[personal profile] lrthunder82 posting in [community profile] hp_mhealthfest

I wake up with the feeling of a soft mouth closing around my nipple, sucking gently, and the thought of what is coming makes me whimper happily, wantonly. The distinctive, sensual, sex-charged musk of my man all over me sends a rush of blood up my cock, already at half-mast, and my body is instantly busy flaring to life under those long, skilled fingers. Oh, god, this is the best way to wake up… It’s been my way to wake up for over half a year now, and I hope I can keep it that way for all time. I think it’s safe to say that my blue-eyed, redheaded god is somewhat… insatiable, but it’s all right, really, because I can’t bloody get enough of him, either.

I swear, he made a sex addict out of me that very first evening half a year ago, when he took me to his room at his parents’ place. We never made it further than his childhood bed that night, and it was there that he introduced me to mind-altering love-making that made me a staunch believer in God and Heaven. I’ve never had anyone treat me – oh, Merlin’s big balls, suck me off, all right?! – the way he did. The way that sinful, delectable mouth spoiled me rotten and indulged my every depraved desire, was… oh, god, yes! I grow hot and bothered at the mere thought of what a messy, sloppy, gorgeous affair that first time was. It might have made me scream for more… a little bit. But only because I couldn’t help it!

It turned out that my decadent, loving redhead had a very distinct idea on how to make those happy memories he promised me. I think by now we must have baptised every room of the manor – and I suspect some bigger closets as well – with fucking so glorious that I can’t really go around my home anymore without blushing profusely at the thought of our past debauchery.

In the morning, he wakes me up with his persistent, delicious need that makes me smile like a loony throughout the day, and on weekends, he treats me to his most magical, full Hugo experience that leaves me with half a brain, and melted all over the sheets, wondering if I’ve just had a coronary and if I’ll ever walk again. Sometimes he rushes home during a lunch break and bends me over the nearest piece of furniture for a desperate, rough fuck I adore so much I’m ready to beg for it, and it leaves me barely able to function and stupidly happy for the rest of the day. Just a whispered hint of it in the morning – “Perhaps today I can make some time for you in the afternoon, love; will you be ready?” – makes my knees weak with anticipation. I make damn sure I’m groomed – and ready – for those afternoon visits.

But my favourite are our evenings. He’s all mine then; there’s no rush, nowhere to be, and he takes his precious time with me. He spreads me out in whatever room we happen to find ourselves in, and proceeds to make a slow job of undressing me, tasting me, spoiling me, marking me, fucking me until I fall apart in his arms, coming so hard I nearly sob with relief. And afterwards, he holds my boneless, exhausted, ridiculously sated body in his warm embrace, lulling me into a deep sleep that has no more room for nightmares. I rarely have any of those these days.

He was worried at one point that it was only because I was clinging to him so desperately – though he didn’t quite word it that way – so I grudgingly agreed to an experiment during which he went back to living with his parents for a few days. I didn’t have a single nightmare, not one. I was way too busy missing him like mad. When he fire-called merely four days after he left, his guilty expression visible even in the ashes, I barely let him finish his apologetic “You think we were apart for long enough? I miss you…”

Just the sight of that pretty face did it. I grabbed the nearest container of Floo powder and transported myself directly into the Weasleys’ living room, making Ron Weasley spill his evening cocoa all over himself.

“I didn’t have a single one!” I blurted out. “No nightmares. I swear. Please, come home. I miss you, too. And I want to…” I barely stopped myself before spelling out in front of his flabbergasted parent that I desperately wanted to hump him. That was the last time we spent a night apart. It was ridiculous how bad I had it for him.

But as much as we love our… uh… carnal activities, they’re not all we are busy with. Hugo opened a private practice – and clearly the word of his successful approach got around, because I heard Potter mumble that he was going to have to chase the clients away with a stick at some point, and that he really needed to learn how to say no. I guess that bloody war left a lot of people with poorly healed scars.

And I… ugh, I’ve been coaxed – bullied, blackmailed… call it whatever you like – by Hugo into teaching the pre-Hogwarts Granger-Weasley-Potter-Lovegood kids some basic potions in the mornings. Granger’s idea, to be precise – and it was just two hours! - but since that lot is as prolific as they come, the manor often echoes with happy chatter and laughter of nearly a dozen kids these days, whose favourite idea of fun is to irritate the hell out of my old ancestors’ portraits. One of the rooms in the manor was transformed into a classroom, and another into a potions lab I need for a small business, specialising in complex potions, which I mostly run in the afternoons.

In fact, nearly all of the rooms in the manor have been redecorated subtly, yet significantly. A few lost their heavy drapes and depressing wallpaper, and even more had their dark, pompous furniture replaced by a more modern piece of two. Oh, and I made sure all the rooms got a good amount of bright light. No more shadows, guilt and darkness. I wasn’t having any of it.

It isn’t all roses, of course. Sometimes an odd nightmare still echoes through my dreams, but just the warmth of Hugo’s body, protectively stretched across mine, is usually enough to chase it away before it can develop into something devastating. He always makes me feel safe.

The portraits of my ancestors sometimes still loudly complain about “a filthy blood-traitor in their midst” and “indecent displays of affection”, but Hugo developed a quick cure for their sour tempers: he would remove the loudest one and turn it towards the wall, while telling the rest of them he was moving it to the attic if they didn’t shut up and find something better to do than insult the current master of the manor. With a few choice pompous phrases testifying of their indignation, most of them still had enough wits about them to get message and shut up. We gave up on Grandfather Abraxas and gave his portrait as a gift – and a sour, well-matched conversational partner – to my father for his birthday.

Ron Weasley would still growl unhappily every time we met, but he gave up trying to change his son’s mind after Hugo cheekily threatened to reveal a juicy detail from our intimate life every time he broached the subject. He never made it past “Draco’s got these really pale nipples, wonderfully sensitive…” – It instantly sent Weasley Senior bolting across the room as if he were being chased by a nesting Hungarian Horntail while he bellowed for Potter to Obliviate him. It’s been sort of peaceful on that front ever since as well.

I suppose you could even call it a truce between us, since Rose – a proper Weasley, that cheeky girl! – gave birth to not one, but two of the prettiest babies on the planet. She kept carrying twins a secret, and my poor Scorpius nearly had to be levitated off to a bed of his own when the beautiful, healthy little girl they put in his arms was followed by a tiny baby boy, who found a place in his mother’s lap. My poor boy was bawling so hard, I thought he had hurt himself. But then I remembered the day he was born, and I decided it was probably another one of those things, passed down the line from father to son. I remember nearly drowning my wee son in tears the moment I got to hold him.

Oh, but who could blame him – they were gorgeous! The little princess had a shock of bright ginger hair, a gentle hint of freckles, and fierce blue eyes, but the lovely boy was so like my Scorpius as a baby – tiny round face, with rosy mouth and wondering grey eyes – that I had to fight back my own tears when they put him in my arms. God, he was tiny! And pretty! And precious! I was beaming with pride just holding the next little Malfoy.

“Yours is pretty as well,” Ron Weasley mumbled when he approached me, holding his granddaughter, who seemed tiny like a beautiful, colourful pebble in his giant arms. “I guess we’re grandfathers now, huh?”

When I only nodded, still a bit choked from my tears, he uttered a soft “Yeah…” like his voice wasn’t so sure either, and reluctantly offered: “So, uhm, wanna get sloshed together later?”

The way I figured, that was the best peace offering I was going to get, so I agreed, and we literally woke up two days later, not remembering a thing – which was all right, really, because it was all very nicely and copiously documented in a photographic spread on the front page of the Prophet. Hugo still teases me with one particular photo in which I’m hanging around Ron Weasley’s neck, clearly trying to tell him something from so up close, it looks as if I’m trying to kiss him. When the redheaded King Weasley – as he had proclaimed himself according to the Prophet – came to his senses, he allegedly tried to buy all the copies of that rag of a newspaper, but that was never going to happen – every copy was a collector’s item by then.

But – quite honestly – I don’t mind loosening up a bit. I’ve been locked up in my house, in my mind, for far too long, and I’m enjoying my freedom. And I owe it all to the blue-eyed beauty currently wrapped around me like a second skin, looking for all my sensitive spots with that ungodly mouth, and sending shocks of pleasure up my sensitised body. I bury my fingers in the silken, coppery treasure of his long hair splayed across my chest, and I bring it to my face, revel in its rich, intoxicating scent and the fact that it is all mine to admire.

“Playing with my hair again, precious?” he murmurs, and gently trails his tongue up my ribs, making me shiver pleasantly.

“You know you got me with those infamous words… Sum tuo aere… you cheeky boy,” I murmur, a little too excited to even attempt a lie. “All I could see was that coppery hair of yours glittering in the sun, and I was done for. I would have done anything – and I mean any bloody thing – to get my hands on that treasure.”

“Would you like to hear those words again, lovely?” he murmurs with his mesmerising face wearing that killer, sexy smile hovering inches above me.

“I’d love to say them to you,” he traces the outline of my lips with his maddening tongue, and kisses my moan straight out of my mouth hungrily.

“I’d love to make good on my word, too…” he whispers playfully. “But I’m going to need that copper eventually, my love.”

“Well, since you ask so prettily…” I gasp when his face sinks into the crook of my neck, and I come really close to surrender. Just… I need to do this right. Somehow, by the pure grace of God, my fingers feel the round metallic shape I put under my pillow in the evening, and I manage to slip a round band, made of ancient red gold and perfectly priceless, straight onto the finger of Hugo’s hand cupping my face. The shocked expression on his face when he stares at my family heirloom is my cue.

“There’s your tiny little copper, babe… I need you all to myself… all of you… for all time… Please say yes, beautiful. You know I can’t do without you.”

The captivating blue diamonds of his eyes are on my face, and the way they glitter, they look precious enough to steal. And then an absolutely brilliant smile lights them up from within, and he bows his head in a princely way, as if honouring me.

“A promise is a promise, my lord,” he says sweetly, with that feigned innocence that drives me wild. “Sum tuo aere.
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