Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: fangqueenFrom:
A Wanton Watcher: kittyaugust
An Effigy in DesireCharacters/Pairings:
Hugo Granger-Weasley, unrequited Hugo/James Sirius Potter, unrequited Hugo/Albus Severus Potter, implied or imagined James/Albus.Rating:
Masturbation, pseudo-incest, incest, sex toys.Other Warnings/Content:
Christmas at the Burrow, legal but potentially under 18.Word Count:
Hugo Granger-Weasley has a problem. A very serious Potter problem, to be precise. His obsessive interest in his cousins can't be tamed, so this Christmas he's taking matters in hand.Author's Notes:
All my gratitude goes to R for the fantastic and incredibly helpful beta. She's amazing and helped make this less ramble and more art, for which I'm ever grateful. Any remaining errors or awkward phrasing are entirely my own fault, I promise.
Hugo is almost certain that Al and James are shagging. Or, if they're not shagging, they bloody well want to.
At first, he told himself it was all in his head. The glances, the touches, all that creamy gold skin on creamy gold skin. His imagination was fevered enough to come up with just such a scenario. But then he kept seeing it. Little hints of something more
between his two cousins. The way Al blushes when James gets too close. The way James stands a little straighter and can't keep his eyes away when Al enters the room. The way they talk less and less, but touch more and more.
Okay, so maybe Hugo is getting a little bit obsessed. It started as observation. James was always good to look at, and now he’s in his early twenties, so is Al. They've both grown up, grown closer. Somehow they left Hugo behind. He doesn't mind that, really. It gives him more opportunities to watch them. Hugo has always been good at watching.
At first, Hugo watched them independently and for vastly different reasons. James was a picture of masculine perfection, with his athletic grace and controlled chaos, Teddy Lupin always glued to his side. Al was something else, something real yet still utterly untouchable, with his lithe body and bumbling charm. Hugo hadn't even meant to notice them together. To start thinking about them, together. But now he has, he can't stop. They stare at each other a little too long, a little too longingly. It leaves Hugo's skin itching every single time, left wondering what it would be like to get caught between those two undeniable forces.
This Christmas has been no exception.
James jokes, Al laughs a little too long and looks away, blushing. Scorpius Malfoy, frowns, just a little, and Hugo has to wonder if he's the only one who noticed that particular exchange.
Later, James passes Al a dish, their fingers brush, and James gasps under his breath. It would have gone unheard were he not seated, as he is, next to Hugo. Hugo shivers. The sparks in his cousin’s eyes seem to light up under his own skin, hot and flickering, searching for a fuel that the brothers won't give it and finding that source in Hugo instead.
Maybe that's it. Maybe it's all unconsummated. All that unconsumed lust overflowing into their magic, and into his by extension. Hugo wonders if they'd burn if they really touched, burn each other or the house down, then his mother's voice snatches him from his inferno fantasy and back to the busy dinner table around him. He tries not to think about it, but now it's there, it smoulders uncontrollably in his belly.
When they leave, it gets worse. James hugs Hugo goodbye and gives him a manly slap on the back, leaving the scent of professional Quidditch player lingering on his skin. Grass and grace, broom wax and nighttime air.
Al is more circumspect. He shakes Hugo's hand, missing his eyes; he's too busy glancing back at James. Hugo's breath almost stalls. There's something there in Al's eyes that Hugo recognises from his own. Something intense and dark and hopeful. Something serpentine and deadly. They're both home for the holidays, dragged away from their busy adult lives and back into the bosom of home. Back into each other’s orbit. Maybe something's going to finally break, maybe it already has.
Home seems darker than The Burrow, even though it's only a few miles down the road. Hugo’s parents are giggly and drunk, somehow louder than before, and Rose has gone off home to her dorm at Oxford. Every sound highlights the hush, even the whisper of freshly falling snow outside.
Hugo makes his excuses and goes to bed early. He says he's got to study, that he’s worried about his N.E.W.T.s coming up. It’s an excuse anyone would buy from a Granger-Weasley. It isn't true. It does, however, get him out of the warm embrace of his family, away from prying eyes and hands that never reach in quite the way he wants them to. His mother's understanding fondness is entirely unfounded, which has a thrill all of its own.
His room is cold. Hugo opens the windows and lets icy air touch him. He casts a locking spell on his door and peels off his Christmas jumper and his shirt, slowly revealing himself to the empty night outside. Sometimes he hopes someone is watching, despite the warded privacy he knows surrounds him.
Gooseflesh stands out on his arms as the night wind caresses his flushed skin, now exposed to the night and a heated contrast to it. The snow has stopped falling, for now, but he can still taste it. He drops his trousers, then his pants, still facing the open windows and the naked fields, eyes on the distant flecks of gold and orange light that signal the Burrow's still burning fires. His prick is already heavy, half hard from the delicate torture of his own imagination. Blood, like desire, pools in his loins. Knowledge, like fantasy, builds inside him. He remembers the raw, natural smell of James, wonders what that would taste like mixed with the sensual bite of Al's overpriced cologne. His prick stands to attention, starts to throb for attention.
Hugo's hands are hot on his air-chilled flesh. He starts slowly, trailing over his torso. Like he imagines Al would. Al's a Slytherin, he knows how to work his way up to something. Knows how to tempt and beguile and convince someone to give it up like a gift. But Al is also shy, or he was when he was younger. Shy and anxious to please. Ambitious, yes, but anxious, always. Especially for James.
Al's hands would slide over his lover, tentative but demanding, an aching dichotomy sliding over Hugo's tender chest. False confidence and fumbling fingers. Hugo’s hands skate across his nipples, a little too gently, a tempting tease of what's to come. The nails of Hugo's other hand dig into his thigh, leaving red welts that trail up almost to his groin. He wants to take himself in hand, hard and right away, wants to spill like a secret on the floor. But he hardly sees his cousins now they've left school, and he needs to make this last. Needs to ride each jolting wave of want as far as it can take him.
Hugo allows himself one tentative stroke of his cock. His right hand is more sure than his left. Like James. Confidence that's real, experienced and patient, powerful and meaningful. Hugo squeezes, rolls his foreskin high over the sensitive head of his prick and lets the pleasure follow him, lets it flow through his whole body, like a promise. His balls are already tight, already poised on the edge of something blissful and fiery. Hugo resists.
He Summons the secret box he normally keeps hidden at the back of his wardrobe. He knew he'd need it tonight, so he left it under the bed, unobstructed.
He gives his needy cock one last gentle, almost petted, stroke, then releases it. The air is cold on his sensitive cock but it’s anticipation that shudders through him. He unlocks the box with a complex subverbal spell and admires the content.
It’s a very small, very specific collection, all Muggle (no risk of the war heroes' son being caught at the wrong end of Knockturn Alley) and all exactly right for his needs. First, there's the lube, surreptitiously obtained at Boots one weekend in London; it's the same sort he knows Al buys, or had when he was still at Hogwarts. Secondly, a dildo that should be intimidating in its size, but isn't, because he knows what it’s simulating thanks to a few careful glances in changing rooms and during other inappropriate moments. And finally, a vacant space for the steel butt plug currently deep inside him.
It had been a risk, gently shoving the cold metal into his not-quite-resisting body before Christmas dinner. He had to sit through every stinging jolt of pleasure, every firm push, every throbbing pull, with a placid smile on his face. The faultless youngest cousin, debauching himself quietly with his cousin's thighs in touching distance. That constantly beautiful weight in his arse, and the accompanying pulsing tension in his cock, have kept him on edge all evening. Just thinking about it, remembering the sinfully decadent ache of it, and the smell of James' skin so near him, makes his cock harder. The memory makes his body clench, almost uselessly now, around the steel. He needs more.
He slicks up the silicone dildo with a practiced hand. He knows he can come without it, knows he can pull himself off with nothing but a dexterous wrist, but it isn't as good. Now he knows what it feels like, the way his body arches and aches, he can't wait.
He pulls the plug free and holds back a whimper at the loss. It'll get so much better so soon. He gives his cock a few comforting tugs, reminds it he'll come back to it. Each rolling motion of his hand sends scatters of scorching sparks rushing through him. Still, he holds back. He glances again at the distant house. He knows which room James is in right now. He imagines James watching him, a magnification spell focused in on his baby cousin's blushing body, open and waiting for more.
Hugo slides the dildo in, inch by eager inch, and imagines the look on James's face if it was his cock sinking into Hugo's eager little body. Then, even better, he imagines the look on Al's. The way Al would pant, the way Al would want to touch, whether both of them or maybe just James, it doesn't really matter. He might be jealous, he might be ardent, but he would certainly be focused. He wouldn't be able to look away. All that incendiary fire that Al normally reserves for James would be focused on James and Hugo. James would moan, Al would gasp, and Hugo would sink down on that oversized cock and whimper. Just like he does now. This dildo sinks all the way home, stretching him open, pushing and burning in all the right places.
Hugo’s legs are shaking. He wants to collapse and be caught in strong arms. Strong, Quidditch player’s arms, with honey-toned skin and spring-tight muscles. He doesn't fall. He plants his feet wider apart, in a stronger stance, and tugs, sudden and harsh, pulls the toy almost all the way out of himself. After an agonising pause, he slides it back in, fast and smooth, and blindingly good. He allows himself one small mercy now, places one knee on the window seat for balance. Balance and the angle. That exact, precise, splendid angle. The one that James would hold while taking him from behind, with Al on his knees in front of them both.
Hugo grasps for the lube where he dropped it on the seat. He squeezes more into his palm one-handed, clumsy now with his own thrusting rhythm, then finally, finally
, slides a cool, tight, slippery fist over his cock. Tight enough to stay his impending orgasm. He's not even sure where the fantasy is going anymore. Not sure if he'll take Al's mouth or his arse while James Potter fucks him hard and purposefully from behind.
Maybe he'll invite Uncle Harry too. Just to watch, with his hand in his pants and his Head Auror robes on, his implacable, unobtainable, utterly fabricated calm finally shattered while watching his sons take Hugo apart. All of them torn asunder and burned to blissful ash by the Fiendfyre of Hugo's endless, all consuming lust.
His hand slips and slides, faster and faster, over the velvet skin and throbbing line of his hard cock. His body thrusts and bends and shudders in time with the relentless rhythm he imagines James would set. He shoves the rubber phallus in and out of his body so fast he thinks he might set himself alight with nothing but the frantic friction. His other hand rubs an uneven pace on his desperate cock. His balls clench tight and his arse follows. Pleasure stabs through him, incandescent in its arrival. His climax draws nearer, and nearer still, his pace becoming even more erratic, and still the waves of bliss keep climbing through him, building, building, building. Almost, almost, almost—
He comes with a primal, guttural, gut-punched cry. He’s suddenly aware of every curve and ridge of the rubber cock in his arse, every single brutal inch of it held fast by his convulsing body. His come is hot on his clammy skin. It splutters and slips, warm and sex-scented, sliding across the fingers of his grasping fist. Pearly white and incriminatingly free.
He lets the dildo slide from his lethargic body, pulls the toy free and Vanishes the mess he's made. Wandless and traceless. The snow starts to fall again. The fire in his body is banked down now, nothing but a warm, sated reminder of the wicked thoughts inside his skull, and the biting wind becomes more real on his blushing post-orgasmic skin.
Hugo glances back at the Burrow too see that one of the lights, the one he was most keen on seeing, has blinked out. He smiles to himself and idly wonders what James Potter looks like wanking, fever-hot and guilty in their great-uncle's old room. Hugo thinks that's a sight he'd very much like to see.