James had never planned to tell Teddy that he fancied him. Never. He was taking that secret to the grave. After all, he’d taken it to Hogwarts with him since sixth year, so why not just carry on that way for the rest of his life, the secret stuffed in his back pocket with the lint that also accumulated there and that annoying button that kept falling off of his winter robes. James was eighteen now, so he only had roughly another hundred years to try and not give away that he desperately wanted to shag his godbrother. Just a hundred years of not staring at Teddy’s arms, or shoulders, or his stupid lovely hands, or sitting too close to him, or laughing too loud at his jokes and fixating on his mouth when he talked.
Easy peasy.
James’s mistake, though, was letting Albus know about it. Which he hadn’t done on purpose, because he’s not a complete idiot. James was putting most, if not all, of the blame for Albus finding out on Lily’s stupid Christmas Wishlist Game which they had started playing some years ago and which was tradition. It was basically Secret Santa, only botched thanks to a fundamental misunderstanding by a young Lily regarding how the game was meant to be played; her version involved each participant writing down what they wanted from the person whose name they drew out of a hat and then hoping that said person would give them what they asked for. From the perspective of an ambitious ten-year-old Lily, it made sense to be able to tell someone directly what they wanted rather than just hoping for the best, and they’d been playing it every year since, always two nights before Christmas and often with hilarious results.
James had been both excited and terrified to get Teddy’s name this year.
Because there were a lot of things James wanted from Teddy, but none he was comfortable asking for, and none ― he was certain ― that Teddy would actually give him. Teddy was generous to a fault, true, and bound to try and give James whatever he requested, but James was sure that Teddy wasn’t harbouring any reciprocating feelings when it came to James’s weird and determined infatuation with him.
James dithered for days about what to ask for instead ― a belt perhaps, he thought as he brushed the end of his quill against his cheek. Maybe a book? James pressed the tip of the quill to the parchment, safe in the confines of the family kitchen, then bit his lip as he impulsively wrote:
Dear Teddy. For Christmas, I want you to fuck me.
James stared at the note, heart pounding as the words blared back at him, the ink black and perfect and totally illicit ― but as quickly as the impulse to write it had come, James scrunched the parchment up, smearing some of the still-wet ink with his fingers.
That was a stupid thing to write, not least because it would make Teddy insanely uncomfortable. Even if it didn’t, and Teddy was up for it, then what? James didn’t want Teddy to throw him some pity shag as part of a game his kid sister invented. James wanted Teddy, properly ― wanted to fuck him, yes, wanted to feel his lips against his, his cock hard and hot against James’s skin, but then to sit around with him all afternoon and do awful, soppy romantic crap like Albus and Scorpius did and which James pretended to hate. James desperately wanted that. So, James told himself as he lobbed the forbidden request into the kitchen bin and banished the thought from his mind. That was the end of that. He was just going to as ask for something normal, like socks, or a calendar.
On no account would he ever ask Teddy for what he actually wanted.
James barely noticed his brother lurking nearby, pretending to make tea, or that the crumpled note was mysteriously gone from the bin the next morning. James had bigger things on his mind, like wanking languorously over Teddy in the shower before getting ready to spend the next few days stuck with every immediate relative he’d ever met invading his house.
James had never planned to tell Teddy that he fancied him. Never. He was taking that secret to the grave. After all, he’d taken it to Hogwarts with him since sixth year, so why not just carry on that way for the rest of his life, the secret stuffed in his back pocket with the lint that also accumulated there and that annoying button that kept falling off of his winter robes. James was eighteen now, so he only had roughly another hundred years to try and not give away that he desperately wanted to shag his godbrother. Just a hundred years of not staring at Teddy’s arms, or shoulders, or his stupid lovely hands, or sitting too close to him, or laughing too loud at his jokes and fixating on his mouth when he talked.
Easy peasy.
James’s mistake, though, was letting Albus know about it. Which he hadn’t done on purpose, because he’s not a complete idiot. James was putting most, if not all, of the blame for Albus finding out on Lily’s stupid Christmas Wishlist Game which they had started playing some years ago and which was tradition. It was basically Secret Santa, only botched thanks to a fundamental misunderstanding by a young Lily regarding how the game was meant to be played; her version involved each participant writing down what they wanted from the person whose name they drew out of a hat and then hoping that said person would give them what they asked for. From the perspective of an ambitious ten-year-old Lily, it made sense to be able to tell someone directly what they wanted rather than just hoping for the best, and they’d been playing it every year since, always two nights before Christmas and often with hilarious results.
James had been both excited and terrified to get Teddy’s name this year.
Because there were a lot of things James wanted from Teddy, but none he was comfortable asking for, and none ― he was certain ― that Teddy would actually give him. Teddy was generous to a fault, true, and bound to try and give James whatever he requested, but James was sure that Teddy wasn’t harbouring any reciprocating feelings when it came to James’s weird and determined infatuation with him.
James dithered for days about what to ask for instead ― a belt perhaps, he thought as he brushed the end of his quill against his cheek. Maybe a book? James pressed the tip of the quill to the parchment, safe in the confines of the family kitchen, then bit his lip as he impulsively wrote:
Dear Teddy. For Christmas, I want you to fuck me.
James stared at the note, heart pounding as the words blared back at him, the ink black and perfect and totally illicit ― but as quickly as the impulse to write it had come, James scrunched the parchment up, smearing some of the still-wet ink with his fingers.
That was a stupid thing to write, not least because it would make Teddy insanely uncomfortable. Even if it didn’t, and Teddy was up for it, then what? James didn’t want Teddy to throw him some pity shag as part of a game his kid sister invented. James wanted Teddy, properly ― wanted to fuck him, yes, wanted to feel his lips against his, his cock hard and hot against James’s skin, but then to sit around with him all afternoon and do awful, soppy romantic crap like Albus and Scorpius did and which James pretended to hate. James desperately wanted that. So, James told himself as he lobbed the forbidden request into the kitchen bin and banished the thought from his mind. That was the end of that. He was just going to as ask for something normal, like socks, or a calendar.
On no account would he ever ask Teddy for what he actually wanted.
James barely noticed his brother lurking nearby, pretending to make tea, or that the crumpled note was mysteriously gone from the bin the next morning. James had bigger things on his mind, like wanking languorously over Teddy in the shower before getting ready to spend the next few days stuck with every immediate relative he’d ever met invading his house.