Chapter 1: Table of Contents
Hello and welcome to my month of omo trash. This fandom doesn’t have nearly enough omorashi but I am here to alleviate that. This is also an opportunity for me to work out some rarepairs I’ve wanted to write for awhile, so some of these pairings are unexpected.
I’m not using the standard list, a lot of these prompts are my own. And I won’t be posting daily, and maybe not in the listed order, but I will have all of these up eventually. Most/all of these will have sexual content, and I’ll note any additional kinks or warnings in each chapter. Enjoy!
2) At a theatre – Albus/Gellert
3) During a punishment – Tom/Albus
4) Unable to get pants off – Sirius/Moody
5) Bedwetting – Harry/Severus/Remus
6) Between enemies – Luna/Narcissa
7) On purpose – Sirius/James
8) In nappies – Harry/Kingsley
9) Hiding a wet spot - Cho/Angelina
10) Too busy to go - Percy/Scrimgeour
11) Teased by water - Hermione/Pansy
Planned, tentatively subject to change idk
On a dare – George/Lee
At a desk – Harry/Severus
Out of fear – Severus/James
In a sexy outfit – Tonks/Ginny
Because they enjoy it – Lavender/Parvati
Tied up – Tom/Harry
Locked out of the toilet – Cho/Luna
In formal clothes – Hermione/Viktor/Ron
Under veritaserum – Luna/Rita
While being tickled – Fred/Oliver/George
In uniform – Tonks/Moody
During sex – Severus/Voldemort
Into a towel, blanket, pillow – Severus/Harry
In a swimsuit – Fleur/Tonks
During a sports match – Ron/Viktor
As punishment – Draco/Blaise
Because of magic – Remus/Severus
Golden showers – Abraxas/Tom
In public – Pansy/Luna
In someone’s lap – Neville/Severus
Chapter 2: At a Theatre - Albus/Gellert
It was a real, proper date. Dvorak’s Rusalka was being staged in London. Gellert knew the music from his childhood. He had been so excited. They’d gone out to dinner first, and now they were sitting in the opera house, in the cheap balcony seats they could afford. But this was acceptable, because the balcony afforded them more privacy anyway. They could touch, they could murmur. They had dropped distraction spells around themselves, to avoid the gazes of the rich Muggles in attendance. Now Albus’s hand was resting lightly on Grindelwald’s wrist. A faint smirk play at Gellert’s delicious mouth.
Albus’s head still swam with the wine they’d both consumed with dinner. And with time, so did his belly. But when he moved to get up, Gellert caught his wrist. “Stay,” he murmured. “You will regret missing it.”
Albus gave Gellert an exasperated glance. “I’ll be but a moment.”
He sunk back into his seat. They were not quite through the first act, and there would not be an intermission until after the second.
His need steadily built, a dull ache that stretched across his hips. It became difficult to concentrate on the opera. He was crossing and re-crossing his ankles beneath his seat. Of course that did nothing. But Gellert’s hand was tight on his wrist by now, holding him close. At least there were open seats on either side of them, so nobody has yet realized Albus’s predicament.
When the first act draws to a magnificent close, Albus was distracted for a bit. But in the thunderous applause, he grabbed Gellert’s hand prying off his fingers and moving to get up. “Whatever your intentions…” he breathed, though quietly he was still charmed by the smile at Gellert’s lips.
“Albus, Albus. Would I ever hurt you?” His words were honeyed like his smile. “Sit down, darling, the second act is about to begin.” He leaned in, allowing his lips to brush Albus’s ear. “If you wait, you will be handsomely rewarded.”
He thought that relieving himself should be its own reward. He was beginning to bend at the waist with the sensation. “Gellert, I couldn’t.” The theatre darkened as the second act opened, an everything was silent. Albus swallowed and sat.
But he was fumbling in his pocket for his wand, casting a silencing spell around them so as not to disturb the Muggles. “If you’d watch me, then come along,” he offered. “Or, if you’d like me to urinate on you later, I will.” Both were things Albus knew some people did, even if they hadn’t, he was not averse to the idea.
“That’s very kind of you, Albus.” Would Gellert ever not tease? It was his only manner. “Come closer and I will tell you what I should like to do to you.”
Albus really did not need his trousers to become any tighter.
Gellert dropped his coat over Albus’s lap before his hand slipped from his wrist, landing on Albus’s thigh. They’d spoken of such things before – they shared an exhibitionist streak, and it would be laughable with magic to protect them. But Albus could not figure out how his need – his desperate need now, as he bit at his inner lip – would factor into the act.
Gellert’s fingers caressed his thigh. “You shall go right here,” he murmured.
Albus would like to assume by go he means come, but they both know he does not. And even as worldly as they both are, Albus hadn’t heard of this paraphilia before. Or is it? Perhaps it was just Gellert’s teasing once more.
But he was not teasing. His breath hot on Albus’s neck, he was now saying, “Just go in your pants, darling. I should like to feel how wet you are for me.” His hand slipped higher, between Albus’s tightening thighs.
Albus could not think. “There are people,” he hissed.
“Muggles.” Gellert sounded distinctly bored. “And quite a lot of charms between us and them. Or shall I remove them?” His fingers ran along Albus’s inseam. “How good it will feel, to let free everything you’ve been holding inside you. Is you belly distended yet?” His hand patted Albus’s lower stomach and he fought back a groan. “It is,” Gellert said with delight. “Really, it was not so much wine. I am fine.” Closer. “But you, you beautiful naughty boy, you are going to have an accident.” He pronounces the word precisely.
Albus was already imagining what it would be like to relieve himself. He was 26, he was brilliant and distinguished, and… he would be reduced to this. There is a bead of sweat rolling down his inner thigh, but it could be more than that.
“If I do this for you – “ he stressed the last two words to make clear is the deviant between them, “I will take you tonight.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
And then somehow he was actually considering it. He could feel his pulse in his belly, heat radiating outwards. He was quite hunched over. He doesn’t know how to urinate on himself, it’s rather ingrained in everyone not to.
Gellert understood the dilemma. “Sit back,” he said, now all sweetness and light. “Keep your hands there, you look like a child when they are pressed into your lap.” His fingers found Albus’s fly, and he popped the buttons to reach inside. When Albus bit back a groan, Gellert shot a wry look. “Do not get any harder, you have not yet earned it,” he warned.
“Then take your hands off my cock,” Albus muttered.
“Mm.” Gellert’s hand was pushing the layers of soft fabric away from him, so he might pretend he was urinating in a typical fashion. He has never sat, however, and he squirmed to adjust his posture further.
“Whenever you are ready, sweetheart,” Gellert murmured.
A drop of urine hit his pants. He gasped.
Gellert’s fingers were exploring. “What, that?” He pressed the bit of damp cloth against Albus. “That is nothing.”
It was more than he’d ever urinated into his clothing before. He took a breath, and another second-long stream wet his pants.
Gellert was coaxing but impatient, making Albus feel strangely like a failure. “I can’t,” he breathed. He could feel the wet spot beneath his arse already. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t – “
But when Gellert was removing his hand, a long spurt burst from Albus. He gasped.
And then he couldn’t stop. It came in painful waves, long streams that quickly soak his pants and the seat of his trousers. His belly was spasming, pushing out the liquid rapidly. Streams fall down his inner thighs, running over his balls and along his arsehole. It is horrifying and exquisite. He’s pissing himself in a room, full of people, but Gellert’s gaze is all he sees.
Gellert’s hand is pressed beneath him, feeling the puddle growing in his seat. Gellert’s Muggle trousers were tight, and there was a clear erection beneath them. It made Albus want to leave the theatre immediately, for a shag in the nearest alley. But he cannot get hard yet, himself. He shivered with every stream of piss that hit his pants.
His clothing was saturated and there were now the streams trickling down his calves. There would be a puddle beneath his seat. He finds this mortifying and amazing all at once. He might have been able to stop by now, after he is no longer desperate, but – in for a penny. He wondered if he could make Gellert come in his pants.
A long stream, then a short one, then a deep shiver of arousal. “Are you finished?” Gellert asked, and Albus finds it such a deliciously humiliating question.
“Good.” And he takes back his coat.
Albus throws his hands over his lap. The theatre was dark but the stains his lap were darker. He feels hideously exposed, his stomach curling on itself as he flails for his own coat to cover himself.
“Please don’t.” Gellert’s voice was even. “It is quite beautiful. How much you would trust me.”
His stomach curled harder at that. “It is only piss.”
“Nevertheless.” And Gellert was ignoring his own erection, graciously reaching into Albus’s pants once more. “Oh dear, you’re quite wet.” He wrung out a handful of fabric so more warm urine ran down Albus’s hole. “That must have been quite a relief, was it not?”
“Yes.” He was still seized by shivers, his skin goosebumped. It already felt like an orgasm. All of his pain now is satisfying.
And then Gellert was working his member properly, rubbing his warm wet pants against his erection. It was disgusting. He loves it. “What a very good boy,” Gellert was murmuring. “Your wet clothing looks quite sweet. Innocent. Or perhaps it was on purpose, and you shall have to be spanked?”
Albus flushed. “Perhaps I shall.”
Gellert’s laughter at his impertinence made his cock twitch. “Apologize, then.”
“I – ahh – apologize.”
Oh, sweet Merlin. This was new. “Daddy,” Albus repeated, letting his tongue hit the roof of his mouth hard. “I am sorry for the mess, for – ahh – “ Gellert’s grip had gotten tighter on his shaft. “You need to come as well,” Albus said to him, even as his voice shook with lust.
Gellert shrugged, reaching into his trousers as though he were entitled to wank in public. Both of his hands work in time, and Albus’s spine is arching, pressing his hips upward. The extended desperation was a sort of arousal into itself, and the remaining pain and relief are piquant. His lower half was going tight and hot again – he’s choking back a gasp –
He comes inside his soaked pants, over his thighs and Gellert’s working hand. He slithers boneless down into his soaking chair, half-watching as Gellert wanked himself. A gasp of his red mouth, an inhalation of breath – and that’s it. Gellert was always the more composed one. It makes Albus mad to think there’s a sticky mess inside Gellert’s neat trousers as well.
And then Gellert is withdrawing his wand, swirling it above his own lap first because he can be such an arsehole. When he looks over at Albus: “Leave it,” he instructs.
He felt like a wet, sticky disaster. “I couldn’t.”
“For me?” He dropped his hand on Albus’s thigh once more. “I am so very proud of you. We will clean you up before intermission,” he promised. And he’s casting more privacy charms, though nobody had noticed them anyway. He pressed the sodden fabric into Albus’s groin, smiling a bit at his shudder. “Good boy,” he cooed. “Now, we must watch the show. Look, he’s already fallen in love with her.”
Chapter 3: During a Punishment - Tom/Albus
(I love this tense and manipulative and fucked-up pairing. Tom's 18 but still a student here. Albus is playing his typical mind games.)
“Detention, Mr. Riddle.”
There’s a shocked silence that hits the Transfiguration classroom with a thud, and then laughter from the back of the room. Tom’s colleagues assume it is a joke – as though he and Dumbledore have anything like a joking relationship – because Tom is head boy, an exceptional student, above reproach. But recently he hadn’t been practicing Occlumency before Dumbledore as he wonders quite loudly about which of them bottomed, him or Gellert Grindelwald. So the detention is not a surprise.
He looks up through dark lashes. “Yes, sir,” he says, perfectly indifferent. Dumbledore gives a short nod and moves away.
Beside him Avery prods an elbow into his ribs. “What the hell,” he says under his breath. “You’ve got to complain, even Dipshit would see how unfair he is.”
“Avery, be quiet,” Tom says, and he shuts up.
His detention would be served that very same evening. After dinner he and Dumbledore fall in step wordlessly from the Great Hall, trekking up the flights of stairs to his office attached to the classroom. Dumbledore lets Tom in and closes the door rather decisively behind them.
“I didn’t think we would find ourselves in this position again,” Dumbledore says congenially. “Which is not to say you’ve become any better-behaved.”
Tom has only ever gotten detention from Dumbledore. It ended in the middle of fourth year, when Dippet interceded to suggest perhaps Dumbledore did bear Tom some ill will? After all, he was a model student. “No, sir,” is all Tom cares to say.
“You’ve been rather preoccupied lately, with matters of quite a delicate nature.” Dumbledore is crossing the office and pulling open a swinging cross-section of his bookshelves. “Wine?”
“I did not believe this was a social occasion.”
“It is not, but I believe in taking some liberties. The house elves’ beef bourguignon always puts me in the mood for a pinot noir.” He hands Tom a glass of wine, sips his own, and looks over the rim. “Perhaps you would like to talk about your sexuality?”
Ugh. Tom does not entirely suppress the full body shudder that runs through him. His thoughts on the nature of Dumbledore and Grindelwald’s relationship had only ever been a rebuke – if he were prying into his students’ heads anyway, he should suffer whatever he found there. Tom wonders if the rest of the faculty knows the extent to which Dumbledore relies on Legilimency. “No, sir, I would not.”
Dumbledore sinks into the chair behind his desk and motions Tom into the one before it. “It’s really quite natural. Perhaps you wouldn’t know this,” (Tom would like to stab Dumbledore at this remark) “but homosexuality is not so reviled among wizards as it is among Muggles. Which is not to say that quite horrific prejudices do not exist among our kind,” he adds with surprising levity, “only that homophobia is not among them. So if that has been the nature of your preoccupation….”
“No, sir,” Tom says again.
Dumbledore clicks his tongue. “You would prefer the indifference of detention to a true conversation, man to man?”
“You’re mistaken. I have nothing to address.”
Tom is so surprised by this redirection, that he can only do so. The wine is warm and bright on his palate. It would have complimented the bourguignon.
“How was your birthday?” Dumbledore asks. “You spent it with Mr. Malfoy, Professor Slughorn informed me.”
“Yes, sir. His family is well. They send their regards.” Abraxas had graduated school the previous year, but he and Tom still kept in touch. Abraxas was his first follower, his first patron. He was valuable.
“That is kind of them.” Dumbledore is leaning back in his seat, pushing his loose hair over his shoulders. “You must be quite anxious about leaving Hogwarts in a few months.”
“No, but everyone else seems anxious on my behalf.”
Dumbledore laughs quietly. “You must forgive them. Your prodigious talent – “
“Dumbledore,” Tom interrupts. “Please. I could not bear this conversation again.” That he would not enter any of the correct professions. He would sooner hang himself than work for the Ministry. He does not want to be a healer, curse breaker, or Unspeakable, even though he certainly has the grades for them. He did want the DADA position, truly, but it had been taken from him. There’s no need to remind Dumbledore of that now.
“I have my concerns – warranted, you must agree – about the company you shall keep in Knockturn Alley.”
“I can fend for myself, thank you.”
“Of course, dear boy, of course.” (He pretends not to see how Tom bristles.) “But I meant rather the ill effects of the dark magic you may seek out there.” When Tom says nothing, Dumbledore continues, “Do you know why I never sought to expel you?”
“… No, sir.”
“For fear of where you would have retreated if we had. It was Durmstrang’s mistake, releasing Grindelwald into the world bitter and half-formed. A mistake that cost hundreds of lives. How we fuck should be of the least interest to you.”
The staccato does something peculiar to his stomach. “This is slander,” he says.
“We both know you killed Ms. Warren. Why not speak candidly now? We are quite alone.”
“Slander,” Tom repeats. “If you believe the Aurors made a mistake, you should speak to them, not me.”
“Tom,” Dumbledore says, and his tone is so soft and somehow indulgent.
“If that is all, sir?”
“No. Let’s have a proper detention.” With a flick of his fingers (how jealous Tom is of this wandless magic. It looks effortless), Dumbledore is holding a paddle.
“No,” he says flatly.
“Please don’t prolong this.” Dumbledore is standing, looking over his glasses at Tom. “As you say, it is an effective deterrent.”
As Head Boy he could assign corporal punishment, but not administer it himself. That task was typically left to the heads of house. And it was an old punishment, one only given to the children of purebloods who believed in such things. This was an outrage.
“Up, up,” Dumbledore says cheerily, and Tom is obligated to stand just as he vanishes the chair beneath him. “This shouldn’t take long. But we both know that you only respond to violence. So let’s do it your way.”
Tom hates this man. He is not free to argue, not now. Dumbledore has never spoken so candidly of Myrtle’s death before and Tom doesn’t know what it means that he would bring her up now. Did he know of the Horcruxes? He’d left the ring in his room tonight, though his hand itches with its absence, and of course the diary is locked away.
He can’t know. Who would ever even suspect such obscure and brutal magic?
“If you could remove your robe and trousers,” Dumbledore says behind him.
“This is wrong,” is Tom’s last objection as he unbuttons the top of his robes.
“And then if you’d put your hands here and here.” Albus casts two cheery pink circles on the desk. “And keep a bend in your knees. It’s Madam Galen’s night off, I shouldn’t like to summon her back for a fainted student.”
Tom understands the mechanics of it, blood trapped in the lower legs, but he still resents the implication that he’s so fragile he would faint. “Yes, sir.”
And then his robe is off, and he’s standing in his neatly pressed button down and slacks. He squares his shoulders before reaching for his belt.
And when his trousers slip down his hips, piling at his knees and revealing his dark pants, he hears Dumbledore cluck behind him. “Dear boy, you are so thin. Perhaps a nutritional potion…. Ask Horace how he brews them, they are nearly not terrible.”
“Get on with this,” Tom says through gritted teeth. His hands are positioned perfectly on the circles, forcing him to bend so his arse is out. Bent like this he can feel the weight in his stomach that indicates he should have urinated before coming. He always managed to conceal a teapot in library as he studied, and he begins to regret that now.
“Ten?” Dumbledore offers.
“As you wish.” They both know it’s not a negotiation.
“Have you been paddled before?” Dumbledore asks, measuring out his stance. He waits for an answer.
“In childhood.” He will not give him more detail than that. He would not speak of the orphanage ever again, if he could help it.
Tom would like to snarl that it is not fitting but perverse, abusive, insulting. He says none of it. His gaze is firmly on the desk before him when he hears Dumbledore step back.
“Would you be so good as to count for me?”
“No,” Tom says, which is a moment of childishness, but Albus always brings out the worst in him.
“Pity,” is all Albus says. He raises the paddle.
Swish-crack. The paddle, a thin mahogany with holes bore into it, lands sharply on the thickest part of his arse. He does not give Dumbledore the satisfaction of making a sound.
“Really, I think it is monstrous to hit children,” Albus says conversationally. Swish-crack, another blow lands perfectly. Already Tom can feel his pulse in his lower half. “Before they fully grasp the notion of cause and effect, before they recognize that actions have consequences,” and then swish-crack, hitting the soft underside of his arse so he jolts, “it is cruel. To say nothing of the implications of teaching them that violence is the equivalent of justice.”
Standing like this, Tom’s gently swollen belly pressed to the edge of the desk, he is quickly becoming desperate. His arse is inflamed, tendrils of pain running down the backs of his thighs. Swish-crack, and this time he is so unprepared for it that he jerks forward, driving his bladder hard into the desk. It is panic-inducing.
“But an adult,” Albus continues, “quite understands consequences. I prefer softer deterrents on the whole….” Swish-crack! Tom hisses through his teeth as his entire lower half spasms, and he is forced to throw his legs together. “I’m sorry, did that hurt?” Dumbledore asks solicitously, lowering the paddle.
“Get on with it,” Tom grinds out.
“Here, you seem to have lost your place.” Dumbledore is moving in, grabbing Tom suddenly at the hips to pull him forward, spreading his legs. “A bit of a sticking charm, to hold your position,” he says cheerily, and then there are matching pink circles beneath his shoes and all of them have got sticking charms holding him down. He ties to pull his hand off the desk and cannot. “There you are,” and Dumbledore pats his shoulder as though encouragingly.
When he takes up the paddle again, he continues – “I prefer softer deterrents on the whole, but given your resistance to them, it is a pedagogical necessity to take up the older ways.” Swish-crack, and this blow lands diagonal across his arse.
“I have done nothing,” he says through gritted teeth. It infuriates him when Dumbledore so easily implies that he is an unruly child and not a poised, brilliant adult. Everyone else sees him as he is, why not Albus?
“Tom. As I said, we are alone. Why not speak candidly?” Whoosh-crack, and Tom’s hips are again driven forward into the desk. There’s a jolt in his lower stomach, and he feels dangerously close to –
He can’t think of it. He keeps his head down.
“For example, I feel quite at ease with divulging that I advocated for you to stay on in the Defense position.”
He looks up sharply. “You did not.”
“I did. As I said, I am more concerned about the evils you will find beyond the castle.” Whoosh-crack, and an upward strike hits his arse in the exact same place. He will be bruised tomorrow. “Armando was quite sincere in only hesitating at your youth.”
He will not beg. He will not say a damn thing, because there is nothing to say and it’s probably a gambit anyway.
“But then, you have never wanted an advocate, have you?” Whoosh-crack. Tom is driven against the desk, and he’s about to lose control, he can’t, he can’t –
“You never wanted help, not from the very first. But vulnerability is hardly weakness. In fact, it is its own sort of strength.” Swish-crack, and the pulse of pain makes him slip for just a moment, dear Merlin don’t let him humiliate himself here.
“That was ten, sir,” Tom says, attempting to pull himself up with his limbs still pinned.
“Oh, who’s to say?”
He feels the sweat beading at the back of his neck. His entire lower half is pain, and it is making him panic. “I apologize,” he says, though he can’t find the tone sincere enough for it, “but it was ten.”
“Down, Mr. Riddle.”
“No – I need to – use the lavatory. Sir.” He chokes on his words, and he hates them both, and now his face is as flushed as his arse. Fuck.
“Oh, is that all? With your dis-ease, I assumed it was something significant.”
It is significant. He is 18 and he is about to disgrace himself like a child, in front of the only person who still treated him as such. “Please let me up.”
“Let’s finish up quickly, then.” He raises the paddle and brings it down sharply on Tom’s arse.
Dumbledore tsks. “It hardly matters now.” Swish-crack, low across the thick part of his arse. And Tom’s bladder spasms and – no no no -- a drop of urine wets the front of his pants.
He is wrenching at the sticking spell. “Let – me – up,” he says, furious and humiliated.
Smack. A sharp blow by the paddle, a rebuke. “Control yourself,” Albus says. “You are so good at it, are you not?”
“Dumbledore – “
Smack, another heavy blow, another spasm. Tom chokes as a drop wets his inner thigh. Dumbledore is in the wrong place to see it, but. Tom knows he will not leave this office with any dignity.
“Perhaps this can be an object lesson,” Dumbledore says. Whoosh-crack, crack, two at once. “In the value of asking for help.”
His lower half is spasming now. His inner thighs are wet. And with the next blow – swish-crack, hot and stinging – he is pissing a thin stream down one leg, wetting his trousers and his sock. He stops breathing.
“Oh, Tom.” Dumbledore’s pity is sickening. And then, because he’s a monster, he swings the paddle into his throbbing arse once more.
“Stop it,” Tom hisses, as he’s trying to contain himself, he’s trying but his lower half is so numb with pain that his control has been shattered. Branching streams wet his legs now, and his soaked pants are clinging to him, the moisture creeping behind his balls and up his arse. “Stop, you – got what you wanted.” He is twisting to bring his thighs together, but of course he can’t, legs still spread. He has never before felt so helpless. As his body gives out, the streams break through his saturated pants, drops falling loudly into his open trousers.
Dumbledore has stepped in, setting the paddle on the desk beside him. “It’s alright,” he says softly.
Obviously it’s not. “I can’t….”
“Just finish,” Dumbledore says. “It is trivial to clean up.”
Cleaning up is hardly his concern. He wants Dumbledore to leave, to turn away, and of course the man wouldn’t. He still hovers at Tom’s side, a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Tom cannot even shake him off.
He’s never able to stop, not even as the stream weakens to a few last long droplets that pool in the crotch of his pants. The warm fabric clings, heavy as it rubs against him.
“It’s quite natural,” Dumbledore says at his growing erection. “Tom, here. You have been so good.”
His touch is light if not innocent, rubbing over his pants. And Tom – he hates it but he is enthralled. He’s never let anyone touch him like this before, and he would rather sodomize Albus’s stupid bloody mouth but this – it’s alright. He is so entirely wound up in the panic and humiliation of wetting himself and the further humiliation of liking it – he is pressing into Dumbledore’s touch before he’s consciously considered it.
“There you go.” Dumbledore has put his hand down the waistband by now, rubbing him off in a practiced way, and while Tom had considered sexual release an irritating necessity on his own, being touched by another person like this is –
His full body flush is rising, tightening, after he’d been tight for so long. He does not warn Dumbledore, but arches, and gasps, and then he is coming hard, spilling semen into his wet pants and over Dumbledore’s stroking hand. “Ahh – “ And then he cuts off the vocalization. Control.
A chuckle, and Dumbledore is stroking him through a last deep shiver. He removes his hands – his other had been holding Tom up by the torso – to allow him to slump onto the desk. He can only hear blood rushing in his ears.
Dumbledore is extracting his wand, casting finite on the sticking spells. Tom is reaching for his robe, for his own wand tucked inside, until Dumbledore waves him off. “Please. Of course this was my fault.”
Tom looks down at himself. His pants cling perfectly to his softening cock. His trousers, bunched at his ankles, have irregular patches of wetness all along them. There are even small puddles along the stone floor. It is humiliating.
Dumbledore casts non-verbally, what Tom believes to be Tergeo. It stings when it comes in contact with his arse, and he hisses. “Oh yes,” Dumbledore says. “Ice will bring down the swelling, of course, but if there is any bruising, braided blueweed may be applied topically. Episkey is strangely ineffective on a paddling.”
Tom is pulling up his trousers nearly before they’re dry. He has nothing to say to Dumbledore, to this cheerful humiliation.
“Perhaps I shall ask Armando to reconsider the Defense appointment?” Dumbledore offers as Tom is slipping his belt into its loops.
He cannot find it in himself to be grateful or charmed or anything else. “I will not be indebted to you.”
“I could not force any sentiment from you, least of all gratitude. It is for everyone else’s sake before it is for yours.”
“… Yes, sir. Thank you.” He pulls on his robe, buttoning it hastily.
“I do still have quite a lot of hope for you.”
You shouldn’t, is the response Tom doesn’t offer. In fact, he doesn’t know what to say to this, before Dumbledore reaches up to button the last button that Tom’s quivering fingers couldn’t. “A bit of vulnerability,” he says. “You might find you even come to like it.”
He is finished. Physically and emotionally, he’s been through entirely too much tonight. “Am I free to go?” he asks, picking up his bookbag.
“Of course, dear boy.”
Someday he and Albus will kill each other. But perhaps they… nevermind. “Goodnight, sir.” He wonders if the flush is still visible on his face as he goes.
Chapter 4: Unable to Get Pants Off - Sirius/Moody
(I love Order pairings; I like to think they were living together at least sometimes, and it's just a queer intimacy that we didn't see enough of in canon. I want to come back to this pairing someday. This takes place during the first war, around 1980 or so, so they didn't have 12 Grimmauld Place yet, but another safehouse.)
“Ugh – fuck – why are you still up?”
Sirius has just stumbled into the Order’s safehouse in the meager morning hours. He’d been out on an assignment, but the assignment had been intelligence-gathering among the young mixed London crowd to see if Voldemort was recruiting out of that pool of misfits as well.
Moody looks at him sharply. “Why are you alone?”
Sirius waves a hand toward the door. “Ed just dropped me off, he said he hadn’t seen his family in days. Also, we thought everyone would be asleep, y’know, at bloody 4 in the morning. Are you keeping watch?”
“Yes,” Moody mutters.
Sirius runs a hand down his face. “Right. I’ll put on coffee.”
“Sirius – “
“It’s fine, I never sleep these mornings after anyway.”
Sirius enters the kitchen and Moody follows, arching his brows when Sirius trips over the leg of a chair. “You’re drunk.”
Sirius holds his liquor well – better than James, at least, which is what really matters – but it was a long night. “Uh-huh.” He’s pulling out his favorite light roast, opening the icebox for drunchies while it brews. “I know, I know I’ll get kidnapped someday when they spike my drink, it’s fine….” Cheese. Maybe a sandwich. Maybe just cheese dipped in the jar of mayonnaise directly. He is smashed.
It makes him chatty, too, and Mad Eye knows that, that Sirius can’t hold a silence to save his life when he’s drunk. “There was this boy, he told me I look like Bowie and I told him he was full of shit. D'you want a sandwich?”
“You look nothing like Bowie.”
“Thank you. I mean, it’s quite a nice thing to say, but daft.” He’s making two sandwiches anyway; he’ll eat the other if Moody won’t. “He was magic, but he didn’t act it. I never can tell in that neighborhood. He didn’t know anything, but there was another bloke….” He catches Mad Eye’s look. “I didn’t shag him. I didn’t shag anyone.”
“I’d be surprised if you could get those jeans off enough to do so.”
Sirius grins. Skinny jeans fitted tighter with a shrinking spell. It was his first bet for telling wizard punks from Muggle. “Yeah. Here.” He hands Moody his sandwich, and pours a mug of coffee.
As they eat, Sirius has real things to tell Mad Eye – that there are rumors about the giants, and more credible ones about the vampires. Sirius heard of how more pureblood families were funding Voldemort. “And Mum’s the worst of it, but she’s always been.”
Mad Eye never called him Black. He was on surname basis with everyone else, ingrained from his decades as an Auror, but Sirius was always Sirius. He appreciated the gesture.
“It’s fine,” he sighs, getting up to pour more coffee. “I mean, it’s not obviously, but she’ll be dead soon, right?”
It would probably surprise people how much Sirius had confided in Moody. They both came from distinguished pureblood backgrounds, but the Black family was purists (“cousin fuckers,” Sirius had said, more than once) while Moody’s had been getting called mudblood lovers for generations. But they were both sort of reckless strategists. They were both queer. They both couldn’t stand their parents. (“Brilliant Auror, my da,” Moody had once said darkly. “Shit father, shit husband, but at least he beat the baddies as hard as he beat her.”) Moody had been the first adult – what he thought of as a real adult, even after he himself had reached the age of majority – to whom Sirius had come out. Mad Eye had poured Sirius firewhiskey and told him to never fall in love with a straight bloke. So. They were closer than anyone would expect.
Sirius feels the fog in his head lifting incrementally. He’ll have to give a proper report tomorrow, when everyone’s arrived, but it helps to tell it all to Moody now. “I need to go to Glasgow,” he mutters, pushing his hair off his face. “There was a murder of a local musician there recently, he said it could’ve been a squib. She always had a different story about her background, so.” Coffee drained. Sandwich finished. Moody’s objected before to relying so heavily on 19 year olds in a war that isn’t their own, but Sirius has access to crowds that Moody doesn’t. “I’ll take James,” he offers.
Sirius is up quickly, levitating his dishes into the sink. With the drink wearing off, he’s aware of his bodily needs again, and how very badly he needs to piss. His skinny jeans, pressing into his taut lower belly, are the current bane of his existence. It probably looked funny how quickly he’d strode out of the kitchen, but Moody could make fun of him later. He throws open the loo.
His zipper is stuck.
Well. Shit. He’s fishing his wand out of his sleeve to cast Reverso, so the shrinking spell might relax. But it works rather imperfectly, enlarging one part near the zipper but not another, and then it is extremely jammed. Sirius sets down his wand on the sink to use both hands, tugging at the metal.
He needs to piss.
He is laughing to himself as he does this. The bloody messes he gets into for fashion. The suffering. He’d worn heeled boots for the first time last week and Circe his calves still ached. Anyway.
He is casting any spell that could help him, reverso and finite and engorgio. They each progressively get the zipper more stuck. Looking down at it, he can see that his belly is distended with need. It is funny. It’s really, really funny.
He thinks that he will need to be cut out of his clothes.
Sirius is a brave man, but he’s not so brave as to drunkenly cast Diffindo in the vicinity of his bits. Knowing he’ll never hear the end of this, he opens the loo door. “Mad Eye?”
Moody, who always assumes something is wrong, is up immediately. “What?” His wooden leg hits the kitchen tiles hard.
“It’s not – you can’t laugh.”
“I’ll laugh if it’s funny.”
“Oh, it definitely is.” He’s bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet. “My fly is stuck.”
Moody does smile, but he presses a fist to his mouth as though to spare Sirius. “I see.”
“Could you cast Diffindo? Really carefully?” There are loads of other cutting spells, and really Diffindo isn’t safe for use on flesh, but none of the gentler ones would be able to cut through stiff denim.
Mad Eye studies the crotch of his jeans intently. “What hell did you do,” he mutters. “I’m getting the kitchen shears.”
“No,” Sirius moans. “Don’t destroy these jeans, I love them.”
“You look like a child,” Moody says, and he is right, Sirius has his legs tightly crossed even though it does fuck all to help. But he relents, stepping in. “Move your hands.”
He does, reluctantly. And then Moody is casting Oleum, a spell for oiling metal, and then he’s using both hands to tug at the lubricated zipper. When his knuckles press into Sirius’s lower belly, he whines and pulls away when a jolt of desperation surges through him.
“Stand still.” Mad Eye tugs him closer by a belt loop. He slides the zipper an infinitesimal amount, then it sticks again.
“I’m going to piss myself,” Sirius groans. “And then you’ll never believe I’m not that drunk.”
“No, you just made terrible choices.”
“Just the one, really – ahh.” Sirius jerks back again. His entire midsection hurts with the effort of holding on.
Moody runs a finger along the waistband, finding absolutely no give. “Dunno that I could fit scissors down the front. Should we cut out your pockets?”
“I already did.” Moody’s arched brows are glorious. “Not like that.” He presses a finger to the sewn-up pockets. “They were ruining the silhouette.”
“Your vanity will ruin you.”
“I bloody know, I – “ Another sharp intake of breath as Moody presses the zipper in. He is really beginning to think he won’t make it. “I’m getting the scissors,” he says through gritted teeth.
Mad Eye follows him out, and there’s a frantic rifling through the kitchen drawers. Sirius is openly holding himself now, his legs crossed, because fuck it, Mad Eye already knows, right? He knows Sirius is about to have an accident like a kid, for the sacrifice of fashion.
The scissors are missing. It’s not as though they need them often. They’re wizards! Sirius eyes the knife block but of course they’re all wrong. He’s bouncing on his toes.
“Sirius. Here.” Moody lifts the pair of scissors from the back of a drawer.
“Merlin’s cock, finally.” He’s reaching for them, but Moody catches his wrist and pulls him close. “Ah – alright. Could you – ?” He’s trying to pull his waistband from his swollen stomach.
Moody slips the blade in sideways, tries to close the scissors. His magic eye is studying him carefully, so as not to catch his skin, but honestly Sirius doesn’t care. The denim barely folds, much less severs.
Sirius’s bladder spasms. It hurts. He’s been laughing at the absurdity of it all before now, but he is beginning to panic sincerely. Another spasm as Moody presses the scissors in. “I can’t – “ And he’s squirming and then Moody is pushing them both backward against the counter, his knee shoved between Sirius’s legs to hold him still. “Oh my god,” Sirius breathes, and he’s sort of laughing and sort of panicking and sort of hard. Well. Bugger.
“Put your hands up.” Mad Eye is yanking at his waistband, trying to pull the jeans to a narrower part of his hips.
“Going to arrest me?” he says, flashing a smile. But he does, and Moody hooks a thumb over each hip and pulls.
There’s a spasm, and a spurt of wetness into his pants, and then Sirius is trying to pull away but there’s nowhere to go. He ends up shoving his crotch into Moody’s thigh wedged between his legs, and then he’s definitely getting hard, and the patch of wetness is pressed hot at the tip of his cock, and –
And Moody either doesn’t recognize or deliberately ignores Sirius’s reaction. “I can’t,” Sirius rasps. “Mad Eye, I – “
And then he gives out, and there’s a flood along the inside of his thighs, and he’s laughing and mortified and trying to shove himself off Moody, who’s still got his hands on Sirius’s hips and a knee wedged between his legs, so Sirius is sort of pissing on him too and –
He can’t stop it. His lower half is numb with desperation, and he can’t stop the long streams that pool inside his pants, beneath his balls, running down his jeans. “Sorry, sorry – “ He’s cupping his hands there as though that will do fuck all. He really can’t stop.
His legs are wet and his stupid bloody jeans are hanging heavily off his thighs, and the sensation is disgusting enough to give him chills. But then Moody is shoving his hands away, pressing harder into him and oh he can’t tell the difference between relief and arousal anymore, but his hips buck of their own accord, and the friction of his wet pants makes him choke. He’d always known about himself that he was into humiliation, and this, this is humiliating.
He half-registers that Moody hasn’t moved away. He also half-registers Moody’s heavy hand between his legs, stroking him. “Ugh – fuck – no, don’t stop, damn you – “ He’s humping Moody’s hand unevenly, piss still spilling from him with each motion. Now he won’t stop, pissing hard and deliberately, his head swimming with the touch of steaming wet fabric on his cock. He’s laughing again, and he’s burying his face in Moody’s shoulder, and then Moody is yanking down his zipper through sheer force of will and Sirius’s now-flatter stomach.
His hand is warm and rough on the front of Sirius’s soaked pants – well, knickers technically because they’re bloody comfortable, so Moody snorts and strokes him through the fabric since there’s no opening. “I want – I want – “ Sirius’s hands are on Mad Eye’s robes, ineffectually trying to return the favor but he is shaking so much, with relief and arousal and the rest of it.
“Sirius, shut up and come.”
Sirius’s hands are still tight in Moody’s robes when the building pulses of warmth are too much, and Moody’s touch and smell and presence is too much, and then Sirius’s hips are bucking hard and he’s spurting hot come into the ruined knickers. His knees buckle and then he’s sliding to the floor, pushing Moody’s robes out of the way as he’s still shivering with his own orgasm. “Fuck – fuck me – are we alone?” he manages to ask.
Sirius is kneeling in his own puddle on the tile, and it’s disgusting and it’s amazing at once. He pulls out Moody’s thick cock, wrapping his mouth around it as though he did so every day. Mad Eye is hard too, and it is profoundly satisfying.
He sucks hard, without finesse, scrubbing the underside with his tongue so Moody’s obligated to clutch at his hair, driving his hips forward so Sirius is choking on him.
Sirius is pinned against the counter, kneeling in his piss, his hair pulled hard, and he loves it. He is gasping and bobbing, swallowing Moody hard to hear him groan. And then there’s the taste of pre-come, and then Moody’s fingers grip him harder, and then Sirius is shoving Moody into the back of his mouth so his ejaculate runs down his throat. “Ugh – “ But Moody quiets himself, pumping into Sirius’s mouth until he’s empty, and then he slumps forward on the counter.
Silence, and then Sirius is laughing. “This is awful,” he says. “No, don’t touch me, I’m disgusting,” he protests when Moody tries to pick him from the floor.
“I had my hand inside a corpse yesterday, you’re fine.” Moody sets him on his feet.
Aurors. “I’m only as disgusting as a corpse, brill – Also, why?” Sirius stands still obediently as Mad Eye casts cleaning charms on them both.
“Some twat smuggling Puffapods up his rectum, until one exploded.” Moody nods at Sirius’s jeans. “Those are ruined. Take them off.”
“Might just shower in them, actually.” But the puddles are gone from the tile and he’s no longer dripping, so he won’t track a mess through the house.
“Sirius. Take them off.”
Moody’s tone sends shivers down Sirius’s spine. This could be good. “Yes, sir.” And he’s peeling them off, kicking off his shoes, running upstairs in the clinging knickers before anyone awakes and finds them like this.
Chapter 5: Bedwetting - Harry/Remus/Severus
(One of my favorite OT3s. In addition to bedwetting, this chapter also has bondage, golden showers, urophagia, praise kink, and a biiiit of werewolf stuff if not full-out a/b/o. Enjoy.)
Harry never slept well after the war. His therapist had given him coping mechanisms for it, chamomile and meditation and deep breathing techniques, but sometimes he begs Severus to make him dreamless sleep when he’s gone too many nights in a row without sleeping. And Severus will shrug and say Harry’s addiction will not be his problem, as long as he buys the ingredients himself.
Nobody would believe Harry and Severus shagged first. Everyone assumed Harry had fallen in love with Remus, who brought him home to Severus, but really it was the other way around. Harry and Severus had both been obligated to attend an embarrassing amount of post-war ceremonies. They both drank the same whiskey, and would end up getting one another drinks at all the interminable receptions. It was inevitable.
Severus and Remus had been together for longer than Harry had realized, since he’d still been in school. And when Severus finally brought Harry home, Remus adored him and fussed over him and fed him. It was nice. He didn’t want to be alone too often these days anyway.
So it’s one of those days where he hasn’t slept all week, and he’s snapping at both of them, and in the middle of an argument that evening with Severus about buying more floo powder (really, it’s always the stupidest things), Severus stops, grabs him by the shoulders, and pulls him toward his lab. “Come here.”
“You can’t drug me into docility, you wanker – “
“If only,” Severus says darkly, and begins to take down the familiar ingredients for dreamless sleep.
And Harry sinks onto a stool despite himself, and by the time Remus gets home (he works swing shift at St. Mungo’s now, he likes the work but it makes it difficult for them all to be together much), Harry has brought tea back into the lab because he’s not allowed to drink on dreamless sleep, not even Severus would let him be that reckless. So Remus slips onto the stool beside him, rubbing the back of his neck. “Long day?”
Harry shrugs. But Remus is the calm to both of their storms, and it’s good to have him around. “Yours?”
“Quite. A woman came in, she hadn’t even known she was pregnant before she was in labor with twins. It was….” He makes a tired gesture. “A lot. It was a lot. We couldn’t release her until she’d gotten the appropriate floo-safe bassinets, to say nothing of the entire nursery she’ll have to furnish now. Severus?”
“I did nothing of value today.”
Remus clicks his tongue but doesn’t press. “I picked up your books from the library.”
“Thank you.” And he’s killing the cauldron’s flame, using a ladle to put a smoking purple potion into small glass jars. “One dose guarantees four hours.”
Harry takes two and resists taking a third. It’s Saturday tomorrow, he’s got nowhere he needs to be. But Remus – well, it’s not that he disapproves. He just worries. “Thanks,” he says, pocketing them because Severus’s sleep potions are the sort only meant to be taken while already lying in bed. “Ah, I’ll pick up floo powder tomorrow?”
“Yes, you will.”
Harry grins at him. “And we made lasagna earlier, d’you want some?” he asks Remus. “With kale this time, it’s not bad….”
They decamp to the kitchen, but it’s not much longer before Harry really truly needs to sleep. Severus and Remus will stay up awhile, so Harry kisses them each goodnight and goes upstairs to their bedroom.
They don’t sleep in any particular way – however they each crawl into bed that night is how they sleep. Severus gets cold and Remus gets hot and Harry will be the big spoon but not the little one. Tonight he flops right into the center of the bed, because it sounds cozy to have them sleeping on each side of him. He uncorks one bottle of dreamless sleep, then the other. Beautiful oblivion rises to meet him.
The next time he wakes, it’s not quite light out, and someone’s hand is on his shoulder to shake him, and he can’t parse any of it. “Harry,” Remus is saying gently into his ear, “may I fuck you?”
Harry mumbles into Remus’s shoulder – he’s spooning Remus, their legs entangled, and it feels off. His pants are clinging to his erection, and he’s really too old for wet dreams but –
He’s pissed in their fucking bed.
“Oh my god,” he says, properly awake at once. The sheets are soaked, spreading to either side, and he can hear by his breathing that Severus is awake too. But it’s mostly Remus who’s wet, all under his arse and the backs of his legs where Harry had been pressed against him. “Oh my god,” he says again. “I’m sorry, I’m so bloody sorry – where’s my wand, I’ll – “
Behind him, Severus snorts. “Remus would like to shag you because you’ve pissed on him, you daft child.”
“… What?” He still isn’t thinking. But his face must be the color of beetroot.
Remus turns over, pushing a knee between Harry’s. He is hard, exceptionally so for a man in his 40s. “It was sweet,” he says, and somehow they’re both holding Harry down, stuck between them in his own wet sheets. It’s still quite warm – he must have just done it, he thinks in shame – and they haven’t yet pulled back the duvet to see the extent of the damage. “You were sweet. Harry, it’s alright,” he says when Harry’s gaze alights on his wand on the bedside table.
“For fuck’s sake,” Severus says. “You’ve marked Remus. To be more specific. Please let him shag you before he falls apart.”
“Well – yes,” Remus says, tentative but his hips are bucking on their own even as he tries to contain himself.
“I marked you.” Harry rubs at his face. “I didn’t mean to.”
“That doesn’t matter to me.”
“Have you two…?”
“Yes. Sometimes. Not since you.” His palm is pressed to the front of Harry’s pants. “Just – hold me down and fuck me in your wet spot. Please.”
When he says it like that – Harry’s cock twitches. “This is weird,” he says as he’s peeling off his wet pants. “Sev, do you want anything?”
“Only to watch?”
So they’re pulling back the blankets and the wet spot is shameful, truly. Harry resists the urge to vanish it when he’s got his wand, but he conjures lube instead, shoving his fingers inside Remus because he’s typically loose already. Remus bottomed exclusively, he was fantastic at it, and Harry’s cock is hard at the sight of his arse splayed open. He wraps his legs around Harry’s hips as Harry pushes forward.
Remus likes it rough, so Harry’s got a hand on his throat as he strokes in and out. “You should’ve told me,” Harry says, using his other hand to push Remus deeper into the wet mattress. “That you want to be pissed on.” He’s vaguely aware of it as a thing people did, not just werewolves. “What, do you need an alpha now?”
“Severus – ahhh,” Remus says, his arse clenching around Harry’s cock so they both shudder. “He indulged it. But you were so good – “
“Shut up,” Harry says, squeezing his throat carefully. “Ask for what you want.”
“I want,” Remus rasps, swallows, tries again. “I want you both to mark me. All the time, not just in bed. Into my clothes. In public.”
“Fuck,” Harry breathes.
Severus has moved in close, putting tiny bite marks along Remus’s shoulder as he reaches low to stroke him off. “We’ll show you one of Remus’s other werewolf tricks later,” he says to Harry.
Remus laughs breathlessly. “Don’t say it like that – ahh,” he groans again, deep in the back of his throat on a hard thrust. “Harry – god – do that again – “ He’s throwing his hips higher so Harry can fully penetrate him, and they arch into each other. Harry is coming hard, filling Remus, pumping through the rush –
“Hold me,” Severus mutters, and he’s grabbing Harry’s hand, putting it around his cock, positioning himself above Remus. And then he’s pissing, his stream falling in an arc onto Remus’s stomach and cock, wetting the thick mat of hair. And Remus is writhing, gasping, breathless. Severus is stroking him off, pumping hard, and then Remus is ejaculating a thick white line up his own stomach. He pants hard, grasping at them both, and then sinks against the wet sheets.
They roll off each other. It always takes a few minutes before they want to touch again. But Remus lies between them, shattered in a way Harry hasn’t seen before. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks quietly, pushing Remus’s greying hair off his face.
“It’s….” His mouth works. “It’s an act of domination.”
What that meant was – well, nothing good. Ritualized sex was common among werewolf hierarchies. Harry wonders how many times Greyback had held Remus down and pissed on him. “Sorry,” he says. “I should’ve known – “
“Harry, don’t.” He ties to sit up on his elbows, fails. “I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t wanted it. Really wanted it, clearly,” he adds with a faint smile. “We are safe.”
They’d say it less often these days. They were safe.
“Tergeo cleans up better than Scourgify,” Remus says, and then he’s rolling to press his face into a pillow and fall back asleep.
But Harry and Severus are both awake for real, and they take up their wands to tergeo the sheets before they begin to itch. “You don’t want to get off?” Harry asks.
“No.” He’s picking up the leftover potions jar, considering it. “Are you sensitive to anodinium? It can be a diuretic.”
Harry really doesn’t want to talk about it. “Maybe. I dunno.”
“Before Remus was crawling into your lap, it did look charmingly innocent.”
“You like… this?”
“Okay. Alright.” Harry scrubs his face. “I haven’t, ah, wet the bed since school. And it was alright at school – well, it wasn’t, but comparatively – but over the summers – they didn’t let me out.” He doesn’t know if any of that was coherent. “And then they’d – he’d – beat me for it.” He swore to himself that he’d never be forced to say Vernon’s name again. He only really spoke of his childhood to just a few people, all of whom already knew. “So it might be – a lot. To begin with.”
Severus’s face gets that look when he speaks of the Dursleys and his shitty childhood. Severus believes they should be brought to some form of justice, but Harry is happier just never seeing them again. “Safeword if you need to,” is all he says. And because Severus is an unexpressive bastard, Harry knows this stands in for a lot of concerns about his well-being. He gives Severus a tentative smile and goes to shower.
Their day unfolds typically. They go out to brunch at one of Harry’s favorite places. It’s gratifying that they can go out, and they’re mostly left alone these days. It had taken awhile for the wizarding world to accept their relationship, that the Boy Who Lived was dating both of these men, the traitor and the werewolf, and actually it wasn’t a response to trauma and actually they were really happy, thanks. Some papers still made crude remarks, but – it was easier now.
Things only become interesting when they arrive home by floo. “Watch,” Severus mutters to Harry. And when Remus steps through, Severus grabs him deftly by the throat, spinning him pressed up against the wall. “Piss yourself,” he growls.
And Remus chokes back a groan as he does, perfectly obedient, wetting the front of his slacks in long streams. “Severus…” he rasps, and then he’s shivering, slumping backward as the stain spreads across his broad thighs, a few stray drops running down his calves. And then Severus’s hand is pressed to the wet spot, glistening as he’s still urinating, and he’s rubbing Remus off through the fabric. Remus is throwing his head back, groaning guturally, and with a few more strokes he shudders hard, coming in his stained trousers.
Severus still pins him to the wall until he can properly stand, but even then Remus moves just enough to drop himself onto a sofa. And Severus is beside him, with proper aftercare, rubbing his back and murmuring what a good boy he is, just close your eyes, I’ve got you.
And Harry of course is still gaping. And… he is enthralled, by whatever that just was. The werewolf trick Severus had alluded to earlier. He curls onto the sofa beside Remus as well, who murmurs and threads his fingers through Harry’s messy hair.
“Submissive urination,” Severus narrates. He’s unzipping Remus’s trousers, peeling them back to properly clean him up. “For wolves to submit to the alpha.”
“It’s a defense mechanism.” Remus’s tone is still a bit floaty, but he is obviously so happy. “To defuse potential threats. He’d use his teeth…. I prefer this,” he reassures them both, at their looks. “It’s quite, ah, forceful? Like Imperio, but better.” He lies back as Severus casts cleaning charms.
“Could I?” Harry asks. He’s choked Remus before, but never like that. But he’s fascinated, the idea of instant and complete submission.
“God, yes.” Remus pulls Harry close, still playing with his hair. “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to leave you out of any of this. I suppose I forgot how much I enjoy it.
“Tonight,” Severus says, rezipping Remus’s fly carefully, “we will tie you up and piss on you. Potter needs to catch up.”
“Yeah,” Harry says. He’s probably blushing, but he also loves this.
That night, Severus brews dandelion tea for them all. It is a diuretic, a strong one. Remus casts protective charms on the bed. Harry is still a bit dizzy with it all. They go to bed desperate, and it’s an illicit feeling in itself, climbing between the sheets with a full bladder and knowing you’re going to let it go there. Harry’s skin has been goosebumped with some triad of humiliation, disgust, and arousal all evening. And while he’s gained weight since getting older, he thinks he can still see how his stomach is rounded with desperation.
Remus is between them. And Severus is conjuring lengths of glowing rope, because he’s better at bondage than Harry is. Remus is still wearing clothes, soft cotton shorts and an old t-shirt because he says it’s better to have the wet fabric on his skin. Severus pulls his arms behind his back, ropes criss-crossing along his torso, a line that runs down his arse and up between his legs. He’s already half-hard.
Harry’s sort of squirming, and they’re both watching him. “I won’t be able to sleep like this,” he mutters. His stomach hurts, tiny tendrils of panic curled inside him.
“Here.” Severus ties off the rope, attaching it to the headboard so Remus is sprawled flat along the bed. “Come sit across Remus’s lap.”
Harry moves to straddle him. Remus winces at the weight on his bladder, and even though Harry is also made desperate by having his legs apart, he still finds this cute. “I didn’t know you were like this,” he says, running a hand beneath Remus’s shirt. His belly is taut and warm. He’s rubbing up against him, where Remus’s erection is pressing into his arse. He’s used to the soft humiliation Remus likes, this he can do. “Open your mouth,” he says, and Remus does. Harry spits in it. “Good boy. What did you want from us tonight?”
“Please piss on me,” Remus rasps.
Severus brings his hand down on Remus’s mouth. “Ask it properly,” he says. “You will not say such vulgar words.” He leaves his hand for a moment too long. Remus swallows.
“Please relieve yourselves on me,” he says this time. His tone is softer, as though he finds this more embarrassing, but his cock twitches. “Urinate on me all night. Go on top of me so I may sleep in your wet spots, and I’ll get up tomorrow smelling like I belong to you.”
“You do,” Harry says. And his control is about to give out anyway, tiny slips of wetness into his pants. He drops his weight onto Remus, grinding into his cock and grabbing his throat. He lets go.
The sensation is immediately overwhelming. Remus bucks when he feels the piss soak into his pants and the bottom of his shirt. But when a drop runs down Harry’s leg and pools below his knee, he freezes.
“For god’s sake, Potter.” Severus is behind him, pulling him up until he falls forward. “If you can’t piss on Remus now, you’ll have to wait until after I’ve sodomized you.”
Oh. Harry sort of flushes at this. “Sorry,” he says. There’s a very small spot on the sheets, and his bladder is aching with the tease of not-quite letting go.
He’s on all fours, with Remus beneath him. So Harry licks his hand and pushes it down the front of Remus’s pants, stroking him off. “Ah, Harry, fuck – “ Remus writhes against the bonds that hold him. He is going flush.
And then Severus is pressing lube inside Harry, moving his fingers to press into his swollen bladder. He knows he’s tight with desperation, and a few times there’s a jolt in which he thinks he’s pissing, but he’s much too hard, really. His erection is the only thing holding back his accident.
Severus swats at his arse until it’s warm and Harry is whimpering. “Will you be good for Remus?” Severus growls in his ear. “He’s going to watch.”
Having Remus tied up beneath them is… inspired. Harry is still touching him, stroking him off. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll try to make it good.”
“It would be very rude if you urinated on him while he was tied beneath you.” His fingers stroke harder where Harry’s bladder is. “So you will be very good and hold it, won’t you?”
“Good.” He withdraws his fingers with a twist, grabs Harry’s hips, and pushes his cock in.
It’s good, it’s really good. Harry shudders. Severus is the thickest of them, and he normally stretches Harry out even when he’s not tight with desperation. “Ahh – “ He’s very aware that Remus is watching his face, the way his body tenses as Severus enters him. He pushes himself backwards, wanting to be filled.
Remus is writhing, his erection pressed against his damp shorts. He always loves struggling in bondage, so Harry lets him, loving the faint sheen of sweat across his brow. He wants to lick it. He does, and then catches Remus’s gaping mouth in a kiss.
Severus has found his pace: deep and deliberate, making Harry feel how full he is with each stroke. Harry’s knees are farther apart than they’d be normally, with Remus between them, and he’d swear it’s letting Severus plunge himself more fully into his arse.
And then Severus’s hand is slipping around Harry’s hip. But he doesn’t hold onto his cock. Instead his hand rests flat on his lower stomach, where Harry’s bladder swells. And he’s massaging, hard, until tiny shocks overtake him. “Oh my god,” Harry groans, squirming at the touch.
He knows as soon as he comes, he won’t be able to hold back this flood. It’s a strange inevitability, and he wants to apologize to Remus, but Remus loves this. “I’m going to come across your belly,” Harry murmurs into Remus’s ear, dipping low to kiss and suck. “And then I’m gonna mark you. You want that?”
“Harry, please – “
He’s playing with Remus’s cock again, palming it through his pants. There’s a newer spot of moisture where his pre-come has leaked through. Harry loves the sight of it, dark and obvious on the light fabric. “Would you wet yourself, too?” He oddly loved seeing Remus’s submissive wetting earlier. It was sweet, and it made him feel powerful. To make Remus wet on himself now, tied up and helpless…
“Yes,” Remus gasps. “After you’ve marked me.”
“’Kay.” He grabs Remus’s hair, yanking his head back to kiss his throat with its angular adam’s apple. Remus groans.
And Severus is close, his strokes becoming less perfect. “You need to come first,” he mutters, moving his hand from Harry’s swollen belly to his erection. “So I can watch you lose control onto Remus.”
“Oh my god,” Harry groans. But he wants it too, he wants this. He arches and shudders as Severus strokes him in time with his thrusts. He is so full. His entire body is pulsating with those tiny surges of panic, and Severus’s cock inside him is the good sort of pain, and he can’t stop thinking what it will look like for his urine to pour over Remus’s belly while neither of them can help it. He arches – “Oh – fuck – “ And he’s coming hard, shooting a thick line of semen up Remus’s bound chest. Severus is pulling him close, driving his cock in as Harry’s body spasms –
And then Harry is pissing, a hard stream that he can’t remotely stop. He’s pushing a hand between his legs, cupping himself, but the urine is running between his fingers and spattering the front of Remus’s pants. He arches, his hips pounding upwards, and Harry is messily tugging Remus’s pants off so his erection springs free.
And then Severus’s fingers curl into Harry’s hips, overcome by his jolts and shudders. He makes the sound he always makes before he comes, and he’s pulling Harry’s hips into his own, and he’s shooting come deep inside him, making him slick. And Harry can only hang between them, still urinating in long spurts, so it falls into Remus’s lap and onto his twitching cock. Remus’s pupils are dilated, he looks wild and desperate and hot. His cock jumps in Harry’s hand as he’s stroking him off. They’re both soaked. Harry’s wetting never becomes a flood, but long droplets run off Remus’s stomach and hips.
“Choke him,” Severus mutters against the back of Harry’s neck.
He does, pressing his other hand into Remus’s neck. “God – Harry – yes – “ And then his voice gives out and his eyes flutter closed, and Severus is reaching to direct Harry’s pissing cock up Remus’s chest, and Harry is stroking Remus off hard like he likes it, and he’s squeezing his muscular neck methodically so Remus’s breath is uneven.
He arches, comes over himself, his ruined clothes and the glowing bonds. But just as soon as he does, the streak of white is washed away as he’s pissing up his own stomach, going slack with submission and relief beneath Harry. And Severus is pulling out, falling to the bed beside Remus, murmuring soft things as he shudders and pisses. Harry’s finished by now, though his belly aches with how long he’d held it, and he lowers himself gingerly to the wet sheets. They are a disaster. He watches in fascination and trails of urine run over Remus’s sides, absorbed into the sheets. He looks so happy.
And with a sigh he finishes, letting out the last of it onto his ruined pants, which Severus had pulled back up to cling to his cock. “That….” He is laughing, high on adrenaline and not thinking yet. “I’ve missed this. Don’t clean up,” he begs when Severus is reaching for his wand.
“I was merely going to free you.”
“Oh yeah. You could.” He stretches out his shoulders, rubbing circulation back into his fingers. “Harry, come here, sweetheart. Was that good?” He’s pushing Harry’s hair off his face, gentle and sweet.
“I loved it.” The tension and ache in his belly, the little surges of panic that also felt like arousal, Severus’s hand on his stomach and Remus watching with marked lust beneath him. Remus sinking deep into soft submission, which always looked so good on him. Even this, sitting on sopping warm sheets, was naughty and new to him.
Severus cleans up some of the sheets – he’ll leave Remus to the wet spot but either side of him are dried again. “I will mark you during the night,” he says to Remus, pulling the covers up. “I will roll over and put my cock on your stomach and relieve myself on you, so you may sleep in warm sheets again. Would you like that?”
“God, Sev, yes.”
“Good.” He douses the lights. Harry is still rather euphoric in his post-orgasmic haze as he slips into sleep.
It’s a few hours later when he wakes again. Remus is dead asleep but Severus is awake, squirming in a very undignified way. If Harry was bursting at bedtime he can’t imagine how Severus feels now. “Are you okay?”
“Harry,” Severus sighs. He is always softer in the dark. And Harry quite likes being called Potter by him as though he’s still an unruly child, but he also likes hearing Harry in Severus’s mouth too. “I cannot wait any longer. Light a candle if you’d like to watch.”
“Why did you wait?”
“You didn’t find it an enjoyable sensation?”
“Ah. Sort of, yeah.” Though it feels weird to say. He lights Lumos instead, in a soft glow that barely illuminates their faces. “I hope you didn’t stop because of me,” he says lowly.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know he goes through phases.”
We go through phases, but Severus will never advocate for his own desires. It is a conversation for another time. “Okay,” Harry says lightly. “Can I wake him up?”
“Remus.” He’s kissing a line up Remus’s neck, nibbling at his earlobe. “Babe, wake up for just a minute….”
“Mm.” He rolls onto his back, and he seems to understand, because he’s pulling Severus close. “You must be quite desperate.”
“Yes,” Severus says. “Pretend you don’t want this.”
“But I do.”
“That does capture the concept of pretending, yes.” They’re both horizontal. The blankets mostly cover them, as though this wetting will be a secret. Remus cradles Severus’s head on his bicep, and Severus is reaching for his cock.
“Do it without holding yourself,” Remus says. At Severus’s look he adds, “Please.”
“Like this.” He’s reaching, pulling Severus’s upper leg up to spoon his side. “Just let go.”
“This is the least dominant position you could have suggested. I’m holding onto you like a koala bear.”
Remus laughs at this, and Harry grins. “You are less imposing than you think you are,” Remus says. “But I should very much like you to mark me anyway.”
“As you wish.”
Harry ends up pressed against Remus on his other side. They drop the blanket over them, just to feel it. “Is this what you want from now on?” Severus says lowly, and he’s kicking his leg farther over Remus. “That you should just sleep between us, and in the middle of the night, instead of getting up, we should just roll over to relieve ourselves on you?”
“Yes,” Remus whimpers. And there’s a hiss of liquid hitting skin, a decisive sound compared to Harry’s halting accident earlier, and Remus is sighing in happiness. Harry watches Severus’s face, the way relief rolls over his features as well.
The moisture runs over Remus’s hips, and warms Harry on his other side. It’s… not bad. It’s intimate, moreso than being in the toilet at the same time. He thinks he’ll ask them to properly piss on him sometime too. For now he leans in, letting the warm trickles spill over his hip and leg.
“Say you belong to me,” Severus murmurs into Remus’s throat.
“I belong to you.” Remus is quivering between them. “I belong to you, I love you.” He’s shifting so Severus will wet up his stomach, so his dark body hair clings to him. “I want to go out with both of your scents on me. Nobody else would know, but I would. And it would drive me mad.”
It’s sweet. Perverse, but sweet. They’ve talked about collaring before but never committed to it. This seems more appropriate. “Here, babe,” Harry says, and he’s adjusting his cock, placing it right above the wet streak of Severus’s urine across his hips. Harry lets go too.
“Ahh….” Remus shudders hard, arousal overtaking him. And Severus makes eye contact and he’s just deeply amused. Harry grins and throws back the covers, so they can watch the urine run over Remus’s beautiful body.
And when Severus is finishing, he stops himself and shifts up the bed. “Open your mouth,” he says, grabbing Remus’s jaw. Harry’s cock twitches in his grip.
“Oh – “ And Remus is pulling himself closer. “Tell me how good I am,” he requests.
“You are very, very good.” Severus puts his cock at Remus’s lips, and he doesn’t close his mouth around it but looks up at Severus with bright eyes. “Could you swallow for me?”
“Yes.” His voice is slightly muffled by Severus’s cock.
“Good boy.” And then he lets go, using Remus’s mouth, and Remus is swallowing again and again. It is… intoxicating, watching how good he is being. “There you go,” Severus murmurs, running his long fingers through Remus’s hair. “And you will always, always belong to us.”
Harry had finished urinating a bit ago – he wasn’t nearly as full as Severus – and now he is lying quietly in the wet sheets. It makes his skin goosebump, being so wet. From wetting the bed on purpose. But there’s an intimacy in this sort of disgust.
Severus only spills a few short streams into Remus’s mouth, so as not to overwhelm him. But Remus grips the backs of Severus’s thighs, holding him close as though it’s intoxicating. And when Severus pulls away, shaking off, Harry takes Remus’s jaw. “You’ve been so good,” he says with their lips crushed together. And when he pushes his tongue into Remus’s mouth, it’s alright. A little salty and… deep? Not bad. He sucks on Remus’s tongue, rough and teasing, until Remus is laughing against his mouth.
“You are amazing,” Remus says when they pull apart. “And so,” he says, running an affectionate hand up Severus’s stomach, “are you.”
“You are easily won over,” Severus says, but he accepts the kiss when Remus leans in to give him one. And again he is half-charming the bed clean.
“Please leave a bit of it,” Remus says. “I want to sleep in sheets that smell of you both.”
“For god’s sake, we aren’t hoarding our piss,” Severus says, but he is amused. “Every morning, if you’d like.”
“Yeah.” Remus honestly sounds a bit breathless. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Chapter 6: Between Enemies - Narcissa/Luna
This isn't a very happy chapter. Narcissa is clearly Going Through Some Shit. Sorry.
When Luna was arrested by the Snatchers, they blindfolded her before apparating. Well, first they cast a hex of subduing, one that made her limbs feel heavy so she was less able to kick and hit them. But after they’d taken her father and gotten the blindfold on, she realized she had to fight smarter. And sometimes fighting looked deceptively like cooperation, like lying low. She had learned that with Harry, who had taught her everything she’d known about warfare.
Harry was still alive so a shard of hope, like a bit of broken glass, was still caught in her heart. She felt the snatchers apparate with her.
She ended up somewhere cold and damp. Archetypal, she thought. The prisoners must go in the cellars. “Walk,” the younger snatcher snarled in her ear, still pinning her hands behind her back. She toed the ground before her, found relatively even stones, and walked.
They left her in a very small room, she could tell by the acoustics as soon as they’d entered. She didn’t ask if she was alone. “He’ll be real interested in everything you’ve got to say about the Undesirable,” the snatcher says. “He trained you up, right? Maybe if you’re a good girl he’ll let you live. Your da’s a disgrace but we’re not supposed to kill purebloods anymore.”
Luna was lowered onto a bench. She thought it jutted out from the wall but her hands were still tied and her blindfold was still on, so she couldn’t tell precisely. “Harry is brilliant,” she said, wishing she could make eye contact with this man. “There was a swarm of St. Anthony’s wisps that promised me he would be safe.”
Crack. A slap across her face. “You’d better learn, little miss. Learn who you serve now.”
“I serve goodness and truth.”
Crack. Another slap, in the same spot. They wrenched her neck, but the pain brought her a certain clarity. She must survive, so she could aid Harry in the future. Luna isn’t a proper Seer, not yet at least, but she knows this circumstance will somehow be useful to Harry soon.
She was left alone. Still bound, still blindfolded. Carefully, she got up to feel her way around.
It was a small room, not eight feet in any direction. The walls and floor were made of the same stone. There were divots in the walls – perhaps this had been a manufacturing space before? The only fixture is the wooden bench upon which she’d been placed. She listened at the door, but she could feel the buzz of silencing charms on the other side. She’d never hear anyone coming.
She got low to the ground then, sweeping her fingers along the baseboards and into the corners. She needed some sharp metal, glass, nails…. She needed to get the ropes loose from her wrists. She was sure it looked funny, the way she was forced to half-crawl and then scoot backwards to touch the crevices. But it was her mother who taught her that letting go of feeling silly was the most liberating thing in the world.
But the floors were clean, immaculately clean. So it may not be a factory after all. Perhaps a residence with a house elf? It was the sort of magic cleanliness that made the floor squeak, and far fewer wizards were capable of it than elves.
Her internal sense of time was good. By the time she’d examined every bit of her cell she could reach (including an attempt to slide her fingers beneath the door, for which she got a nasty shock) she thought it’d been a little more than an hour. She paced to keep her blood and thoughts moving at the same rate.
Perhaps another hour, and there was a whoosh of magic as the door was unlocked. Luna froze.
There were footsteps of a person wearing very high and narrow heels. “Sit down.” A woman’s voice, not so quiet as merely deliberate.
“Are you my interrogator?”
“Sit down,” the woman repeated, irritated.
So Luna stepped backward toward the bench, using her tied hands to lower herself. She thought that a patience silence would likely yield more information from this woman, so she was quiet.
“They didn’t chain you to the wall,” the woman said flatly. “He clearly told them to.” There was a sound of frustration, then a flourish of magic as the woman cast it herself. The rope became shackles, looped through a bit of metal now protruding from the wall. Luna had only begun to feel claustrophobic.
“I was only sent to inform you that you will be staying here.” Another rush of magic, and the bench widens into a sort of cot beneath her, with smooth sheets. “Our elf will bring you food in the mornings.”
Luna felt vindicated at her guess of elf magic, and curious about everything else. “Where am I?”
The woman ignored her. “You’ll need water, I think? Open your mouth.”
And then the woman had come nearer than Luna had realized, and her wand brushed Luna’s lips. She turned her head. “That is very kind of you,” she said, and she sort-of meant it, “but it would not be the most comfortable.”
Her eyebrows rose beneath the blindfold. “Do we know one another?”
“Then what shall I call you?”
She didn’t ask, What is your name, in case the woman was not at liberty to say. But the possibility of a codename….
Instead of answering, the woman took Luna’s chin firmly, forcing her mouth open. She cast Aguamenti a bit too fast, and Luna was sputtering, aspirating it. She tried to push herself backward but there was nowhere to go.
And then the woman relented, slowing the spell to a narrow stream. Luna didn’t know of any potions that could be conjured like this directly, so it was likely only water. She swallowed. She hadn’t realized her own exhaustion until the cool water was in her mouth.
The woman stopped, stepping back. “I will ask him if you might be unchained for meals,” she said as the sound of her heels moved toward the door.
The was a queer pause, but no answer. The woman let herself out.
The shackles were long enough that Luna could lie down on the bench. She couldn’t crawl under the sheets properly but she could flip a corner of them onto her legs. There was no pillow. It had been late in the evening when the snatchers had come, and it was probably nearing midnight by now.
She needed to urinate.
It was a strange feeling, lying in bed weighted down by one’s bladder. Especially with an entire night stretching before her. “Elf?” she calls into the darkness. “I’m sorry I don’t know your name, but is the elf of the house listening?”
Apparently not. She was left alone. She focused on her breathing, imagining it as a flower opening and closing, and she might have managed to fall asleep.
But she’d wake up intermittently through that night, from fear and dread. Each time her need would be worse. Her thighs hurt from being pushed together so tightly. She had to make it to morning. The woman had said the house elf would come.
Behind the blindfold, she was hallucinating. Without proper visual stimulation, the human eye and brain will begin to amuse themselves, she’d read somewhere. She saw swirling constellations and great birds and her father’s workshop in the back of her eyelids.
She hopes he will find a way out of Azkaban, like Harry’s godfather had.
There was a sharp jolt inside her, her bladder stretching to its limit, and she was forced too sit up abruptly. The chains at her wrists bite, and for a minute she was still hallucinating that some hungry animal was biting at her. But she was alone. Carefully she got into a seated position, tucking her knees beneath her so she could press her sex into the back of her legs. The stitch in her side was persistent by now.
The blindfold was stuck on magically, she’d already tried to nudge it off. Next she took hold of the chains, willing Finite Incantatum through her fingertips. She hadn’t produced wandless magic since she was a very little girl, but if she could do it at any time, now would be ideal. The chains were surprisingly inert, not hexed to hurt her for ostensible escape attempts, but they also did not move.
She really needs to go.
Her body was curling in on itself, toward the pain, and her long hair dangled past her shoulders as she dropped her head. “Is there a house elf?” she attempted to speak into the darkness again. “Please.” Her voice might have cracked on this.
At least – well, it was a distraction from all the more dire problems she was facing. She couldn’t think about Hogwarts, the DA. They had grown into a close-knit, trusting, loving group in the face of adversity. She hoped they wouldn’t worry too terribly about her when she didn’t return to school. They needed to stay strong.
She was listening with her head propped against the stone wall, for any indication of motion in the rest of the house. But her hallucinations were aural too, because the buzz of magic drifted in and out of bits of dialogue. Sometimes she heard music. It helped a little.
By now she was squirming properly, grinding herself against her legs to hold back her desperation. Really, she expected to be put through far greater pain and humiliation in the next few weeks, but this was so mundane.
She should have urinated before the woman had come in. It would have been difficult to get her knickers off them, but she was infinitely more trapped like this now.
She wonders whether they’d punish her for wetting the bed. Childish.
She needed to stop thinking about this. She focused on her breathing again, imagining the expansion and contraction of a Pulsating Glowplant. Neville had showed her one, last year. He even said they were used in psychiatric health settings, to soothe patients. They’d swell and contract slowly, changing colors from green to yellow as they did so. Luna thought it’d been mesmerizing.
She feels a drop of moisture hit her knickers.
Luna was not the sort of person to panic, but this was panic-inducing. It was physiological, that every muscle in her lower half was straining to prevent this. If she could just jump off the bed, it would be better, but the woman (in her kindness, Luna thought wryly) had expanded the narrow bench into a wide bed, too wide to stand from. Luna wrenched at the chains holding her and of course they did nothing.
She didn’t know how long it’d been. Was it morning yet? She needed to wait, so at least she wouldn’t be waiting in cold wet sheets for longer than necessary.
She thinks of the glowplants.
Her eyes were filled with tears of frustration. She didn’t want to, she couldn’t –
There was noise at her door.
She sat bolt upright, somehow heartened. It must be morning, then. “Hello?” she said as the door opened.
The same woman. Luna thought her voice sounded blue, a pale blue that would wash out to white in strong sunlight. It was cool but not, for the moment, unpleasant.
“May I use the toilet?” Luna asked, then worried at her words. Purebloods were more often evasive about such things. Lavatory, if they must, but often simply, Would you excuse me? Luna wished she could be excused.
The woman’s steps had faltered at her question. “The elf hasn’t seen to you this morning?”
“I see.” There was a flare of magic, and then the sound of a chair on the stone. “We need your knowledge of the resistance movement among the students.”
“There wasn’t one.” She was practiced in this denial, at least. She shifted her posture, crossing her legs before her as they’d begun to go numb. Squirming wouldn’t add to her credibility, but – it really couldn’t be helped.
“We already know of it,” the woman said calmly. “We have the Weasley girl downstairs. We will take the Longbottom boy next.”
No. Ginny would fight to her death before she’d be captured. So would Neville. They were the bravest people Luna knew, as brave as Harry and Ron and Hermione. The Death Eaters knew of them together because of the Ministry break-in in her fourth year, that was all. Luna positioned her face, the part visible beneath the blindfold, into a serene smile. “You have not taken them, and you never will.”
“And who will save you? Not your Muggle-loving father. Not Harry Potter, who fled into hiding at the first instance of trouble. Perhaps there is more Slytherin in him than you know?”
If Luna understands anything of Harry, it’s that he has more of Voldemort in him than he knew. She was still smiling. “Harry would have made an excellent Slytherin. Though I suppose being in a house of people whose families were all prosecuted for being associated with V—”
There was a slender hand pressed over Luna’s mouth immediately. “Do not say his name.”
They’d practiced, in the DA. So many of them admired Harry for his bravery in saying the name. Luna held her head still without pulling away, so the woman was obligated to remove her hand after a long moment. “If his followers are as scared of him as his enemies, perhaps he’s not a very good leader?” Luna suggested.
This got a reaction from the woman, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “That is blasphemy,” she said. “Our Lord is merciful. But he will not be tried.”
Luna intended to disagree but then a strong jolt of desperation surged through her. Another drop spilled into her knickers, and she groaned through her teeth. “Please let me up.”
“What do you know about Harry Potter?”
“I will never betray him.” But she jolted backwards when she felt a hand on the front of her robes – undoing them by hand, carefully.
“Please go on, Ms. Lovegood.”
“We took an Unbreakable Vow, that we’d never betray Harry.” She shivered as her robe slipped from her shoulders, revealing a blue dress printed in a pattern of gourds. “So if you intend to kill us, it would be most efficient to do it now.”
“You are lying.”
She wasn’t. She and Ginny took the vow. Fred was their bonder because the twins would agree to things everyone else would excuse themselves from. Ginny was the twins’ bonder. It was a relief, honestly, to have this commitment grounding them. “Why are you undressing me?”
The woman had pushed her robes back, and now she flipped Luna’s skirt up. Luna shoved away from her touch, but her hands weren’t at the right angle to flip her skirt back down. She twisted her thighs over on themselves but god, she was desperate. If she was visibly wet at all, it was beneath her, not on the front of her knickers, but – but she couldn’t wait. She already knew she wouldn’t be able to.
The woman tugged the elastic right at her stomach, where she was sure she was swollen. She felt warm down there. She was going to begin sweating, as though it was were a reaction to being touched like this.
The Death Eaters hadn’t been known to use sexual violence in warfare often. Well. Greyback, but none of the others. Luna had the impression it would compromise Voldemort’s aesthetic of purity. And then the woman stopped touching her, had sat back in her chair, and Luna didn’t know what to make of the encounter.
She’s going to wet her knickers in front of – who? A Death Eater, or a Death Eater’s wife. She was cycling through the known ones but she couldn’t match the voice or the demeanor. It didn’t really matter. It was just to distract herself from the inevitability.
“Your father is in quite a lot of trouble,” the woman said, when Luna had stopped squirming. “The men who brought him to Azkaban said he didn’t react well to the Dementors. They said he was crying for your mother.”
Luna sucked air through her teeth. It hurts, and she could feel her hair sticking to her sweating forehead. Still she found her words. “If you believe it is a weakness to mourn your loved ones, then I feel terrible for you.”
“Do you?” The woman’s voice went chilly. “Perhaps you should be there with him. Your name is on that newspaper as well, is it not?”
“Oh, have you read it?” Luna was sincerely surprised.
Then there was another twinge, and Luna jerked as a bit of wetness spilled into her panties. She really couldn’t….
She took a breath. She would not panic. If anyone were to feel embarrassed, it should be her captors for treating her so poorly. (Another spurt, and a bead of urine ran down her inner thigh.) Victims should never feel ashamed for being victimized. She had learned this from Neville. “You’re not going to let me up,” she said, steady and honest.
“Perhaps you are useful.”
“I – “ A spurt, and a spurt, and then a thin stream hissing against wet fabric. “I will not be. Please go.”
She didn’t go. Leaning in, she pushed Luna’s legs apart, revealing a wet patch and the way the front of her knickers must glisten with another few seconds of an accident. If this woman were the sort of pureblood Luna assumed her to be, she must be horrified.
But – she wasn’t. “A little girl,” she said, pressing her palm to the front of Luna’s cotton knickers. “This is children’s clothing.”
Luna could feel a circle of moisture creeping up her mons pubis, making her pants warm and heavy against her. It was blessing she was still blindfolded, so she didn’t have to watch this woman watching her wee in bed. Still – she would not be embarrassed for what other people had done to her.
“Say you will offer anything of value to our Lord, and you may go.”
“I won’t.” Her voice shook. She was still trying to hold back, to wait to be alone to disgrace herself. And the touch on the front of her knickers – it’s invasive and humiliating but it’s not meant to be threatening. Not yet.
“He will rip your mind open. He will discard you without a thought.”
“I though – “ She choked as a long stream forced out, running backwards beneath her bum. It was embarrassing, how much more she still had to go. “I thought purebloods would be preserved in this regime?”
“Doll, he’ll preserve your body, he will not need your mind.”
She seemed sincere. Luna turned the implications of that over quietly. “Then he will be break me,” she said. “There’s nothing to be done for it.” She would ask to be killed, but this woman had no obligation to her. Not even to kill her.
“Luna….” The woman sighed, and it was such a shock to hear her name in her mouth. “He will. I will do nothing for you, then. Just… just finish, and I will charm you clean.”
“Oh.” Luna went hot. It was more difficult to go with permission. She didn’t know if she was allowed to close her legs or if… if the woman wanted to watch? It was confusing. She shifted and then groaned as the hot, soaked cotton scraped against her pussy. Her knickers were probably already seethrough.
The woman was touching her again – not between her legs, but along her arms, her hair. They were soft touches, they would be soothing in another context. “How old are you?” she asked.
“I’ll be seventeen in a month.” She lost control for another long moment, but a lifetime of toilet training forbade her from going entirely in bed.
“Still just a girl,” the woman said again. “Do you not resent Dumbledore, expecting children to fight his wars?”
“It’s not Dumbledore’s war,” Luna said, shocked the woman would believe this. “It’s – his.” She wouldn’t risk speaking Voldemort’s name right now. “How does he feel about killing children?”
The woman made a sharp sound, but then she was quiet. Luna dropped her face so her hair swung forward. She lifted herself up a bit, and then – then she was weeing, for real. It was hitting the blankets with a spatter, snaking down her thighs, wicking along her knickers to wet her bum. It was a relief, such a relief, that she wasn’t even disgusted with herself yet. She could feel her stream break through the saturated fabric, and she weed harder.
Partway through, the woman reached up her skirt, tugging the knickers down her legs, leaving wet smears. “There you are.” It was easier to pee, without the fabric pressed against her, but – well, Luna was shy about her body. She’d only let Ginny go down on her after months of dating, and she still preferred to give rather than receive.
The woman pressed a hand to Luna’s lower stomach, rubbing in circles where her bladder was still nearly distended. It was a strange, but nice, feeling. “There you are,” she said again. “We shouldn’t have expected so much from you.”
Luna couldn’t parse what this woman is thinking, and even less so when her fingers trailed downwards into Luna’s fine pubic hair and to the top of her pussy. Luna stopped weeing, and the woman made a noise. “Don’t stop,” she said. “It is sweet.”
Sweet. Luna did not feel as innocent as this woman wanted her to be. “What do you want from me?” she asked lowly. Se hadn’t pulled back from the woman’s touch yet.
Instead of responding, the woman pressed her thumb against Luna’s clit.
“Ahh – “ But then she quieted. The woman’s hand stayed splayed along her belly, thumb moving in a small circle. It was curious, cautious, as though she’d never done it before.
Luna shifted. The blankets beneath her were wet. So were her thighs. But after holding for so long, her lower half ached. She was hyper-sensitive. So the touch felt… good.
She lowered herself seated, the sheets warm and heavy against her skin. “It’s like this,” she found herself saying, and she was opening her legs. But her chains weren’t long enough to touch herself.
The woman vanished them.
“Okay,” Luna said in an exhalation. She was still moving carefully, as though the woman before her were a wounded animal. This really wasn’t fair, that the captive should have to care for their captor, but it was all Luna could think to do in this moment. She knew better than to remove the blindfold over her face, at least.
She reached between her legs, putting her hand over the woman’s cool and narrow one. “You haven’t done this before?”
Luna’s fingers pulled her hand lower. She was wet, with urine but also wit the deep ache of anticipation, of misplaced pain. She tipped her hips back to slip a finger inside herself.
The woman spread her hand, thumb still on her clit but palm pressing into her warm pussy. Her hand was soft, softer than Ginny’s. And when she placed her other hand on Luna’s breast, finding her nipple through her dress – that was unexpected but also nice.
It was easier, not having to look at this woman. They hardly spoke, but the woman pulled Luna’s hand out of herself, and slipped a finger in. “Curl it,” Luna said – then flinched, expecting the woman would not appreciate taking instruction. But she curled it, moving until it was pressed at Luna’s g-spot. “Yeah,” Luna breathed, pressing into her touch.
She did, albeit wincing as wee soaked into the back of her dress. Spread like this, she wondered if the woman meant to go down on her. But no – she put another finger in, curling and twisting, and that was all. Her other hand was tugging Luna’s dress up, exposing her belly and then her breasts. Her skin pricked with the exposure.
“You are hurt.”
The snatchers had used whip hexes on her, that had left welts without breaking skin. “I’m alright.”
The woman ducked her head to press her mouth to the lowest welt – not in a kiss, but a press of her tongue. Her mouth moved in an incantation, and the welt receded.
“Oh,” Luna said, surprised. This sort of somatic magic was rare, and rather undervalued compared to the cool objectivity of Latin-based casting. “Thank you.”
The woman twisted her fingers deeper inside Luna, making her shiver. And then she was properly thrusting, rubbing at her and making her tighter with anticipation. Luna arched, pressing into the woman’s touch at her breast. It felt good, it all felt really good even if it was wrong. Luna was slick and shuddering in the woman’s touch. For a moment she could believe she was elsewhere, that everything was alright.
The heat inside her built and built. She was gasping, kicking involuntarily, with the way the woman scrubbed at her g-spot. And then, with a strong arch of her back – “Ahh – “ Her orgasm gripped her from the inside out, making her thrash. She was squirting across the already-ruined sheets, her fluids running over the woman’s hand as she fingered her through her orgasm. Luna bucked, and bucked, and then slumped backwards with a deep exhalation. A sort of music rang in her ears.
The woman sat back, and there were a few flashes of magic. Should Luna attempt to take her wand? – Not yet. She’d still be on guard. Perhaps next time.
Then the magic washed over her too, cleaning all the slick wetness from Luna’s skin, her clothes, the bedsheets. Everything was immaculate once more. The woman even pulled down Luna’s dress for her.
There was the scrape of her chair as she stood. “If they ask, tell them I Crucio’d you.”
“I… I will. Thank you.”
The woman’s footsteps receded. It only occurred to Luna to remove the blindfold then, with her wrists no longer confined. She lifted it just in time to see the woman, of refine and poise and silvery-blonde hair, exiting the cell. “Wait – “ But the woman closed the door decisively behind her.
Chapter 7: On Purpose - James/Sirius
Then there was that summer when all they did was piss on each other.
It starts off as a joke. While Sirius has his own bedroom in the Potters’ home – why wouldn’t he, the house fell just short of a proper manor – he’d often end up in James’s bedroom in the early hours of the morning, after being awake even earlier with loud and persistent troubles. “Imagine sending Peeves into battle with You Know Who,” he says one morning as he climbs into James’s warm bed. “He’d be invincible.”
“Shut up, Pads,” James says as he scoots over.
“Wonder if we can buy poltergeists off old estates. They can’t want them around….”
His musing is abruptly quieted when James shoves a pillow over his face. He splutters a protest.
They doze. There’s distant sounds as Mrs. and Mr. Potter prepare to go out for the day, but Sirius and James are both 17 and entrusted with being home alone for most of the summer. The house goes quiet.
It’s midmorning by the time James squirms. “Let me up, I’ve got to piss.” His bed is against the wall and Sirius is blocking his only way out.
“Hold it,” Sirius mutters into his pillow.
“Padfoot,” James whines.
Sirius reaches back, patting his cheek with utmost patronizing. “Be a big boy, Jamie.”
James makes another dissatisfied noise. Then he shifts, pulling Sirius close. And there’s a bloom of warmth along Sirius’s backside.
Sirius yelps. “Are you wetting the bed?”
“It’s my bed. Anyway, you brought this on yourself.” James is a little stronger than Sirius, to Sirius’s ever-lasting chagrin, and he holds him close as he pisses, wetting their boxers and the sheets beneath them.
Sirius is getting hard – well, he’s always hard in the mornings, but now his cock is strained against his pants. “Bloody commitment to a joke,” he mutters, only half-squirming away.
James wasn’t kidding, he’s emptying his bladder into his bed and it’s a lot. It pools beneath their hips, and everything sticks and clings and steams with it. The boys aren’t shy with each other – they mark the same territory as Animagi and don’t always put up silencing charms when they wank in bed. And Sirius and James have… something. Sometimes they touch each other or get off together, so it’s not very weird that Sirius will invite himself into James’s bed. But this is – new. Very new. He doesn’t think he minds.
James hadn’t even pulled himself out of his boxers, just wet through them, so they’d both in soaked clothing when he finishes, letting the last stream trickle along the back of Sirius’s thighs. A sigh of relief. “There you go.” He lets his shoulder go. “Since that’s what you wanted.” He’s reaching for his wand on the bedside table. “D'you want to, before I clean up?”
Sirius should have a snappy answer, but James’s casual demeanor makes his head swim. “Is this a thing for you?”
“Ah, sometimes? We’ve got magic, Pads. If you can cast Scourgify….” James is palming himself lazily through his pants. “Didn’t you?”
They both grew up able to use magic freely. “I should have,” Sirius mutters. “I should have pissed all over that bloody house, for the elf to clean up.”
“See? It’s liberating. Before I could wank properly, I’d do it. Or sometimes on my broom….”
“On your broom?”
“If I’m out long enough. You know there’s more privacy flying than anywhere in the castle proper.”
His best friend-with-benefits is a freak. And so is Sirius, lying here hard in the wet sheets. “I want to suck you off right now.”
“Sirius!” James is delighted, amused. He throws back the duvet, and his confident sprawl amidst the wet spot he’d made (on purpose, he wet the bed for a joke and wasn’t that hilarious) is perfect. He raises his eyebrows at Sirius’s own erection. “Finding out new things about yourself today?”
“Shut up and do something useful with your bloody mouth.”
They’re casual, teasing, rough with one another during sex. James grabs at Sirius’s arse and marvels at how perfectly flat it is; Sirius says at least he’s not as hairy as a mountain troll. But they 69 easily, Sirius opening his jaw wide to fit all of James in. There’s a tang of salts, then warm flesh. It’s good, really good.
It’s just a couple minutes, pounding and grunting against one another’s mouths, and then Sirius is close. As his belly tightens, he taps James on the hip, their gesture. James groans an affirmation along his shaft; Sirius arches and shoots hard into his mouth.
And as soon as James withdraws his mouth, Sirius is pissing.
There’s shocked laughter, but James’s cock twitches against Sirius’s tongue as he sucks. The stream of piss is falling onto his chest and maybe his face, and then James grabs Sirius’s softening cock and aims the stream downward, toward his belly. “You dirty bastard,” he mutters, voice raspy as it always is after a blowjob. “Just – ugh – just finish on me. You’d better swallow too.”
So Sirius sucks deeper and it’s an amazing feeling to concentrate on his blowjob and emptying his bladder at once. It’s just – good. Really good. He swallows hard, bringing James’s hips to his mouth, and there’s that familiar whimper. A deeper swallow, and James’s come hits the back of his throat.
He finishes pissing as he’s swallowing the last of his come. They’d never managed morning sex like this, and Sirius thinks it is glorious. He collapses onto the soaked sheets.
James lies shattered for a few long minutes. “We could do this all the time,” Sirius says in wonder.
“Might be a bit awkward, in the dorms. Also,” James makes a face, gesturing to his wet chest and belly, “did you mark me?”
“Is that a problem?”
“… No, not really.”
The next morning, Sirius wakes up to James standing over him, having a piss on his stomach as though standing at a urinal. Later, when they’re flying, Sirius will dip close to James. “What you said yesterday….”
“Oh yeah. Have you got your wand?”
James flashes his own. “Guess you’re at my mercy, that I’ll clean you up after. Do it.”
And Sirius is thrilled by the command. He’s throwing open his flying robes, a hand between his legs. “If you will.”
“Coward.” James sits back slightly, and then there’s a shimmering patch of wetness along his inner thigh. They’d both in athletic wear, meant to wick moisture away. It’s very sneaky.
“Do you do this in games?” Sirius asks, fascinated.
“I told you to go.”
There’s a jolt of lust up his spine. He really, really wants to be told to piss on himself apparently. He arranges his cock and tries to let go. Even though he’s got to urinate quite a lot, nothing comes out.
“Take it out first,” James says, gaze intent on Sirius’s lap. “Then put it back.”
“So that means you have pissed on yourself during a match?” Sirius removes his cock from his fly.
“Mm, no. Practice, sometimes. Especially in the rain. Nobody could tell anyway.”
“Until you come back in smelling like wee. Pee pants Potter.”
James only grins at this. “Professionals do it, you know. I’d say it’s aspirational.”
Sirius holds his cock, aiming in mid-air until he lets loose a long stream. Then he shoves it back into his clothing. His uniform goes rapidly dark with the spreading stain. He can’t stop staring at it. It’s so… defiant, a prominent patch of an obvious failure at adulthood and respectability and all that. He really wants to be like James, who will piss on himself and not even give a fuck.
“That’s better,” James says softly, and then he’s weeing on himself again too. It’s a bright warm day all the liquid glistens on the front of their uniforms.
“Don’t clean up, at first,” Sirius requests. The wet fabric feels heavier as he hangs in midair. It’s thrilling that they’re in public – though really they’re over a field with nobody around, but still. He wants to stay in the wet clothes, his skin prickling with shame-disgust-arousal for awhile.
James only laughs at him. “What have I done?”
“Maybe I’m just extremely lazy.” But the streams rolling along his inner thighs are making him hard again. He’s going to wank a half dozen times a day, this summer, if he keeps it up.
“You’re extremely something.” And then James dips his broom closer, close enough to palm the moisture blooming on Sirius’s uniform. “Good?”
“Uh-huh.” And when James rubs him off through the warm soaked fabric, Sirius can only make guttural sounds in his throat. And when he shoots a sticky load in his pants and James tells him he’s got to leave it like the disgusting boy he is, Sirius nearly tackles him to the ground in lust.
That becomes their dynamic, more often than not. James likes wetting himself so Sirius can watch him bask in it, lazy and confident in his magic. Sirius likes wetting himself so James will tell him he is dirty, shameful, an embarrassment. Sirius likes pissing in his Muggle jeans best, where the faded denim develops a perfect wet patch running down his legs. Or he makes James hold him down, to order him to wee on himself because he’s certainly not getting up. Or sometimes it’s still a joke: when they’re sitting together listening to the radio or reading comics, they’ll see how sneakily they can start pissing before the other notices. Since Sirius ends up crawling onto James’s lap first to let go, he usually fails at sneakiness.
Finally they do it out in public. They’d gone to a local Muggle fair for the day, buying ice cream and lemonade as they played games. It had been a long few hours by the time Sirius starts to worry about the weight in his stomach. “If we go home, we’ll be able to….”
“We’re doing it here.”
Sirius melts when James gives him commands. “Okay,” he says. “But, y’know. People around.” Muggles around, which will make use of magic difficult. The area is magic enough that the trace wouldn’t trigger, but still.
James brings him to the ferris wheel. It’s not typically what Sirius likes in a ride – it’s slow and a bit romantic – but right now his stomach is tightening in anticipation.
“I’ll cast while you wet yourself,” James says, because Sirius loves when his language is too stark, too loud. “Or maybe I won’t,” he adds with a sly smile.
“Prongs,” Sirius breathes. They get on the ride.
He is squirming by this time. And he’s in Muggle clothes, and it’s mid-summer so it’s not like he’s got a coat to throw over his jeans or anything. He adjusts his cock so it rests along his thigh. “Are we really doing this?” he breathes.
“Hurry up and piss on yourself.”
Sirius goes hot all over. “Yes, Daddy.” It’s been a joke between them, until it’s not anymore. The ferris wheel has been set in motion, Sirius adjusts himself once more, and then he’s letting go. His thigh goes warm and wet.
James is gripping his wand in his pocket, casting Scourgify under his breath repeatedly, and the result is exquisite: the denim between Sirius’s legs goes wet and heavy, ten dry, then wet again. He’s got a hand pressed over his mouth so he doesn’t make any stupid noises.
“What a good boy,” James is murmuring, and Sirius is hot with arousal and embarrassment and… pride. Something like it. They reach the top of the ferris wheel, where nobody can see them, and James slips a hand between his legs. When Sirius bucks, he laughs. And he lets Sirius piss for a second longer, until the wet spot reaches the size of his palm, before Scourgifying it. “We could do this in class,” he offers. “Creatures, certainly, and herbology. Maybe others if you’re brave enough.” He says it like a dare.
“If you are.”
“Sure, yeah.” He’s palming Sirius, right where the stream hits wet denim. He’s pressing it to Sirius’s cock, his hot and wet boxers clinging to the head.
“I won’t be able to finish if you keep doing that,” Sirius says, squirming away and trying to keep pissing into his pants, but he is rapidly getting hard and James won’t stop.
Sirius’s breath catches. “Just… keep touching me like that, then.”
They’re at the bottom, where they pull apart, and then into the air again. James wrinkles his nose in concentration, and then he’s conjured a scarf. It’s obvious, but Sirius doesn’t give a shit. James drops it over his lap and then Sirius is releasing the rest of his urine, pissing right into James’s hand. The usual shiver runs up his spine, and he’s laughing.
James won’t take him out of his pants, he’s just rubbing circles over the top, and Sirius is squirming to get better friction. He feels like a defiant child, wetting his pants in public, and now he’s going to get away with a wank. “Tell me you’ll spank me.”
James’s fingers plunge into Sirius’s fly, rubbing at his pants. “Spank you? I’m making you leave this park in wet clothes, that’s your punishment. Wouldn’t you like everyone to know just how lazy and filthy you are? A kid could’ve held it.”
“God,” Sirius breathes. He can feel his pulse in his cock.
James leans in, seeing the effect he’s having. “Or maybe I will spank you. Pull those stained jeans around your ankles and bend you over a bench. Would you like the entire fair to see your spanked arse?”
Sirius whimpers. He can’t think anymore. “Yes,” he rasps.
“Good boy.” And James is stroking him and Sirius is too far gone and then he jolts. He’s coming in the front of his wet pants, warm and sticky and disgusting. Blood rushes in his ears and every bit of him quivers. He slumps.
Too quickly, James has his wand in hand again. Scourgify, Scourgify, and Sirius is no longer self-incriminating. He picks up the scarf, ties it at his neck. “Bloody Circe,” he breathes, as they reach the top of the ferris wheel and begin to descend again.
“Yeah,” James says, running a hand between Sirius’s shoulderblades. It’s nice.
“I’ll do anything you want.”
“Yeah,” he says again, with a grin this time.
When they’re let off the ride, Sirius is still a bit wobbly. It’s reckless to touch openly in public – wizards don’t care if you’re queer, but Muggles still do – so they’re subtle as they draw together. Sirius walks as though he’s tipsy, James at his side. “I owe you,” he reiterates, and James smirks as he leads him away.
Chapter 8: In Nappies - Kingsley/Harry
This chapter is soft like newborn chicks. Some kink negotiation and a bit that gestures in the direction of ageplay, but not entirely.
Harry had been a year into Auror’s training when he and Kingsley first began sleeping together. It was a half-real relationship at first, time spent together in raids, then a drink in their offices afterward. Or sometimes the Order still convened, to oversee the Death Eaters who hadn’t been captured yet, and Harry and Kingsley would sit close and bring each other coffee. Harry had gutted 12 Grimmauld Place so it wasn’t so awful anymore, and he nearly liked it when it was full of people he loved. So one evening as the Order was moving to leave, Harry caught Kingsley’s sleeve. “Don’t go,” he said. Kingsley didn’t go.
They haven’t moved in together yet, a few years later. They haven’t even made it official by telling everyone, though people near them figured it out and they get invitations address to them both more often now. But dating as an Auror is tricky – many Aurors forego close relationships as a liability, and Harry would never forgive himself if Kingsley got hurt as retribution or a trap. It wasn’t really against department rules, Moody told them both point blank that he didn’t give a shit, but still. On the other hand, nobody in another profession would understand their erratic schedules or their grim sense of humor. Most days they’re sent into different crises – Harry works more often in domestic violence, Kingsley more often in magic contraband – and at least a few nights a week Kingsley will let himself into Grimmauld Place and suck Harry off until they’re both able to fall asleep.
On the nights when Harry is alone, he pulls on soft, childish pyjamas and a nappy.
He’s not committed to the full thing, he hasn’t got toys around or even a soother. It’s just… nice, to scrub away whatever shitty violence he’s seen that day with some moments of nurturing. It feels like he’s reclaiming his own childhood, too. He’ll bring tea or sometimes hot chocolate to bed and fall asleep watching the same shows he’s seen a hundred times by now. And when he wakes up desperate a few hours later, it is so easy to go in the nappy, rub himself off on the warm and heavy material, and fall back asleep. It’s weird, he knows it’s weird, but – anything that helps this much can’t be a bad thing.
On this night he is alone. Kingsley has a midnight raid somewhere in Scotland, a fence they finally had enough evidence to serve a warrant. So Harry comes home from a horrific day involving a neglected Muggleborn child, makes cocoa with marshmallows and rum, and brings it upstairs. Revelio as he reaches in the back of his wardrobe so his fingers hit the canvas of the nappy bag. He slides it toward himself.
The nappies are wizarding – they’ll adjust to fit, with waterproofing charms around the outside. Harry kicks off his clothing and pulls the soft fabric between his legs, and the nappy obliges as it fastens itself. There are other, more obviously fetishy brands that pulsate or vibrate or make the wearer more accident-prone, but Harry wanted something near to Muggle, with just enough magic for convenience. He adjusts his cock inside the fabric, then he pulls on soft pyjama bottoms printed with snitches and crawls into bed.
There’s a warm and comforting weight beside him when he half-wakes in the dark. The television has been shut off. Harry has to take the scene in for a long moment, that Kingsley is here, spooning him, his arm pressed to the thick waistband of the nappy beneath his pyjamas.
And then Harry’s hot all over. He shifts the covers off the bed, but then Kingsley stirs beside him. “Harry?” he murmurs, groggy. He hasn’t lifted his arm.
“I thought you’d be out. On the raid.” It’s all Harry can offer.
“He got tipped off and turned himself in this evening. It was a relief.” Kingsley is reaching up with his other hand, playing with Harry’s hair in that way he likes. “Should I go?” he offers quietly.
“Do you want to talk about this?”
“Ah.” Gryffindor bravery, he scold himself. They’ve tried watersports before, typically in the shower, to great effect, but that’s not this. “I just like them,” he mutters into the dark. “I don’t, er, need them or anything. It’s just nice, on bad days, to come home to this. It’s safe.”
Kingsley’s hand is dipping a bit lower, pressed to the front of the nappy. “That sounds lovely,” he says, running his thumb back and forth. “Is there anything else to it?”
“No.” Not yet is probably a more honest answer but he can’t think about this right now.
“Do you wet them?”
Kingsley’s tone is so even, so non-judgmental, and still Harry goes hot. He could lie, but his partner deserves better. “Yeah,” he says instead, a thrill of embarrassment going through him. “Only because – it’s erotic? I’m sorry, I know it’s weird,” he adds with a laugh. “Sorry.”
“Erotic,” Kingsley echoes, amused. “I had only intended to tell you it’s sweet. But this.” He places a warm kiss to the back of Harry’s neck. “We could work with this, too.”
At last Harry turns over, meeting Kingsley’s gaze in the dark. “Yeah?”
“Take off your pyjama bottoms.”
Harry is working by the moonlight, not lighting the lamps as he sits up and shakily undoes the drawstring. Kingsley is touching him, along his arms and belly and chest, as he pulls off the pyjamas. And then he’s sitting in bed, a nappy his only covering. He’d feel less exposed if he were naked.
Kingsley runs a hand over it, as though it’s not disgusting. “It’s very soft,” he says. “I expected the patterned sort, for children.”
“There are those, too. I haven’t…. I might buy some later.” The plain ones are still novelty enough for him.
“Do you intend to feel younger?” When Harry shakes his head, Kingsley raises his eyebrows. “Because that’s a thing people enjoy, as well. I thought you might.”
“I might,” Harry concedes. “I just – haven’t yet.”
“So if I brought a stuffed toy next time, you wouldn’t want it?”
“Oh. Uh, yeah, I would.” That stirred something in him, something that’s getting him hard. “I haven’t had anyone find out about the – nappies before. Just me. But if you want – you haven’t got to – “
“Harry. Shh.” And Kingsley closes his mouth with a kiss. And it’s soft at first, then rougher, pressing him up against the headboard. Kingsley is still rubbing him off through the nappy and it is fantastic. Harry squirms to get enough friction in the touch.
“Could you wet your nappy for me?” Kingsley mouths against his lips, more than speaking it. “Or do I have to get you off first?”
“Yeah,” Harry breathes. He no longer needs to piss, his arousal is too pronounced by now.
“Into my lap, then.”
Kingsley likes jerking him off from behind. It’s a warm and cuddly position, but Harry is self-conscious about sitting his nappied arse in Kingsley’s lap. Until Kingsley pulls him there, holding him at both hips. “I might have to grind against your tight arse,” he murmurs, breath hot at Harry’s ear.
His arse is currently more padded than tight, but he won’t deny his boyfriend this pleasure. “Please,” he says, breathless. And then Kingsley is reaching inside the nappy, pulling the warm cotton away from his body. His erection curves up his stomach, and he tilts his hips so Kingsley can touch him properly.
Kingsley is warm and solid, but he keeps his hands soft for Harry’s sake. He works his wrist steadily, using his hand to rub Harry’s cock back up his belly, since there’s not much room inside the nappy. And Harry’s laughing, warm, overwhelmed. “I love you.” He arches, turns, presses a kiss to his jawline. “I love you, I love you. You’re so good to me.”
“Lie back,” Kingsley says, and he’s pulling them both backward, half-slumped again the headboard now. Harry grinds his arse – his nappied arse, Merlin’s sake – back into Kingsley’s groin, and he gives an appreciative murmur.
And then everything is tightening, pulsating, hot. Harry’s eyes are squeezed shut, he’s overwhelmed by Kingsley’s presence and – all of it. Harry’s breathing has gone shallow.
Kingsley pumps him harder, his fingers playing at the ridge like Harry likes. “Oh – fuck – “ Harry mutters, his fingers curling into Kingsley’s thighs. And then he’s arching, all the sensation jolts inwards, and then – “Fuck,” he’s panting as he shoots come into the front of his nappy.
And immediately it’s too much, the association is too much and his erection is no longer impeding his accident, and he feels warmth spill into his nappy. “Oh – “ He ties shoving Kingsley’s hand away but he can’t, Kingsley has all the leverage, and then Harry is pissing over his fingers too.
It’s humiliating, that he can’t stop himself. The nappy crackles as it swells rapidly, holding his hot urine close against his skin. It’s so – it’s so -- his head swims, he can’t think of the word. Piss pours out of him, weighting him down in Kingsley’s lap, and he can only squeeze his eyes shut as the sensation overwhelms him.
So Harry pisses hard, until the nappy is saturated and his stream hits the saturated fabric audibly, and at some point Kingsley had pulled his hand out to knead the swollen front of the nappy instead, pushing it close to Harry so small streams are squeezed out, running back under him. He’s still so sensitive from orgasm, pleasure-pain emanating from his core to fingertips still, until he shudders with it as though it’s an aftershock. And at last his stream slows, dribbling a last bit down his thighs, and he slumps backward.
When the haze of orgasm has lifted, he is – humiliated by all of this, sitting in a wet nappy in his boyfriend’s lap. Not in a bad way. “Kingsley – you’re so – “ He’s laughing, blushing, trying to pick himself out of Kingsley’s lap, poorly.
Kingsley holds him closer, and the way his arms encircle Harry make him feel so young. “Harry. Stay there.” He’s pressing hot kisses to the back of his neck, firm and steady.
“This is – okay with you, then?”
A moment of silence, then laughter. “Couldn’t you tell? I came too. It is more than okay.” And then he lifts Harry out of his lap, reaching for his wand. “Do you… clean up?”
“Not yet.” Harry is still touching the nappy, its warm surface and the way the plastic crackles beneath his fingers. There are still puddles collected in the groin, not yet absorbed, and it is a ticklish sensation on his ballsack. He likes it. “You really came?”
With a self-deprecating sound, Kingsley kicks his ruined pants down his legs, lifting his wand to clean away the lingering wet smears. “I don’t even remember the last time I….”
And Harry loves this, the idea of Kingsley losing control too, for him. He ducks his head, catching Kingsley’s mouth. “You’re so good to me,” he mutters against Kingsley’s lips. “So, so, so good to me.”
And Kingsley wraps the heavy blankets around them both, pulling Harry horizontal again. “Let me be a part of this,” he breathes, and he’s arranging them as they were when Harry awoke, encircled in his arms. “I want everything good for you, and everything that makes you happy.”
And Harry feels so young, and so safe. He presses a last kiss to Kingsley’s jaw, and then he falls asleep smiling.
The Quidditch pitch was cold on the afternoon of the match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, but that wasn’t why Cho Chang was hunched over on herself.
Angelina is watching her as they land. Madam Hooch needs to arbitrate the game’s win – Cho had caught the snitch just as Katie had scored a final goal, leading to an unlikely tie, and normally it’d only go into a sudden death scenario if the win would actually have an effect on their overall standings, otherwise they’d be dismissed with a draw. So Madam Hooch is pulling up charts and tabulations, and Roger Davies is hovering over her shoulder, and Angelina should be there too but she’s keeping an eye on Cho, who’s edging farther and farther out of the circle of Quidditch players on the middle of the pitch.
The backs of her thighs are wet.
It’s not a lot – Angelina is the only one at the right angle to be able to tell at all, and certainly the only one looking at Cho currently (even though she just brought Ravenclaw back from a devastating loss, Angelina thinks with misplaced indignation; but Cho is a girl and the rest of the Ravenclaw team is all Lads just like Davies himself, and they really underestimate her). She’s shifting her legs, her face stony but for brief flashes of panic, and Angelina can’t stop watching.
In sports, piss happens, and it’s not exactly pleasant but it is normal. They keep hydrated to fight through the high, cold winds of flying a couple hundred feet up, and maybe a player could run to the loo if there’s a midgame arbitration for some reason, but typically they’re in the air for as long as it takes the seekers to end the game, and flagging everyone down for a break just isn’t done. The first time Harry had asked Oliver during a practice if he could go in, Oliver had said with deathly serious that he’d rather Harry piss in his pants than lose a game, and then Fred and George had pulled the poor boy aside and told him to just fly a bit out to the unoccupied edges of the field before getting his cock out, nobody would even notice. So that’s how it is for boys. As with everything, it was harder for girls.
So Angelina is still looking at Cho when there’s a shimmer of moisture along the back of her thighs, and she’s going, she’s about to wet herself in front of her team and an entire stadium of people. And another glistening drop, and another. Angelina’s gaze darts to Cho’s face, which shows nothing.
So she’s making a quick decision to step in, directly behind Cho, sheltering her from everyone else’s view. When she puts a hand on Cho’s shoulder, the girl jumps. “Johnson – “ Cho says in an inhalation.
“Just let me walk in behind you.”
Cho is a perfectionist, and Angelina suspects this entire thing will kill her. “Have you got your wand?” Angelina offers. It’s against regs to bring wands onto the field but sometimes players do anyway, and a well-placed Tergeo could…. But Cho shakes her head. And then she loses another glistening stream into her uniform, and she instinctively reaches down to cover herself before straightening, trying not to draw attention. “It’s okay,” Angelina says lowly, and she’s stepping in even closer.
And at last Madam Hooch announces after a great many calculations that this match shall end in a draw, and they are all excused from the pitch. And there’s a low anti-climactic murmur from the stands as the spectators wander away, and the boys of Ravenclaw don’t even look at Cho, much less thank her for saving them from an embarrassing loss. Angelina watches her own team hustle off to the showers too, eager to warm up from being on the cold pitch too long.
“Coming?” Katie is the only one to look back at Angelina before going.
“In a minute, yeah.” She waves Katie onward and fortunately, she goes without question. And then Angelina walks Cho in, still positioned behind her.
“Thank you.” Cho’s voice is tiny. And then she sucks air through her teeth and then there’s a long streak of wetness down her inseam.
“Sure. Here, by the equipment shed, there are those rain slickers – “ Angelina steers her in that direction. Cho feels a bit warmer than everything else around her, and touching her is a relief for Angelina’s stiff and frozen fingers.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m going to – I’m going to – “ A wince, and then Cho is bent double, shoving her hands between her legs.
So Angelina grabs her, pulling her off the field for some semblance of cover at the equipment shed. “Just finish,” she says. “It doesn’t matter now.”
Cho makes a noise halfway between laughter and sobbing. “Don’t watch.” And she’s trying to unbuckle her uniform but it’s complicated – there’s a bit like garters that holds up the heavy canvas trousers, and Cho’s fingers don’t work right in the cold. Her pink skin is going goosebumped, and her fingers slip from the brass buckles. A long streak of wetness darkens her thigh further.
And Angelina means to turn away but – she doesn’t. She wants to help, she wants to watch, she doesn’t even know her own intentions with Cho but she’s reaching in, putting her hands over Cho’s so their fingers warm each other’s enough to begin undoing the buckles.
But then, another whimper, and Cho is pulling away but she’s pressed up against the equipment shed and there’s just nowhere to go. And then there’s a heavy stain blooming across her narrow hips, her lean thighs. “Please don’t watch,” she reiterates, and then she’s slumping backwards, letting her head fall back. She’s not fighting it anymore. Her trousers grow dark in dripping streams, clinging to her legs. The wet patch may even steam a bit in the cold. Angelina wants to touch it. But she’s watching Cho’s face as well, the way her rose mouth quivers and the beginnings of tears cling to her eyelashes. And Angelina is an arsehole, for finding this erotic.
Cho shudders with each wave of urine that washes down her legs. The liquid pools at the fabric’s folds at her knees and ankles, making irregular patches, but Angelina thinks Cho’s trousers are going to be soaked in their entirety by the end anyway. “I’ve never done this before,” Cho whispers, miserable.
“It’s okay. Really.”
“It’s not,” Cho says, and she’s sort of sniffling and sort of laughing. She doesn’t seem to mind Angelina still standing before her, unabashedly watching. “It’s just… childish.”
Angelina makes a face. “There are far worse things to be than childish. Are you finished?”
Scarlet, Cho’s entire face goes scarlet at this question, which is invasive and patronizing and… cute. Angelina sort of wants to bang Cho and sort of wants to cuddle her and it’s very confusing. “Yeah,” Cho mutters, crossing her soaked legs over one another as though she could possibly cover the damage. “The rain slickers….”
But Angelina is stepping in again, her hands on the waistband of Cho’s trousers. “You should probably get out of these. You’ll freeze.”
“Ugh, don’t touch me, I’m disgusting.” When Angelina makes a noncommittal noise, Cho’s thin eyebrows go all the way up. “Am I not?”
“Do I look disgusted?” Angelina asks, and then in a smooth motion she’s dropping to her knees onto the pitch.
And Cho laughs, and gasps, and shivers, and all of it spears Angelina with lust. She runs her hands along the soaking uniform – heavy, steaming fabric under which she can feel Cho’s legs tensing. “You are wild, Johnson,” Cho says, and again they’re both trying hopelessly to undo the buckles that hold the uniform together.
“Tell me you want this.”
“What is… this?”
Please say Cedric gave you head sometimes, Angelina does not say. It’s no secret Harry was hopeless with girls when he and Cho were dating, but Cedric had unmatched game. “This is cunnilingus, Ms. Chang,” Angelina says in her poshest tone. “I think you’ll like it.”
“But I just – “ Scarlet, again. “You don’t want me in your mouth like this.”
“Obviously I do. Now take off your uniform before it bloody freezes on you.”
It still takes both of them, undoing the buckles on either side. Cho’s knickers are a deep red, and deeper where the circle of moisture arches over her mons pubis with its sparse, dark hair. Angelina first presses her palm to the wet spot, then her tongue. Cho shrieks with incredulous laughter.
And finally Angelina is tugging her knickers down her legs. “Beautiful,” she breathes, leaning close so her warm breath ghosts across Cho’s pussy. This elicits a fantastic shudder, and so Angelina does it again, breathing warm air between her legs. She’s wet, and she’s new to this but her eyes are dark with desire. Angelina ducks her head and presses her tongue to Cho’s pussy, using it to nudge her lips apart and then to lap at the moisture in the center.
Cho is louder than Angelina would have ever expected her to be, and it’s fantastic. “Oh – oh my god – “ Her hand is scrambling, finding purchase in Angelina’s braids, using her grip to shove Angelina’s face deeper between her legs. And when Angelina laughs with her mouth still enveloping Cho’s cunt, the vibration makes her buck, and it is adorable.
Cho is slick, and Angelina presses the tip of her tongue inside her, lapping at the briny wetness. She pushes her tongue flat, scrubbing it up against Cho’s clit, and the resulting moan is electrifying. And then Angelina is fumbling with her own uniform, shoving her hand down her pants to touch herself as she pulls Cho close, slurping at her. She curves two fingers inside herself, rubbing hard.
And then Cho is quivering hard, and Angelina is obligated to cup her arse, holding her close as she shivers and bucks. And then – “Oh – gods – fuck me – “ And Cho’s spine arches as Angelina scrubs her tongue against her clit, watching her ride through the pleasure as her moisture fills Angelina’s mouth. It is delicious, and she is delicious to watch. Not even lifting her mouth, gasping her own desire against the shell of Cho’s cunt, Angelina curls in on herself as orgasm seizes her. She thrusts her fingers deep inside herself, and the wave of pleasure explodes outward, warming her fingers and toes as she jerks against her own hand. It is exquisite.
And when the haze of it lifts, Angelina finds that Cho’s still got her hand in her braids, even as she’s now slumped back against the shed, breathing hard. Angelina sits back, satisfied to just look at her.
And Cho somehow flushes even deeper when she lifts her gaze to meet Angelina’s. “Er. Thank you?” she offers. Adorable. “I didn’t know you did… that.”
Angelina arches her eyebrows, amused. “That. Pretty well, then?”
“Yeah.” And Cho’s awkwardly pulling her uniform back up her legs, wincing as the wet parts of the fabric hug her body. The stain along her trousers is still prominent; Angelina rolls standing in order to open the shed. “In the back, to your right,” she directs as Cho goes looking for a rain slicker.
And she re-emerges with a coat nearly touching the ground, covering her wet clothing, and wasn’t that a pity. And then she gifts Angelina with a brilliant smile, and it’s all okay. They walk close together for warmth as they head back toward the girls’ locker rooms.
(uhhh hi, sorry, obviously we've overshot November by about 5 months by now. I'm going to continue adding to this collection though, I still enjoy writing for it. Subscribe, you'll get irregular updates but there will be updates. Thanks!)
Chapter 10: Too Busy to Go – Percy/Scrimgeour
The pairing nobody asked for. Shades of ddlb in this one.
Percy had been an exemplary Ministry employee. He’d wanted this, he’d made sacrifices, and now he was the youngest ever Undersecretary to the Minister. He worked well with Scrimgeour, who had none of Fudge’s bluster and twice his competence. Percy respected his steeliness. It should make Britain feel safe again.
Percy runs himself ragged, but he loves it. Typically. On this day, however – it’s a lot. He hasn’t stopped all day, literally. He’d shoved a pasty in his mouth as he’d run to a meeting with the Norwegian secretary of defense. He’d had meetings scheduled in a single block across the rest of his afternoon. Right now he is just sticking his head in a floo to meet with the CFO of one of mage Britain’s largest NGOs. He conjures a pillow beneath his knees and shoves his head in the grate.
He needs to piss.
The full force of his need hits him a few long minutes into the meeting. The CFO is a spirited sort who speaks more than he listens, so Percy can quietly grit his teeth. His lower half feels odd and heavy, and the dull ache stretched across his hips is distracting.
After another few minutes he’s got one hand wandering between his legs, gripping himself in intervals. He’s not sure it really helps – and god, what would anyone think if they entered Percy’s office now to find him touching himself while on a floo call. But his hand is pressed very tightly between his legs. He plasters on a thoughtful, engaged smile on his face.
And after another few minutes, there’s a sharp jolt that grabs him from the inside, squeezing at his bladder. When he chokes back a gasp, the CFO pauses at his reaction for only a moment. “Doubled our donors in eight years,” he repeats proudly, as though Percy’s reaction had been in response. And really it is an impressive feat but Percy does not care at this moment. “The spring gala at Stonehenge was fantastic, brought in a lot of young people….”
And then Percy feels a drop of moisture hit his pants. His smile is probably more of a rictus.
He is a professional. A young professional, who’s fought hard for his position, and he’s not about to run out on this meeting. He’d also like to not wet his pants in his office, but, well.
Another bit of wetness spills along his thigh.
“We’d like to talk about providing you with new donors,” Percy says, the lines he’d practiced in his head this morning. “Traditional families, and ones that have particular interest in how precisely their money is utilized. But if we might arrange a meeting – “
A streak of urine warms his inner thigh. He does his best to disregard it. And then the CFO is reciting their own donor ethics, and Percy is nodding along as one, two, three drops hit his pants in quick succession.
He’s not going to make it.
The inevitability is itself a strange feeling. He’s not able to relax enough to go, but the warmth that is now wetting his pants is a minor inconvenience, a hardship to be overcome. Percy squares his shoulders and reaches for his most winning, confident demeanor.
And then it becomes a long, slow stream into his trousers. They’re a nice wool, soft and heavy as they cling to Percy’s thighs. He’s still touching himself, as though to cover the wet spot if not to actually stop himself any longer. His fingers cup moisture close to himself. The stream threatens to drip through his fingers, and it’s already nearly reached his knees. He is going to have to destroy this pillow.
And finally he gives up. He can think again, as he’s urinating hard now. His stream sprays off his soaked briefs, pooling momentarily at the lowest part near his balls before draining into his trousers. He can only smile and nod as he disgraces himself, and it’s shameful that it feels so fucking good.
When he finishes, he badly wants a wank.
His hand is rubbing circles along the front of his soaked trousers without Percy really being aware of it. He doesn’t even stop himself. He hasn’t gotten off in – god, maybe a week? There had been times in his career that he’d gone so long that he’d actually reverted to having wet dreams. Percy lives an ascetic life sometimes.
So he’s half-hard, erection pressing into the warm front of his trousers, and he’d swear he’s just able to be much more attentive now than he’d been at the meeting’s outset. And he gets the CFO to a rather agreeable position within the next quarter hour, courting this batty old woman who would otherwise be leaving her estate to the opposition party, and then they wish each other goodnight. Percy sits back, withdrawing from the floo.
Scrimgeour had taken a seat at Percy’s desk. Who knows how long he’d been listening. Watching.
“Minister,” Percy says. There’s no excuse, no way to hide the dark stain down his legs. He wasn’t in his robe – he found it unwieldy in a floo call, and anyway he thinks he looks charmingly industrious in shirt sleeves. He’s climbing to his feet, moving quickly to retrieve his robe hung on the coat rack by the door.
When he is near enough, though, Scrimgeour grabs him by the waist. “Percy,” he says in a tone of – affectionate pity? Is that a feeling? “You poor boy.”
“Minister. I should really go. The meeting went well. I assume you heard it.” He’s concentrating on keeping his voice steady, his shoulders back. Scrimgeour couldn’t sack him for this exactly, but Percy knows he will never be taken seriously again. He might as well resign.
“I did,” Scrimgeour agrees. “Percy, I didn’t realize I had overburdened you quite this much. You are so exceptionally dedicated. I apologize.”
“You haven’t overburdened me. I….” But there’s no excuse he wants to offer. He falls quiet.
“It is my job to manage your time. Clearly I’ve done that poorly.” And then he’s pressing a hand to the front of Percy’s trousers, where he’s still half-hard. “Ah,” Scrimgeour says, upon finding his erection beneath the fabric. “Allow me to make it up to you.”
“Minister, please – “ But he doesn’t mean it badly. His hips thrust forward into the touch.
Scrimgeour’s hands are large and warm. He undoes the button fly, pressing his fingers in. Percy’s cock twitches. Scrimgeour smiles at the reaction.
And then it’s rather straightforward, as handjobs go – not that Percy’s gotten or given a great many, but if he allows himself to go to a pub far enough away to be unknown, he can usually procure something in the men’s room. His cock is dark and heavy when Scrimgeour pulls it out of his fly, and the Minister’s appreciative murmur makes Percy’s head swim.
Scrimgeour rubs his palm along the underside, twists his fingers around the shaft. Percy has one hand braced on his desk for support, because his legs no longer work. He’s missed this sort of touch, but to have the Minister of Magic servicing him in particular is… exquisite. He loves this.
Scrimgeour pumps him until Percy is babbling nonsense – “Oh – oh good Merlin Morgana and Circe – faster, like – like that – “
And then he is coming, a flood that comes on so fast that he hadn’t had time to step back. The broad white stripe that now mars Scrimgeour’s dark robe is amazing. Other spatters fall to the rug. And there is only a bit spilled across Scrimgeour’s fingers, but when he lifts his hand to casually suck it off, Percy shudders as though he could come again. At last he lets him go; Percy falls back along his desk for support.
“So you might think on all this with a clearer head,” Scrimgeour says easily, as though he hasn’t just gotten his immediate subordinate off. “I am sorry for not recognizing your limits.”
“Please don’t apologize.” Percy’s voice is still sort of hazy. He can’t find his professional tone at the moment.
Scrimgeour cleans up with a mere wave of his wand – the ejaculate and the wet mess of Percy’s trousers, all immediately clean again. “I think it might be better if I were to look after your needs directly.”
A clever look. “Precisely.”
They negotiate it that same evening. They typically end the day with a private meeting anyway, so this one runs long. Also, Percy ends up on his knees before Scrimgeour by the end – not fellatio, just Scrimgeour’s hand running through Percy’s hair as though he’s a beloved child. It is nice.
Scrimgeour tells him that Percy must ask permission to use the facilities, or he will go as Scrimgeour requires it of him. He’ll also be required to eat on schedule – “I assume you’re not,” Scrimgeour chides, and of course he’s right. And each of their nightly meetings will be conducted with Percy kneeling along Scrimgeour’s desk.
He loves these ideas. He loves his job, he loves authority as a whole, and he really wants – this. To be looked after. It seems sweet.
So the next day, Percy arrives at Scrimgeour’s office at 1 pm, as they had agreed. Scrimgeour is only just getting in too – he’d had a meeting with the Aurors this morning, and he had a corresponding one with the DMLE this afternoon – but when he locks the door behind them, the space becomes something different, something quiet, a respite.
Scrimgeour unpins his cloak. “Do you need to urinate?”
Percy goes scarlet, he feels the blush erupt across his face at the blunt question. “… Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Scrimgeour conjures food on his desk – meat pies, fruit, a pitcher of water. “If I may tell you about the Aurors’ meeting?”
“Of course, sir.” Percy pulls out his memo pad and takes a seat across from Scrimgeour.
Lunch is good, if quick. And when it’s finished, Scrimgeour charms open his private loo. “Go use the toilet,” he says, probably just to see Percy blush again. “And leave the door open, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Percy gets to his feet. And in the loo, he catches sight of his reflection – which is similarly red, but also quirks an eyebrow at him as though to comment on how bloody kinky he’s apparently gotten. And then it takes a few long moments of gazing at the ceiling before he’s able to let go. The sound of liquid on liquid seems impossibly loud.
When he exits, Scrimgeour is pulling on his cloak once more, but he pauses to step in close, running a hand along Percy’s smooth cheek. “Good boy,” he says warmly, and it just feels so fucking fantastic. “Do you feel better?”
“Yes.” Not that he’d felt poorly before, but the question is sweet. He likes it.
“Good. Would you look at the goblins’ trust bylaws this afternoon? And the new legislation on identity magic must be signed by every Wizengamot member, and about half of them would sooner chew off their own hands….”
Percy’s mouth twitches in a smile. “Yes, sir.”
“Tonight,” Scrimgeour promises laconically, and goes.
Sometimes Scrimgeour doesn’t have time to join him for lunch. On these days Percy must first urinate – they progress from Scrimgeour listening in his office to watching in the doorway, but he won’t touch Percy here. And when he has relieved himself, Percy must sit behind Scrimgeour’s desk and eat a full meal. Scrimgeour tells him he’s a good, beautiful boy who deserves the world, and Percy takes it all in greedily. It makes his days more pleasant. It feels illicit, and all the better for it.
And then there’s the first day in which Percy enters Scrimgeour’s office for lunch in which Scrimgeour doesn’t offer him the loo. Percy waits – he is so patient – and Scrimgeour only takes a seat behind his desk and motions Percy before him. “Could you wait?” he asks.
“Until this evening?”
No, but what else would he be able to say? “I believe so.” Percy tugs his trousers over his knees as he sits, curious what this is coming to.
They discuss budgets for education in the upcoming year – Dumbledore is being quite intransigent this year, more than usual – and nothing more is said of the loo. And then Percy departs for a meeting with the department of magical beasts, just a bit more aware of his urgency than he’d like to be.
It grows worse with the afternoon. His belly feels strange and distended. It is an exercise in control – multiple types, he supposes – as he must be ever more aware of his posture and his expression in order to hide his need. In the few moments in which he is alone, he allows himself a brief grip through his pocket. And by late in the afternoon, he is tempted to call it off and step into the loo for a moment. But… he doesn’t.
It’s half past five when he re-enters Scrimgeour’s office, half-gritting his teeth and walking with a certain urgency in his step. “Sir,” he says as soon as the door is shut firmly, “may I please use the loo?”
Scrimgeour arches his eyebrows, amused at Percy’s bluntness. Percy is never blunt with him, not even for as long as they’ve had this… arrangement? Whatever it might be called. “I’m sure you could wait a bit longer. Please sit down.”
He does. If he weren’t wearing robes, it would be obvious how tightly he’s keeping his thighs together. He extracts his moleskine from an inner pocket to exchange notes on their respective afternoons.
Or, he intended to. Halfway through explaining the newest regulations proposed on occamies, Percy must stop abruptly, as a pang of desperation makes him curl over on himself. “Sir – “
“Percy.” Scrimgeour’s voice is very low. Percy is Percy in private, he’s Weasley when they are in public, so a bit of affection blooms even within Percy’s frantic state. “You may not ask again.”
He is not going to make it. They both know it. Percy sets his jaw and adjusts his posture. “Yes, sir.”
But at last, he can feel himself slipping. A flash of panic, and then another, and then he might have lost the first drop into his pants. He is struggling to speak: “Occamy eggs could be sold for research purposes since 1968, but the new proposal – ahh – “ The first few drops roll down his inner thigh. He’s gripping the arm of his chair, ready to vault up and into the loo.
“Stay,” Scrimgeour instructs. As though he’s a dog, some wildly loyal and obedient animal. Percy likes the idea, but at this moment it takes quite a lot of effort to release the arm of the chair and settle backwards again. “And open your robes.”
He swallows and sets aside his notebook in order to undo the buttons. He can scarcely keep his fingers from shaking as he pops each button open, revealing his dress shirt and then his woolen trousers. They aren’t wet, yet, but soon they will be. He lets his robes fall open on either side of him, and then takes a moment to regain his place in his notes. “The new proposal expands the definition of research, from solely medical endeavors to any of – “ And then he shoves a hand against his mouth, as a long stream is forced out of his cock. It hurts, the desperation hurts and he doesn’t know why he’s still fighting it. “To any research of scientific merit,” he mutters around his fist, and then he’s plunging a hand between his legs, squeezing to impede this inevitable accident.
“Please go, before you hurt yourself.”
“… Yes, sir.”
And since he’d been barely holding back anyway, instantly he’s letting go, and a stain spreads across his lap, around the creases of his pockets and down beneath his arse. He’s looking down at his own lap because he can’t look at Scrimgeour, who is watching him regardless. All the tension in his belly uncoils, and he’s shifting in terrible embarrassment as though he could cover the wet spot that now glistens in his lap. His fist is still pressed to his mouth.
He urinates hard, an entire day’s worth of desperation soaking through his trousers, into his robe, into the upholstered chair beneath him. It is warm, as though the space between his thighs is steaming, and when he shifts he wrings out urine that then runs down the back of his legs. He is a disaster. He can’t stop himself.
And then Scrimgeour has circled the desk, coming beside him to put a firm hand across his shoulders, to murmur what a good boy he’s being, it’s alright, just finish and we’ll clean you up. Percy allows his eyelids to flutter closed for a moment, soaking up the attention. He feels Scrimgeour’s fingers stroking his hair, through his curls that had been forced into submission with charms and potions, and he allows his head to fall against Scrimgeour’s side.
His wetting becomes a ticklish stream down his thighs, no longer so desperate, but he knows he cannot stop until he’s finished. He forces his breathing to be slow and deliberate, far from the panicked gasps he’d been sucking in earlier. The patters of liquid hitting the rug seem louder. And when he is finished, he drops a hand to the front of his ruined trousers, pressing the sopping fabric against himself. But he won’t get off, yet.
“Thank you,” Scrimgeour says quietly. “For your loyalty. Your obedience.”
Percy swallows, still dazed. “Of course, sir.”
“When I next tell you I haven’t got time to let you into the loo, that you’ll have to go in your pants, you will be able to do that for me?”
His eyes practically roll back in his head at the thought. Perfectly poised, pissing into his trousers in front of everyone because he’s been told to, and he is so very good…. “Yes, I believe I would.”
Scrimgeour ruffles his hair with unprofessional affection. Then, stepping in, he sinks to the wet carpet before Percy. Percy must be looking at him with horror, because Scrimgeour makes a noise of amusement. “Allow me to finish you off. You have earned it. And Percy, relax.”
The Minister’s mouth is warm and soft. Percy practically melts as soon as Scrimgeour’s lips close around his erection, and he grips the arms of his chair so as not to plunge his hands into the Minister’s hair, to pull him close and sodomize his mouth.
He doesn’t last long. He’s been wound too tight, for too long. He’s biting back gasps and groans, and Scrimgeour’s mouth is working at him expertly, pressed flat at the sensitive underside of his cock and scrubbing until Percy sobs. And when he’s ready to come, he tries tries tries to jerk himself backwards, so he’s not spilling ejaculate into the Minister’s mouth, but he’s already pressed against the back of his chair and there’s just nowhere to go. With a full body shudder, he spurts hotly across Scrimgeour’s tongue.
And after a moment of stillness, Scrimgeour is picking himself up off the floor, and Percy is still a bit too dazed to even offer his assistance. “Shall I…?” Percy makes a gesture, his hand slack, to indicate some sort of reciprocity.
“Not today, dear boy.”
So Percy is fishing his wand from his robes, casting clean-up spells to do away with the residual stickiness. But perhaps next time he’d leave it. He likes the idea of going about the office like that, pants clinging to him as a secret beneath his robes. Perhaps, tomorrow, he will suggest it.
Chapter 11: Teased by Water – Hermione/Pansy
She’d just been too busy. Hermione was always too busy, wasn’t she?
She’s in Potions now, NEWTs level with both seventh and eighth years. The school year had been tentative starting off, and there were a lot of fights and a lot of residual traumatic moments and a lot of reparations that needed to be made. But most of the students who hadn’t been welcome as Muggleborn last year were catching up now. And most of the Slytherins… against all odds most of them had returned too, to a place understandably hostile to them. Minerva had asked them back specifically so as not to deepen the chasm any further, and Snape had insisted they come back because it wouldn’t do to have an entire generation of Slytherins fall into the underclass of wizards without a proper education.
So that’s how Hermione came to be working with her back (probably unwisely) to Pansy Parkinson.
Snape’s entire throat was covered in scar tissue, and it made his tone even more foreboding as he had lectured on today’s potion, a diagnostic for pregnancy. Hermione worked alone now – Harry and Ron hadn’t returned to Hogwarts, and NEWTs levels were meant to test proficiency so Snape was of the opinion that paired work was of limited value in this class. So Hermione is slicing swan feathers down the center as she works her tongue between her teeth. She needs the loo, she’d gotten sidetracked at lunch and forgotten, and now there’s simply no time to step away from her potion to go. She might be standing a bit more hunched than normal, but nobody would notice.
Then Pansy makes a tiny click of her tongue behind her. And when Hermione (again, unwisely) looks up, Pansy arches her dark eyebrows and lifts her measuring cup of purified water much higher than she must, pouring it in a dramatic arc into her cauldron. The sharp sound of liquid on liquid makes Hermione go a bit warm.
“Problem, Granger?” Pansy murmurs, her gaze raking down Hermione’s slightly-hunched form.
“Concentrate on your own work,” Hermione says, instead of answering the question. She turns back around.
The Potions class is probably the worst class in which to be desperate, fluids bubbling and sloshing everywhere. Hermione shoves her tongue tighter against her teeth, biting the tip of it to distract herself. Her desperation is beginning to hurt in earnest, tendrils of panic curling from her stomach to between her legs.
She’s scanning the instructions now. Did this potion have a resting period? Stasis spells were tricky on potions – it would make them curdle more often than not – but perhaps she could reach the next long rest…. Padma was the nearest thing she had to a friend in this class, though she was working on the other side of the room, but if she could just keep an eye on Hermione’s cauldron while she ran out…?
Of course, it was a Thursday, which meant all the girls’ toilets had rearranged themselves to be on the second and third floors. It’d take too long, Hermione must be honest with herself, not that Snape would have likely excused her anyway.
It’s only another hour. She can make it an hour.
But when Hermione is popping open the first furpod to pick out its seeds, there’s a trickle of liquid hitting the stone floor behind her. She throws her thighs tightly together as she whips around.
Pansy’s not even looking back at her, but she’s got her wand out, casting a slow Aguamenti that drips from the tip. “Stop that,” Hermione hisses, and in that moment she knows she has lost, that everyone always loses as soon as they snap at Pansy.
So Pansy throws a mischievous grin over her shoulder, her sharp canines glinting. “Concentrate on your own work, Granger. Maybe it’ll make the time go by faster.”
Drip. Drip. Drip. The stones at their feet glisten with the spilled water. Hermione’s got her own wand out, casting a quick Tergeo, and she would have disarmed Pansy as well, but she knows Pansy would throw a tantrum, draw everyone’s attention, and maybe even tell the class Hermione’s secret.
God, they share a secret.
She is shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her hands curling into fists even as she tries to pull the velvety seeds from their pods. She feels heavy, weighted down. She is finding it hard to concentrate.
And then her twat quivers, and she’s clenching everything between her legs to keep from losing control. Small uncontrollable spasms, again and again and then – she loses just a bit of wee into her clothes.
She’s never done this before. Never. It doesn’t matter that robes can contain any multitude of secrets, that everyone is absorbed in their own work anyway, or that she can simply Tergeo her knickers dry when she gets to the loo in a bit. She is not a person who has – accidents.
What a terrible word.
And then – thunk. Pansy has moved her cauldron to Hermione’s table, relighting the flame beneath it, and apparently she intends to work serenely beside Hermione for a better show. “Go away,” Hermione says between her teeth.
“Should I watch your potion while you run out?” Pansy asks sweetly.
“No.” She is desperate, not stupid.
But her thighs ache from being pressed together so tightly, and in her twat she feels a hundred tiny shocks as her bladder presses down harder. And then another spill of urine, and Hermione ducks her head, squeezing her eyes shut as a full body wave of pain washes through her.
Her eyes are open, and Pansy’s fucking casting Aguamenti again. It is a testament to how fucked Hermione is, that she thought it might have been the sound of her own wee on the floor. But no – Pansy’s wand dangles between her shimmering nails, as though she doesn’t even care. Drip, drip.
“Do you do this to yourself on purpose, Granger?” Pansy asks, just a bit too loudly. “Some sort of martyrdom?”
Hermione’s hand closes in a fist around the furpods. “Of course not.”
“I bet you told yourself you were just too busy to go, that you’d rather spend your time in the library or some muck.” Pansy lifts a delicate golden whisk, stirring her own potion so it sloshes up the sides a bit. The wet sounds are… obscene. “You like to think you endure much more than everybody else, don’t you?”
Piss off is hardly the best choice of words at this moment, but then another spasm jolts Hermione’s lower belly and she can’t say anything at all. Her underwear grows warm, clinging to her. She throws the beans into her potion too hard, and it spits back an unhappy puff of smoke at her. Her jaw hurts from being clenched.
“Oh would you – “ She moves fiercely to grab Pansy’s wand from her stupid hand.
“Ah – “ Pansy pulls it back, grinning. “Careful, sweetheart. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
Another stream spills from between her labia, and this time she can feel the moisture creeping down her thighs. “What are you getting out of this?” Hermione asks, in a tone that she hope implies that Pansy is disgusting.
But Pansy is unmoved. “I would like to see you break down. For once.”
It’s sharp and mocking and somehow also sincere. And when Pansy is popping open the button of Hermione’s robe just over her crotch, Hermione doesn’t stop her. “Be careful,” she mutters, but they’re shielded by the tall tables for the moment.
And then Pansy is pressing her polished fingers into the gap in the fabric, finding Hermione’s thigh, inching forward until she feels moisture at the inner seam. A click of her tongue. “Poor thing,” she says. “Why don’t you finish?”
Hermione is attempting to look normal, like she’s not being almost-fingered in the middle of potions class. “Because this potion has another half hour,” she snaps.
Pansy’s laugh is a hot puff on her neck. “Not the potion.”
Her entire lower half is stretched and tense and critical. Her thighs are clammy by now. She will have to throw out these leggings, she wouldn’t be able to bring herself to wear them again. And urine still spills out of her, again and again, tiny shocks that pool in her knickers and then wick down her thighs.
She’s working as fast as she can: furbeans, moonseed, whisk and whisk and whisk. She’s bent double – anyone who looked at her now would know, that she’s doing a very poor job being subtle at this moment. At least Pansy’s pulled her hand from between Hermione’s legs, and she’s now giving her own potion half the attention it requires.
Finally, a strong spurt into her knickers, then: drip, drip, drip. The liquid pools somewhere around her knees, spilling out of the saturated fabric and onto the stone floor.
At this, Pansy actually sinks onto a stool. “Holy fuck, Granger.”
She’s going to snap back that she will obliviate Pansy the next time she catches her alone, but – Pansy’s tone is not even a little bit mocking. It is, however, very interested. Hermione gives her a wary look, unsure where this is going next.
But Pansy knows, because Pansy always knows. A curve of her mouth with her perfect lipstick: “Split your potion with me so we can leave early. I’ll get you off.”
A deep blush surges from Hermione’s cheeks all the way to her heart. Pansy hadn’t said it loudly, exactly, but nor had she whispered it. They shouldn’t be getting away with this. “What is the matter with you,” Hermione mutters, but nevertheless takes the second vial from Pansy.
Her accident never becomes full-blown, just her bladder spasming to empty itself in small streams that make her underwear grow warm, again and again. She’s pulled her hair in front of her face, lest anyone see how fiercely she’s blushing and somehow guess what’s happening beneath her robes. Pansy has sat back, watching with delight as she squirms.
Finally, her potion has turned an acceptable shade of teal, and she uncorks both vials. “He’ll know if I just give you the same one,” Hermione mutters: she bottles one, then gives the cauldron another three clockwise stirs to get a slightly different shade of teal, and bottles another. “There.” She shoves one of them at Pansy.
Pansy, predictably, switches bottles with her. “Cheers.”
And Hermione rolls her eyes at her. “You owe me.” Still, she’s shoving her things in her bag faster than she’s ever moved before, charming her cauldron clean. Her twat thrums between her legs, desperate for… something she’s never done before.
They depart separately, leaving their vials on Snape’s desk and murmuring “Good afternoon” as they exit. And when they regroup in the corridor, Hermione finds her stomach going fluttery with nerves.
Pansy glances over at her as they walk. “You look like you’re being kidnapped, calm down.”
“I – “ She’s still desperate, and she’s nervous, and she’s fairly ambivalent about getting propositioned by Pansy bloody Parkinson. “Where are you taking me?”
Pansy snorts. “Like that. And to our dorm. Of course.”
Of course. Pansy’s heels click on the stone floor, and Hermione isn’t shorter than Pansy but she’s got to hurry to keep up, somehow. And then they reach a blank wall at the end of a passageway. “Runespoor,” Pansy says, and then jabs a nail to Hermione’s sternum. “You use that….”
Hermione slaps her hand away. “What would I use it for? Just – hurry up.”
Inside, the Slytherin dorm is quiet, with everyone at class. Millicent Bulstrode is the only other 8th year girl in Slytherin, and Hermione doesn’t know her schedule but she hopes like hell that she’s out and far far away from her dorm now.
Pansy brings Hermione to a dorm like the others, except much smaller, with just two beds. She does not reassure Hermione that they will be alone. “Here.” She half-shoves Hermione onto her bed, a fur throw covering the green silk duvet.
Instinctively Hermione crosses her knees, feeling self-conscious that her wet knickers are going to leave a stain on the back of her skirt. “I really still need the loo.”
Pansy, who’d been pulling something from her wardrobe, pauses. “Obviously.”
“I just – “ Hermione hates feeling this off-kilter, shy, uncertain. She squares her shoulders. “You want me to – urinate on you, then.” She wasn’t stupid, she knew it was a thing people did, but Pansy is just so – prissy.
“No, sweetheart, I want you to hold it. Are you a squirter?”
Pansy tosses a vibrator onto the throw fur beside Hermione. It’s surprisingly modern-looking, not some Victorian steam-powered monstrosity like Hermione might have expected the magical world to have. “We’ll find out soon.”
Hermione is crossing her legs, over and over. Her twat is pressed very tight between her thighs. She really wants to touch herself.
And then Pansy is striding up to her, popping open the buttons of her robes without decorum. Hermione grabs the fabric closed, glaring. “Is the door locked?” she asks pointedly.
A sharp smile. “No.”
A thrill shoots up her spine. She moves to undress Pansy in turn. Pansy’s robes are nicer than her own, and Hermione thinks how fantastic it would feel to pop off some of the heavy buttons, but for now she is careful. Pansy sinks onto the bed before her.
But when Hermione’s robes slip from her shoulders, Pansy gives a breathy little laugh. “Oh, Granger.” Fingers on her tights now, the wet stains spreading from beneath her skirt down to her knees. The lines are irregular, winding along her thighs, and it is humiliating to have this obvious indication of failure spread across her lap. She reaches to tug her skirt down, then stops herself. “Good girl,” Pansy croons, and Hermione goes very hot.
And then they’re peeling off Hermione’s tights, letting them drop to the floor. Pansy’s hand ventures up her skirt a bit, fingering the wet fabric of her panties before flipping up her skirt entirely. Dark cotton knickers, darker where she’s weed through them. She is flushing. “I need to undress you, too,” she says.
“Do you, though?” And then Pansy is pushing her backwards, her knees apart, and Hermione thinks with a sick thrill that this is actually happening. She and Ron have done… things before, inexpertly, but he never moved with this sort of confidence.
And then Pansy’s got one hand cupping Hermione’s twat, the heel of her hand rubbing at her clit, as the other pushes her knee outward. Hermione had intended for them to undress at the same time, so it could all be equal, so she wouldn’t feel any more exposed than Pansy did. But somehow Pansy is still dressed and Hermione’s on her back with legs splayed. It is quite unfair.
“Are your tits worth looking at, too?” Pansy asks. “Nobody can tell, you know, with those horrid jumpers you like.”
“Piss off,” Hermione mutters, even as she’s quietly marveling that Pansy had apparently – checked her out before? How long had this been a thing? “Are your tits worth looking at?”
Pansy flashes her a sharp smile. “You know they are.” Sitting back (and Hermione could groan when the touch is gone from her clit), Pansy pulls her gauzy blouse over her head.
Seeing the swell of Pansy’s breasts, Hermione feels a deep shudder. “Take it off,” she says. Her voice sounds deeper than it ever does.
Pansy unclasps her bra, slinging it aside, and Hermione needs to touch her. First cupping her heavy breast, then sitting up to put her mouth around her nipple. She scrubs her tongue against the nub until it hardens, and she is so so satisfied by Pansy’s little breathless laugh, maybe the most sincere reaction she’s gotten from her with all of this.
And then Pansy is leaning in, pushing Hermione back onto her sheets, leaning over her. She shoves Hermione’s shirt up and her bra down ungracefully, fingering her dark nipples until Hermione whimpers. “Good girl,” Pansy says, wry and entertained. And then her hand is back on Hermione’s cunt – thank god – fingering her wetness out of her.
Reaching over, Pansy takes up the vibrator then, flicking it on with a spell. It’s loud – Hermione had always used sound-damping spells on her own, as well as silencing charms around her bed – but Pansy does neither of those. Smearing Hermione’s own wetness up her vulva, she presses the vibrator to her.
Immediately Hermione jerks back into the mattress, all sensation in her body vacating to between her legs. Fuck. She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling her legs seized as she’s overwhelmed by the sensation.
Pansy tilts the vibrator upward, keeping it on her clit as she’s fingering Hermione again. And as she’s twisting her fingers in roughly, Hermione feels a contraction, and then she’s squirting urine, warm fluid dribbling down her twat and her arsehole. “Ohh – “
And Pansy laughs, shoving her fingers into the same spot again, pushing the heel of her hand against her. “Disgusting,” she pronounces, even as she coaxes out another squirt, one that wets her palm. “You dirty bitch, what are you doing to my bed.”
At least it’s only Pansy’s bed, Hermione thinks in a daze.
Another leak. She’s still desperate, even as arousal had held off the worst of it for a bit. She’s clenching, quivering. Her skin is goosebumped, crawling with all these feelings.
Pansy’s hands work expertly, until Hermione grabs her and pulls her low. “Ahh – “And then their torsos are pressed together, faces too close, and Hermione is catching Pansy’s red lips in her own.
“Bloody romantic,” Pansy mutters, twisting her fingers inside Hermione in rebuke. But then she’s shifting her lower half, spreading her legs, pressing herself against the vibrator as well. They grind, caught up in the rough lust of it all.
Every motion induces a tiny shock within Hermione, but she’s too swollen to piss now. It feels really really good, somehow, everything tight and desperate and aching inside her.
Pansy’s curling her fingers against Hermione’s g-spot, rubbing the vibrator between them both, and Hermione’s fingers are gripping Pansy’s upper arms until her pale skin is scored. “Oh – oh my god – “ She feels herself cresting to orgasm, Pansy shoving her fingers deep into her twat –
“Ahh – “ Her orgasm makes her buck and buck, shoving herself against the vibrator, into Pansy’s hand, and Pansy herself is close too, Hermione can tell by the tension in her legs. “Oh – fuck – “ And then one deep pulse of her orgasm pushes a strong stream out, and she can’t even pretend she’s squirting, she’s just –
“Granger,” Pansy admonishes, her voice husky. She says it in a teasing way, though, and it feels wonderful. The bedsheets are growing warm and wet beneath them, as Hermione can’t stop herself. Pansy’s hand must be getting soaked, she thinks faintly, and this induces a new shudder of arousal. And then she can feel Pansy arch, her breathing going shallow – she slips her hands down to grab Pansy’s hips as she jerks –
“Fuck,” Pansy says, sotto voce, as she arches and shudders and finally collapses atop Hermione. She’s small, Hermione had never really noticed it until Pansy it on top of her, but for a moment they seem to fit together.
“God, my fucking bed,” Pansy mutters, sliding a hand beneath Hermione. “Have you finished?”
She flushes at this infantilizing question. “Yes.”
“Good.” Pansy smears her wet hand across Hermione’s torso. She’ll find it disgusting later, but right now she rather likes it. She likes – this, the utter shame of lying post-orgasmic in the sheets she’d just shamelessly wet.
But for both their sakes, she reaches for her wand, casting cleaning spells until the sheets are cool and dry again. Her tights are so clammy, she would rather just go back to her dorm bare-legged, so she shoves them into her bag. She puts her outfit back in order.
Pansy is still lounging, half-dressed. “Did you like your first time?” she asks sweetly.
This really wasn’t fair. It wasn’t, it wasn’t the first time someone else had gotten her off at least, but she catches the meaning. “Your vibrator did most of the work,” she says primly. Pansy only snickers.
They don’t make promises to do this again. They don’t say anything at all as Hermione gets out. But as she tugs the back of her robes to ensure they’re all smooth as she goes, she can feel Pansy’s gaze still upon her.