Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Love is patient, Love is fierce	By : CrimsonLilly Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 28525 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: This humble author does not own Harry Potter, any of its characters or situations depicted in the books/movies. There is no monetary gain made from this work of fanfiction, either.

Chapter List
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This here before you is a fill for a request on Aff’s forum, titled “Harry’s bitches”. It will be choke-full of different kinks, so mind the warnings! Also, this will be an AU of the last few chapters of the sixth book onwards, since Dumbledore is still alive and there will be no hunt for horcruxes, the reason for which will become apparent sometime in the middle of this story! Pretty much, "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" is thrown out the window in this story. I hope you have a great time reading it none the less!

                                                               *

On the last night of his sixth year at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry Potter was restless. Not even the comforting warmth, or the softness of his four-poster bed high in the Gryffindor tower could calm his racing heart and whirling mind.

Honestly, he couldn’t help it; this was, after all, his last summer to be spent with his aunt’s family, the last summer he’d have to watch his every step from fear of stepping on proverbial land-mines, inciting less than stellar behaviour from his relatives.

Just two and a half months of torture and he’d be back in Hogwarts, his real home, for his seventh and last year after which … The “after which” part being the reason why he was wide awake at what his wand told him was a quarter till five in the morning, just a couple of hours before he’s supposed to be awake and boarding the Hogwarts Express.

All kinds of plans were running though his mind; the next always more amazing than its predecessor. There were so many things he could do, so many places he could go, do anything and be anything he wanted to be. In a year’s time he’ll be his own man, living a life of freedom that he can almost taste on the tip of his tongue, sweet and seductive, promising great things to his battered and beaten heart and soul.

Even the thought of his relatives and everything he knows will be waiting for him come tomorrow, his mood stays bright, his smile wide and eyes shining with happiness at what he felt was almost in his grasp.

Alas, like all fantasies, this one had to come to an end as well, and Harry cursed himself as he felt the lightning-bolt scar throb on his forehead, disbelief coursing through his being as he got a clear reminder of what—or rather whom--he’d forgotten. The dull throb quickly grew into a red-hot pain that surged like a wave from the scar down the nerve endings and reaching all the way to his toes, igniting his whole body and making him thrash helplessly on his bed, his jaw locked tight, not willing to give in and give voice to his pain. As the pain steadily grew, the comfort of his bed became a thing of the past; for in that very moment Harry could have been laying on a pile of jagged rocks, their very pointed, sharp tips digging into every last bit of his flesh, and never notice the difference.

Eventually, the pain subsided somewhat and Harry curled into a tight foetal position, his breathing ragged and fast, and slowly unwound his tightly coiled muscles. Ignoring the pain as much as he could, Harry allowed the vision to pull him forward into the mind of his fiercest enemy and the biggest threat to all of Wizarding World since Gellert Grindelwald, The Dark Lord Voldemort.

It was a sight like many others before it—a long table made of beautifully carved, dark solid wood around which were seated Voldemort’s most trusted followers; the Dark lord himself at the head of the table. His familiar, the snake Nagini, tightly coiled around both chair and its master, making him look even more dangerous.

Relaxing as much as he could, Harry prepared himself for what he was sure would be another terrible vision, trying to center his mind so he would feel less like he was the monster himself when it was all over.

That’s when the strangest thing happened.

Instead of seeing the meeting through Voldemort’s eyes, as was usual, Harry felt completely in control. He felt for the very first time like he was there, in Voldemort’s body, but not in his mind. He felt like he was a completely separate entity, there but not really there; not like before where he’d feel every single thing Voldemort felt. It was as if his mind had somehow gained enough strength and was suddenly able to withstand and even fight the connection; he could even fully utilize said connection and actually spy on the meeting more efficiently than he ever could.

Strangely, what his mind decided to focus on were not the words coming out of Voldemort’s mouth, but the people gathered around him; the people Harry knew were the first line of defense he’d have to break through to get to Voldemort if he ever dared hope to defeat him. He almost congratulated himself on the cunning of such a tactic until he realized he’d had no real control of his mind; at least that’s what it felt like. To Harry, it felt as if his eyes were drawn to these people as if by some kind of magic, a compulsion spell of sorts. That didn’t ring completely true, either, as he hadn’t truly felt coerced into assessing them.

He was growing tired from both the connection and the pain that seemed to be a constant and also the unusual situation he’d encountered when entering the Dark Lord’s mind. Soon, he was released from the torment, falling into an unconscious sleep, only to wake in the morning on time to wake Ron up, pack his belongings in his trunk, get Hedwig in her cage and leave the castle, taking the Hogwarts Express to King’s Cross station and the last summer to be spent in a glorified prison.

                                                       -*-*-*-

Saying his last good-byes to his friends, Harry walked solemnly through the barrier of 9 and ¾, coming face to face with his relatives.

He felt a ball of tension tighten further in his chest; it had been there the whole ride back and not even spending time with his friends, laughing and having fun, could make it go away. Harry scoffed, remembering last night and admitting that last night’s vision seemed to have left him more raw than usual; he supposed that was the price for the control he’d exhibited last night.

On top of that, the mere thought of spending even a single moment with his relatives—especially Dudley—while still feeling like something inexplicably bad was about to happen, made him feel even more on edge than usual.

Walking down King’s Cross in search of his relatives, his attempts at calming himself fell short, the tension still heavy in his chest. He doesn’t really pay attention to his surroundings, avoiding eye contact with other commuters and is quite understandably shocked out of his wits when he’s, out of nowhere, pulled into an embrace.

He stiffens the moment he feels those beefy arms tighten around him and his wand is almost in the palm of his hand, a spell ready on his lips as a well known voice booms out of the man, shocking Harry to the very core of his being.

“Harry, my dear boy, we’ve missed you so much!” Vernon bellows, an actual smile on his face, honest and beaming with love, his arms tight around Harry’s middle as he almost lifts him off the ground in his excitement.

Harry suddenly leaves the circle of his uncle’s arms only to be drawn into the bony, thin chest of his aunt, his face shoved into her too-small bosom in comfort, her spindly fingers warm against his scalp as she gently threads her fingers through his hair.

“Harry, my dear child, how are you? We’ve been worried sick, thinking of all the horrors that might have befallen you in that dreadful place!” Petunia almost wails, actually sounding honest to God worried about the nephew she always thought of as a waste of money, space and air.

Feeling lightheaded and completely out of control of his own body as a result, he becomes aware of changing hands too late to actually try and fight it. He has a brief flash of panic as he feels Dudley’s beefy arm go around his neck, his body flush against Dudley’s. The very next moment, his head is aching like crazy and his hair is even more of a rat’s nest than it was just seconds ago as his cousin, the bane of his existence, gave him a noogie.

A bloody noogie!

“Here, let me take this,” Dudley says with a smile on his face, his arm unwinding from Harry’s neck, “you must be knackered!”

The next moment, Harry is gaping open mouthed as Dudley takes his trunk, without even a flinch or a trace of disgust on his face at handling something that was in their mind just another “unnatural” thing to be avoided and ignored at all costs. As everything even remotely connected to magic always was, in their minds. Things seemed to have changed, somehow, and Harry felt somewhat scared at such an abrupt change in the people he thought he’d figured out ages ago.

Kicking his mind into gear, he stammers unsurely, stunned at the shift in his relative’s attitudes, “Uhm, y-yeah, thank you.”

Honestly, he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop and for this farce to be over as he’s being ushered in the car and driven off to Number 4, Privet Drive.

He’s stunned when this bizarre behaviour continues all the way to Nr.4, Privet Drive and well into the night of his first night back. If he’d thought they were acting weird before, the fact that they invited him to eat both lunch and supper with them, sitting all together at the dining table and that they actually divided the chores between Dudley and him left him gob-smacked.

The added fact that Dudley didn’t raise even the slightest protest to that was just the cherry on top of this twilight-zone cake.

Harry decided that night as he lay in his bed that all of it must be a dream, a nightmare. He must still be in Hogwarts and all of this is just an elaborate dream being sent to him by Voldemort, though for what reason still remained unclear to him. Restless, he gets up, walks over to his trunk for which he was given permission for the first time in the past six years to take to his room, draws his right foot back and slams it against the trunk in a misguided effort to prove it all a dream.

The pain flares in his toes, and not unlike Cruciatus, speeds along his nerve endings like fire, through his calves and thighs, along his chest and arms, until it finally reaches his neck, where it slowly dissipates, making his whole body shudder.

Reality, then.

A reality in which he might have broken a toe or five, but reality none-the-less.

The notion of having a loving family after living in a proverbial hell for fifteen straight years is so out of this world that Harry actually starts laughing.

Soon his laughter turns humorless and slightly hysterical, making him look quite unstable. The tears suddenly rushing from his eyes don’t help the overall look, either.

That’s when it hits him.

“It’s a spell,” Harry whispers, as if afraid the realization would disappear if he voiced it out loud.

All of this; the love, the kindness, the family he’d seemingly gotten out of nowhere … all of it was a spell.

“It must be.” Harry decides.

After all, there was no other rational explanation for such a drastic change in behaviour from his relatives, no other than magic.

Tremors shake Harry’s body as all the tension seems to flow out of him, his shaky legs barely taking him over to the bed, giving out just in time for Harry to sit down on the edge of his bed, tears now completely dry and tear tracks shining on his cheeks, alighted by the moonlight shining through his window. Feeling almost weightless now that the mystery was solved and all of it finally made sense, Harry sags forward, his elbows on his thighs and his hands between his knees, his head lolling uselessly as he shakes it in disbelief.

“I can’t believe it took me so long to figure it out,” Harry chuckles mirthlessly, “when I should have suspected it from the start.”

Sighing, Harry flops back into his bed, his mind whirring and he speaks again, his tone resigned,

“No, I should have known it from the start.”

And that was it, truly. He should have immediately known that magic was involved because no matter how vile and obnoxious his relatives were from day-to-day basis, they never were that cruel to make him believe they were this loving family only to take it away when he got too comfortable later on.

No, they never would have gone that far. Harry didn’t even for a slightest moment believe that it was from the goodness of their hearts, but he knew his relatives had never shown him anything less than what they genuinely felt for him. In that way, they were safe as Harry always knew what to expect from them.

No mind games, no such skilful treachery—his relatives never felt the need for that. They always felt justified in their hate of him and everything he represented and they would never cloud that by playing such devious tricks on him.

For a moment no longer than a beat of snitch’s wings, Harry had felt petrified. Petrified that he’d believe them and let himself relax in this new situation and that later on, it would all have been taken away and he severely punished for ever thinking he’d be good enough to be a part of their world.

Now that fear was null and void.

All of this was a result of a spell and all of it could be easily brought back to normal with a simple “Finite Incatatem”. Or at least he hoped so.

He looked at the still empty cage on his tattered desk, Hedwig still outside, loving the continued freedom, usually so rare during the summer months and decided then and there to test the strength and limitations of the spell. He was going to go down, intrude on his relatives’ “family night” that consisted of them watching whatever caught their attention on the telly, Dudley and Vernon trying to eat their weight in food, and ask them if he could go out for a short walk, at ten in the evening.

A piece of cake, really.

Looking at it all from a deductive point of view, the most likely perpetrators to have bewitched the Dursley’s had to be the Death Eaters under the order of Voldemort and all so he would become complacent and lose his focus, making it easy for them to get to him.

Taking that into account, Harry wasn’t quite sure which response would be the proof of their guilt—if he were given permission to go out, there was a possibility that he’d manage to run away and alert the Order of the Phoenix and by extension, Dumbledore; on the other hand, him going out would make it easier for them to take him captive. If he were forbidden from going out, that could also mean that the Death Eaters didn’t want him to go out and do the above mentioned things, thus again proving their guilt.

Sick and tired of over-thinking things, Harry gathered his famed Gryffindor courage; his wand was tucked safely in his trousers’ pocket as he slowly but with a sure step went downstairs in search of his relatives.

                                                        -*-*-*-

Harry couldn’t help it that he probably looked like a slightly demented person right about now, standing in the front of Nr.4, Privet Drive and staring sightlessly at it.

He feared he’d never get the previous occurrence out of his mind.

His relatives had not only said ‘yes’ to his request to go for a late night stroll down to the park, but they’d gone an extra mile and even given him some pocket money so he could buy a snack or a drink if he wanted any.

Not only that, oh no, the weirdness doesn’t stop there; they’d collectively smirked at him and bid him goodbye with a good dose of ‘have a good time’ thrown in for extra embarrassment.

If this was a Death Eater scheme meant to weaken his defenses, it was sadly working. Harry felt like he’d been hit by a bludger, repeatedly, or even knocked into a different dimension or a parallel universe of sorts, because what he was living through could not be explained by anything else, surely.

Spell or not, all of this was becoming a little bit too much, too fast.

Without even realising it, Harry had suddenly found himself already in the park, walking the familiar path of the only place where he could have hoped to get away from his “family” and not always at that. He couldn’t help the flash of pain at the memory of the summer after Cedric’s death and the confrontation he’d had with Dudley and his band of cronies.

Now, as he sat on the swing, he realized he would give anything to have the old Dursley’s back; no matter how bad they were, they were still safe with their constant mistreatment of him, their genuine hate. They never could make him feel as wretched as showing him a glimpse of what it could have been like had he been born “normal”, a muggle, did. He was so deep in his increasingly desperate thoughts, he never noticed the man approaching him, startling at the deep voice speaking so close to him.

“Mind if I join you?” the man asked, a smiling face filling up Harry’s vision, inexplicably calming him, while his heart started drumming such a furious beat he was certain the man could hear it.

He reasoned that he’d been startled out of his wits and that his heart needed time to get over it, but as if contradicting him on purpose, the closer the man came, the wilder his heart beat. He could feel his head pounding in the same rhythm, his palms sweating and mouth going suddenly dry, his eyes burning, making him think he was, for the first time in his life, having an actual panic attack.

Even so, the next moment he heard his voice, as if through a thick fog, give this stranger permission with a simple,

“Sure, knock yourself out.”

If he’d thought the smile before was brilliant and calming, the one the man graced him with now was downright blinding in its brilliance, making that ever-present ball of tension slowly melt away.

                                                            -*-*-*-

When Harry came to, he felt like he’d been facing Voldemort the night before; his head was pounding, his bones ached, his muscles were screaming their protest at being pushed beyond their limits, his whole body broken as if he’d spent hours under the unforgiving effects of the Cruciatus curse. Even more alarmingly, his magic felt wild and untamed, but strangely contented, a description Harry never even dreamed could be used to explain how a wizards’ core and by extension, his magic, felt.

Still reeling from the strangeness of it all, Harry gave himself a moment to try and calm his roiling stomach and wait out the ache in his head, so he would hopefully avoid throwing up the moment he opened his eyes to the world.

The moment he opened his eyes, his stomach clenched in fear as his eyes zeroed in on a dark-blue ceiling. Dark-blue as opposed to the off-white of Dudley’s old toy room, odd stains that Harry never cared to find out what they were or how they got up there, included.

As if on cue, an arm slung itself across Harry’s midsection and a face snuggled below his chin, an unfamiliar feeling of roughness rubbing across his collarbone. Glancing down as much as was possible in the current position, Harry saw a head of dark, short cropped hair and a strong arm attached to a very muscular, very manly and very much naked body splayed half on top of him.

He couldn’t really be held responsible for what he did after that. He honestly did try to calm his breathing, his mind and his heart, but when it came unbidden, it tore itself out of him without him even realizing it.

Yep, Harry Potter, The boy who lived, The Chosen One, screamed like a little girl while scrambling to get out of this stranger’s bed.

In all of his flailing, Harry managed to fall over himself and down on the cold, hardwood floor, the edge of the thin coverlet tangled around his legs, completely starkers and feeling the chill of early morning on his goose-bumped skin as two sleepy hazel eyes stared at him with curiosity and mischief shining in their depths.

“Good morning, handsome.” The man said in a husky, coarse voice.

Shocked green eyes stared back at the man lounging on the bed, his sated smile gentle in the weak morning light. Slowly, Harry’s mind came back to him and he took great care in examining his body’s sores, his heart thudding in his chest in anticipation of what he’d find.

The man, realizing what Harry was doing, chuckled and slowly and carefully untangled himself from the bedding, sat up with a small, barely there wince, and then gingerly stood up from the bed in all of his gorgeously muscled, naked glory. Harry couldn’t help his roving eyes moving over every last inch of the man’s body; up from the tight, square jaw with a whisper of stubble, down his firm, bulging pectorals and an exquisitely defined eight pack tummy with grooves he could already picture himself licking along (or was that a memory?) and down those mile long, thick thighs strong enough to ride a bull and come on top, to the top of his toes.

Laughing at such an honest and open appraisal of his looks, the man spoke again, breaking Harry out of the trance he’d been put into by such a sight, a dream come true really.

“I think you’re looking for a trace of this on yourself?” he asked as he turned around, his broad, defined back glinting with pearlescent light, as if he’d bathed in glitter. Or, as Harry understood soon enough, as if he’d had someone’s come rubbed into his skin. That someone being Harry, and wasn’t that thought a breathtaking combination of mouthwatering and shock, a little bit of sadness pouring in at the realisation that he didn’t remember doing such a thing.

That’s when the man went one step further, short-circuiting Harry’s brain. He grabbed his two tight buns in his big, calloused hands and opened himself up in a parody of offering himself for taking; his puffy red hole oozing what Harry knew for certain was his come, dribbling slowly down the man’s powerful thighs only to pool on the floor in an obscene amount; something Harry was sure only happened in people’s fantasies or maybe some heavy porn.

Mouth gaping and mind whirring, Harry almost blacked out from the visual over-stimulation but his mind had other ideas as it decided that the mind-to-mouth filter was not needed anymore.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but that,” Harry pointed to the ever-growing pool of come on the floor, “is…err, was mine?” He asked, thankful to all the stars and magic in the world that his voice didn’t sound remotely breathless, even if Harry himself felt that way.

The man turned slowly around to face Harry and gave him a look that in any other circumstance, Harry would have labeled ‘hurt’, but that just didn’t seem possible, not on a stranger’s face. Especially if the man in question was obviously no stranger to the charms of one-night stands and casual sex; who’d even go as far as to pick up a minor brooding in the middle of the park late at night for a roll in the hay. Looking at the man he’d obviously shagged the previous night, he could still detect hurt in those hazel eyes, even if his mouth was stretched in a roguish smile. No matter what he’d thought, this man was clearly hurt by his question and apparent black hole in his memory banks that should have contained the events of the previous night.

“I didn’t peg you for one of those “shag ‘em and leave ‘em” type of blokes, sweetheart,” the man starts, his voice deceptively sweet, cold seeping through each syllable, “at least not with how you’ve claimed me over and over last night, growling at me and making me swear I was yours and only yours, screaming your name for all to hear.” He tells Harry, his fists clenched and shaking in impotent rage, his shoulders hunched, making him look wrong, so wrong, Harry just knows it; he should stand tall and proud and not like this, like a kicked puppy, waiting for its master’s kind word or gesture.

Slowly, as if afraid he’d startle this mountain of a man into fleeing, he gets on his knees and then even slower than before stands up to his full height, approaching the man as he would a small, scared animal. The man doesn’t even flinch as Harry takes him into his arms, awkward as it may be since he barely reaches the man’s shoulders, but he takes the comfort and seems to deflate the moment he feels Harry’s palms on his bare skin.

Harry caresses gently the man’s neck, his other hand firmly placed on his lower back in support, spreading warmth where ever he touches him, unaware of the fact as he is. Protective feelings surge in him as he feels the man try and fail to snuggle even further into Harry’s body, whinging when he realizes it to be a fool’s effort.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Harry whispers into the man’s ear, his lips brushing in a feather light touch over its shell (Jack, the bloke’s name is Jack, he remembers).

“I’ve got you, Jack. I’ve got you.” He comforts him as best as he can with simple words, his arms tightening around the man, drawing him even closer, the hand on his back starting a slow, tender circular motion meant to calm and reassure him.

The entire situation is more than a little bit odd, Harry acknowledges that in his mind; but somehow it feels strangely right, as if what is happening right here and now was meant to happen and had no way of being avoided or escaped.

Harry releases his tight hold on Jack, his palms moving over Jack’s shoulders, down his big, strong arms and finishing their trek as the fingers of Harry’s hands curl gently around the man’s wrists, holding him at a small distance, just enough to make it easier to look into his face, searching for a sign of calm in his glassy hazel eyes.

The moment their eyes meet, Harry is struck by the swift change he sees in those depths; one moment, he’s confronted with pain and longing and the next those eyes shine with determination and anger.

Before he can even think to take a step back, Harry feels his body soar for a few scant seconds as he’s lifted off his feet and tossed unceremoniously on the bed, Jack jumping on the bed while Harry’s still trying to grasp what just happened.

“Let me give you a little reminder of last night, you little tosser.” Jack sneered, looming over Harry on all fours, his muscles twitching in what Harry realised probably wasn’t strain, but leaned more toward agitation.

“Jack, I--,” Harry began, hoping to talk sense into the obviously angry man.

“Shut up!” Jack growled; his face now inches from Harry’s, his eyes shining with a strange glint in them. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think they’d flashed for the briefest of moments a pale red. “Just…shut up. Do you have any idea what you did to me last night?” he asks, anger making his voice rougher, deeper. Harry flinches at the accusation in the tone and shakes his head, admitting he still doesn’t remember the previous night’s activities.

“I never do this, you know,” Jack admitted, his voice tender and raw, “taking a bloke straight off the street for a quick shag in my flat.”

“I never said you did.” Harry defends in a desperate attempt to make things between him and this beautiful creature better.

Jack snorts at that, his gorgeously plump lips twisting into a humorless grin, “I know you must have thought it at least once, don’t deny it.” He says, pushing himself up and on his knees, straddling Harry’s waist.

  Harry opens his mouth to protest, but clicks it shut when he realizes he’ll get nothing for lying to this man. He bites his lips and looks at the picture this man paints, sitting on the jut of Harry’s hips, his big palms splayed on Harry’s abdomen for balance.

“Last night,” Jack begins, “last night you shagged me so hard, so bloody hard, that I blacked out several times. Not that it made you stop.” He smirks down at Harry, seemingly amused with the memories.

“But that’s not it, not really.” Jack confesses. “What I have a problem with is that last night…Last night you branded me, made me love you more than anything, made me crave you like a drowning man craves air.” He says, breathlessly, as he recalls those moments, his spent cock starting to twitch where it lay on Harry’s flat belly.

At this last admission, Harry’s heart races. He feels like he’d suddenly dropped into a candid camera or something of the sort, because he couldn’t have heard what he just did. Jack, love him? How is that possible? It simply doesn’t make any sense. Just one night, no matter how mind-blowingly great it was, could not be enough for Jack to claim to love him! Ignoring the warmth spreading in his chest at the thought that this man might be honestly in love with him, Harry cleared his throat in an attempt to draw Jack’s attention to him.

“Jack, I’m really, really sorry for--,” He starts, before he’s interrupted by a bellowing laughter.

“Sorry? You’re sorry? Is that the best you can do, you twat?” Jack shouted. “Sorry is not good enough!” He roared, slamming his lips down on Harry’s, an all-consuming heat rushing through his body like wildfire. Harry had a brief thought of just how crazy things were getting, when he realized he didn’t particularly care. Even though he knew he should care, he just couldn’t.

Something extremely weird started happening to Harry right about then. As if some hidden switch was turned on in his mind, Harry grabbed the bloke’s head, devouring his lips in a bruising kiss and swallowing all his whimpering cries, wordlessly begging for more. He could feel his cock filling up, hardening in such a rapid pace that he was for a moment left light-headed, his balls getting heavier the more he tasted of Jack.

Grabbing Jack’s hips in a bruising grip, Harry started rutting against the man like an animal in heat, their stiff pricks sliding together, slicked by precome dripping from their slits and down their lengths. Harry felt absolutely divine and undoubtedly strange; as if he’d suddenly been downgraded to a mere spectator of this entire mess, somehow feeling as if his body was disconnected from his mind. His body had taken over all control and was not taking into account Harry’s mind’s cries to wait and talk it all out rather than try to solve it all by shagging.

Then, Jack threw his head back in ecstasy, the hard column of his throat glistening with sweat, inviting Harry to bite down, to mark this man as his possession. Growling, Harry did just that; the mark on Jack’s pulse point proclaiming him Harry’s. The reddened skin seemed to work as an axe, severing the already tentative connection between Harry’s mind and body completely, making him grab the globes of Jacks arse in a strong grip of his quiditch-roughened hands, squeezing them and making Jack moan as their rutting grew frenzied.

“More,” Jack moaned, his forehead pressed to Harry’s, the breathless words caressing Harry’s slightly parted lips, “I need more.”

Not a moment later, Jack sat up, took Harry’s painfully stiff prick in his big, warm hand and unceremoniously impaled himself on it, as if he’d done it a hundred times before. Gasping at the feeling of fullness, Jack groaned before slowly moving his hips, starting to ride the boy who’d very nearly broken his heart.

Harry gasped at the dual feeling of warmth surrounding him and a blaze of fire rushing through him, making him feel like he’d been struck by lightning. For a millisecond, Harry’s mind was clear, the fog lifted and everything made perfect sense and then, as fast as it came, it was all gone, his mind going blank once more. Harry gave up and gave in, finally letting his body take over. He grabbed Jack’s hips, stilling their slow up-and-down motion and moved with finesse he wasn’t aware he’d had and switched their positions; Jack splayed on the bed on his back as Harry grabbed his muscular thighs, spread them as far as they could go and then pushed them as far toward Jack’s chest as Jack’s body could endure, almost making him bend in half.

At this particular angle, Harry could very clearly see his prick thrusting inside Jack’s well-used channel, what was left of his come inside squelching obscenely, leaking out slowly with each hard thrust of Harry’s hips.

“More, baby, give me more!” Jack moaned, his head thrown back on the pillow, his neck on display, the mark Harry had left on it already darkened. The sight of Jack in such a wanton state made Harry see red with lust. Harry spread his knees further apart, drawing Jack’s arse higher on his thighs and trying to adjust their position for what he had in mind. Bracing himself on the palms of his hands positioned on either side of Jack’s head, Harry gave him just a tiny smirk before he ruthlessly started pistoning in and out of him, riding him hard.

Jack didn’t really seem to mind, if his scrabbling hands and breathless moans were anything to go by. To Harry it felt as if the man was trying, albeit fruitlessly, to take the whole of Harry into himself, to merge their bodies into one.

At that thought, Harry smirked, strangely pleased that he caused such a reaction in a person who was essentially a complete stranger to him. As he came inside Jack, branding him once more with his seed, he felt that odd ball of tension that had been with him throughout the whole previous day pop, just like a balloon.

As if on cue, Harry’s mind kicked in, the fog lifted, making him realize just how disconnected from it he was during this tryst. The thought of his body overpowering his mind to such an extreme extent where it couldn’t really be explained by simple horniness and puberty made him sick to his stomach.

Looking down at the man to whom he was still so intimately connected, he felt an overwhelming wave of guilt crash over him, taking his breath away and making him gasp. Jack never even noticed, his body completely lax and the man seemingly asleep.

The more he thought about all that has happened, the more panicked Harry became. Carefully and as gently as he could achieve it with his hands shaking as they were, he pulled out of Jack, steadfastly ignoring the come gushing out of the stretched entrance. Slowly and quietly, Harry got dressed and left the flat without even a single glance behind, the door clicking shut behind him giving him at least a reprieve in knowing he hadn’t left a defenseless man in a flat anyone could walk into.

Using the last bit of his strength left, Harry jogged back to Nr.4, Privet Drive, trying in vain to escape from the man and the knowledge of what he’d done to said man. Stopping right in front of the front door of his relative’s house, he collapsed in on himself and slumped forward, his palms on his knees in an effort to catch a breath. That’s when Harry realized for the first time—he’d just shagged a guy.

He’d just lost his virginity to an extremely hot and quite a bit older bloke. Not only that, he’d obviously shagged him multiple times, even if he could only remember bits and pieces of the night before.

Smiling faintly, Harry walked inside, mindlessly calling out, “I’m home!” to which he was responded with “Welcome back!” that he barely even registered, but which would become a new source of amazement that night while laying in bed, after he’d spent the better part of the day recalling everything that had happened between him and Jack.
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Love is patient, Love is fierce