Hallowing Lions

 

 

Albus has Transfigured the old armchair by the fireplace, the one with the rough-hewn oak lion heads for armrests and the great clawed feet, to shifting, squirming life. For a lark. Wooden nails tap softly on the carpet as shaggy heads yawn and growl silently. Quarter past midnight as the two boys laze about; the old cat sleeps in the corner; Gellert leans against the inlaid coffee table in his thin white under-robe, spinning his wand slowly in one hand and smiling.

"Adorable, Albus."

"Just as long as I don't put it near the kitchen," Albus laughs. "It likes to hunt in the larder, and it wreaks havoc with the preserving charms. But I've made sure it'll stay put..."

"Semi-sentient?"

"Well, I do happen to be rather good at this sort of thing."

"What happens if you sit in it?"

"Ah, well, that's the interesting part." Albus has a particular way of pronouncing things interesting, Gellert has noticed, reserved for the oldest lore and the most complicated Dark Arts--and, apparently now, Transfigured armchairs. He stretches, contented as a big cat himself, and arranges himself in the chair with much mock dignity.

As his hands come to rest on the armrests, the lions twist and catch his wrists in great jaws, holding him firmly to the chair.

"A situation, you see," Albus says, "of severe distress." His wand's not at hand; he's helpless. He doesn't look distressed in the least.

Gellert laughs and Vanishes Albus' robes.

The basement shudders and bangs. The cat flees.

Neither of them blink, not anymore. Lock the door against mad Ariana, lock the door against sulking Aberforth, charm the flames up roaring and sparkling blue-black, and fuck with the weird shadowy light playing patterns over their skin and turning Gellert's hair to oily gold.

Gellert sketches his wand over Albus' bare chest, murmurs strange charms, just this side of Dark, spells that play with sensation, spark down Albus' nerves and make him groan sweetly and thrust his hips against nothing. Sometimes not spells at all, just dragging the narrow wooden point over his skin, over his nipples, mischievous smile playing over his lips as he tosses golden curls out of his face and watches puzzlement in bright blue eyes, until Albus realizes he's just sketched the sign of the Hallows on him and bursts out laughing.

Sweat on Albus' pale forehead, hair disheveled over his narrow chest, as he drowns for a few moments in wild sensation and wriggles desperately against the armchair--which shudders back like a great yawning cat, no doubt rubbing velvet upholstery in interesting ways against the sensitive bits. Gellert watches him, rests one foot on an armrest with bare toes curled over a woody mane, and strips off his own robes.

"Why don't you--" Albus pants.

"Hush," Gellert says softly. It's late, he's a little tired, though the sight of Albus squirming helpless in his own armchair is stirring his blood a little, but he's still loose-limbed and lazy. So much he might test with those spells otherwise, with Albus his very willing victim.

But even just giving a command--telling the ever-babbling Albus to hush, and being obeyed--oh. Yes. He brushes his hand over Albus' face, chuckles softly as he kisses his fingertips, then casts a quick spell of convenience and reaches down to prepare himself. Shame to waste Albus' arousal.

Albus makes a purring sort of noise to voice his approval, watches with reckless desire and a bit of a flush, until finally Gellert straddles him, arranges himself, sinks down very slowly with a groan in the back of his throat, and kisses him with languid demand, long and wet and hungry.

"Give me my wand," Albus murmurs as they break the kiss, their lips still almost touching, breath warm on damp skin. Gellert rolls his hips, laughs softly.

"Why?"

"You're using the minor relatives of the Imperius Curse to do things to my senses, aren't you?" Albus murmurs, a smile playing on his lips. Magic rolling under his skin, magic shooting hot pleasure like lightning as Gellert rides him. "Let me return the favor. In a way."

"Say please." Not that he'd deny his friend. Not Albus, not brilliant beautiful Albus with his long elegant limbs and cloak of auburn hair and the mind of the century. But he loves to hear him play at begging; it makes that hunger unfold in his gut, that roaring hunger to command, control, use.

"Please," Albus whispers.

"Accio wand."

He slips it between his friend's long fingers, watches as he twists his wrist in the lion's jaws to get the proper angle. Watches a mischievous, uppity glint in Albus' eyes.

"Legilimens."

Gellert gasps, one moment of shock and outrage, then glee, then digging his hands tight into his friend's shoulders as Albus whispers, "Don't fight me…"

His mind glows; his mind is light in the darkened room, sunlight in the black fire, like the bliss of Imperius. But it comes up slow, not the plunging dive of the great curse, rising around him, with Albus ringing like phoenix song all through him--

He throws back his head and laughs with desperate, drowning pleasure, every nerve in his body suddenly, terribly awake. Albus is reading him, not just touching his mind, bringing up fragments of memory after memory to scatter across his awareness--pushing him up against a tree and digging teeth into the pulse point at his neck, spinning auburn hair through his hands, long-fingered hands, warm mouth, a chaos of every time they've fucked--memories that engulf every sense he has, until he can taste Albus' skin and the bitter warmth of his seed, smell the dragonberry potion he'd licked off his back once, feel the lurch as they fall back together to the mattress--

Somewhere in the real world he hears Albus laughing, and he's distantly sure that he's climaxed.

But the physical pleasure is suddenly meaningless. Even bound still, Albus reaches up and penetrates him with his mind, makes love to him with magic, and two great intellects shudder against each other in cascades of esoteric words as the armchair shudders in silent alarm.

 

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