Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Neighbourhood Whore	By : Sabb402 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 195019 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 17
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter nor its characters. Basically nothing you recognise is mine. I'm not making any money from this etc. Read the warnings!

Chapter List
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- 16
Harry’s seventh birthday had been the best day of his life, and even being made to wear the toy for hours didn’t detract from that fact. After all, he’d had cake, a present, and Mr Holmes told him he was perfect!
Thinking back on it, alone in his cupboard after a day spent in pleasure, Harry could scarcely believe how many things Mr Holmes had given him. The nice clothes, the toy, and then a book. And what a good book it was! After their activities, they had cleaned up and gone back to the sitting room, where they settled on the couch; Mr Holmes, even nicer and more attentive than usual, pet his hair as Harry started reading The Neverending Story.
As he thought about Mr Holmes explaining to him the words he didn’t know, Harry hugged the hardcover book to his chest. He had smuggled it in, tucked in his trousers; even alone in his cupboard, he concealed it under his bedsheets. He didn’t want his relatives to see it. He was sure that Dudley would rip it apart, and he loved his gifts too much to let any of them be ruined. He knew he would cherish them, but Harry realised, on some level at least, that what really made a difference for him weren’t the material things; not as much as how accepted and loved he felt every time he crossed the street and knocked on Mr Holmes’s door. The man cooked for him, read to him, and pet his hair. Mr Holmes hugged him. It was more than Harry had ever thought he could have.
To compare, a few times over the years the Dursleys had wrapped old socks or rusty pennies in newspapers meant to be binned and shoved the package at him. Most of the time they didn’t even bother with that mockery of acknowledgement.
It was almost incredible how, throughout the first part of summer, Mr Holmes had distracted him so fully that Harry hadn’t found even a moment to think about what his relatives may do, or, more likely, not do, for his birthday. Harry had been happier that way.
He and Mr Holmes had celebrated in their own way, doing something they never had before. It felt as if the man had been waiting for a special day, and Harry didn’t even mind that he had returned home in the afternoon just in time to make dinner for everyone else. For once, it was a good thing that he hadn’t been allowed at the table — he didn’t think he could have eaten a bite more after everything he’d had at his neighbour’s.
Thinking about his full belly, Harry turned around on his ratty cot. The places where Mr Holmes had grabbed him lit up like bright spots of pain if he pressed on them too hard or shifted his weight the wrong way. When he settled on his side it was like the man’s fingers were still digging in his hips. Some of the places where Mr Holmes had pressed into his skin were a soft purple, and Harry knew that they would turn green and then yellow before disappearing. It wasn’t the first time he was left with pretty finger-shaped bruises as a reminder of the pleasure, but they went away quickly. Usually, by the time Harry thought to check up on them, they were gone.
These ones, though, didn’t disappear during the night. Harry didn’t think too hard about it when he first saw them in the early morning — small, yellowish dots that littered his thighs and hips. Most of all, he didn’t think that maybe, just maybe, they were still on him because Harry didn’t really want them to heal. Of the ones on his shoulders, that he hadn’t liked, not even a trace remained, so he didn’t mind. Furthermore, he didn’t have to worry about hiding them because his ‘shorts’ always fell under his knees, and that was the only way Dudley’s enormous cast-offs were useful. So Harry could enjoy the little dark dots constellating his skin without shame. Sometimes, when he caught sight of them, he traced the bruises with his fingertips, and then he pressed on them, just to feel the little spark of pain that reminded him of what he and Mr Holmes did together.
His marks were a secret that he and Mr Holmes shared; sometimes, the man enjoyed tracing them with light fingers, too.

But Harry couldn’t spend the morning indulging in such thoughts, not on Aunt Petunia’s watch.
It felt like August had decided to announce itself with a bang. Dawn broke at an improbably early hour, and it was scorching hot from the get-go. The habitants of Privet Drive dealt with it in different ways; Mrs Downy from n. 2, for example, had put a sunbed in her garden at seven in the morning and decided she would melt there. Every time someone passed by she would attract their attention so they could complain about the heat, how sudden it was, how damaging it would be for the flowers… And Harry knew all that because at 6:30 his aunt had slammed her bony hand against his cupboard door until he cried out that he was awake. Then she forced him to make breakfast and once that was ready she sent him out to water the flowers and check that they were all doing well in the heat. By around 8, Harry thought he had done as good a job as he could, but his aunt hadn’t opened the kitchen door, and he was too worried about a future punishment to leave without telling anyone. So he checked all the flowers, then the grass, then the flowerbeds again. There weren’t many insects out that day, probably hiding from the heat as almost everyone was doing, and so Harry’s focus was constantly being pulled by Mrs Downy’s gossip.
It wasn’t until Mrs Hart appeared that he felt really bad for eavesdropping. Firstly because Mrs Hart was the really nice lady from n. 7 who never sneered at him, secondly because he had the impression that their conversation was meant to be… private. He didn’t really need to know all those things about their husbands. He recognised some of the terms Mr Holmes used when they were together, and he couldn’t help but think that Harry wouldn’t want one of their neighbours listening in if he or Mr Holmes ever talked about it.
But he was forced to stay in the garden until well past mid-morning and he heard many things that would have got his face all red – if it hadn’t already been almost glowing from the heat. He even risked drinking a bit from the hose; he just couldn’t help himself.
When Aunt Petunia finally let him back in, she looked at his dirty, probably smelly and sorry figure and told him to get lost, because she had invited a few friends for an early tea and she wouldn’t have a little freak ruin it. So he headed towards Mr Holmes’s like that, not even having been given the time to clean up.
The walk to the door of n. 3 was extraordinarily short, but even so, he found himself swaying by the time he knocked.
As he waited for his neighbour to open the door, he could only think that he agreed with Mrs Dawny: the heat was really hitting Surrey hard. He couldn’t even remember the last time it had been so strong.
Mr Holmes, on his part, probably wouldn’t be expecting to have to catch a fainting child when he answered his door, so Harry did his best to stay on his feet as his neighbour greeted him. When they were finally in, the door closed at his back, Harry allowed himself to lean on the tall man for a minute.
Mr Holmes circled his arms around the small shoulders, slicking his sweaty hair back with a hand.
“You are scorching! Have you been under the sun until now?”
The boy nodded weakly and Mr Holmes picked him up, heading upstairs. Harry protested feebly at the full-body contact — he didn’t want to get the man dirty! Harry was sweaty and caked with muck... He was sure he could have managed on his own, somehow. But Mr Holmes shushed him, letting him go only once they were in the bathroom.
Harry was then carefully divested of his overbig clothes and put in the bath, where Mr Holmes had already opened the water to have it flow at a nice temperature. It felt perfectly cold against his red skin, and Harry couldn’t believe how much better he already felt after just a few minutes under the running water.
Then the man started gently wetting his hair, encouraging him to drink if he was thirsty. Harry didn’t hesitate, tilting his head back and letting the water from the showerhead run on his face and over his mouth, drinking a bit but mostly enjoying the feel of Mr Holmes’s hand against his skin where the man cradled his neck.
Mr Holmes chuckled at the way Harry almost purred, his other hand still washing away the grime from his arms until he was as clean as he could get without soap. Mr Holmes’s touches became more for pleasure, then, shifting to his chest and tweaking his nipples, making Harry squirm. Mr Holmes chuckled lowly but the boy was too tired and content to bother with any further reaction.
Then Harry was pushed and pulled until he leaned against the side of the bath, and the shock of the cold marble against his skin made his nipples pebble even more.
Once he was reasonably upright, Mr Holmes stepped back so he could discard his now-dirty clothes on the floor and join Harry under the spray. The man sat behind him and shifted and tugged so that a loose-limbed Harry could sprawl on his lap.
A small kiss fell on his messy hair.
“There. Feeling better?” Harry nodded and nuzzled against the man’s chest. “Would I be correct in assuming you haven’t had anything to eat today?” The boy only looked at him. “I’ll cook up something. And when you feel up to it, there’s some apple juice waiting for you.” Harry’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, Harry, I bought more apple juice specifically because I know how much you love it. Now give us a kiss, seeing you on the edge of a heat stroke wasn’t a great good morning.”
Harry pouted a bit, sorry to have made Mr Holmes feel — disappointed? Was that it?
He pecked the man on the lips and looked at him with his big, green eyes.
“Sorry…”
“Oh, I’m sure you shouldn't be the one apologising in this situation, dear, but we can table that discussion. Let’s go on to more pleasurable topics, starting with a proper greeting, now.”
Harry leaned back in happily, eager to get a proper kiss.
As their lips brushed against each other, Mr Holmes turned off the water and Harry barely noticed, busy as he was. They stopped after a few minutes so that Mr Holmes could wrap both of them up in an enormous towel and Harry was more than happy to curl up against his broad chest to save space.
Mr Holmes brought him to his bedroom, where he kept Harry’s nice clothes, and they both got dressed maybe a little too quickly. Harry was still a little damp, at least, but he was sure the heat would dry him up in a moment… If he didn’t get even damper because of the sweat.
When Mr Holmes picked him up again to bring him to the kitchen, Harry didn’t protest, even if Mr Holmes was so warm that being put down on a chair was sort of a relief.
The moment Harry was sitting comfortably, Mr Holmes went straight for the refrigerator, getting the juice out so it’d warm up a bit. Harry swung his legs back and forth, wanting to take down the glasses to help but knowing they were out of his reach, up in the cabinet. But the man didn’t move to get them, remaining in front of the open fridge.
“Do you feel up for some food?” The boy’s empty stomach betrayed him, like being asked that question allowed Harry to feel as hungry as he was. “Never have I gotten a clearer answer out of you. Let’s make brunch.”
Mr Holmes allowed Harry to help a bit when he saw how antsy he was, letting him set the table and stir the porridge after the man checked that it wasn’t too hot, and Harry didn’t have the heart to tell him he had been cooking for his relatives since he was four.
The most unusual thing for Harry was that he was allowed, encouraged even, to sneak bits of food as they cooked. Mr Holmes said that they should taste-test the ingredients, and Harry had never heard of it but was happy to adopt the practice.
Regardless, the boy started feeling better as he ate, and soon Mr Holmes got up to fill two big glasses with the now room-temperature apple juice. Harry squirmed in his seat, only too eager to get a glass, and the man smirked at him like he knew exactly what he was thinking. Harry didn’t blush, too pleased to be drinking his favourite juice as the man ruffled his hair, his wild curls coiling around Mr Holmes’s fingers.
“It must have been a while since you last cut your hair.”
Harry’s eyes widened as he remembered what had happened the previous year, the evening before his first day of school, when Aunt Petunia had cut off most of his hair and it had grown back overnight. He hadn’t had a haircut since then, but it wasn’t like he was gonna expose his freakishness to the man!
“No need to look that worried, I must admit I like it long as it is,” The man ran his fingers once more through Harry’s untamed mop before collecting the empty glass. “Are you feeling better? Do you want some more water?”
Harry nodded and shook his head in turn, still feeling a little too fatigued to contribute more to the conversation. Or at least he thought so. When Mr Holmes asked him if he had gotten any further in reading The Neverending Story, Harry started prattling on, and the man allowed him to go on at length about the protagonist and his journey, never interrupting. Harry was so distracted, he didn’t try and help when Mr Holmes put the empty plates in the sink. When he ran out of things to say, Mr Holmes smiled at him and took his hand to lead him to the couch.
They managed to cuddle on the hottest day of the summer only because the curtains in the sitting room were closed.
Protected from the shining sun, it was alright for Harry to sprawl all over Mr Holmes, so calm and relaxed he could have fallen asleep. Then the man shifted, moving his hand so it was in the perfect place to grip his stirring cock over his trousers.
And they did a lot more than cuddle.

Hope you liked this, see you in August with the sixteenth chapter!
For anything: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/topic/63461-neighbourhood-whore-reviews-replies/
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Neighbourhood Whore