Archive of Our Own

It’s late when your wife’s owl arrives. An hour past the usual, with several galleons hastily taped beneath her scrawled note. She’s asking me to spend the night. I don’t particularly care why she has been held up—I’ve heard your half-hearted mentions of her absences. What matters is how these absences are beneficial to me. What matters is when I am given permission to linger in your home, long after your children have gone to bed.

Your youngest suffers night terrors. She fears the monsters in the closet, the monsters under the bed. It’s nothing a drop of Dreamless Sleep won’t fix. Reluctant though you are to ply your darling girl with sedatives, you are not reluctant enough to question your good fortune when my visits prelude her restful night’s sleep.

So the house is quiet as I peel the gold coins from your wife’s missive. I tuck the coins away, I fold the note and flick it into the smouldering fireplace. She’s paid me extra to sleep on your couch and be available to comfort her potentially tear-stricken daughter.

You, of course, will not be home for several more hours. Such is the schedule of an Auror, even a high-ranking one: inconvenient and inflexible.

I watch your wife’s letter crumple to ashes, and then I go upstairs to the master bedroom.

Once there, I make use of your bathroom. I leave your toiletries on the shelf; water will do in this case. I want you to remember my scent. Before I shut the lights, I’m tempted to lay a hex on your wife’s things—surely I could blame one of your boys, those rebellious troublemakers. They might even blame each other. 

But no. I make a point of being friendly with your children. They like me, and your youngest is quite taken with my charms. I’ll keep them in my pocket for now.

Your bedroom is a decent size, not as large as one might expect from a man of your wealth and social standing. But you are unlike the men who share your social circles, which is what drew me here.

I strip off my clothes. I fold them neatly and tuck them under the bed, out of sight. Then I climb into your bed.

The sheets are cool and hint at the full savour of your cologne. An evening shower is part of your nightly routine, but tired as you often are, traces linger. I breathe deeply into the pillow before shifting myself to the opposite end. 

This half of the bed is hers; the scents here are lighter, fresh like a floral spring morning. I lay there for a moment, stubbornly determined to diffuse them.

Surely she will notice. Surely the presence of another in her marital bed will alert her to her husband’s waning affections. 

Yes, I’ve seen you watching me. I glance at you from across the room and revel in your guilty looks. The tip of my tongue catches underneath my front teeth, catches your attention. My hand presses briefly to your bicep as I ask after the scar on your shoulder; you shift back as though burned. 

And always, your face floods with colour. Always, your eyes go dark. You tear your gaze away, leaving a ragged edge between us.

I enjoy your attention. I try to imply that I do without making it obvious, without making you uncomfortable. I hold your stare and imagine your hands pinning me to the wall, taking what you’ve tried in vain to convince yourself you do not want.

I close the curtains, I turn out all the lights. I curl on my side and shut my eyes. I am waiting, Harry. I‘ve been waiting for you.

You don’t leave me wanting long; I’ve only begun to doze when the wards of your house hum and shiver, the indistinct weight of their magic parting to make way for your presence. 

When you enter the bedroom, I burrow more carefully into the covers. The irony here is that you do not pay me any attention because you think I am your wife.

I listen as you indulge in your nightly shower. You emerge from your bathroom swathed in steam, and your movements are sluggish, weary. Your weight on the mattress tilts my body towards yours, and then slowly, you slip in next to me.

In your silence, I taste your longing, your regret. Hesitantly, your hand moves to my waist. You touch her, but it is not because you want to. You’re afraid of waking her, your wife. In the dark, exhausted and half-blind without your glasses, you believe my silhouette under your covers belongs to her.

I keep my breathing steady, though my pulse quickens under the warmth of your hand. Your hand, which would undoubtedly leave your wife, stays for me. It curls weakly against my side, twitching towards my hip.

I’m already aroused. Edged for hours on thoughts of what you would do when you discovered me in your bed. So very aware of how your fingers tremble against my soft skin. 

You keep touching me. You pet my hip with gentle, almost reverential caresses. Your breath wavers on each exhale. By now, I’m convinced you must know who I am.

Then your hand moves to my shoulder. The grip is loose, nervous. You want to turn me around, you want to watch me—

No, you do not. Your hand falls away because you still think I am your wife. 

I slow the pace of my heart. I wait.

Your hand returns, cautiously, to my waist. I think I feel the rough heat of your breath against my neck. You’re aroused, too, though you’ve yet to know why.

You resume your quiet fondling. I’ve gathered that you no longer touch her this way with any regularity. You must miss physical intimacy. I have reawakened that desire for you; you have unearthed it in my body.

Still careful, you touch me some more. Your hand plays with the curve of my hip, brushing against the spot where waist swells into arse. You’re as aroused as I am by now. My own prick, stiff and twitching with each sweeping touch, drips slightly onto the sheets.

When your fingers graze the shaft, it takes all the willpower I have to remain silent, to hold myself utterly still.

You hold still, too. The shock of it—a cock in your bed, me in your bed—stuns you. Drags you forcibly to wakefulness, though neither wakefulness nor realization does nothing to dispel the heat of your erection, or the rapid pulse of your heart.

Anxious now, you listen to my breathing. Calm, steady. As far as you’re aware, I am perfectly asleep. Perfectly asleep and fully nude in your marital bed.

For a long, long moment, neither of us say anything. I can hear the gears in your brain grinding on and on. What to do, what to do?

I sleep on, vulnerable, appealing. I wait.

And before you can stop yourself, your hand wraps around my cock. One touch is enough to spread my arousal against your palm—it’s enough to make your breath hitch, enough for me to delight in the beaten down moan of pleasure you would never permit my waking ears to hear.

So you hold me in your hand, fingers curled loosely around the shaft. I wonder if you're going to move. I wonder if I was to come right then, would it shatter your composure entirely? Would it leave you aching for me?

But there is intimacy in holding, too; unspoken taboo in the flush of your skin against mine. Your thumb trails my foreskin. This time I whimper—a soft, needy noise meant to thrill you. A plea without words.

Savour this, I want to tell you. But I am still asleep, so I only arch my back in silent offering, feeling the heat wash up my spine as you shift nearer, greedier.

In the quiet dark, fast asleep, I am safe—safe to admire, safe to stroke.

You stroke me, and this time it is my pleasure that is bitten back, caged behind clenched teeth and pinned under my tongue. You stroke me, and the danger is not that I will wake, but that you will change your mind and stop.

My lungs ache; my next exhale is low, guttural. Your hand moves so slowly, so carefully. My lashes are wet, my mind and body overwhelmed by their mental restraints. To feel such pleasure at your hand, but also to hold still beneath it.

I feel your warmth close to me, now. Your chest to my back, your knee edging towards the bare flesh of my thighs. I hear the first syllable of my name on your lips, the quiet hum of your hunger as you painstakingly pull me towards orgasm.

My ears strain for those sounds. I crave them; they feed the wicked fire between us. 

‘Oh,’ you sigh. ‘Oh, Tom.’

I am not prepared; a choked gasp flees my throat—I come on your hand, your wrist, the linen sheets where your wife sleeps.

Your hand stills, lost in stupor. When you withdraw, swallowing noisily, I know the guilt has already begun to drown you. You’ve cheated on your wife of your own volition. You have taken my unconscious form in hand and glutted yourself.

I take my time in shifting, stretching. I crane my neck, moan softly, and turn my head.

Your eyes meet mine, and you are shamefaced. I watch you work your jaw open, closed, open again. The aftertaste of my name prevents you from speaking.

I murmur your name, my voice thick with feigned sleep and confusion. My softened cock rests meekly between my legs. I repeat your name a second time, glimpse the pain cutting lines across your face. Then I lift a hand to your cheek, offering tentative comfort, vicious satisfaction passing over me like a warm summer rain. 

I am tempted, in that moment, to call for you a third time, to ask—

‘Mr Potter?’

—but my intent is to seduce you, not break you. My deconstruction of your mind will take place at a later date.

You do not speak as my fingers trace the dips beneath your eyes. You do not move as I align my body with yours, as I surge upwards—my motions practiced and graceful, like dancing—to capture your silent lips with mine.

How quickly your hand clutches my waist after that. How quickly I have you on your back, your arousal heavy against my hip. 

You do not ask me to stop. How could you, when the palm of your hand, pressed so desperately to my body, bears the lewd evidence of your own transgressions? 

I could not have stopped you then. You cannot stop me now.

The weight of my desire overwhelms you to the point of passivity. Your body rests limp and trembling beneath me. I could tease you, make you beg. You’d like that, I know. You crave the emotional release that accompanies an honest confession, no matter how depraved that confession may be. You, like me, will only admit vulnerability when your throat catches the blade of a knife.

Tonight, I am that knife. My hands map your shoulders and the scars that live on them. My mouth covers the pulse in your neck, absorbing the metronome of your heart.

‘Touch me,’ I demand. 

You obey. It seems no threat is needed. Perhaps you hear the cutting edge of silver in my words. Or perhaps you want your wife to know—you want all of them to know.

I slide my fingers in your mouth and feel my cock stirring between us. Your hands splayed on my chest, your hands kneading my thighs. Your eyes fixed on mine.

You say my name; I bare my teeth in a grin. I am tearing off the masks you wear and chewing them up.

Our bodies revolve, shifting me beneath you. I unfurl myself for your pleasure, I stroke the hesitant arms that cage me against your bed. You are unsure. You slick and spread me open, still unsure. 

I know you will not leave me unfulfilled; it is not in your nature to harm the hands that feed you, and you have already overindulged yourself on me tonight.

You repeat my name several more times. I am a constant exhale, an indefinite sigh. 

I am yours; you push your way inside me.

Every muscle in your body tenses even as I soften, flesh made lax with gratification.

But I know you have dreamt of this. You have maimed your conscience over it. Every guilty glance thrown my way served as a prelude to this moment, your body merged with mine.

You hook my ankles over your shoulders and desperately fuck me through two more orgasms.

The evening implodes; my chest squeezes your name from my lungs. I’d forget my own name if not for the shape of it in your mouth. Tom, pushed into the hollow of my collarbone. Tom, bitten into my flushed, reddened cheeks. Tom, a whimper passing from your breath to mine.

You fuck me through my orgasms and lap up the tears that follow them. You hold me tenderly through my breathlessness, pressing words of endearment into my skin. Adoration steeps me in pride; there is no greater power than a man like you made weak by my presence.

When you allow yourself release, you hide your face in my neck, you turn your nose to my rumpled curls and inhale my scent. You set your hand to my cock, convinced that my pleasure will cleanse the sins of your own.

I manage well enough, wrung dry as I am, spilling into the palm of your hand—the twitch and pulse of your cock deep inside has roused that final fever within me.

After, you remain hidden away. You tuck me close, you do not dare meet my face with your own. But it is my body covered with your filth. It is my hand that grips your jaw and my teeth that taunt the lobe of your ear.

My voice, rich with triumph, thanks you.

You shudder, eyes closed. You are remembering now. Your wife, your children. Your marital bed, now defiled. I watch you attempt to lock these thoughts away. You don’t quite succeed—it is unlikely you ever will, with your sense of self tied so intrinsically to your moral compass—and so you must lie to yourself instead.

This will not happen again.

This is what you think, this is why you relax. 

Once again, I am tempted to say what I shouldn’t. To tell you how your wife paid me to be here, how my grand romp on your cock has been exacted at her expense. But again, I must restrain myself. The darkness you battle within yourself requires delicacy.

You see, I understand you. I know what it is like to be consumed by hunger, incapable of forgetting the taste, however wrong it may be.

But I am what you need. And you are what I need.

I turn my lips to the corner of your mouth. I breathe in deeply, clouding my mind with you, and I apologize.

I apologize profoundly and profusely. I castrate myself, dragging all the blame to rest—rightfully so, not that you know this—at my feet.

You are horrified. The sickening knot of your guilt unravels as you hasten to reassure me. Sweet sentiments pour forth, weaving a cocoon of praise and promises that I have done nothing wrong.

It is now my turn to hide; my face against your neck, a breath away from an imprint of my own teeth. You stroke my back, hoping to soothe my distress. I smile, knowing you cannot see it.

Will you hold me till the morning comes, I wonder. Will you permit me to stay?

Then your arm curls protectively around my waist, determined to draw me out of my dishonest despair, and I think that you might.