Jerk: an escalation in three actsAuthor: lq_traintracksPairing:
1) age disparity, 2) caught in the act, 3) masturbation, 4) spreader bars (although I cheated at this one, and it’s only a passing mention inside a brief fantasy)Other Warnings/Content:
godfather/godson (with a very brief hint of Daddyishness); hand job; blow job; mentions of anal sex; voyeurism; exhibitionism; second person POV; Teddy POV; and as stated above, the age difference (36/19)Word Count:
Teddy is a super powerful wizard but seriously can’t control his penis at all, much less around his godfather.Author's Notes:
I think I squeed when I saw the themes for July, as they all instantly pre-wrote this Harry/Teddy fic in my head. :D Thanks so much to bixgirl1 for the lovely beta help!
So it turns out your magical power—just the force of it, nothing under your control—is really quite something. ‘More than we’ve seen inside these walls for a long time,’ Headmistress Chang told you in confidence. It’s more than his
, and nobody expected that, least of all you. It’s a bit weird, how much you idolise him even still, maybe because of how little he seems to care that his own godson could bring down said walls of Hogwarts with one flick of his wand.
Not that you want to actually do
that. You’re a bloody Hufflepuff. All you really want is his attention. Sodding pathetic.
But they court you: Gringotts, the Ministry, all the Quidditch teams, Hogwarts too (and Beauxbatons, Durmstrang…), everybody who thinks they have something valuable to protect, or lose, or win. They want you to protect it, win it for them. Too bad you’re nineteen and all you really want to do with your life is eat crisps out of the econo-sized bag, play Muggle video games with Victoire and her newest girlfriend, and jerk your dick off ten times a day.
In hindsight, Harry’s house is probably not the best place to summer before you decide where you want to reside and what you want to do with your coveted wand and how you want to live your stupid life. Not the smartest place to be when you idolise him and need to jerk your dick off ten times a day. It’s highly inconvenient. This thing. Despite your best efforts—and all this so-called ‘magical prowess’—you can’t get your idiotic penis to behave to save your own skin. There’s nothing to do but… well, take care of it.
You thought you were doing so rather subversively, but turns out not. Hence the first time he catches you. Because, well, Harry is still extremely powerful himself, and on top of that, he sort of daydreams a bit. Lost in thought, he can simultaneously and instantly unlock four different privacy charms with only a twist of the doorknob. Fat lot of good your spells do with him around. Where your magic is intense, his is precise, and he can undo your strongholds without even trying. He’s so practiced, it’s second nature. You’re told he used to be more like you, and this gives you hope that you might channel it all someday.
Your name and an offer of dinner dies on his lips as he stalls in the doorway and sees your pants around your ankles, your cock peekpeekpeeking
, quick like a rabbit, through the hole made by your tight fist, your grimacing face transforming to wide-eyed horror/pleasure/shame/ecstasy, because coincidentally you’d just
been thinking of him, imagine that.
“Oh,” he says. “Fuck.” He never says ‘fuck’ around you, even though it’s not like you’re his kid or anything, and you didn’t grow up with him really because he was away, travelling and breaking curses all over the world when you were young, or he was busy with his own children and trying to save his marriage, and he has no reason not to say ‘fuck’ in front of you except that maybe he really doesn’t want to confuse things for himself, doesn’t want to sully your innocence with whatever mostly innocuous thing that comes out of his (downright gorgeous) mouth. He doesn’t want to conflate familial intimacy with another
kind. Which means he’s thought of another kind.
Why the fuck are you still touching yourself???
His mouth is gently open now, his eyes blinking. His glasses fog up. Which is a bit hilarious, since, unthinkingly, he rips them off and cleans them. His gaze drops to the floor as your hand slows but doesn’t stop. You haven’t at all caught your breath when you sort of gasp out, “What about dinner?”
“Just…” he says. “... when you’re ready.”
He’s backing through the door when—as you stroke your hand up your cock, pinching the head a bit as you like—he lifts his eyes to the motion, his dark gaze zeroing in between your still-spread legs, ankles twisted up in your pants but knees wide, like a scandalous form of yoga. He looks at it. Can’t seem to help himself.
Then he ducks out, snicking the door closed, and you groan, rolling over and pumping your hips, coming a sticky puddle onto your sheets in moments.
Harry makes a mean veggie omelet for dinner, but not so good as to dispel the crazy tension in the room the whole time you’re both eating it. You’re not sure if it’s better or worse that his kids are there, James going on about getting on the Quidditch team this year (his 3rd), Albus reading a book under the table (Machiavelli’s ‘The Prince’, and honestly, you’re a little worried about that kid), Lily just stuffing her face; she can really put it away and routinely gives you a run for your money at the crisp bag.
None of that is much distraction from Harry’s nightly five o’clock shadow, so stupidly sexy on his clenching jaw, from the sheer number of times he clears his throat meaningfully-unmeaningfully, the way he can’t think what to talk about when James finally shuts the fuck up—and you can’t either, just mumbling banalities about job prospects or asking Al if he’s excited to start Hogwarts, to receive only half a shrug in response. All you can bloody think is, Harry has seen your cock. He’s seen you stroke your cock. He really
looked at it. He very nearly watched it. You almost came in front of him. You almost came in front of him
because of him.
The interminable dinner ends, and later, the night itself. Against your better judgement, you spank the sausage again before bed. Twice. For good measure. You try to think of nothing—which turns into Harry strapping you into a spreader bar so he can fuck your arse sore while you have to lie there wrenched open for it. Bloody great. There is no ‘thinking of England’ without thinking of Harry too.
But you get through it, he doesn’t walk in on you again, and eventually you fall asleep, envious of folk whose magic isn’t so whack that they can’t rig a telly to have on at night. It’d be fine if not for the dreams, which sometimes wake you because they literally shake the foundations of the house.
A couple of weeks, and you’ve nearly forgotten about Harry walking in on you wanking. Nearly. Which means, fuck, not bloody at all
. But you’re making the effort.
The second time he catches you, it’s in the shower. He just fucking strolls in again, the absent-minded knob.
“Oh, bugger,” he sighs, aggravated this time. He’s immediately turning on his heel, when, for whatever self-destructive reason, you open the shower door, unblurring yourself for him.
“Wait,” you say stupidly. You are an explosion of blushing, hair likely scarlet now, but you can’t seem to stop yourself. Mild humiliation just happens to be a kink of yours, after all. It’s not the ‘wait’ that stops him though; it’s, “Harry…” And then, because he does
stop, not yet looking at you again, you hear yourself actually whine, “Ha-rry…”
His head doesn’t turn from it’s bowed profile. But his eyes do. And fuck, they’re almost black. Holding your breath, you lean against the tile wall. Don’t want to scare him off. You let your breath out carefully—and you wank. Harry swallows. He keeps looking. A bit of pre-come leaks out under the intensity of his gaze. Your lashes flutter, but you make yourself keep your eyes open. Biting your lip, taking a terrifying (exhilarating, maddening) chance, you aim your cock at him—You want this?
His composure slips a little on a soft gasp, his hand gripping the knob of the door so hard you expect it to disintegrate into dust.
“Hh...Hh…” you get out, and then you’re coming, shooting over your fist, across the shower, globs of shiny white. And he watches. He’s watching you… hearing you moaning for him. Your legs start to shake. The water pounds over you, steam rippling out and bathing him. He shuts his lips tight, says nothing, and then turns around and leaves.
You sink back against the wall, your hand a loose cage for your softening dick. You shut your stupid eyes.
It’s three nights later. Harry disappeared for two days. Probably to Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione’s. You’re suffused with misplaced pride that you made him flee his own house. You also feel like a git. But the third evening, he’s back, and it’s like nothing happened, and it’s just you and him in the house tonight, and he says, “I rented these Muggle films…?” not at all like it’s a date. But you feel like it’s a date anyway. Because you’re a smitten dick, you bloody doofus.
Harry Potter doesn’t want you. Harry Potter is Harry Potter, and he’s your godfather (whatever that means), and he’s a fucking adult with, what, a mortgage? With children who feel suspiciously like cousins. With an ex-wife. He’s a man who doesn’t eat an entire bag of crisps on a whim. What the hell would he want with you?
Except you remember the look in his eyes when he watched you shoot. Those eyes have followed you into your dreams. They’re looking at you now.
“Yeah. Sure,” you say.
He makes you popcorn. “Beer?” he asks.
“I don’t drink.” Although maybe you should.
“‘Kay,” he says, and then pours himself a Firewhiskey.
You share the sofa and watch a comedy. You ripple with pleasure every time he laughs. Eventually his arm drifts along the back of the couch behind you. You can’t feel its warmth, except that you can. He gets up to fetch a water, getting one for you too. He’s so stupid, you think, a ridiculous little grin on your face… that he forgets about magic sometimes and just uses his legs and his arms and such. Maybe that’s why he’s so fit though. You get a halfie from that thought.
He comes back and plops down, a quick smile at you, a barely-there wink that stops your bloody heart.
Two movies later, and you’re sleepy but too wired to go to bed. You don’t think about what you’re doing; you just lie back into the arm of the couch, sticking your legs out, your sock feet in his lap. He doesn’t look at you, just holds your ankles like it’s nothing. His fingers are warm and strong. Your cock goes so stiff
, it’s almost like pain, like a sudden magical arrow through the groin, a hint of your future orgasm, and a soft little groan escapes you. He pretends not to notice, watching the screen.
Your hand inches down your stomach, lip bitten to deter noise. Light from the screen flashes over you. Characters you can’t remember the names of do things, actors acting. It’s all meaningless. His hands are hot, fingers on your instep, three seconds of massage before he stills again. You finger the button of your jeans, toy with it, think about not doing it—you shouldn’t—then flick it open. Moments more, you take the chance because you’re raging hard
; you surreptitiously cup your erection, toes curling. His hands tighten; one strokes up your leg an inch. Has his breathing changed?
“Harry,” you say, almost a plea, bold as fuck. Where the hell did you get the balls for that?
“Don’t,” he says. No heat. He’s as afraid of himself as he is of what you’ll do next. Or what you might not do.
You gently squirm one ankle out of his grasp and fling your leg over the back of the couch. You unzip. “Harry.”
He closes his eyes. Sighs. But he turns his head and looks you in the face. You stare into his eyes and bring your cock out over the top of your pants, rosy and wanting. You lick your lips. He hesitates—but then looks down. His fingers hurt where he’s death-gripping your leg now. You turn your sock-toes towards his crotch and give him a rub. He’s definitely getting hard. Your prick jumps in your hand, and you blatantly stroke it.
“No,” he says, forcefully enough that you stop, your heart stuttering, real fear souring the back of your throat.
But he turns on the sofa, grabs you by both ankles, and jerks until you’re flat on your back and gasping. He rips into his own trousers, bares his cock… Merlin, Harry’s big, flushed cock, filling that strong-knuckled hand… You immediately want it in your mouth, his sweat and heat choking off your moans. But he positions himself over you face to face, looks into your scared eyes, and then down at your unmoving hand around your penis. His fist descends on his prick, from thick root to the head.
He’s doing it. He’s starting to jerk himself off. You mewl a little cry of relief, an arousal coming over you so powerful it literally teeters the sofa legs for a moment.
“Shh,” he whispers soothingly. Like a dad. One hand cups the back of your neck, and you melt. He pulls on his cock, seducing it even harder, and your own fist starts flying. “Slower,” he commands. You do it, matching his aching rhythm. “That’s it,” he says. He’s praising you.
“Oh my god,” you wonder aloud. He glances at your face, spearing you with a look, hot and hard but also caring, protecting. Fuck. He wraps his hand around the both of you, and you toss your arms up over your head, grasping the cushions and bucking up into his touch. You bite your lip so hard it’ll bruise, maybe split.
“Unnngh, Harry, nnngh, fuck!”
His hand is almost soft, certainly less frantic than you’re used to, and the difference, that it’s him
, bloody kills you. You’ll die of this for sure. The lights, previously off, flicker as your orgasm peaks. Distantly, you’re afraid for the rattling windows. The telly cuts off, thrusting you both into blue shadow. Harry’s a beautiful dark shape moving on top of you, breathing, “That’s it, Teddy.” A bulb breaks in the other room as you scream it out, your cock splurting into his hand, over your own stomach.
“That’s it,” he says. “Let it go. Let it go.” He might be talking to himself as well. In the next moment, his eyes shut, and he groans. Harry’s coming. He’s coming on you.
On your cock and belly, your t-shirt, your pushed-down pants, his strong hand pulling out each wet pulse. It’s so good, your cock, still in his warm hand and pressed up against his erection, twitches. You lift trembling arms and wrap them around his neck. You’re smiling.
A panted murmur from him, and the lights flicker on, low. Close up, you watch his stubbled throat swallowing. You love how he smells, this close. He starts to ease off you.
“Wait,” you plead.
“You’re not even going to kiss me?”
He sighs, torn, a very fatherly frown on his face.
“Harry,” you say, voice going a bit hard. “Fuck my mouth with your tongue.”
His eyes clear of whatever guilty thoughts he was having. He even laughs a little. “Fuck yourself,” he says.
You must be glittering from his words, judging from the way he’s looking at you. He leans down, and his lips open yours easily. He slips his tongue readily into your dirty mouth. You’re different to him now.
You spend a good deal of time giddily making out. He shimmies you out of your t-shirt between burning kisses, but it’s only to wipe the cotton over your stomach before the come dries. He’s such a Muggle sometimes. He catches your gaze, grins a little, and drops the shirt to the floor, lowering his mouth to your chest and leaving stubbly kisses over you, a lap over one nipple, a strong suck that has you arching into it—a wanton little slag—before he’s kissing over to the other, giving a soft, deep groan at the taste of your skin.
Then he sits up and stuffs his flaccid dick back into his trousers, does himself back up. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He glances over at you, and that’s all it takes for your silly penis to jump a little, to begin, again, to plump.
He chuffs, “Merlin, that’s amazing.”
“It is?” You both watch it rise to your hip and lay itself there. You snort a laugh.
“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, the stuff with the lights…” He gestures tiredly. He sighs. “It’s good. It is. Just… don’t let them steal that from you.” He seems to be talking about your… prick?
“This?” You take it matter-of-factly in hand.
“Well, sort of.”
You lift a brow at him. He’s mad.
“Don’t let them steal you from you, is all.”
“Oh,” you say. “Oh.” He speaks from experience.
“Don’t let me do that either. If I haven’t already.” The last is an exhausted breath.
“You?” You sit up, kicking your jeans and pants off so all that’s left is the socks. You see him appreciate the look even though he’d rather not. You climb into his lap, straddling him.
“Teddy, we really shouldn’t—”
“Shut up, Harry, we already have.”
Your dick likes the feel of his clothes rubbing against it, so you move a little, and he takes your hips tenderly in his hands. You unfasten the buttons on his shirt slowly, almost demurely, testing him. Harry’s always in these kinds of shirts, you’ve noticed. Like it’s a responsibility. Removing it feels like you might be stripping away the responsibility itself, and you’re not sure if he’ll allow that. But then every once in a while you’ve caught him in a plain white t-shirt, usually when he’s cleaning his brooms or doing his late-night baking. He has some odd quirks like that, the baking, that you’ll miss when and if you move out. Now you’re not so sure you’ll want to.
But maybe there’s time enough for that later, the decision. Decisions
, plural. Right now, you’ve finished the buttons. He lets you part the edges. It makes your heart pound. You touch his chest, the springy hair, feel his deep breath, the heat emanating from him. Tentatively you you meet his eyes. They’re dark as fuck, and before you know it, he’s pulling you to him, and he’s kissing you again. It’ll take some time for his cock to get hard enough to slide into your arse, but you very much intend for that to happen when rigidity allows.
You positively ache for Harry to fuck you.
He lets you work his dick back out of his flies, kiss paused, now watching your face. You’re watching each other. You feel a blush settle on your cheeks. He seems to like it, by the look that flashes over his eyes. His hand cups your bum, gives a squeeze. You move against his still-mostly-soft cock, yours fully hard. You’re so turned on it’s ridiculous. He seems to like that too.
“Come here,” he says. “While we’re waiting.” And he helps you to sort of stand on the couch.
He’s definitely going to kill you now.
Your eyes flutter shut at the first feel of his raspy face against your cock and balls before he gently but firmly sucks your cock. He holds your bum in his hands to steady you.
…” One glorious exhale of words. You grip whatever you can, his wild hair, the sofa. The lights flicker once violently—and then douse.