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No Matter What

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Egypt was hot, dry, noisy, smelly, and as different from England as Bill Weasley could imagine. His temporary quarters were underground, deep below the desert. A tiny room, smaller by far than the one he'd shared at home for so many years. Here, just like there, the walls were thin, the neighbours noisy, and his room was rarely quiet.

Most of the time, the noise was familiar and comforting. Soft snores just loud enough to be audible through the walls. Whispered conversations. Muted bangs, groans, and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin. That night, it seemed as if everyone in the subterranean compound was either asleep or with company, except Bill.

Which was why he was in the small common room and why he'd activated the privacy charms. No one would interrupt him for anything less than a dire emergency.

Standing in front of the magical window that filled an entire wall, he glanced through the public views: night-dark neighbourhoods in Wizarding Cairo, pyramids splashed with the reflected light from the nearly full moon, and on and on. He flicked through them three times just to confirm that there was absolutely nothing interesting going on anywhere.

"Join Gringotts and see the world," Bill muttered. "Find out that the world's the same all over, more like."

He dropped back into the leather chair behind him and combed his fingers through his long, red hair. They caught on his fang earring, tugging just hard enough to cause a hint of pain.

And to spark a memory. Of muscular hands pulling on his cock. Of a mouth on his own. The roughness of burn scars and the almost unbearable sensation of a tongue piercing against the underside of his cock.

You want me just as much as I want you. Don't even attempt to deny it.

And he hadn't. Oh, holy Merlin, he hadn't denied it.

Instead, he'd learned how to cast wards stronger than his parents could break, silencing spells that mimicked the sounds of sleeping boys, and more sex charms than he'd known existed.

Need rose inside him. He'd run to the ends of the earth, and he still wanted.

Ever felt the fire of a dragon tattoo, the lick of its flame, the heat of its breath?

There'd been so many dragons — spread over his back, wrapped around his arm and shoulder, and winding up his legs. All of them were nothing more than distractions, colourful trifles to distract Mum from the one that really mattered. The Chinese Fireball with a tail that wound around his balls and a head that breathed fire from the tip of his cock.

"Miss you," whispered Bill.

He shoved his pyjama bottoms down and twirled his wand in a familiar pattern, coating his fingers and filling his cupped palm with lube. Then, wand safely on the side table, he spread his legs, hooking them over the arms of the chair, exposing himself.

Rubbing his hands together, he spread the lube until his fingers and palms were glistening. Then he closed his eyes and slid a finger down his cock, over his perineum, and circled the pucker of his arse.

The finger was too thin, too long, so he closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair.

Look at me, you bastard. Feel me. Tell me that you want me.

"Fucking need you, all right."

The words burst from Bill, breaking through his denial, and pressing his finger inside him. Tight and warm and filled with aching arousal. Not enough and too much, and he pushed deeper and gripped his cock.

Come on, you know you can take two.

Without moving his hands, Bill spread his legs farther and balanced on the edge of the chair seat. Pulling his first finger out to the edge, he added a second and began to move.

Bill squeezed and tugged on his cock, adding a twist at the end and dragging the edge of a fingernail across his slit. His hips lifted and dropped, undulating as he thrust into his hand and back down on his fingers.

He panted for breath, sweat prickling against his skin, but it wasn't enough. He needed more. Withdrawing his fingers, Bill bent himself in half, curved his hand and sat on all four of his fingers, shoving them inside him. Pain and memory flared. His grasp tightened on his cock, and his hips jerked hard, almost unbalancing him.

You spread so beautifully. I could get my whole fist in there.

Moving faster and faster, Bill writhed and twisted on the fingers inside him. He mumbled and grumbled, trying to lengthen his arm, to spread his legs wide enough to push them in deeper and deeper.

But he couldn't do anything more than frustrate himself.

Yanking out his fingers, he reached blindly for his wand and Summoned the dildo from his dressing gown pocket.

Or would you rather have my cock, have the dragon breathing over your prostate, scraping tattooed fire and fang over those sensitive nerve endings?

The dildo was thick and hard and warmer at the tip. Barely pausing to breathe, Bill thrust it inside him in one smooth, practised move, aiming for Bill's prostate the way his cock had.

So perfectly full, Bill flicked a nail at the end of the dildo, activating it, setting the rhythm with his taps. Then he flung his free arm over his head and dug his fingers into the back of the chair, holding on as the dildo began to move. In and out, hard and fast, as his cock had done.

Look at yourself. So fucking gorgeous. Spread out for me. Taking every last bit of me inside you.

Clinging to the chair, Bill bit his lip against the noises he couldn't, shouldn't, mustn't make. He tugged, pulled, squeezed his own cock. Humped his hand, pressed down on the dildo.

Bill used his weight, the writhing of his body, the seam on the edge of the seat, forcing the thickness inside him to move faster, harder, deeper, until the tingling finally began, spreading from his fingers and toes, suffusing his entire body, drawing his balls up tight and hard, filling his cock more and more.

Can't wait any longer. Need you. Now.

Bill groaned, long, wordless, needy. The dildo thrust one last time, almost hard enough to unbalance him, sending a wash of fiery heat over his prostate. And he came. His cock pulsed, again and again, spraying semen over his chest and stomach.

Love you. Always. No matter what.

"Love," Bill managed — over his panting breaths, his aching heart, the want and need that would always be there for something, someone he couldn't shouldn't have.

No matter what.