He staggers when a hand shoots out of the darkness and grasps his wrist. Caught off balance, he’s dragged into shadow, but he’s not an Auror for nothing. The tip of his wand finds the underside of a jaw, and his assailant laughs softly. In their darkened corner, a body presses closer to his own, heedless of the threat of his wand to their throat. The laugh, the possessive clutch at his wrist, are achingly familiar, and he knows exactly who he’ll see when his eyes manage to adjust to the gloom.
“Rabastan,” he hisses.
The laughter fades to a giggle and the hand around his wrist loosens, slides up his arm to his shoulder and pulls him closer. “So, you do remember, Kingsley-love.”
Kingsley squints at him. All he can see is the silhouette of Rabastan’s wild black hair and the glitter of his eyes, but he knows that he’s smiling. He can hear it. He knows the exact way that Rabastan’s lips curve; the pronounced upward tick to the left and the crooked lower incisors. Rabastan is feeling along his shoulders, and Kingsley jumps slightly when cold fingertips brush his skin at the edge of his collar. He presses harder with his wand, and feels Rabastan’s body jolt in response.
It was this way in Hogwarts, he remembers. A rough rivalry on the Quidditch pitch that led to flirting in the hallways and the passing of some wonderfully explicit notes that he’s kept hidden ever since. They never went further, no matter how much they’d wanted it. He still wants it. Wants Rabastan to enact every filthy promise he ever wrote.
He doesn’t lower his wand, not even when he surges forward to kiss that smile off Rabastan’s lips. The other moans, shockingly loud in the dark, and Kingsley pulls away to listen carefully. All he can hear is heavy breathing and the hammering of his own heart; in the distance, in one of the other chambers, the Order clashing with Death Eaters in order to defend the prophecy. He and Rabastan, on opposing sides, are alone.
Rabastan whispers an incantation between them, the hand not on Kingsley’s neck lifting as he casts a privacy ward. The rush of his magic makes goose-bumps break out on Kingsley’s arms and neck; Rabastan’s magic has always felt Dark, even when they were in school – a side-effect of his upbringing, most likely, though it’s only grown worse in the years since. But as Dark as he is, that crooked smile of his tastes so sweet. With privacy ensures, Kingsley returns to his task; he licks into Rabastan’s mouth and twists his fingers in his hair, yanking his head back even as he shoves Rabastan backwards, deeper into the dark and up against a wall.
Rabastan laughs into their kiss and the hand at Kingsley’s throat tightens, fingernails digging in to his flesh. The tip of a wand digs into his hip, and he pushes forward into it – into Rabastan. Rabastan’s hard under his robes, and eager; Kingsley knows he could die for pursuing this, knows exactly what Rabastan’s capable of, but knows that he won’t stop.
He bites kisses along Rabastan’s jaw and down his neck, feeling hips roll and thrust against his own. Laughter turns to gasps and moans, and fingers flex at his neck, scrabbling at the fastenings of his collar. He’ll leave bruises in his wake. If they’re going to do this, he wants Rabastan to remember it; wants him to feel it for days.
He’s wanted it for too long to have him any other way.
He licks between the tip of his wand and the tender flesh on the underside of Rabastan’s jaw before digging his wand in deeper. Rabastan makes a soft, choked noise that could be pain – probably is, although he still seems to be enjoying himself if the erection pressing into his own is anything to go by.
Images flash through Kingsley’s mind – thoughts of what they could do. Rabastan on his knees like he always promised – threatened? – letting him fuck his throat and come on his face and chest; they could use their hands on each other like horny school boys in an abandoned classroom, kissing and stroking. If he thought he could get away with it without Rabastan disembowelling him, he’d try turning him to the wall and fucking into him from behind, but there’s still a wand pressing into his hip with dark intent.
“Rabastan,” he hisses.
The laughter fades to a giggle and the hand around his wrist loosens, slides up his arm to his shoulder and pulls him closer. “So, you do remember, Kingsley-love.”
Kingsley squints at him. All he can see is the silhouette of Rabastan’s wild black hair and the glitter of his eyes, but he knows that he’s smiling. He can hear it. He knows the exact way that Rabastan’s lips curve; the pronounced upward tick to the left and the crooked lower incisors. Rabastan is feeling along his shoulders, and Kingsley jumps slightly when cold fingertips brush his skin at the edge of his collar. He presses harder with his wand, and feels Rabastan’s body jolt in response.
It was this way in Hogwarts, he remembers. A rough rivalry on the Quidditch pitch that led to flirting in the hallways and the passing of some wonderfully explicit notes that he’s kept hidden ever since. They never went further, no matter how much they’d wanted it. He still wants it. Wants Rabastan to enact every filthy promise he ever wrote.
He doesn’t lower his wand, not even when he surges forward to kiss that smile off Rabastan’s lips. The other moans, shockingly loud in the dark, and Kingsley pulls away to listen carefully. All he can hear is heavy breathing and the hammering of his own heart; in the distance, in one of the other chambers, the Order clashing with Death Eaters in order to defend the prophecy. He and Rabastan, on opposing sides, are alone.
Rabastan whispers an incantation between them, the hand not on Kingsley’s neck lifting as he casts a privacy ward. The rush of his magic makes goose-bumps break out on Kingsley’s arms and neck; Rabastan’s magic has always felt Dark, even when they were in school – a side-effect of his upbringing, most likely, though it’s only grown worse in the years since. But as Dark as he is, that crooked smile of his tastes so sweet. With privacy ensures, Kingsley returns to his task; he licks into Rabastan’s mouth and twists his fingers in his hair, yanking his head back even as he shoves Rabastan backwards, deeper into the dark and up against a wall.
Rabastan laughs into their kiss and the hand at Kingsley’s throat tightens, fingernails digging in to his flesh. The tip of a wand digs into his hip, and he pushes forward into it – into Rabastan. Rabastan’s hard under his robes, and eager; Kingsley knows he could die for pursuing this, knows exactly what Rabastan’s capable of, but knows that he won’t stop.
He bites kisses along Rabastan’s jaw and down his neck, feeling hips roll and thrust against his own. Laughter turns to gasps and moans, and fingers flex at his neck, scrabbling at the fastenings of his collar. He’ll leave bruises in his wake. If they’re going to do this, he wants Rabastan to remember it; wants him to feel it for days.
He’s wanted it for too long to have him any other way.
He licks between the tip of his wand and the tender flesh on the underside of Rabastan’s jaw before digging his wand in deeper. Rabastan makes a soft, choked noise that could be pain – probably is, although he still seems to be enjoying himself if the erection pressing into his own is anything to go by.
Images flash through Kingsley’s mind – thoughts of what they could do. Rabastan on his knees like he always promised – threatened? – letting him fuck his throat and come on his face and chest; they could use their hands on each other like horny school boys in an abandoned classroom, kissing and stroking. If he thought he could get away with it without Rabastan disembowelling him, he’d try turning him to the wall and fucking into him from behind, but there’s still a wand pressing into his hip with dark intent.