonetheless she began to grow enchanted as she wondered what it meant for her mistress to adorn her with such fine and costly things. Arachne knew what she wondered; Arachne had done this many times before.

When Arachne picked up the earrings that matched the necklace, the girl swallowed and spoke up, her tone pitchy with nervous excitement. “Um, Miss Arachne – my ears aren't pierced. Our mum –”

“I know,” said Arachne, and placed one of the sharp hooks against the girl's earlobe.

She flinched away. “Miss Arachne, I can't. Please. Mum'll
kill me.”

The other hook settled symmetrically into place on the other ear. The chit quivered, looking into the mirror at her own reflection then away again. “No – no, Miss, please, I really ca –
ow! – please Miss Arachne please –”

The shrill groveling abruptly turned into a screech as the hooks plunged into her earlobes – and then a gurgle as the pitiful thing convulsed in her pretty cuffs, powdered breasts rolling and bouncing as she seized, the ludicrous hat toppling from her head, her collar of Arachne's prize jewels all agleam as the curse upon the beautiful earrings touched her bloodstream and stopped her heart.

“I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Pringle,” said Tom with charming alacrity, stepping round the counter to place a respectfully supportive hand under the old wizard's hyacinth-robed elbow. This was a repeat customer, returning to purchase what he had admired before. “I'm afraid an artifact was left sitting there on the counter a touch too long; the lingering effects sometimes take people that way.”

“Well, see that it's taken care of,” the wizard snapped through his forked beard.

“I certainly will,” Tom assured him as he ushered the older man out the door, handing him his neatly wrapped packages. It irked Tom to bow and scrape for the man, annoyed him to work in a place where he must serve others instead of directing them; but Borgin and Burkes provided him with opportunities that were not otherwise available to those of his blood status, background, and youth. He kept the customers in a decent mood – ever mindful of the treasures they encountered.

And no amount of snappish scoldings could take away what Tom had seen in Pringle's mind when he lifted the tiny lachrymatory from the locked case of Roman burial-cache artifacts and placed the pale chalcedony tear bottle in Pringle's potion-stained hand.

The girl in Pringle's mind was a Muggle, or at least she was dressed like one. The image of her was clear and strong, sketched deeply into Pringle's consciousness by endless sightings and imaginings. Perhaps, through his window, the old wizard watches this girl walk by in the sun, eighteen perhaps or twenty, her dress neatly pressed as she makes her way to shopgirl employment – just as Tom knows with quiet satisfaction that Diagon Alley's collection of idlers must watch his own Minerva as the breeze presses her thin summer robe to her proud breasts while she walks to the library.

Or perhaps the wheezing, shamed arousal that impregnates the vision in Pringle's heated brain is not because the girl is Muggle, Mudblood, less than worthy; perhaps the subject is his niece or daughter. It may be that his fantasy only dresses her so to shame her further. No matter. Tom has
seen. He has seen what Pringle imagines that he means to do with his new lachrymatory bottle and its unusual properties.

The girl weeps in this mental play as Pringle cuts open her dress along the seams with a single smooth pass of his wand. Fabric falls uselessly around her feet. No corset or brassiere girds the mature but over-thin body beneath; there are only gauzy cotton knickers and firm, bare little breasts. He takes pins from her hair so its top-knot collapses against the flush of her throat, then draws a pink ribbon from confining the mouse-brown tresses so they spread round her bony shoulders. Thick hair, animal, crackling as though from a vigorous application of the brush.

She weeps still. Of course she does. Pringle flicks open the engraved cap of the stone bottle and places it against the girl's cheekbone, pressing it in so it dents the rosy skin of her face, until a single tear slips inside.

With all the inside of his mind turning to a place of panting, moist arousal, Pringle's mental self removes the lachrymatory from the smooth cheek of his fantasy woman and snaps the metal cap shut. He shakes the bottle a little in his hand and hears the inaudability of the single drop turn to a slosh.

Pringle's fantasy yields to a thousand memories of furious masturbation as, in his imagination, he opens the cap again and upends the bottle, the salty multiplied tears pouring forcefully out as though a portal to the ocean lay just within. He directs the small deluge first to the girl's midsection, then as the cup of her navel runs over with the clear liquid he lowers the bottle so that the tears sluice directly over her clit. Her small sobs turn to tear-glazed moans as her already-thin knickers are instantly soaked at the crotch, transparency spreading rapidly up her mound and around her hips, fabric clinging to sculpt her swelling sex in wet cloth, her own terrified weeping made into a flood that gushes over her secret parts, runs down her thighs and puddles between her feet.

And at this point Pringle's imaginings implode into a tight point of orgasmic obsession. It's no wonder he came back and bought the lachrymatory. How could such a man resist?

Tom had soon come to a point where he realized the power of this knowledge. A disproportionate number of the clients who brought their refined tastes to their shopping at Borgin and Burkes were doing so in order to live out some sexual fantasy – whether or not the dark acts he glimpsed in the dim but unguarded corners of their naked minds were ever committed in truth. To know someone's innermost pleasures that way was nearly as good as learning their innermost fears.

This client, for instance, was called Umberto and was a simple collector – the wand case passed down by a number of Hogwarts headmasters might be his cup of tea, or the small oil painting of a girl who turned her back on the room for six and a quarter hours every second Thursday but refused to explain why. Yet Tom was curious about him – curious about what else he might have in his home that perhaps the helpful young man from Borgin and Burkes would like to see. So when Umberto brought his latest purchase, an elegant bronze-colored hand mirror said to have been part of a set that belonged to the wife of Agrippa, Tom gave him just the lightest Legilimens' touch – and saw.

Mrs. Umberto was a handsome but hard-planed woman. Her skin was dark, her legs were runner-powerful, and her shoulders were square. With both hands she held her thighs apart so that her flesh was visible above the wooden seat of the chair where she awaited her husband.

Look what I have for you, darling, Umberto intended to say as he placed the mirror at Mrs. Umberto's feet, a single deft spell tilting and seating it in thin air where it would reflect back to her a view of the secret territory that lay between her legs.

Behind the mirror their latest toy would wait, a delicate little thing, a boy of seventeen tender years who posed with his legs equally spread for the Umbertos' gaze. All would wait a moment like hushed spectators before a sacred mummers' dance, then Umberto would begin the magic.

First the boy, then his wife, then the boy again; just so, he would skilfully direct his wand and the regions between their legs would begin to swell. Mrs. Umberto's clitoris would grow thicker and prouder. The boy's balls would take on a fulsome flush as the tug of magic made the skin stretch and soften. Soon both would be moaning. Umberto would take himself in his left hand, stroking lightly as he manipulated the lovely genitalia of his wife and their plaything with the wand in his right.

Moans would grow sharper as the boy's cock, already curved up to his belly and rock-hard, would begin to extend away from his body again while the magic grew it. Sighs would grow deeper as Mrs. Umberto's lips grew pleasantly, tormentingly inflamed, opening as they became turgid with blood. And there would be no stopping. No slackening of the outward pressure that tingled the skin.

Soon the boy would be writhing, his proud cock extended to impossible size, skin reddening as blood surged in to fill the space drawn out by Umberto's wand. Thirteen inches. Fourteen. And girth to match. Oh, how it would hurt him. But Umberto would only ask his wife if she was ready, and she would whisper, More. More.

The cock would strain toward her, more than doubled as the boy whimpered, and her delicious cunt would yearn open – magic stretching it, straining her open, holding her at a size that could accommodate the enhanced member. He was more than twice what he had been now. She more than thrice. The noises they made as, even in the pain, they yearned to complete their new selves with one another.

But first Umberto's hand would tuck the wand away and plunge between the legs of his wife, fingers circling in the slickness there and dipping into the broad cavern of her tortured sex, bringing her to the first crescendo as she stared into Agrippa's mirror, where within the bronze frame her husband's fingers danced on flesh reshaped into pain and sensitivity that drove her to the edge of gratified screams.

Tom drew back from the mental contact and Umberto blinked at the young man who was deftly wrapping the mirror into a parcel for him. “I'm sorry?” said Umberto. “I really must have grown distracted for a moment.”

“That's quite all right,” Tom said smoothly, and passed the package across the counter. “We hope to see you here again soon. And sir – do enjoy your new artifact.”
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