It was euphoria, it was painful, it was perfect. Gellert didn't bother trying to keep himself silent; if anyone was in the main shop, he no longer gave a damn if they overheard.
Typically, at Durmstrang, Gellert had been the one doing the thrusting. Oh, there were exceptions, as there always were, but when a reputation such as Gellert's came with certain expectations. Expectations that Gellert had been more than willing to uphold. But with Albus, Gellert thought, he could make a habit of this. Every plunge tore at something deep within him, dragged up sensations he rarely felt. It was the sense of fullness, of every nerve ending being lit on fire, of splinters under Gellert's nails.
The bones and muscles of his back shifted beneath his skin, shoulder blades jutting out like wings as his head dropped forward, brow falling against the table. He could feel his own breath hot against his lips, a few strands of hair caught in his mouth. He didn't care. He didn't care at all.
"Go harder," Gellert ordered, with no thought for the low, raspy tone of his voice or the way he clenched himself around Albus, dragging him in deeper by force.