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birdsofshoreI originally posted this last week, but then decided I wanted to make some edits, and took it down quickly. I'm so sorry if you were reading or commenting at the time! I have since got poor ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raitala to beta her own birthday present, and here it is again (any errors remaining are from me fiddling about). To the kind people who commented already, obviously there is no need to do so again unless you feel a great urge :D
Title: Draco Alone
Author:birdsofshore
Pairing: Draco / Albus Severus
Word Count: ~2k
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Draco-centric. Homophobic and slut-shaming slurs. Angsty wanking. AGAIN. All I can write is angsty wanking. UST that is not properly resolved. AGAIN.
Summary: Draco has everything he needs right here. Without question.
A/N: For the very wonderfulraitala, now slightly late for your birthday. I'm still totally writing you that other thing as well, but Draco butted in and wanted a turn. Thank you for the beta job, and a happy birthday to you, with love (and highly appropriate crushy feelings ;)) ♥
This is yet more from the Unguarded verse and is set in the Christmas holidays, following on from the scenes I posted last week.
YES, there will be more of this story coming. Hopefully soon. Thank you so much for all the encouragement to continue. Big thanks also tosnowgall, my new continuity monitor, who is trying to make sure I don't fuck up the details from previous parts when I write a new one.
raitala to beta her own birthday present, and here it is again (any errors remaining are from me fiddling about). To the kind people who commented already, obviously there is no need to do so again unless you feel a great urge :DTitle: Draco Alone
Author:
birdsofshorePairing: Draco / Albus Severus
Word Count: ~2k
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Draco-centric. Homophobic and slut-shaming slurs. Angsty wanking. AGAIN. All I can write is angsty wanking. UST that is not properly resolved. AGAIN.
Summary: Draco has everything he needs right here. Without question.
A/N: For the very wonderful
raitala, now slightly late for your birthday. I'm still totally writing you that other thing as well, but Draco butted in and wanted a turn. Thank you for the beta job, and a happy birthday to you, with love (and highly appropriate crushy feelings ;)) ♥This is yet more from the Unguarded verse and is set in the Christmas holidays, following on from the scenes I posted last week.
YES, there will be more of this story coming. Hopefully soon. Thank you so much for all the encouragement to continue. Big thanks also to
snowgall, my new continuity monitor, who is trying to make sure I don't fuck up the details from previous parts when I write a new one.*~*
The formal dinner was a bore, lengthy and full of inane chatter, but now that I'm home, the fire in the grate casts a soft light across the room and there are no other sounds but the crackling of the wood and the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
Scorpius is out with friends and probably won't return until tomorrow. I settle back in the armchair and take another sip of brandy, rolling it around my mouth. Tension eases from my shoulders with every moment. This bottle I'm drinking from is something pretty special. It's older than Scorpius, and at several Galleons a glass, I don't let myself indulge too often, but I was craving it tonight – the smoothness, and the rich spicy warmth. The utter luxury of it. I remember pouring myself a measure the first night the Potter boy stayed here. Funny how my mind turns to the mild evenings of summer, now that the nights are bitter and inhospitable. But my study is a snug sanctuary, and I have everything I need here.
I've been trying not to think about the boy much at all – it's nothing but a foolish waste of my time to get involved with these people. I like life to be simple, without these tedious distractions.
However, for some ridiculous reason he – Albus – keeps popping into my head. I was at the club last week when a boy who looked like him walked in. In the first moments, I thought it was him, and, idiotically, I was almost on my feet and moving to meet him before I realised my mistake.
It wasn't him, of course, although the thought of Albus blushing and stumbling his way across the dancefloor is quite amusing. I can picture his eyes widening at the sights and sounds. The thudding bass, the overt sexuality in the air. He wouldn't have a clue what to do with himself – but the other men who frequent the place would have a few ideas, I'm sure. I can imagine all too well the stir of predatory excitement his arrival would cause.
Anyway, the boy was nothing like Albus, really – some cheap little thing, probably been had by every other man in the place. But the hair was similar, jetty-black and falling in the eyes, and there was something about the curve of his back... I took him home, just the same. I had nothing better to do – besides, sitting at home alone every night would soon make one grow old and dull.
When I got him back to my room and turned the lights low, from a certain angle I could see the resemblance again, and an odd elation welled up in my chest at the thought of having him. His mouth was really quite fine. But it was no good. He was nothing like Albus where it mattered. Just some slutty creature, blasé and passed around. When I told him to get on his knees, he looked bored. Bored, for god's sake. He didn't look so bored when I held his head and thrust in hard until his eyes watered. And when I pulled out and bent him over, I pushed his face into the pillow so I couldn't see how unlike Albus he really was.
I made damn sure I whisked him off home before Scorpius got back and saw him, though. Just in case.
It's all too messy and undignified, damn it. My life is just as I want it. I certainly don't need any Potters complicating things. When Astoria left, I thought, Good. Now everything will be straightforward. No more rows, no more tears. Now I can do what I bloody well like. So why the hell—
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Perhaps I should go to bed.
Last night, though, I dreamt of him. Naked on my bed, his body stretched across my sheets in the most stunning lines. His dark hair falling back from his face, such an arresting contrast against my stark-white linen. The way his body teeters on the cusp of adulthood – the ranginess of boyhood transfiguring into the raw strength of a man.
I dreamt of him with his arms pinned above his head, and myself driving into him with deep, ardent strokes and a relentless rhythm, just like I did before. But this time face-to-face. So I could watch every flicker of sensation, every tiny discomfort, every facet of his desire, every twist of pain. Every single blissful moment passing across his absurdly expressive face.
His look of apprehension was intensely rousing as I reached to pinion his arms more firmly, my fingers digging into the bones of his wrists. His skin marks with such gratifying ease. I thought about sending him back to Potter with the prints of my fingers burning on his wrists like a brand, and the thought did not displease me.
Then came the slow falling away of tension, as his body adjusted to the intrusion. Watching him let go of his uneasiness as he gave himself over to the fuck. The rapture of submission, of giving himself utterly to my pleasure, my needs, was written all over his face. Oh, Albus. Such a very good boy.
Perhaps I will go to the club, after all. I didn't feel like it before, but maybe...
No. It's not what I'm in the mood for at all. I wonder if I'm actually getting a little tired of the place. The boys there are mouthy little queens, all used up. They're not—
I sink my nose into the snifter of brandy, take a long, calming breath scented with wood, fruit, spice and a decadent creaminess. It's superb.
After the dream, when I woke, I was hard, my erection trapped painfully beneath me. I rolled onto my back and pulled myself off in a few strokes like a schoolboy. In my half-asleep state, I remember thinking: I will have you again. I must. But I was befuddled, and didn't know what I was saying. There'll be no more fun and games with Albus Potter.
Tonight, though, with the brandy settling warm and nostalgic in my belly, why not indulge myself? Yes. I shall have him in memory, in imagination, if nothing else.
I do so love a long, languid wank. I transfer my drink to the table, and part my robes, my cock filling out nicely already beneath the heavy material. I chuckle for a moment as I remember Albus' wide-eyed wonder on learning I dress traditionally – that is, no underwear – beneath my formal robes. I give a couple of unhurried strokes, up and down, until it's fully to attention, and then encircle the base with my fingers, letting it stand proud and tall.
I sit back and regard myself for a few moments, letting my eyes run from the pale curls of hair at the base, along the long, straight, shaft, to the deep flush of the head. I probably shouldn't say it, but it is a damn fine cock. I smile as I think of how much pleasure it has given to myself and others. How many others it will give pleasure to in the future.
My other hand fondles my balls with a deliberate, lingering motion, and I open my legs to allow myself greater access. A sweet ache begins to build and I let my head fall back against the armchair. I imagine Albus kneeling in front of me. Naked, or perhaps stripped to the waist, the firelight dancing across his bare skin, and his hand palming the bulge of his eager cock. A sheen of sweat lying across his top lip as his eyes fix hungrily upon me, burning with how much he wants it.
I push my hips forwards as if to meet his mouth. He'd take it all in so sweetly, so willingly... oh, and he can take a cock, this boy. Not in a jaded, done-it-all-before way. No, no. He looked positively entranced to get the opportunity. As if his need for me made him reckless. A small sigh escapes from my mouth and I start to wank in earnest, just the way I like it, the foreskin gliding forwards and then back with a tantalising rhythm. I think about Albus... practising. The sinful thought of him wrapping his sweet lips around the unresponsive form of a dildo. Uhhhh. I shift in the armchair, making myself more comfortable as my hand moves, smooth and sure. I wonder where he obtained such a thing. Surely he wouldn't have the nerve to go to a shop and purchase one? I can't deny I would give a lot to be a fly on the wall for such a transaction.
Ahhhh. Slow swirls of heat and pleasure dance along my spine. God, my hand feels fucking amazing around my prick. I roll my balls with deft movements and grunt in satisfaction at the toe-curling sensation. I wonder what else Albus gets up to with his toy. What a pretty sight that must be. His face, so artless, shining with amazement as he gives himself a good fucking. And presumably he does all this in the dorms after lights out? With my own son sleeping soundly in the next bed.
Hmm. Thoughts of Scorpius are not at all what I am after. I shut my eyes, the better to picture Albus, his lips stretched wide, dark head bobbing avidly in my lap. Hmm, that's— yes. The mouth-watering sweep of pale skin across the earnest curve of his back. The same small, glad noises he made around my cock when we were in the summerhouse. His eyes shut tight, rapt on his task. Looking as if he were born to do this; born to kneel before me, born to suck me. Ahh. Yes. The sensuous swallows of his throat, the softness of his mouth, and the way he'd shiver as I tuck his hair behind his ear.
There's a fierce yearning in my chest – something like desire. Something like—
He certainly is sublime to look at. And, Merlin, how he loves to please me. It's a crying shame that he is who he is. Potter's child. My son's valued friend. An achingly vulnerable, dangerously irresistible, seventeen-year-old boy.
Sometimes I think, If I don't have him, someone else will. Some shit of a man, probably, who'll chew him up and spit him out. And then he'll never be so deliciously unguarded ever again. There'll be a bitter kernel deep in the heart of him, and his perfection will be ruined. The thought makes me want to Apparate to him right now and take him just as he is, take him, and take him, and take him.
Oh, Albus.
I think the brandy on top of that interminable dinner was a mistake. There's an uncomfortable lump forming in my throat. I brace myself firmly against the chair and open my legs wide, thrusting into my hand almost angrily. I wanted this to be smooth and easy, but there's something tangled in my stomach and only this furious impatience will loosen it.
I screw up my face and let my hand bring me right to the edge.
I imagine pulling back for a moment, just resting my cock on the soft fullness of his bottom lip. His face tilts up towards mine, green eyes glazed with need. The air is heavy with the intoxicating scent of his hunger for me. He looks at me as if he'd do anything, anything at all....
When I come, it's to the image of his face, his beautiful trusting face, defiled and spattered with my release. I let it all go with a fragmented groan, my hand tugging at my cock to wring out every last drop.
Afterwards, there's the familiar emptiness that creeps up on me sometimes after orgasm. It's funny how quiet the house feels when Scorpius is not around. I feel hollow, almost quivery, and I reach for my wand to spell the fire to burn higher.
When I'm alone, if I feel... a pang, sometimes, it's just the thought of Scorpius going back to school after the holidays. I fully admit I do miss him to some extent when he is at Hogwarts. It's perfectly natural, for a father to feel that way about his only son. I'm sure that's all it is.
I reach for my drink again, let it warm me from the inside until I feel loose with contentment once more. I have everything I need, right here. My fire, my books, my brandy, my comfortable study. Peace and privacy, and tomorrow, the promise of time with my son. If I occasionally lose myself in thoughts of other things, it's just a passing fancy.
I don't need Albus Potter. I don't need him at all.
Scorpius is out with friends and probably won't return until tomorrow. I settle back in the armchair and take another sip of brandy, rolling it around my mouth. Tension eases from my shoulders with every moment. This bottle I'm drinking from is something pretty special. It's older than Scorpius, and at several Galleons a glass, I don't let myself indulge too often, but I was craving it tonight – the smoothness, and the rich spicy warmth. The utter luxury of it. I remember pouring myself a measure the first night the Potter boy stayed here. Funny how my mind turns to the mild evenings of summer, now that the nights are bitter and inhospitable. But my study is a snug sanctuary, and I have everything I need here.
I've been trying not to think about the boy much at all – it's nothing but a foolish waste of my time to get involved with these people. I like life to be simple, without these tedious distractions.
However, for some ridiculous reason he – Albus – keeps popping into my head. I was at the club last week when a boy who looked like him walked in. In the first moments, I thought it was him, and, idiotically, I was almost on my feet and moving to meet him before I realised my mistake.
It wasn't him, of course, although the thought of Albus blushing and stumbling his way across the dancefloor is quite amusing. I can picture his eyes widening at the sights and sounds. The thudding bass, the overt sexuality in the air. He wouldn't have a clue what to do with himself – but the other men who frequent the place would have a few ideas, I'm sure. I can imagine all too well the stir of predatory excitement his arrival would cause.
Anyway, the boy was nothing like Albus, really – some cheap little thing, probably been had by every other man in the place. But the hair was similar, jetty-black and falling in the eyes, and there was something about the curve of his back... I took him home, just the same. I had nothing better to do – besides, sitting at home alone every night would soon make one grow old and dull.
When I got him back to my room and turned the lights low, from a certain angle I could see the resemblance again, and an odd elation welled up in my chest at the thought of having him. His mouth was really quite fine. But it was no good. He was nothing like Albus where it mattered. Just some slutty creature, blasé and passed around. When I told him to get on his knees, he looked bored. Bored, for god's sake. He didn't look so bored when I held his head and thrust in hard until his eyes watered. And when I pulled out and bent him over, I pushed his face into the pillow so I couldn't see how unlike Albus he really was.
I made damn sure I whisked him off home before Scorpius got back and saw him, though. Just in case.
It's all too messy and undignified, damn it. My life is just as I want it. I certainly don't need any Potters complicating things. When Astoria left, I thought, Good. Now everything will be straightforward. No more rows, no more tears. Now I can do what I bloody well like. So why the hell—
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Perhaps I should go to bed.
Last night, though, I dreamt of him. Naked on my bed, his body stretched across my sheets in the most stunning lines. His dark hair falling back from his face, such an arresting contrast against my stark-white linen. The way his body teeters on the cusp of adulthood – the ranginess of boyhood transfiguring into the raw strength of a man.
I dreamt of him with his arms pinned above his head, and myself driving into him with deep, ardent strokes and a relentless rhythm, just like I did before. But this time face-to-face. So I could watch every flicker of sensation, every tiny discomfort, every facet of his desire, every twist of pain. Every single blissful moment passing across his absurdly expressive face.
His look of apprehension was intensely rousing as I reached to pinion his arms more firmly, my fingers digging into the bones of his wrists. His skin marks with such gratifying ease. I thought about sending him back to Potter with the prints of my fingers burning on his wrists like a brand, and the thought did not displease me.
Then came the slow falling away of tension, as his body adjusted to the intrusion. Watching him let go of his uneasiness as he gave himself over to the fuck. The rapture of submission, of giving himself utterly to my pleasure, my needs, was written all over his face. Oh, Albus. Such a very good boy.
Perhaps I will go to the club, after all. I didn't feel like it before, but maybe...
No. It's not what I'm in the mood for at all. I wonder if I'm actually getting a little tired of the place. The boys there are mouthy little queens, all used up. They're not—
I sink my nose into the snifter of brandy, take a long, calming breath scented with wood, fruit, spice and a decadent creaminess. It's superb.
After the dream, when I woke, I was hard, my erection trapped painfully beneath me. I rolled onto my back and pulled myself off in a few strokes like a schoolboy. In my half-asleep state, I remember thinking: I will have you again. I must. But I was befuddled, and didn't know what I was saying. There'll be no more fun and games with Albus Potter.
Tonight, though, with the brandy settling warm and nostalgic in my belly, why not indulge myself? Yes. I shall have him in memory, in imagination, if nothing else.
I do so love a long, languid wank. I transfer my drink to the table, and part my robes, my cock filling out nicely already beneath the heavy material. I chuckle for a moment as I remember Albus' wide-eyed wonder on learning I dress traditionally – that is, no underwear – beneath my formal robes. I give a couple of unhurried strokes, up and down, until it's fully to attention, and then encircle the base with my fingers, letting it stand proud and tall.
I sit back and regard myself for a few moments, letting my eyes run from the pale curls of hair at the base, along the long, straight, shaft, to the deep flush of the head. I probably shouldn't say it, but it is a damn fine cock. I smile as I think of how much pleasure it has given to myself and others. How many others it will give pleasure to in the future.
My other hand fondles my balls with a deliberate, lingering motion, and I open my legs to allow myself greater access. A sweet ache begins to build and I let my head fall back against the armchair. I imagine Albus kneeling in front of me. Naked, or perhaps stripped to the waist, the firelight dancing across his bare skin, and his hand palming the bulge of his eager cock. A sheen of sweat lying across his top lip as his eyes fix hungrily upon me, burning with how much he wants it.
I push my hips forwards as if to meet his mouth. He'd take it all in so sweetly, so willingly... oh, and he can take a cock, this boy. Not in a jaded, done-it-all-before way. No, no. He looked positively entranced to get the opportunity. As if his need for me made him reckless. A small sigh escapes from my mouth and I start to wank in earnest, just the way I like it, the foreskin gliding forwards and then back with a tantalising rhythm. I think about Albus... practising. The sinful thought of him wrapping his sweet lips around the unresponsive form of a dildo. Uhhhh. I shift in the armchair, making myself more comfortable as my hand moves, smooth and sure. I wonder where he obtained such a thing. Surely he wouldn't have the nerve to go to a shop and purchase one? I can't deny I would give a lot to be a fly on the wall for such a transaction.
Ahhhh. Slow swirls of heat and pleasure dance along my spine. God, my hand feels fucking amazing around my prick. I roll my balls with deft movements and grunt in satisfaction at the toe-curling sensation. I wonder what else Albus gets up to with his toy. What a pretty sight that must be. His face, so artless, shining with amazement as he gives himself a good fucking. And presumably he does all this in the dorms after lights out? With my own son sleeping soundly in the next bed.
Hmm. Thoughts of Scorpius are not at all what I am after. I shut my eyes, the better to picture Albus, his lips stretched wide, dark head bobbing avidly in my lap. Hmm, that's— yes. The mouth-watering sweep of pale skin across the earnest curve of his back. The same small, glad noises he made around my cock when we were in the summerhouse. His eyes shut tight, rapt on his task. Looking as if he were born to do this; born to kneel before me, born to suck me. Ahh. Yes. The sensuous swallows of his throat, the softness of his mouth, and the way he'd shiver as I tuck his hair behind his ear.
There's a fierce yearning in my chest – something like desire. Something like—
He certainly is sublime to look at. And, Merlin, how he loves to please me. It's a crying shame that he is who he is. Potter's child. My son's valued friend. An achingly vulnerable, dangerously irresistible, seventeen-year-old boy.
Sometimes I think, If I don't have him, someone else will. Some shit of a man, probably, who'll chew him up and spit him out. And then he'll never be so deliciously unguarded ever again. There'll be a bitter kernel deep in the heart of him, and his perfection will be ruined. The thought makes me want to Apparate to him right now and take him just as he is, take him, and take him, and take him.
Oh, Albus.
I think the brandy on top of that interminable dinner was a mistake. There's an uncomfortable lump forming in my throat. I brace myself firmly against the chair and open my legs wide, thrusting into my hand almost angrily. I wanted this to be smooth and easy, but there's something tangled in my stomach and only this furious impatience will loosen it.
I screw up my face and let my hand bring me right to the edge.
I imagine pulling back for a moment, just resting my cock on the soft fullness of his bottom lip. His face tilts up towards mine, green eyes glazed with need. The air is heavy with the intoxicating scent of his hunger for me. He looks at me as if he'd do anything, anything at all....
When I come, it's to the image of his face, his beautiful trusting face, defiled and spattered with my release. I let it all go with a fragmented groan, my hand tugging at my cock to wring out every last drop.
Afterwards, there's the familiar emptiness that creeps up on me sometimes after orgasm. It's funny how quiet the house feels when Scorpius is not around. I feel hollow, almost quivery, and I reach for my wand to spell the fire to burn higher.
When I'm alone, if I feel... a pang, sometimes, it's just the thought of Scorpius going back to school after the holidays. I fully admit I do miss him to some extent when he is at Hogwarts. It's perfectly natural, for a father to feel that way about his only son. I'm sure that's all it is.
I reach for my drink again, let it warm me from the inside until I feel loose with contentment once more. I have everything I need, right here. My fire, my books, my brandy, my comfortable study. Peace and privacy, and tomorrow, the promise of time with my son. If I occasionally lose myself in thoughts of other things, it's just a passing fancy.
I don't need Albus Potter. I don't need him at all.
*~*
Read Unguarded part 5 here
