Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: tryslora
From: eeyore9990

Title: The First Stroke
Characters/Pairings: Ron/Draco/Neville
Rating: Mature
Kinks/Themes Included: d/s, aftercare
Other Warnings/Content: flogging, ball gags
Word Count: ~1750
Summary/Description: The war has left each of them with an itch under the skin, a void that needs filling. It's not perfect, their game, but it is theirs and as such, perfect for them.
Author's Notes:

Dear recipient,

This was a pure joy to write. Happy holidays!

As always, thank you to the mods for such a wonderful, fun fest!



The second stroke is jarring, jolting, but it's as nothing compared to the first stroke.

The first stroke is the worst. The sound hits first, which always surprises Draco when he stops during quiet moments to contemplate it. But it's true enough. The sound hits first, a warning of the pain that's about to overwhelm his senses.

And then the pain comes.

(Anyone who enjoys this and tells you that it doesn't hurt is lying. They may only be lying to themselves, but they are still lying. Take anything else they say and chuck it in the bin, like the rubbish it is.)

The first stroke is enough to steal Draco's breath, blank his mind, and send fire dancing along his nerves. It. Fucking. Hurts.

The second stroke hurts just as much, but it's no longer surprising. There isn't the luxury of his mind playing games with him, whispering its own sweet lies about how good this is, how much he needs it. Before the first stroke hits, he can only remember the itching under his skin, the ache clawing him from the inside.

By the third stroke, he's choking on the ball gag that's filling his mouth, having forgotten how to work his tongue underneath it. He's somewhere between the fifth and tenth strokes before he calms enough to breathe through his nose, the tears that are running down his face flying messily with every gusty exhale.

He focuses on the way the straps of the gag cut into his cheeks, the way the buckle is caught in the fine strands of his hair, lets his eyes trace over the grooves his bindings are digging into his wrists where they're snugged up against the headboard.

Weasley doesn't blindfold him, ever. Doesn't want anything in the way of his tears.

The flogging doesn't stop, doesn't tease with slow and fast or hard and soft. Weasley swings from his core on every blow, and a Tempus doesn't have the accuracy of timing that he does. It's quite a breathtaking feat, in more ways than one.

Draco feels his body relaxing as the blows, still horridly painful, begin to set him aflame under his skin, the pain burning through him until it becomes something else. The fire licks down from his spine to his navel and from there up and down his body. His cock fills, long after he's stopped counting the strokes of the flogger, but it seems to engorge all at once, from quiescent to painfully hard between one blow and the next.

Draco drops his head between his shoulders, hips rutting forward into empty air, and his tears now are for something else. The aching need has transfigured from a desire to be taken out of himself to a mindless empty void in want of filling.

He tries to communicate this to Weasley, but as always, Weasley is immune to his grunted, muffled pleas.

So he turns his head, frantic gaze seeking out Longbottom's calm warmth.

~*~

The second stroke is amazing, it always is, but it has nothing on the first stroke.

The first stroke is the best. The squeeze is what always hits Ron first, that tightness ratcheting down around his cock and punching the breath from his lungs. It steals the filthy, insulting words right off his tongue, sends him stuttering forward in a rush to feel it along his entire length and not just his head.

And then the warmth hits.

It's enveloping, and wet from lube, but the heat sinks into him through his cock and sends an unattractive flush shooting straight up his chest and across his cheeks.

(Gingers don't flush pretty. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a sack of shit and lying through their nose. Cut them from your life because if they'll lie to you about that? There's no telling what else they'll try selling you.)

Ron holds a moment in Malfoy's ass, once he's balls deep. He has to gather himself, because it's shocking, that first stroke. Somehow he always forgets, between one time and the next, how fucking incredible the tight, hot glove of Malfoy's ass is.

But once he's caught his breath, centered himself, Ron doesn't hold back. He pistons his hips, the strokes of his cock as hard and punishing as those of the flogger he's still holding tightly clenched in one hand. He's no longer swinging it, of course, because Ron's a one-track-mind sort of bloke.

Once he starts pounding his cock into Malfoy's ass, he hasn't the brain power left to consider things like flogging.

He's pushing his cock as deep as it'll go, rocking harder with each thrust in an attempt to get deeper because he needs it, needs this release and the knowledge that this is his. This moment, this ass, this...everything is for him. For Ron.

Only for Ron.

He digs his fingers into the darkest red centers of the welts his earlier abuse raised on Malfoy's lily white back, imagines, as always, that his cock is doing the same on the inside of Malfoy. He knows it doesn't, from a purely logical aspect, but it still thrills him and has him ploughing even harder into Malfoy in excitement.

Malfoy turns his head, and Ron can see the place where the straps of the gag cut into his fair cheeks, see the tears and drool mingling around his stretched-taut mouth, and the insults fly again, grunts of spoiled little prat and tight arsed cunt dripping off his tongue like venom.

He's almost there, his balls are drawing tight when the helplessness floods him, the loneliness that comes of being hemmed in starts up, and he jerks his gaze to the side, takes comfort in Neville's friendly presence.

When he comes, it is nothing but pure, blank pleasure, and it's a release he feels from his toes to his scalp. His ears are still ringing when strong hands guide him to a body-warmed chair. He sinks into the soft cushion and lets his mind float.

~*~

The second stroke is practiced, efficient, but it cannot hold a candle to the first stroke.

The first stroke is a shock of warm, quivering flesh under his hand, it is the unutterably calming knowledge that this is what Neville's hands were meant to do. This is his essence, his soul stripped down to its basest element. He is meant to help things grow, flourish, and that knowledge is never felt more keenly than it is with that first stroke.

The healing ointment goes on easier, they've found, if Draco remains in position for it. He won't be released from his bindings until it's all smoothed into his skin, but he's been flogged and fucked into pliant complaisance so it doesn't truly matter yet anyway.

Neville skims his hands gently over Draco's bruised flesh, one part of his mind keeping track of Ron in the corner chair. As he strokes the ointment into Draco's back, he's contemplating how long he has until Ron is aware enough for his customary self-doubts to kick in.

He hears a gurgling sigh and smiles softly. They've got time then.

(Anyone who tells you a man's post-coital sounds can't be catalogued like plants in a greenhouse is either lying outright, or should be greatly pitied. Because they very much can; Neville has become quite the expert at reading them and could write a journal about them.)

Satisfied that the ointment has been well-applied to the marks left from the flogging, Neville eases Draco's feet from the straps holding them in place and carefully massages his legs, eyes lingering at Draco's ankles for any sign he's pulled one awkwardly.

By the time he's freed Draco's wrists and massaged ointment into them, Ron is stirring. To curtail any panic, Neville smiles fondly at him and requests the glass of mineral water he left on the table next to the chair.

Ron looks at it, blinking dumbly for a moment before he nods and stands on shaky legs to deliver the water, only spilling a few drops on the long trek across the few feet of space between the chair and the bed. Neville grins and removes the gag from Draco's mouth, motioning for Ron to hold the water to Draco's lips while he carefully smoothes ointment into the grooves cut into Draco's cheeks.

Water spills down Draco's chin as he gulps at it too greedily, but Neville just grabs a soft towel and dries his skin before dipping the towel into a bowl of warm water and using it to wipe various fluids from Draco's face. Tears, snot, and drool have left his face a mess, and Draco is ever finicky about his appearance. Neville's capable hands repair the damage of the evening until only the redness of Draco's eyes, and the clumped wetness of his lashes give any clue as to what's happened here tonight.

When tension sets around Ron's eyes, Neville bundles Draco into a warm blanket and pulls him over to the chair, asking Ron to please remake the bed because it's truly disgusting at this point. Draco settles bonelessly in Neville's lap, small shivers beginning to wrack his thin frame.

Neville murmurs nonsense words, and it works to soothe both of his boys. Honestly, sometimes he just natters on about the different varieties of mistletoe he's growing for the holiday season, but no one's really listening to the content, just the tone. His tone tells the, they're loved and that taking what they need in each other is fine.

They believe it, for now. Ron relaxes, his lips turning up in the first easy smile Neville's seen all week, and Draco seems to grow, get starchy with the haughty attitude he'd begun to lose these past days. The past weighs too heavily on them both, and it is Neville's ultimate delight to see them returned to who they really are instead of the haunted shadows that war has made them.

When they stop believing him again, and they will, the flogger and gag will come out once more. For now, they can be cleaned and put away.

Ron smoothes the new sheets over the mattress, helps Neville pull Draco up, and they all tumble into bed, wrapped in warm blankets, clean sheets, and each other.