InsaneJournal

If I Can’t Have You

It’s half-ten when Al finally returns to our dormitory from God knows where. I don’t look up when I hear him come in, although I’m sure the other three do. He’s so beautiful that it’s difficult not to look at him – even for straight boys.

            “I fed Gertrude,” I mutter quietly, pretending to study the book in my hand.

            “Oh. Erm, thanks.” He walks over to me, the heels of his dragon-skin boots clomping a bit unsteadily against the stone floor. He bends his head to kiss the side of my neck; his breath smells of Firewhisky. I pull away before his lips touch me.

            “You’re pissed.”

            “I’m not. I only had two shots.”

            “Or five,” I snap. “Not that you and your idiot brother ever bother to keep count.”

            “I wasn’t drinking with James,” he replies, his voice soft.

            I venture a sidelong glance at Nott; he rolls his eyes at the other two. “Come on, you lot,” he mutters. “Let the old married couple have their row.” They rise from their beds and depart for the common room. I don’t blame them for leaving. Al and I rarely fight, but when we do, it isn’t pretty – and tonight’s forecast is dark and stormy with a chance of strangulation.

“So are you going to tell me where you were all afternoon and evening, or do we have to play twenty questions?”

The bed creaks as he sits down behind me; boots thud to the floor as he pulls them off. “I’ve Double Potions on Thursdays. You know that.”

I turn to face him. “I know your damned schedule. That’s not what I asked.” My mouth twists in anger. “You stood me up.”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“You were supposed to meet me, remember? I waited outside the dungeons, but you never came out. You ditched class today.” I pause. “So where were you?”

“Oh, shit,” he mutters. “I’m sorry. I forgot.” He leans over to nuzzle me, but I’m not having it. He pulls away again and sighs.

“I’d a lot on my mind today.”

“Nott saw you having lunch with your dad. He said you looked really cross.”

Al frowns. “We had a…slight disagreement.”

“Bollocks. You were arguing.” I hesitate, afraid. “It was about us, wasn’t it?”

“Do we have to do this?” Al asks, exasperated. “Every time I have lunch with my dad, you get paranoid I’m going to break up with you.”

“With good reason,” I retort. “He’d love nothing more.” I get up, pad from Al’s bed over to mine, and sit down again with a huff. Al laughs.

“You haven’t slept in your own bed since first year, and you’re going to start again now?”

“Maybe it’ll become a habit, if you keep acting like a shit.”

Al breathes deeply, then rises and traverses the short distance between us. He stretches out on the bed, curling a long, denim-clad leg over mine. I start to turn away from him, but he catches me around the waist, puts his lips to my ear.

“Why don’t we start a different habit? Let’s try not fighting whenever I spend time with someone in my family.” He takes the book out of my hand, sets it on the bedside table.

I know I shouldn’t feel so threatened by Al’s closeness to his parents and siblings, but I can’t help it. Despite their occasional differences, the Potters are an uncommonly tight-knit clan – and it’s hard being the one forever on the outside, looking in. Deep down, I still fervently hope they’ll accept me someday, although I pretend – usually unsuccessfully – not to care. They’ve never forced the issue, but my worst fear is that one day, Al will have to choose between me and his family, like I did – and I’ll lose him.

Al rises to his knees, takes my hand in his, and tries to pull me back to his own bed. I resist. He sighs again.

“Fine, have it your way. We’ll sleep over here tonight.”

“I don’t remember inviting you,” I shoot back.

“I don’t remember caring.” Cheeky sodding bastard. He pulls the heavy velvet curtains closed around the bed, then withdraws his wand from his pocket and starts to cast the usual Imperturbable Charm, as if this night were just like any other.

“You needn’t bother,” I forewarn him. “You won’t be getting any tonight.”

He gives me a wry smile, then lays down next to me again, spooning himself around my back. “Maybe not,” he mutters softly, “but you will, and I don’t want any interruptions when they come back.” His hand glides over my hip, then slips just beneath the waistband of my jeans, his fingers brushing lightly over my pubic hair. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he murmurs.

I want to believe him, I do; it’s not like us to bicker. Normally, I’m the type to let things slide – especially when Al’s feeling amorous – but family issues hit all my buttons.

“You always want to mess around after you fight with your dad,” I complain. “It’s like you need to reassure yourself that you really want to be with me.”

“I don’t need any reassurances,” he whispers, pressing his erection against my bum. His breath is warm and spicy against my cheek. “I know exactly what I want.”

His fingers tangle in my hair; he pulls my face toward his, and then he’s kissing me, running his tongue lightly along my lips before pressing between them. I push him away, resisting half-heartedly, but he pulls my face back to his, hungry, demanding. I hate that his aggressiveness turns me on so much. That, and his eyes. Al’s possessed of the most stunning eyes I’ve ever seen.

Even after all these years, Al can still take my breath away with a single look. My eyes are nothing special – a flat, dull gray – but Al says they’re beautiful, the color of winter rain. If that’s so, then his are summer grass – lush, startlingly verdurous, and warm enough to make me melt every damned time. They’re an unfair advantage, one he frequently uses to great effect with anyone unlucky enough to fall victim to his gaze. All the girls and half the boys in school are in love with him. He professes not to notice or care, but I do. It’s not easy dating the one bloke at Hogwarts everyone wants to fuck.

Right now, though, it’s his lips that are driving me mad. The trace of Firewhisky still on them leaves my skin tingling and burning wherever they touch me, and they’re touching me everywhere – brushing the tender nerves of my neck, lingering at the hollow of my throat, then traveling back to my face and, finally, my mouth again. He shifts his weight on top of me, pressing his cock against mine through our jeans. Between the kissing and the rutting, he’s already got me as hard as he is.

I come up for air. “Where did you go today?” I breathe.

“Later,” he answers, his voice husky. Christ, he can be infuriating. I open my mouth to tell him off again, but he silences me with another slow, deep, fiery kiss. His fingers find the buttons of my shirt, and then he’s undressing me, his lips torching a languorous path down my chest as he lays it bare. He reaches my navel, and the tingling and teasing becomes too pleasurable to resist; I give in to it, carding my fingers through his thick black hair.

He reaches up, pushes my shirt off my shoulders, then unfastens the buttons of my fly and pulls my jeans down to my knees.

“You’re still a shit, you know,” I mutter, reaching down to pull off his jumper.

He grins. “You won’t care by the time I’m done with you.”

He’s right, actually. One of the reasons we normally get on so well is that the sex is too good for either of us to hold a grudge for long. Five minutes of kissing Al, and I’ve already forgotten that he’s left his boots lying in the middle of the floor again, or neglected to feed our pet python. It wasn’t always this way; when we were younger, we had our share of blow-ups like everyone else. Over the years, though, we’ve softened each other’s edges. Now, I just move the boots myself, or feed Gertrude when she’s hungry, without a second thought. Some things just aren’t worth getting hot and bothered about.

And some things are. Like what he’s doing to me right now – mouthing my prick through the thin fabric of my pants, driving me crazy with his lips and tongue. I can’t stand it when he does this to me; I need to feel my skin against his, with nothing in between. “Fuck,” I mutter, hooking my thumbs under the waistband to yank them down, but he grabs my wrists and pins them to the bed.

“We’ve got all night, babes.”

He sits up, then slowly undresses himself, prolonging my agony. He peels off his t-shirt, baring his smooth, hairless chest, his well-muscled arms. His socks and jeans come off next, and then, finally, his pants; his swollen cock bobs up from a nest of black curls. I reach for it, unable to help myself, but he slaps my hand away playfully. “You first,” he purrs.

He drags my jeans and pants the rest of the way down my legs, taking entirely too long to do so; I’m trembling already, each nerve on fire, as if we’ve never done this before. He rises up over me on his hands and knees, parting my legs, then lowers his head between them; I gasp as a hot, tingling wetness envelops my cock.

Like countless other couples since time immemorial – or at least since the Ogdens first distilled the stuff – Al and I have mixed Firewhisky with fellatio before, but it’s never quite worked. Try it too soon or too long after you’ve imbibed, and you either burn the hell out of your privates or lose all the intended effects. This time, however, Al’s hit the nail on the head, as it were – it feels like I’ve stuck my prick into a cauldron of Elixir to Induce Euphoria.

“Al…Jesus Christ…”

I grab a fistful of soft black hair with one hand, a fistful of sheets with the other, watching the slow rise and fall of his mouth on my cock. It’s torture of the most exquisite kind imaginable, a thousand tiny pinpricks of pleasure – and even as lightly as he’s sucking me, my body is already screaming with the need to come. Al senses how close I am, though, because he pulls away before I lose myself, smiling mischievously. He’s not going to let me get off that easily. He never does.

He turns his head and raises my leg, licking the sensitive skin underneath my knee, then kisses and sucks a path down my inner thigh, hitting every damned nerve ending on the way down. He reaches my scrotum, plants one soft, wet kiss after another beside and around it, his spicy, warm breath sending shivers through me, and then – the arsehole pulls away again, puts his mouth beneath my other knee.

I pull a pillow over my face. “You’re killing me,” I moan.

Al laughs. “Patience is a virtue you’ve yet to acquire.”

I pull the pillow away from my face again; I can’t not watch him do this. His hair falls over his face as he licks his way down my other leg; I push it back from his forehead as he nears my groin, wanting to see his lips against my skin. He cups my balls with one hand, fondling them lightly; I’m biting my lip so hard, I can almost taste blood. His eyes meet mine for the briefest moment; then he winks at me, bends his head again, and sucks one of my balls into his mouth.

I’m suddenly grateful that Al went ahead and cast that Imperturbable Charm, because the sounds coming out of me now could wake the whole damned castle. The tingling heat is so strong, the pleasure so intense, I’m in danger of coming just from this. His tongue swirls around one, then the other; his fingers brush the skin of my thighs he was licking moments ago. I can’t stop the trembling rising from the base of my spine; he’s barely touched my cock, and I’m already hurtling toward the edge.

“Please,” I whimper breathlessly. My voice shakes; my whole body is shaking. He lifts his head to look at my face; I lift my arse off the bed, pushing myself up to him. My cock slides across his cheek, and he grabs it, smiling in triumph; Al loves nothing more than making me beg. It’s a price I’m willing to pay for what promises to be one hell of an orgasm – and mercifully, he obliges my mostly-unspoken request. He rises between my knees again, licks slowly up the underside of my prick, from the base to the head, and then my cock is back in that marvelous elixir.

One of his hands fondles my balls, the other moves up and down with his mouth. I grab his hair with both hands, so hard that it probably hurts, but I can’t help myself – the warmth and wetness and tingling and suction are all far too much. He pulls back my foreskin, just as much as I like, takes me in as deep as he can stand; I can feel the head of my prick nudging the back of his throat again and again. It’s all I need; I come in great spasms, my head thrashing against the pillow, my cries incoherent, his lips and tongue and hands milking me so thoroughly that he has to pull back to keep from choking.

I’m not sure how long it takes, but somehow, eventually, my brain detaches itself from the ceiling and returns to my body. I open my eyes; Al’s smiling down at me, his lips wet, his eyes shining with self-satisfaction. He lies down next to me – or rather, half beside me, half on top of me, his head on my shoulder. I turn my lips to kiss him; I can taste myself on him, salty and slightly bitter, along with a lingering trace of the Firewhisky that just fueled the best blow job I’ve ever received. We lie still for a few minutes while our breathing returns to normal, my whole body tingling with the aftereffects of Al’s ministrations. I can’t imagine how to please him half as much as he’s just pleased me, but I’m more than willing to try, my earlier forewarning be damned.

“Your turn.”

I reach down to caress him, his cock thick and warm in my hand, the head slippery with pre-come. He closes his eyes for a moment, then pulls my hand away, twining his fingers in mine.

“I want to be inside you tonight.”

I frown. Al knows that, except for fighting, intercourse is my least favorite activity of all the things we do together. We’ve only actually managed it twice, both times after drinking heavily; even then, it was so painful we had to stop almost before we had started. I shake my head.

“I’m not in the mood to get pissed.”

“I don’t want you pissed,” he murmurs. “I want you sober...” he kisses the sensitive part of my forehead, near the hairline, “I want you relaxed…” he kisses the tip of my nose, “I want your trust.” He kisses one eyelid, then the other. “I need your trust.” His eyes burn into mine, vibrant and full of want. “I deserve it, you know.”

He does. More than I deserve his, anyway. Al may flirt with anything that walks on two legs, but in all our years together, he’s never so much as held hands with anyone else. I wish I could say the same. I’ve never touched another bloke, but I’ve cheated on him with girls, more than once. The last time was nearly a year ago, with a spoiled French brat Father forced me to bring to one of his friend’s high-society New Year parties. She kissed me at midnight, then pulled me upstairs to one of the guest rooms; we had oral sex on the Persian rug.

It was a disaster, of course. As hard as I’ve tried, I’ve never been able to make myself want a girl – or even a boy, for that matter – the way I want Al. But the worst part was that he knew, the minute he saw my face a week later, without me even saying a damned word. I suppose when you’ve been with someone long enough, you can read each other like open books.

He didn’t say anything, just laid down on his bed and turned away from me while I stood there looking at him, my heart breaking into a thousand pieces. After the longest five minutes of my life, he rolled onto his back and wiped his eyes. Then, he held out his hand.

“Come here,” he choked, his voice thick with tears.

I climbed in next to him; he spooned his body around mine, holding me tight. It was the first time I ever made him cry – and I swore, then and there, it would be the last.

We never spoke of it again.

Two months ago – the morning Father took me to King’s Cross – I told him I was finished with the charades, that I loved Al, and that I wasn’t going to try, ever again, to be something I’m not. I told him if he and Grandfather couldn’t accept me the way I was, then maybe it was best for all concerned if we just kept our distance.

He dropped me off in front of the station without a backward glance – or a goodbye. We haven’t communicated since the start of term.

Al’s problems with his family are different. He’s lucky, in a way; his dad’s always adored him exactly the way he is. His father doesn’t want him dating girls; he just doesn’t want him dating a Malfoy. It’s an entirely personal thing.

I’m not really sure which is worse.

Al caresses my face, bringing me back to the present. The way he’s gazing at me, with so much tenderness, is almost too much. I don’t deserve him, but he loves me anyway. My decision is made; I nod my head.

“All right.”

He smiles, then reaches down to the foot of the bed, fumbling in the front pocket of his jeans. He produces a small, clear bottle filled with something pink. He uncorks it; the fruity scent wafts toward me, filling my nostrils.

“Strawberry lube?”

He smirks. “Nicked it from the Adult Wizards Only room of my uncle’s shop last time I was in Diagon.”

I look at him sceptically. “You did not.”

He blushes. “Actually, no, I didn’t. Verity just gave it to me. I think she was hoping I might use it with her.”

“You shameless prick,” I reprimand him. “She’s old enough to be your mum.”

“Age is just a number,” he teases. He upends the bottle, coating his fingers with the thick pink liquid. His eyes meet mine again, and his expression turns serious; he can see the fear on my face. He bends down to kiss me, stroking my hair.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers.

I’m not sure whether he means physically or emotionally, but I’m past caring. I want to please him, even if it hurts me to do it. He must be reading my mind, though, because he caresses my stomach, gives me a reassuring smile.

“My uncle said the secret is patience, lots of stretching, and lots and lots of lube.” He rubs the slippery gel between his fingers, then reaches between my thighs.

“That’s fucked up, you know. Asking your Uncle George for sex tips.”

He chuckles. “My other uncle, you stupid git. The gay one.” His fingers touch puckered skin, spreading the lube thickly around my entrance.

“That’s still fucked up,” I murmur. “He’s family.”

“Who else am I supposed to ask?” he mutters. I can’t think of an answer.

Slowly, he inserts a single, well-lubricated finger. It feels sort of good, actually, but we both know his finger will soon be replaced with something much bigger. Remembering how much it hurt the last time, I tighten up involuntarily.

“Ouch.”

“Breathe,” he whispers. “You always forget.”

I inhale deeply, then exhale. It’s not just the fear that stops my breath, it’s looking at him – he’s so damned beautiful. His reminder helps, though; within a few seconds, the pain is gone. He moves with infinite patience, working his finger ever deeper, until it’s all the way inside me.  My breath comes faster now; I’m starting to get turned on.

“More.”

A hiss escapes my lips as a second finger penetrates me; now, it’s starting to get uncomfortable. I wince, shutting my eyes tight. He stops again.

“Look at me, babes.”

My eyes meet his, and they’re full of a strange, indescribable longing, stronger than lust. I can tell how much he wants this, wants it for both of us – to breach this last barrier, to connect on a deeper level than we ever have before. And because he wants it, I want it. I take a deep breath, then another.

“Okay.”

Gently, he works his way inside me again. We’re almost starting to get into a rhythm, my hips rising slightly to meet his hand. I start to relax a bit more, let my thighs fall further apart. His fingers brush something deep inside me, and I gasp with unexpected pleasure. Al laughs.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He smiles at my confusion. “That’s your prostate.”

“Why didn’t I ever feel that before?” I wonder aloud.

“I’ve never been this deep inside you, have I?”

I smile back at him. “More,” I whisper.

Three fingers press into me, and suddenly, it’s too much. I grab his arm.

“No. Stop.”

His face falls; he withdraws his fingers. I can tell he’s disappointed, but he tries like hell to hide it. He gazes down at me, brushes my fringe away from my eyes.

“It’s all right. We can try again some other time.”

I look up at him, and all I want to do is touch him. I raise my hand to his face, trace my fingertips along his lower lip; the corners of his mouth curl into a smile. I want him so badly, want to feel as close to him as possible, want to have him inside me. I need him inside me. Tonight.

“Let’s try again now.”

His eyes widen with surprise; his mouth twists sceptically. “Are you sure?”

I don’t need to think about it. “Yes.”

He smiles, reaches between my thighs again, touches his fingers to my entrance. I focus on the rise and fall of his chest, trying to match my breathing to his; if I look at his face, I’ll be lost again. He senses what I’m trying to do, waits a few moments until we’re in sync, inhaling and exhaling in unison. We both take a deep breath, then he pushes into me once more.

It’s better this time – still painful, but not so much so. I can handle it. I force myself to keep breathing, in and out, in and out. He knows I’m trying, struggling; he shifts on the bed, lowers his face to mine, his fingers still inside me. He cups his free hand beneath my neck, brushes his lips against mine, then kisses me, slowly, sensually.  All of a sudden, it feels different. Good, almost. I break our kiss, spread my thighs even wider.

“Deeper,” I tell him breathlessly.

He pushes himself up on one arm again, watching my face, while his fingers press into me. His lips are parted; sweat beads on his brow. Our breaths aren’t synchronized anymore, but our movements are; I’m pushing up to his hand with each slow stroke, taking in as much as I can. He brushes that place inside me again – my prostate, or whatever it is – and I cry out; my muscles clench around his fingers again, but this time, it doesn’t hurt – it feels very, very good. I grab his arm, pull his fingers out of me.

“I’m ready,” I pant, even though I don’t know if I really ever will be. I don’t care. I want him. Christ, do I want him.

For the first time tonight, he looks a bit nervous. He kneels between my legs, grabs the bottle again, glops more pink lube on his hand. He rubs it thickly all over his cock, then meets my eyes.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you, and I’ll stop.”

I nod, reaching for him. He holds his cock with one hand and balances his weight on the other, gazing down at me. I feel pressure, wet and blunt; he bites his lip, breathing hard through his teeth. Nothing happens for a moment, and then the tight ring of flesh gives way; with a kind of half-cry, half-grunt, he’s inside me.

I feel a sharp, fleeting stab of pain, but it’s gone as soon as it comes; I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until I exhale. We stare at each other, not moving, and then, somehow, we both know what to do. I reach up, caress his cheek with my palm; he turns his lips to kiss it, then starts to move slowly, back and forth, his eyes narrowing with pleasure. He works his way inside me with infinitesimally small strokes, his eyes fixed on mine, searching for any sign that I want him to stop, but the truth is I want more of him, not less. I raise my hips, pressing him deeper into me, once, twice, three times; and then finally, miraculously, he’s all the way in, his cock buried to the hilt.

I’m panting so hard, I fear I might hyperventilate; I can’t believe how good this feels, how right, and suddenly, strangely, I feel whole, in a way I never have before, as though a metaphysical void has been filled in addition to the physical one. I think he feels it too, because his eyes are brimming with a kind of emotion I rarely see in him; he’s looking at me the way he does when we’re reunited after being apart all summer, like we’re finally home again. He draws back, nearly pulling out of me, then slowly, carefully, slides all the way back in, his face a mask of ecstasy.

“Oh, God,” he gasps. “Scorpius…”

            He grits his teeth, fighting for control as he pulls back, then pushes in again; I can tell he’s not going to last long, even though I want him to, want to stay connected like this forever. He’s trying hard to be careful, trying not to hurt me, but I don’t want him to be gentle anymore; I want to feel the full force of his need, to take as much as he can give, physically, emotionally, in every way. I raise my hips to meet his next thrust, and the next, and the next; I run my hands up his sides, feel the muscles beneath his skin moving in tandem with mine.

I stare at his face, my heart so full that it hurts; he’s never looked more beautiful than he does now, his long black fringe plastered wetly to his forehead, his chest and shoulders glistening with perspiration, his biceps flexing and tensing with the effort of holding himself up. He shifts his weight to one arm, reaches between us; I feel his hand close on my cock, but I pull it away, lacing our fingers together. I don’t need to get off again; I just want to feel him, only him – over me, inside me, part of me. He’s straining so hard to hold back, when all I want him to do is let go…

I pull him down to me, clutching his hair; his mouth finds mine, and we kiss like we never have before, groaning, gasping, lips and tongues colliding. My legs circle his waist, pulling him deeper into me, and finally – at long last – he gives himself over to the pleasure, wraps his arms tightly around me, flattening himself to my chest, snapping his hips to meet mine. It feels so amazing, so incredible; I don’t ever want to stop touching him, don’t ever want to stop holding him. Panting, I put my lips to his ear.

            “I love you…I love you…”

            Something between a sob and a wail escapes his throat, and he comes, hard, both of us floating, flying on an endless wave of bliss; he keeps moving in me, rocking our bodies back and forth, his cock pulsing inside me. I tighten my muscles around him, exacting a string of long, low, delicious-sounding moans; then, with a final, tremendous shudder, his whole body goes limp, and he collapses against my chest, both of us clinging to each other, shaking, breathless.

            I don’t know how long we lay there, limbs and fingers entwined like Devil’s Snare, like one creature instead of two; I only know that I never want him to move. My head feels empty. Peaceful, for once. Changed, somehow. I wonder if he feels the same.

Eventually his cock softens and slips out of me; he rolls onto his back, pulling me close. I settle into the crook of his arm, his long legs tangling with mine. He looks at me, stroking my hair, then breaks the silence with a chuckle.

            “It was good, wasn’t it?”

            I laugh. “It was bloody brilliant. I should owl your Uncle Charlie a note of thanks.”

            “You can thank him in person, when you meet him at Christmas.” Al frowns. “Maybe.”

            I raise my head to look at him. “What are you talking about?”

            Al sighs. “That’s what dad and I argued about. I asked him if you could stay with us over Christmas holiday.”

            “Oh,” My face falls. “And he said no.”

            “Not exactly,” Al corrects me. “He said he would discuss it with mum.”

            I stare at him, confused. “Wait – isn’t that a good thing?”

            “It’s not good enough,” Al shoots back. “He should have just said yes.  He would have done, too, if…” his voice trails off; I know what he means to say, but he doesn’t want to hurt me by saying it.

            “If I weren’t a Malfoy,” I whisper.

            Al looks away, squeezes me a little tighter. I hate it that loving me causes him so much pain, but there’s nothing either of us can do about it. I change the subject.

“You still haven’t told me where you went today.”

            Al smiles wryly.  “I sneaked into Hogsmeade.”

            “How?”

            He laughs. “It helps having a grandfather who was a delinquent.” Al nods at the foot of the bed; a thick, folded piece of parchment sticks out the back pocket of his jeans.

            “The Marauder’s Map?” I breathe, incredulous. “How did you…?”

             “James nicked it from dad’s old school trunk just before start of term. He lent it to me – said it was for a good cause.”

            “Which was?”

Al smirks. “I got a tattoo today.”

“Bollocks. You did not.”

“Yeah, I did. That’s why I got pissed – takes the edge off the pain.”

I frown. “You ditched class, sneaked out of school, and got a tattoo on the same day, all because you argued with your dad?”

He kisses my forehead, runs his fingers through my hair. “I was really sodding angry,” he whispers.

“You’re an idiot, you are,” I murmur.

“Yeah, well, maybe I overreacted.” He grins. “It’s a nice tat, though. Want to see?”

I nod.

Al reaches down to the foot of the bed, withdraws the wand from the pocket of my jeans. He hands it to me, then points my wand directly at his heart.

“Go on.”

I stare into his impossibly green eyes, unable to fathom what he’s on about, but I obey anyway.

“Revelio.”

Beneath the tip of my wand, a sprinkling of stars appear, glowing, pulsing with light. My wand falls from my hand, rolls off the bed, clattering to the floor below. I raise my fingers to his chest, my mouth agape with wonder, touching the stars, tracing the familiar, imaginary lines between them: the head, the claws, the curving tail.

It’s a constellation. My constellation.

Scorpius.

Tears fill my eyes. I try to swallow, but I can’t; a hard lump is stuck in my throat.

“It’s beautiful,” I finally manage.

“You’re beautiful.” He caresses the side of my face.

I settle my head back into the crook of his arm, gazing up at the constellation projected onto the bed canopy; the stars on his chest burn brightly, as if lit from a fire within. I slide my cheek on top of them, feeling their warmth, listening to the steady beating of his heart.

“I love you, babes,” he murmurs.

I raise my head to look at his face, but the next second he’s already snoring. I laugh softly. Al’s never been able to stay awake for long after he comes.

I trace his lower lip with my fingertip; the corners of his mouth curl into a smile. I know, somehow, that next time it will be easier for me to relax, that the sex will only get better and better, along with everything else between us.

We’ve loved each other for as long as I can remember. And more and more, I’m starting to think we always will.