Daily Deviant
- there is no such thing as 'too kinky'
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4th October 2008 12:21 - Fic: Take It Like A Man (Harry/Ginny, Harry/Others)
Title: Take It Like A Man
Writer: [info]iamisaac
Characters: Harry/Ginny, Harry/various others
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Minor het, adultery (obviously)
Word Count: 1200ish
Themes/kinks chosen: Adultery
Author's notes: I know, I know, there’s nothing like Harry/Ginny to put off readers. But those bits are fairly non-explicit.



The first time he cheated on her, Harry was appalled at himself. He had everything he could ask for – a loving, sexy wife; three beautiful children; in-laws that he really got on with (as long as he could keep Molly at a reasonable distance to stop her (s)mothering him, but Ginny was good at dealing with her mother). What reason, what possible reason could he have to look elsewhere? Especially when the woman he’d picked up was not as attractive as Ginny, and not nearly as talented in bed. He wouldn’t – he vowed he would never do it again.

The vow lasted eighteen months. Eighteen mostly happy months, where he watched his kids grow up little by little; saw Ginny gain a stone in weight, her breasts plumping out until he found her more beautiful than ever; enjoyed the serenity of his perfect marriage and wondered how he could ever have risked it.

Then he risked it again. For a wizard.

It was wrong. Wrong! But God it was good. Harry lay on his back and took it like a woman, no, took it like a man. He came harder than he’d ever dreamed of as the tall dark wizard thrust into him time and time again, grunting with the effort, before dissolving into warmth and wetness while Harry tugged viciously at his hair and groaned his own release.

It had been years since Harry had thought about fucking a man. His fifth year dreams had been full of it, following the long, sloppy kiss Sirius gave him as he left Grimmauld Place that Christmas. Sirius’s words – “No more, Harry, not yet,” – had promised so much. So much left unfulfilled with Sirius’s stupid, unfair, death. Now, lying beneath the nameless stranger (if I don’t know the name when I cheat on you, Ginny, it’s only sex. It’s lust, not love, I love no one as I love you. ), the memories he’d repressed so long flooded back. He’d believed in Sirius, and lost him; and with his death Harry no longer had the heart for his male/male fantasies. Instead, he’d turned to girls, and found in Ginny a subject almost as appealing. He went back to Ginny that night and told himself he had been looking for an ending, to draw a line under Sirius so that he could concentrate his whole attention on his marriage. He made love to her in the darkness of an autumn evening and felt that he’d buried his dead.

The third time crept upon him unexpectedly. The children were at school, Ginny back at The Burrow, running the household after Molly’s accident had left her temporarily in St Mungo’s. Arthur always looked somewhat diminished without his wife; Harry wondered whether people thought the same thing about him. He turned his back on the warm cottage and went out.

The face in the pub was familiar and simultaneously surprising. Oliver Wood. Harry had watched him play as Keeper for England a few years previously, but Wood’s retirement had taken him thoroughly out of the public eye. He was clearly still keeping as fit as ever; his appearance was enhanced rather than made less appealing by the touches of grey in his hair. Harry strolled over and bought him a drink, and they reminisced about their Hogwarts days.

One drink became two became three. Became Oliver saying, “Want to come home for a while? I’ve got a bottle of Firewhiskey calling my name.” Became Harry nodding and following. Became a glass of Ogden’s, followed by a surprising and not unwelcome kiss. Harry wasn’t sure what expression was on his face, but Oliver said apologetically, “Sorry. Don’t know what came over me there.”

“Don’t be sorry,” said Harry.

“I thought you were straight?”

“No.”

Words were overtaken by actions as Harry proved to Oliver just how straight he wasn’t. With his fingers exploring the strong planes of Oliver’s back; his mouth closing wantonly around Oliver’s cock. Oliver panted and groaned before pushing Harry onto all fours and fucking him hard from behind. Harry came with a gasp, followed shortly by Oliver.

“Not straight, then?” Oliver said with a grin as they lay on the sofa. “Fancy doing it again some time?”

With that, reality was back, and Harry was married. Shrugging his robes on with more haste than accuracy, he backed towards the door.

“I’m married,” he said apologetically, and left before he could see Oliver’s reaction.

And if nothing previously had taught Harry better, surely that would. Surely, remembering the deep regret in the pit of his stomach as he said those final two words to Oliver would stop him from putting himself in such a position again. It would. It must, he vowed, as he drank three more shots of Firewhiskey and fell asleep, still dressed, on the bed he usually shared with his wife.

It didn’t.

Ginny returned, and Harry kissed her and told her how much he’d missed her. He ran his fingers through her flame red hair and over her soft full breasts and felt a tingle in his groin that never died, no matter how many times he made love to his wife.

“I missed you too,” she murmured, pulling him close. “Let’s go to bed.”

The time between his affairs was getting shorter. Harry made his excuses when Ginny arranged to go and see Bill and Fleur. Pressure of work, he said, and heard himself sound like every cheating husband there had ever been. He and Ginny had sex over and over the night before she left; he tried to imprint everything about her in his mind, in his heart. But he knew what was going to happen.

It was a well known gay bar. Harry didn’t even know what he was doing there. At least, he told himself that. The details were too sordid to admit. He was looking for sex. He was looking for hot, hard, dirty, forbidden sex. Forbidden because it would be with another man. Forbidden because he was married, for God’s sake. The ginger hair of his partner that night reminded him of Ginny and waves of disgust at himself flowed through him even as he knelt at the other man’s feet, taking a hard, heavy cock into his mouth.

Ginny’s never been like this, he thought, and loathed himself for the comparison. And when the man shot his salty sticky load into his mouth, he choked and swallowed and knew that he’d been wrong to marry, wrong to live with a woman when men were so much better, so fucking sexy in comparison not just to Ginny, but any woman.

Then the man dragged Harry up off his knees until they faced each other, and Harry saw, to his dismay, what he hadn’t noticed in the closeness of the bar or in the darkness of the back street where he had gone with his partner: that it was more than hair that this man had in common with his wife.

“You fucking bastard,” said Charlie Weasley, and punched him hard in the face.
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