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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A/N: Sorry this took so long and then this ~~crap~~ interlude comes out. I've been dissatisfied with how I'd fleshed out the story and spent quite a bit of time deciding which parts to fix, which to keep, where to go into more details and so on...These sort of interludes just jumped out of the left field. There will most probably be only three of them, so don't worry. Any other questions, feel free to PM me.

***

On the second day after what Harry called in his mind “The Jack Incident”, he started feeling restless; that ball of tension that had finally left him two days prior reappearing, making him feel antsy, jumpy and even—if he was honest enough—slightly paranoid.

He felt like there was something there, lurking in the shadows, waiting, biding its time to strike. At first, he was certain that what he felt was fear that Voldemort and his Death Eaters are out there, in Surrey, maybe even right outside his relative’s house, just lying in wait, waiting for him to get too relaxed and comfortable in this situation they had created when they cursed the Dursley's. Waiting for him to get stupid and go too far away, leave the sanctuary of the protection wards and fall into their hands.

But then, he’d remembered Jack once more. Remembered how he’d followed the man to his flat, quite a ways away from Privet Drive. How he’d been there, with him, not simply for a couple of minutes or a few hours but whole night long, leaving the handsome bloke’s bed—and his flat—in the wee hours of the morning.

Not to mention he’d been in what had to be the most vulnerable position during their night together, seeing how he’d spent the better part of that time fucking the man into the mattress; not seeing anything, not thinking about anything but the man writhing below him, gasping, moaning, pleading and…

And Harry now had a completely unrelated problem to his previous worries, tenting his pants.

Thankfully, he was all alone in his room and there were no voices calling for him to join his relatives downstairs for some “bonding time”.

Oh, the magic of simply proclaiming “I have summer schoolwork to do.”

He never mentioned that what that consisted of was him looking through any and every book he owned, trying to find the spell, curse, hex or whatever it actually was that had been cast on his relatives. He tried to ignore the worrying notion that not half an hour into his “Hermione work”, as he liked to think of research, he started feeling quite a bit odd. It all started with him feeling more and more lightheaded, chest suddenly constricting, his breathing shallow, limbs almost weightless and tingling while his mind was slowly becoming uncooperative and foggy. It all seemed to come out of nowhere, these fever-like symptoms that made him feel as week as a new-born kitten.

But right now, when he thought about it, it was all gone; the only problem he could detect with him right now was that his dick was so hard he was certain it could slice diamonds in half, no problem. Other than that, his body felt almost light, weightless in a decidedly good way, energized as if he had drunk a Pepper-up potion.

And he would definitely remember taking that foul concoction, of that he was sure.

For a moment, Harry felt torn. His relatives were still downstairs, watching the usual Sunday evening programme; their laughter and chatter occasionally breaching his door, though the sound was at best muffled. He still couldn’t believe how drunk on Jack and what had happened between them he’d been yesterday—and that was the only way he could explain his actions—that he’d closed himself in his room and wanked until he felt completely drained, his cock throbbing from the abuse, his foreskin raw and hot on touch. And not once did he think about what was to him right now a daunting fact that his relatives could have not only heard him, but also could have caught him red-handed. In more ways than one, as well.

He bit his bottom lip as his desires warred with his reason, the fight short and futile as lust won over shame. Harry closed his eyes as he brought back to the forefront of his mind the feeling of Jack’s hot, tight passage gripping him tight, milking him till the last pearly drop, a deep moan reverberating in his chest at the phantom feeling of heat.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Harry chanted, throwing his head back in remembered ecstasy, banging it none too gently on the wall behind him; reminding him that, yes, he was sprawled in the most comfortable position to wank—right across his bed, with his thighs spread obscenely, his feet on the floor providing the much needed support and the bulge in his trousers more than obvious.

Harry made himself more comfortable on his bed, lowering his head, his eyes barely opening into mere slits, his whole body burning with want. Slowly, with shaking hands, Harry started carefully unzipping his trousers, hissing as each tooth of the zipper seemed to bite into his hot flesh, making his toes curl and his thighs spread even more; wanting more, so much more.

The moment his boxer-brief clad erection was freed from its tight, uncomfortable denim prison, Harry sighed in relief. His right hand shaking, he slowly, tentatively lifted it from where it was still clutching the right half of the trousers’ waistband, lowering his palm, covering his stiff prick and gently rubbing it through the thin material of his boxer-briefs.

“Oh Merlin!” Harry groaned; his back bowing as he felt electricity coursing through his body at that first contact. He snorted at the situation he’d found himself in; his body seemed to have gone into sexual overdrive ever since he’d lost his virginity to Jack. Most of the time, Harry felt like an enormous pervert seeing as only a single thought of Jack and his come covered body was enough to send his own body into a frenzy, all but demanding it be given the release it needed.

And he hoped that was something that would pass. That, and him referring to his body as a separate entity, as well. He couldn’t help it if that was how it felt right then any more than he could help the color of his eyes. Or that was what he told himself.

And that line of thought that his mind had zeroed in on didn’t help a single bit, as he soon found out. The more his mind wandered, the more his body thrummed with desire unfulfilled and burning through his very soul.

“Stop thinking about him, just stop,” Harry growled at himself, hoping beyond hope that saying it out loud would help him concentrate on the here and now, on bringing himself off as quick as possible.

Preferably before his relatives came to check in on him, their new-found worry for his comfort and well-being creepy as hell even if it was a bit heartwarming, if Harry was honest with himself.

He palmed his still covered dick a couple of times more, building up the pressure. Moaning, Harry closed his eyes and just felt. Felt the slide of his pants over his hot, hard flesh, felt the way his shirt clung to his already sweaty torso, rubbing over his nipples, making them harden in no time at all. Felt the way his trousers bit into the flesh of his thighs as he tried to spread them even further, and the way his bed groaned under his shifting weight as he rolled his hips in circular motions, teasing himself.

“Bugger it all,” Harry sighed, snapping out of his comfortable position and jumping up, his shaky hands pulling down both his trousers and pants at the same time. Sighing in relief, he sprawled on his bed, his legs bent at the knees and feet burrowed in his comforter, legs spread wide as if he was waiting for someone to slide in between them. He put his left hand beneath his head, lifting his head the way his too thin pillow couldn’t, giving him the angle he needed to see the way his dick leaked precome, the purple head pushing its way out of his foreskin, millimeter by agonizing millimeter.

“Oh, fuck!” Harry shouted, suckling on his lower lip at the sensation of his right hand closing around his throbbing cock; his fist moving up and down in a tortuously slow manner, his lungs burning from the lack of air as he seemed to forget how to breathe.

Slowly he built up speed, his hand twisting occasionally on the upstroke, his thighs trembling as if electrified from the sensations, his toes curling in the comforter. Harry’s breathing was becoming ragged and his movements faster and faster; he pulled his left hand form under his head, throwing his head back, bowing his spine in an incredible arch as his left hand slowly inched over his taut stomach and up, up, toward his stiff, blood red nipples.

The moment he twisted his left nipple, it felt like a current ran down from it and straight to his cock, making it twitch and leak more precome.

After that, Harry couldn’t keep track of the sensations any more, as if he was not the one playing his own body like a well-tuned instrument.

All he could be aware of was heat and want and that deep feeling of need burrowed in what must be his soul, his sack drawing up as his climax was drawing near, his hand loosing its rhythm as it moved over his shaft faster and faster, chasing that elusive feeling of completion.

He could feel it then—as if all of his being had centered on that one place inside him that waited to be released, to be allowed to soar like a bird, on that knot low in his belly untying itself with what felt like the speed of light.

“Fucking he—Jack!” Harry shouted as his balls drew up and his prick gave up the fight as it pulsed, releasing pearly strands of come on Harry’s shirt, some of it even painting his swollen red lips and his flushed cheeks.

As if Harry was a puppet whose strings had been cut, his feet slid over the comforter, his legs falling on the bed with a soft thump as his breathing slowly evened out, his dick still twitching in his hand, even though there was nothing else for it to give.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, remembering just who had appeared in his mind’s eye, unbidden, right before he’d had his release.

“Jack.” Harry whispered, his eyes closing tight as he tried to push away the plans that seemed to form on their own inside his mind.

Tomorrow. He’d think about it tomorrow.

All he could muster up the strength to do right now was to hobble down the corridor to the bathroom, clean himself up with his soiled shirt that he’d dunked in the sink and then rinsed out, and hobble back to his room on unsteady legs and fall into his bed that still smelled of sex.

Sleep, that’s what he needed right now. Sleep.

Then, maybe later he’d deal with—“Jack,” Harry sighed as he fell into a deep slumber, not stirring once in the night.

********

Harry shifted weakly in his bed, his legs twitching, a shiver not born of cold or fear passing over his body as his muscles seemed to protest even such a miniscule action; every single muscle in his body all but screamed in agony. He couldn’t for the life of him recall what it was he’d done that could produce such a severe reaction. All he remembered was him, last night, spending some quality time with his right hand and all the most delicious memories he had of Jack. And then coming to the point of almost fainting, if he recalled the wave of tiredness that seemed to have crashed over him as he’d made his way out of his room and into the bathroom.

And that was it.

Groaning into his too-warm pillow, Harry counted in his mind back from ten—giving him ample time to get his body in working order and get out of bed, facing the new day and, more importantly, last nights delusions.

Pushing himself on his forearms, he then propelled his whole body backwards, ending up on his knees in one fluid motion. And for some odd reason, his mind seemed to zero in on the word “knees”, repeating itself over and over and over again, in a never ending loop, it seemed.

His mind still half-asleep, he almost missed the images running through that small layer of his consciousness that was somehow wide awake and waiting for the rest of his consciousness to catch up.

When it finally did, all Harry could see in front of his short-sighted eyes, almost as if incorporated in the blurry picture of his room, was Jack.

Dear, beautiful, handsome Jack, right there, as if in front of him, on his knees as well; his half-lidded eyes, darkened with lust, mouth open wide and that pink tongue hanging as far as it could go, drops of saliva falling from it’s tip as it seemed like Jack was simply sitting there, waiting for something.

The picture was becoming clearer and clearer, even the small detail he would usually be unable to see due to not having his glasses on, everything becoming sharp and in focus.

Looking over this—illusion's? hallucination’s?—body, Harry could feel his already parched throat dry to the point of mimicking the great Sahara desert.

Harry slowly starts turning his head left, then right, left, right; moving it faster and faster until he’s actually managing to shake his head, something that shouldn’t have taken that much willpower to achieve, but sadly, it did. He’d closed his eyes at some point and now that he opens them again, he notices with an odd mix of triumph and longing that it worked; the mirage is no more.

Without further ado, he gets off of his bed, grabs fresh clothes and underwear and rushes off to the bathroom; hoping he’ll manage to avoid his relatives for a little while longer.

Just long enough to feel human again, in fact; as long as that might take.

A/N: Just a reminder, the actual chapter will be up by the end of the week.
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Love is patient, Love is fierce