FIC: Arabesque on Ice (Albus Severus/Scorpius, NC-17)
So, this is the second fic I wrote forhp_nextgen_fest. You can read the other one here, if you happened to miss it. It's Al/Scorpius clubfic. \0/
Long story short, not long after I fell for the joy that is Johnny Weir, noeon mentioned she had a pinch hit in which the recipient had requested a possible non-magic sports AU, you know, like maybe figure skating, at which point I went OMG, GIMME NOW.
And thus Johnny!Scorpius was born. LOL.
Title: Arabesque on Ice
Pairing(s): Albus Severus/Scorpius
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-magical Olympics AU
Summary: He's still wearing that ridiculous puffy jacket they've forced on us, the one with the Union Flag emblazoned on one shoulder, Great Britain stitched in four-inch high white Helvetica on the back. No one looks good in that awful red. No one but Albus-sodding-Severus-bloody-fucking-Potter, that is.
Word Count: ~7100
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author’s/Artist's notes: Much love to noeon for the beta, and to a certain utterly fabulous Muggle figure skater who always seemed to provide inspiration right at the necessary moments. Written for phys_nut for the 2010 hp_nextgen_fest.
20 February, 2026
Prahova Valley, Romania
My glass is empty. Again.
I wave it at the barkeep, and with a sigh and a glance towards the grimy clock hanging haphazardly from the wall behind him, he pours me another horinca. I throw another ten euros across the scarred wood of the bar, and he pockets them with a nod, setting the bottle aside.
"Is past midnight. You should be in Village," he says in his heavy accent. He pokes a thick finger at my laminated athlete's pass, lying on the bar next to a damp coaster. The lanyard slides over the edge, the white Prahova Valley 2026 printed across the flat red cord almost hidden in shadows. "Sleeping, not drinking."
I stare at my photo. I'd been so cocky when it'd been taken, so certain I'd be on the podium tonight, if not on the top step, then right beneath. I flip the pass over, my mouth twisting to one side.
"Makes no difference now," I say into my glass, even as I know the lecture I'll receive from Viktor Ioannovich in the morning. I grimace and choke down another swallow of the strong, homebrewed plum brandy. I fully intend to be suffering from a hangover so ridiculously gruesome that nothing that damned hawk-nosed bastard has to say about my performance could be worse.
After all the money Father's spent on training over the years, all the hours Krum's been at me, shouting at me to lift my leg higher in a spin, to tuck my arms closer on my next quad, to jump again and again and again and again until my whole body aches, his Bulgarian curses echoing across the ice rink my parents built in the garden of the Manor--after everything, it comes down to the simple fact that the judges hate me. All of them. That's the only explanation for tonight. I'd skated a near-perfect long programme, if you didn't count that one damned bobble on my last spin, and even that wasn't enough to win me a medal.
The stool next to me scrapes the floor, and he drops into it, all wide shoulders and firm biceps and floppy black hair.
Bastard.
He's still wearing that ridiculous puffy jacket they've forced on us, the one with the Union Flag emblazoned on one shoulder, Great Britain stitched in four-inch high white Helvetica on the back. No one looks good in that awful red. No one but Albus-sodding-Severus-bloody-fucking-Potter, that is.
"Fuck off," I say and drain my glass, hoisting it towards the barkeep again, my elbows spread wide on the bar in front of me. The black cashmere of my turtleneck sticks to the wood, pulling slightly. It's a testament to how pissed I am that I don't give a damn. Mother will be appalled--she bought it for me at one of Prada's private shows.
Al just snorts and does not go away. "Your dad said I'd probably find you in a pub."
"My father's no fool." The barkeep pours me another glass. I glance over at Al. "If you insist on joining me, pay the man. The least you can do is to help me drown my sorrows."
"It's not the end of the world." Al digs into his pocket and pulls out two five euro coins. He drops them in the barkeep's outstretched hand. "I think you've had enough though."
I pull my glass to my chest, giving him a baleful look. If he takes my drink from me, I'll claw his damned eyes out. I swear to God, I will. "Don't be ridiculous," I say. "I came in first at the Cup of Russia and the Trophée Eric Bompard and second at the Grand Prix final." My voice rises into a slight screech. "Fourth place in the Olympics is the end of the world for me! Has your head hit the sodding ice one time too many to comprehend the magnitude of my disgrace?"
Al regards me calmly. "There were two points between you and the bronze, Scorpius. It was a tight race. It happens to all of us. That's just how it goes."
"They hate me, those judges," I mutter, lifting my glass to my mouth. "The whole ISU does. Mustn't let the sport seem too fey, now should we? Can't scare off the straight boys with anything that might suggest you'd be eager for an arsefuck in the changing rooms." The horinca is sweetly bitter. I swallow it, tilting my head back to catch the last few drops.
I frown, but I don't protest when Al takes my glass from me. He sets it aside. My head's too light, and I know it. "They don't hate you," he says.
"What do you know?" I say bitterly, laying my head on my crossed arms. My hair falls over my eyes, shadowing the light in blond. "You're a luger. And what an immensely Potter thing to do, to throw yourself down an icy spiral at death-defying speeds on a tiny sled."
"I could be a slider," Al says. He sips my horinca. "They go down headfirst."
With a groan, I press my face into the crook of my elbow. "Go away, you mad fool."
He won't, of course. He never does. We've known each other since we were thirteen, meeting at Eton as F-blockers in Walpole House. I left by the end of the term, my competition and training schedule incompatible with school. After a vicious row between Father and the Headmaster, I'd gone on to private tutors (all Oxbridge-educated, of course, save for Professor Snape who taken his doctorate in chemistry from Harvard and who had introduced me not only to the periodic table and P-chem but also to blow jobs when I was seventeen). Half a day in subjects, studying for my A-levels, and half a day on the ice, skating, skating, skating, with no one but an aging Bulgarian Olympian older than my father for company. It was a lonely life.
Al'd written me, though, and telephoned, like the idiotically persistent bastard he is, despite the fact that our fathers--Old Etonians the both of them-- despised each other as only schoolboy rivals can. They'd not been best pleased by our friendship, but they'd come to accept it, though it didn't keep them from slagging the other off any chance they had. Al's convinced they shagged at school. Only ex-lovers could hate each other so much nearly thirty years down the road, he says, and he may have a point. I suspect more of it comes from Father being a Tory financier and Mr Potter a Lib Dem MP and decorated war hero from Iraq, a distinction which annoys Father intensely as he cannot compete against it.
Al's fingers are light against the back of my head, barely stroking through my hair. It's oddly comforting, but I pull away after a moment, my cheeks warm. I like Al's touch more than I'm comfortable admitting. How horribly cliché is it to have fallen for your best friend? And really, Malfoys don't do clichés.
"Father told me I should butch my program up," I say into my jumper sleeve, still not looking up. The cashmere is soft against my lips. "Even Vitya agreed with him, and he despises Father, his paycheque be damned."
"It wouldn't have been you if you had."
That makes me lift my head. I narrow my eyes at him. "Are you calling me effeminate?"
Al snorts and swallows the last of my drink. "I'm just pointing out that you're no Fyodor Dolohov."
I curl my lip. My outspoken, ever so compensating rival is the darling of the skating world at the moment. Broad, masculine, and ridiculously Russian, he's no appreciation for the artistic side of skating. All he cares about are the damn jumps. As if it really matters that one be able to land a perfect quadruple Axel to be a champion. Unfortunately, the judges seem to agree with him. "I don't want to be a Dolohov," I say, petulantly enough that Al raises an eyebrow. "Oh, shut it."
Al shrugs. "He has the gold and you don't."
"Aren't you supposed to be making me feel better?" I scowl at him. "If so, your technique leaves something to be desired."
He smiles at me and stands, pushing his stool back. "Come on. You need to get out of here."
"I don't want to." I'm being childish and I know it. Al ignores me, choosing instead to rest one hand on the small of my back and edge me out of my seat. The world lurches slightly when my feet hit the floor, and Al catches my hips, steadying me.
"Okay?" he asks. His breath is warm against my cheek. I close my eyes for a moment, then nod, opening them again. His mouth curves up for the briefest moment, then he hands me my grey wool coat. "It's cold out there."
I draw the coat on, buttoning it. "How observant of you. They do call it the Winter Games."
Al flips two fingers at me. "Didn't know how pissed you were."
I wrap my scarf around my neck. It's a dark burgundy; Al's Nan had made it for me Christmas last. Father hates that I wear it, which of course makes it my favourite. "I don't want to go back to the house," I say. We've let a condo for the duration of the Games, but I can't bear Mother's pity or Father's disappointment at the moment. Grandfather will be the worst though. I've never been good enough for him, and he despises me for the fact that, unless my sexual preferences suddenly change, the Malfoy line--which can be traced back to the Normans as he never tires of reminding me--will die out. I wonder if he and Father have already had it out over my failure tonight. As infuriating as Father can be, he always defends me against Grandfather's criticism.
Mother will have gone to bed with a bottle of wine. Only Grand-mère could have diffused the argument between Father and Grandfather, but she's been buried two years now. God, I miss her. Sometimes I think she's the only person in my family who loved me unconditionally. At least she's been spared the indignity of my global humiliation.
"We can kip on Uncle Charlie's floor," Al says. "It's not a long walk, and the cold air will sober you up."
I tug my hat over my ears. "That's a fallacy, you know." My first few steps aren't as steady as I'd like, and I grab his arm. "Charlie won't mind?"
Al shakes his head. His uncle's a naturalist who's lived in Romania for thirty years now, studying the local reptiles. "He gave us keys. Rose escaped over there last night. Aunt Hermione was driving her mental." He gives me a half-smile. "It's Weasley Central at Mum and Dad's hotel. I'm just glad I've a room in the Village or I'd never sleep."
I envy Al his huge family. I'd never tell him that, of course. He'd tell his dad, and I won't give Mr Potter something else to hold over Father. Still, in my family, it's just me and my cousin Lucretia, Aunt Daphne's daughter, and Lucretia's an utter bitch at the best of times. I wouldn't mind knowing what it's like to have a passel of cousins, as mad as the Weasleys are at times. All times.
The air is sharp and icy outside. Snow is piled against the buildings, though the pavement and streets are relatively clear. A faint dusting of fresh white covers the ground, just enough to crunch beneath our boots.
"When's your first run?" I ask as we cross a street still crowded with drunken tourists at nearly one a.m. The Games are a giant party, bringing revellers from around the world. The Brits and the Americans are the worst, I suspect, though I think the Germans might give us a run for our money, and one mustn't forget the scattering of Australians who can drink anyone under the table with ease.
"Not until Sunday." Al slips his hand through my arm to help me clamber over a mound of snow. I don't need his assistance, but I like the press of his body against mine, so I don't object. He smiles at me. "Wood's got me taking as many practice runs as the Romanians will let me have."
I make a face at him. "You're our best chance at a gold now." My mouth twists down. "Don't bugger it up."
"Hey." Al pulls me beneath the shadow of a shop awning. "If I medal..." He hesitates. "It won't cause problems for us, will it?" He sounds young and foolish, and I want to shake him for being so thick.
Instead I shove my gloved hands in my pockets and keep walking. My breath is a pale huff that dissipates into the darkness. Al catches up with me.
"Scorpius," he says.
I don't say anything at first, and he falls into step beside me with a sigh. We reach the bridge that crosses the Prahova River. The Carpathians rise above us, their shadowed, snow-topped peaks barely visible against the black sky. There's something wild and beautifully unsettling about these mountains. Bram Stoker never visited the Carpathians when he was writing his masterpiece, but he still managed to capture a fractured reflection of their nature in his descriptions. I stop and lean against the stone rail of the bridge, staring out at the cold vista around us, lost for a moment in a fond memory of huddling beneath my covers, Dracula in one hand, torch in the other lest Mother or Father catch me reading such plebian trash.
The river is ice below us, thick and cloudy white. Some of the town children have skated on it today; I can see the fresh, faint tracks of their skate blades. Al rests his elbows on the railing next to me. His cheeks are pink from the cold, and a faint breeze ruffles the bits of black fringe sticking out from beneath his cap. He licks his chapped lips, and I fight back the urge to lean in and kiss him.
I don't, of course. I'm not a complete fool nor quite that drunk.
"So do I need to throw my run?" Al asks quietly. He doesn't look at me.
I wish I had a cigarette. Somewhere in the Village Viktor is scowling in his sleep at me. I sigh. "Don't be an idiot."
Al rubs a thumb over the stone carving on the railing. "If it's going to come between us, I'd like to know.”
"Oh for fuck's sake." I glance over at him. He's still staring down at the ice. He looks miserable. "You wouldn't do something that stupid."
He meets my eyes then, serious and solemn, and I want to strangle him. "Yeah," he says slowly," but I don't want you upset."
I punch his arm and he winces. "You are a complete imbecile, Albus Severus Potter. I can't believe you think I'd want you to throw your run just because you might medal and I lost the chance. You utter shit." My voice rises. "Do you really think that little of me? I lost tonight because of bloody ISU politics, Al. They don't like me. They don't want me in their sport, and they'd be damned happy to have me bugger off into the sunset after all of this. None of this has anything to do with you and your stupid throwing yourself down an ice track like sodding fool--"
Rough lips silence me. The kiss throws me off-guard; I grab at Al's jacket with one hand, twisting the Gore-Tex in my fingers. He presses me against the railing, his mouth moving against mine, and I should push him away, I know I should, but his liquorice-scented breath is warm against my lips, and I can't stop my groan when his tongue swipes lightly across my mouth. I pull him closer.
This is possibly the most inane thing I’ve ever done, in a short but distinguished career of folly, but I don’t care. It’s been eight years of foreplay now between me and Al and I’m pissed and upset enough tonight to drop my pretenses. My fingers curl around the nape of his neck, drawing him down again for another shaky kiss, my mouth open and soft beneath his.
Al’s hand grabs my hip; he holds me still for a moment, our breath mingling before he swears softly, and then his tongue slips over my teeth, heavy and warm. He moans softly when I suck at it, and when he shifts against me, I realize he’s as hard as I am. I arch against him.
It’s all I can do not to come in my trousers.
Jeering from across the bridge pulls us apart, reluctantly. Neither of us are fools, and while the crowds have thinned a great deal, there’s more than enough chance some drunken idiot will decide to do something incredibly stupid to express his (or her) displeasure at the sight of two blokes pashing.
I don’t look at Al. I can’t. I step away, pulling my coat tighter around me. “We should get to Charlie’s.”
“Hey.” His gloved hand touches my cheek, turning me towards him. His eyes are gentle. “Don’t.”
I pull back. ”Don’t touch me.” If he does, I won’t be able to stop myself. And I’m not about to ruin our friendship over some half-pissed pity shag.
Al drops his hand, his face shuttering. “Right.”
I start walking again. It’s not easy to do with a raging erection. I feel stripped and raw. The placket of my trousers pulls, rubbing against the damp head of my prick. I clench my fists and sigh.
Al walks behind me, close enough that I can hear his boots crunch through the snow. We pass the statue of Mihai Viteazul at the corner. I’m fairly certain Charlie’s flat is nearby, though I’ve only been to it once or twice over the years. I stumble over a kerb; I’m none too steady on my feet. I almost expect Al to be there, to catch me, but instead he lets me slide on the ice, falling to one already bruised knee. I wince at the sudden pain and push myself up with as much dignity as I can muster to stomp down the slick pavement.
“I can’t do this without you,” Al says quietly from behind me, and I turn, pressing my lips together in a frown. He just looks at me, his hands in his pockets, cap pulled down over his dark hair. Behind him in the distance I can see the Olympic torch burning, flames flickering against the dark sky. Citius, Altius, Fortius. We’d closed our emails to each other with those words every day for the past two years. It’s what we’d trained for, what we’d hoped for. Both of us.
I sigh, and lean against a wall. It’s hard and cold against my shoulders. “Why?” I ask. “You’ve got your family.”
“Come on, Scorp.” Al steps closer. “You know I need you.” He doesn’t look away.
I do. “You’re an idiot,” I say quietly.
“Maybe.” His fingers brush my elbow, light and gentle, as if he’s afraid to touch me. “You kissed me back.”
There’s no sense arguing that point. “I’m pissed,” I say instead, and Al rolls his eyes.
“I’ve seen you worse.” His gloved thumbs rub against my coat. “I want you tonight.” He looks down shyly, to devastating effect and I'm certain he knows it.
“And tomorrow?” My head’s not clear enough for this conversation and I can still feel his mouth against mine. “When you realise you’ve shagged your best mate--“
Al laughs softly. “My dad’s always said I should, at least once.” I just stare at him. He shrugs. “He told me about Uncle Ron when I came out to him. They were sixth form and too much whisky was involved, he said.”
I look at him in surprise. “Does your mother know?”
“She must if Dad’s telling me,” Al says, matter-of-factly. “And it couldn’t have been that much of a shock.”
He has a point.
“You're all mad,” I murmur, but I don’t pull away when his mouth brushes mine again.
This kiss is soft, careful. My hands are on his arms; he keeps his on my hips. We don’t let our bodies meet. And yet, the warm press of his lips against mine, the quiet sigh from one of us-both of us-when my mouth opens to his tongue has me hard again in moments.
I slide my hand up his arms, over his shoulders. Wisps of his hair catch on my lambskin gloves
Al pulls back, but he doesn’t move his hands. I can see his breath in the frigid air. “Uncle Charlie’s isn't far,” he says, his voice rough and uneven.
I nod. I’ll regret this decision in the morning, I suspect, but I’d regret more having never let him lead me down the street, our fingers twined together, the wind bitingly cold against our cheeks.
His uncle’s building is Soviet-era, dingy and squat on a quiet street corner. Al opens the flimsy outer door. We stop on the landing to kiss again, and Al presses me against the wall. He’s breathless, and his fingers dig into my arms. His mouth is gentle and when he drags his tongue across the back of my teeth, I moan and tighten my grip on his elbows.
“Fuck,” he says against my mouth, and I can’t stop the shiver that catches my breath. “I want-“
I know what he wants. I can feel him against me, cock straining through his trousers.
The stairwell is dark, barely lit by the sconces that flicker, casting long shadows against the wall. The Olympic improvements haven’t reached this neighbourhood; there’s no reason for them to. No one’s here in this grimy grotto to impress after all.
With a faint smile, Al slides down my body, his knees hitting the threadbare carpet with a solid thunk as he whips his knitted cap off and shoves it into his pocket. I stare down at him, and he's unbuttoning my coat from the bottom, pushing the dark wool aside.
"You can't be serious," I say, but he's already got both hands on my trousers, kneading my cock through them and I groan. My head thuds against the wall, and I press my palms to the rough plaster. "Al..." My voice rises as he squeezes my balls gently, the cotton of my pants catching on soft curls.
"Quiet," Al murmurs. I give him an incredulous look. He ignores me and tugs at my zip instead.
The moment his palm slides over my bare skin, I gasp, digging my fingernails into the wall. His touch is light against my prick, soft as he pushes back my foreskin. I can't look away from him, from my cock bobbing between us, the swollen red head brushing his flushed cheek, his dark hair floating above my pale thigh.
His fingers fumble with the buttons of his coat and he shrugs it off his shoulders, revealing his red turtleneck. Really, no one should look that bloody attractive in that outrageous uniform they expect us to wear. When I move slightly, my trousers slide further down my thighs, and Al grins up at me, his green eyes bright behind a thick black fringe.
"Careful." His breath is warm against my prick and I shudder. Viktor doesn't let me fuck. Sex takes away your focus, he claims, ruins your competitive edge, not that it seems to have mattered a damn this year. It's been ages since anyone's touched me--since Worlds in fact, and the charming assistant coach from Kazakhstan who'd given me a quick wank in a bathroom stall after my long programme.
That'd been almost a year ago.
Al's tongue flicks against the head of my cock and I hiss. I want this just as much as he does--more, most likely. He doesn't have a mad Bulgarian insisting on celibacy as a training technique. For all I know he can have orgies with the bobsledding teams. Bastard.
When he sucks me into his mouth I can barely choke back my soft cry. It catches in the back of my throat, and I lurch forward, grabbing at Al's shoulders. I'd forgotten how this feels; I've become so used to the warmth of my lotioned hand, tossing off hurriedly in a hotel bathroom, hoping that Viktor wouldn't be able to tell I'd come. This--I bite my lip as Al's mouth slides further down my shaft. I can feel him swallow around me. Fuck. This is so much better.
The soft cotton of his turtleneck wraps around my fingers as I twist them against his shoulders. I watch him suck me, his fringe shaking against his forehead with each quick bob of his head. He catches my hips, holding them steady as his fingernails bite into the jut of bone.
"Please," I say, my voice broken, aching. I can smell the earthy, greasy traces of potatoes and fried sausages, mixed with the astringent bite of cleaning solvents and the dull reek of old sweat.
Al just looks up at me, his mouth filled with my prick. I can see the press of my head against his cheek and it makes me want to shove him backwards to the floor, straddling his face and fucking his mouth hard and fast. I swallow hard and move one hand from his shoulder to his face, my thumb stroking his stubbled jawline. "Please, Al," I say again and he closes his eyes, breathing in for a moment before he pulls back, just enough, and I can see the dark skin of my cock gleam wetly in the faint light.
"Oh." The startled syllable is clipped. Al cups my balls, rolling them against my palm before squeezing them gently. "Oh. I--"
I want.
Al's finger curls behind my balls with a quick, light stroke as his mouth slides back down my cock, the flat of his tongue pressed against the underside. He sucks me deep into his throat, and I catch the back his head with one hand, my other palm slapping against the wall. My belly's tight, tense. "Al," I say breathlessly. His hair is thick between my fingers; I twist it, pull it, as I push his head towards me, my hips pressing up. "I'm going to--"
I arch against the wall. My shoulders push against the plaster, and I bite my lip, my teeth sharp and painful. My breath's ragged.
Al sucks me harder, his cheeks hollowing out as he tilts his head, angling to take me deeper. A shudder wracks my whole body and I scrabble against the wall before giving up and grabbing his shoulders again as I thrust into his mouth. His nose nudges against my stomach, and I can feel flicks of warm wetness from his mouth strike my hip. And then he presses against my skin with a fingertip, just behind my balls, just above my arsehole, and I can't hold back any longer.
With a choked groan, I come, my body shaking, bending over Al, my fingers grabbing his shoulders, pulling at his jumper. Al sucks me eagerly, swallowing as fast as he can, but creamy spunk still slides from the corner of his lips, smears over my cock as I thrust into his mouth again and again.
The hall is silent save for my ragged gasps. Al pulls back slowly, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth. My come smears across his cheek, and he swallows. "That," he says, voice raw, "was rather brilliant."
I slump back against the wall. "Shut up," I say. I can feel the heat in my face.
Al just gives me a slow, lazy smile as he leans back. "Make me?" His fingers slide over his thighs, and I watch them slip across faded denim to the zip of his jeans. I can see the bulge of his prick. I lick my bottom lip.
"What floor's your uncle on?"
"Fifth."
My eyes flick up the staircase. "We're on the third."
"Observant." Al unbuttons his jeans and tugs at the zip. I can't tear my eyes away from the triangle of white cotton it reveals. He looks up at me. "I'm not going to be able to walk up those stairs after that."
My mouth twitches. "You can't be that bad off."
Al catches my calf with one hand. His thumb traces circles over my the folds of my trousers. "Sure about that?" His voice is light, but his gaze doesn't leave my face.
“Get up, you fool,” I murmur. I’m already tucking my prick back into my pants, pulling my trousers back to my waist and zipping them. “Anyone could come by…”
“I don’t care.” Al pushes himself up. He kisses me, and I can taste myself on his tongue. I can’t stop the shiver that goes through me he presses me back against the wall. I reach a hand down and rub hard, feeling the damp heat through his cotton y-fronts.
My mouth slides along the curve of his jaw; his stubble rasps my chapped lips. “This changes everything, you realise.”
Al huffs a laugh into my hair. “You think?” He rocks forward, his hands tight on my hips. This is ridiculous. I know it is. We’re rutting against each other in a hallway, for Christ’s sake.
“Viktor’s going to be furious.” I slide my hands beneath his turtleneck to his muscled back. His skin is warm against my palms and I can’t stop myself from wondering what it will feel like to have him above me, his cock moving inside of me as I gasp for breath.
“Do you care?” Al drags his mouth across mine, and I lose myself in the kiss again.
When I finally pull away, breathless, I grab his hand. “You can’t do what I want you to do here,” I say, and I pull him towards the stairs, barely giving him enough time to scoop up that horrible jacket.
Two floors feel an eternity. Al fumbles for the keys in his pocket; I finally knock his hand aside and reach in, pull them out. He hisses as I tug his half-open jeans across his swollen prick. “Prat.”
I just smile and with a shaking hand, open the flat door.
It’s dark inside, and Al pulls me back against him in the hallway, kissing the side of my neck. He bites, hard, and I know it’s going to leave a mark. I don’t give a tinker's damn. Instead, I turn in his arms, pressing myself against him. I work my hand between us, letting my fingers barely brush the swell in his pants.
Al groans.
“Hush,” I say, and I catch his mouth with mine, sucking lightly on his tongue until he makes another choked gasp.
“Spare room?” I ask.
He shakes his head in the shadows, the light from the streetlamps down below catching his cheek. “Rose, probably,” he says, and he drags me down a short hall into a small room lined with books. There’s a plaid sofa beneath the paned window, wide and long, with curved arms and carved legs. A quilt’s draped over the back; pillows are stacked on the floor next to it. I look at him and he shrugs. “I told Uncle Charlie I might stay the night. The blokes next to me in the Village seem to be intent on going through all the damn condoms they handed out last week.”
I raise an eyebrow. “How many have you used?”
Al grins at me and pulls one from his jacket pocket. He holds it up; the silver foil glints in the light from the window. “This is the first contender.”
I take it from him and turn it between my fingers. “Maybe I should put it into play.”
He just watches me. “If you want.”
I set the condom on the edge of Charlie Weasley's desk. I shrug out of my coat, setting it aside on the broad surface. A stuffed lizard watches me from its perch on a shelf above us. I can’t believe I’m about to do this with my best mate. I pull my jumper over my head and fold it carefully, not looking at Al as I set it on my coat.
“You’re beautiful,” he says softly. I can feel him behind me, and when his fingertips brush down the curve of my spine I close my eyes and breathe out. My prick swells slightly, not much, but enough to make me realise that he could make me come again. Soon.
“Al,” I say, but his hands are on my trousers again, and with a tug he slides them and my pants over the curve of my arse. I grab the edge of Charlie’s desk. “Al,” I say again, but it breaks off into a gasp as I feel his mouth against my arse.
His tongue drags across the fold between my arse and thigh. “Shut it, all right?” He licks my skin again. “I’ve been wanking to fantasies about this for years. You’re never this talkative in them. Spread your legs.”
I bite back a laugh. “And if I refuse?”
Al nips my inner thigh. “You won’t,” he says confidently.
He’s right. I shift slightly, spreading my legs for him and when his mouth slides up, his tongue flicking through my crease, I groan and clench the edge of the desk. It’s been almost two years since I’ve been fucked properly, like this, and the promise of a thick cock inside of me makes me ache. Damn Viktor and his rules to hell and beyond. Al licks me, presses his tongue against my hole, and the noises he’s making, the soft grunts and gasps and moans go straight to my prick. It stiffens slowly, rubbing against the edge of the desk. I’ve never been hard again this quickly. Not even when I was seventeen and wanking as often as my schedule allowed.
The skin between my arsecheeks is wet and slick; Al holds my arse open so he can slide the tip of his tongue inside of me. “Fuck,” I say, tensing, and he laughs softly, and presses deeper.
When he finally pulls back, I’m shaking. There’s a whisper of fabric hitting the floor, and then Al’s sliding up me, his bare skin against mine. I swallow hard and push against him. His prick slides over my arse; he’s managed to get it out of his jeans and pants while he tongued me. He breathes out sharply.
“Slow now,” he says against my shoulder.
I grunt in annoyance. “Fuck me.” I can feel him smile against my skin.
He kisses the nape of my neck. “Impatient, are we?”
I answer by circling my arse against his cock. I want him inside of me. Now. Al pulls back; I look over my shoulder. “Condom?”
“Oh.” I grab it from the edge of the desk. “Come here.” I rip the slippery foil open with shaking hands and Al watches me, his eyes dark, as I unroll it on his cock.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him like this. His jeans are bunched at his knees; his lanky body is lean and brown in the moonlight, his shoulders broad and muscular. I’m amazed by how different we are.
When I finish rolling the thin rubber down his prick, he closes his eyes and breathes out. He’s hot and heavy in my hand, and I can’t resist stroking him lightly. His eyes flutter open. “Scorpius,” he says, and it’s a plea.
I smile and lean forward, pressing my mouth against the pulse in his throat as I twist my palm over the latex-clad head of his cock. “Tell me you have more lube.”
“I’m not a complete idiot,” he says, and his throat rumbles beneath my mouth. I pull back and raise an eyebrow.
“Walking around with it, are you?”
Al’s mouth quirks. “Does it make me a slut if I say yes?”
“It makes you pathetic,” I say, my fingers still sliding over his prick. My own bobs between us, stiffening as it brushes against his. “If this actually is your first condom of the Games.”
He kisses me, rough and quick. “First one in months,” he whispers, and I pull back, staring at him for a moment before I turn to grab the desk.
“Fuck me, Al,” I say, canting my hips and sticking my arse in the air. His breath catches audibly.
I hear the plastic click of the lube bottle opening, and then his fingers are against my crease, slick and hot as he strokes my hole before he slides a finger in. I tense, and he presses his mouth to the side of my throat. “Relax,” he says, and he twists his finger slowly, loosening me.
I brace my hands on the surface of the desk and feel my heart thud against my chest. I’m half-certain I’m ruining everything with this, one final night of destruction. Our friendship won’t be the same. But Al's hand twists again and another finger presses into me and I couldn't care less. All that matters is this. If there's anything left standing tomorrow, we can think about it then.
He swears as he fucks me with his fingers, slow at first and then quickly, his words panting against my shoulder in short, quick gasps. “I want you,” he groans, and he has three fingers inside of me, deep and full, and I'm riding them eagerly. “Scorpius-“
I press back against his hand, taking his fingers deeper. “Please. God. Now,” I demand.
Al pulls away slowly, and for a moment I panic as the air hits my wet arse until I feel the blunt head of his prick opening me. My brain shuts down, unable to believe this is finally happening.
I cry out when he pushes into me. It hurts, even after the finger fucking, the way it always does when I take a cock up my arse for the first time after months. Years, honestly. I lurch forward, but he catches me, his arm around my stomach, and he holds me steady. “Careful,” he says, and I know he’s talking to himself as much as he is to me.
The quivering in my legs settles and the pain dulls. Al strokes a hand down my back, over and over. It’s oddly calming. “I’m all right,” I finally manage to say.
He moves slowly, gently, his hands curling around my hipbones. The pressure aches at first, but he angles his hips just right and within a few strokes I’m gasping, my cock hardening and dripping onto the worn wooden surface of the desk.
“You have the best arse,” Al says, breathlessly. His thumbs stroke over my skin as his hips snap against mine.
I laugh and press my hips back into his next thrust. “Figure skaters usually do. All those--” I break off into a groan as he pulls me tight against him. His balls slap against the back of my thighs. “All those jumps, the triple Lutzes and quads and-oh, fuck, don’t stop.”
He leans forward and bites my shoulder. “Don’t plan to,” he says, and he slams into me, pressing me into the desk. My wet cock rubs between the wood and my skin and I groan, my hands scrabbling over file folders and loose paper.
“Al-“
He fucks me in quick thrusts, his breath heavy and gasping against my ear. I tense beneath him, spreading my thighs as wide as my bunched trousers will allow, arching my back and pressing my arse into each slap of his body against mine.
One impossible, fantastic stroke and I come fast, my shoulders shaking as I try to hold myself up. Spunk spatters across the desk, over papers, and I don’t care.
The lizard stares down at me from the shelf, disapproving.
“Oh, shit,” Al groans, and he pounds my arse, pressing me across the desk, my skin smearing come across the worn wood. His hands slide hotly against my hips, my back, my shoulders, holding me as he fucks me. I clench my arsecheeks and he cries out, shuddering above me. “Scorpius-“
He collapses onto me, gasping, and we lie there for a moment, sweaty and sated.
Then he presses his lips to my cheek. I lift my head and catch his mouth with mine, drawing him into a slow, languid kiss.
“Tell me,” he says against my mouth, “that we’re going to do that again. And frequently. I have a hell of a lot of condoms left.”
I love his heavy weight pressing against my back, the burn of his cock still in my arse, the looseness spreading through my limbs that is better than anything. “We’d better.” I flick my tongue against his bottom lip. “Viktor be damned.”
“You’re still training for Worlds.”
I shift, the muscles in my back protesting. He pushes away from me reluctantly, and I hate the emptiness left when he slides out of my arse. “We could sneak around.”
Al winces as he rolls the condom off his prick and tosses it in the bin next to the desk. “Remind me to empty that tomorrow,” he says, and then he looks at me. I’ve turned, and I’m leaning against the desk, my spent cock limp and sticky against my balls. “And are you asking me to, for all intents and purposes, help you lie to your coach?”
“Yes?”
He eyes me. “That’s rather hot.”
I kick my trousers off and step out of my shoes. “I know.” I brush past him and settle on the sofa, pulling the quilt over my sock-clad feet and shaking legs. “So that’s a yes?”
Al pushes his jeans and pants off. “Am I stupid?” He crawls onto the sofa with me, burrowing under the quilt. Our bodies are pressed against each other, our thighs entwined. I love the feel of him against me, the faint earthy scent of his breath as he presses his forehead against mine. “So,” he says softly, “this isn’t an enormous cock-up, is it?”
“An enormous cock up where?" I grin and smooth his hair back off his forehead. His brow is still wrinkled and he pulls me into a serious answer. “It probably is, but I think it’s one we have to make.”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I draw him closer, wrapping my arms around him. I don’t care what our parents say or whose father will get more superiority out of this situation. What the ISU or Viktor or the press will say. What the whole bloody world will say. Sod them all. We’ll deal with that tomorrow. For tonight, I just want to lie here with him and pretend the world doesn't exist.
“We’ve lost our minds, you know,” Al murmurs against my throat. "I think I like it."
So do I.
------------------
This entry was originally posted at http://femmequixotic.dreamwidth.org/450765.html. You can comment here or there using OpenID.
Long story short, not long after I fell for the joy that is Johnny Weir, noeon mentioned she had a pinch hit in which the recipient had requested a possible non-magic sports AU, you know, like maybe figure skating, at which point I went OMG, GIMME NOW.
And thus Johnny!Scorpius was born. LOL.
Title: Arabesque on Ice
Pairing(s): Albus Severus/Scorpius
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-magical Olympics AU
Summary: He's still wearing that ridiculous puffy jacket they've forced on us, the one with the Union Flag emblazoned on one shoulder, Great Britain stitched in four-inch high white Helvetica on the back. No one looks good in that awful red. No one but Albus-sodding-Severus-bloody-fucking-Potter, that is.
Word Count: ~7100
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author’s/Artist's notes: Much love to noeon for the beta, and to a certain utterly fabulous Muggle figure skater who always seemed to provide inspiration right at the necessary moments. Written for phys_nut for the 2010 hp_nextgen_fest.
20 February, 2026
Prahova Valley, Romania
My glass is empty. Again.
I wave it at the barkeep, and with a sigh and a glance towards the grimy clock hanging haphazardly from the wall behind him, he pours me another horinca. I throw another ten euros across the scarred wood of the bar, and he pockets them with a nod, setting the bottle aside.
"Is past midnight. You should be in Village," he says in his heavy accent. He pokes a thick finger at my laminated athlete's pass, lying on the bar next to a damp coaster. The lanyard slides over the edge, the white Prahova Valley 2026 printed across the flat red cord almost hidden in shadows. "Sleeping, not drinking."
I stare at my photo. I'd been so cocky when it'd been taken, so certain I'd be on the podium tonight, if not on the top step, then right beneath. I flip the pass over, my mouth twisting to one side.
"Makes no difference now," I say into my glass, even as I know the lecture I'll receive from Viktor Ioannovich in the morning. I grimace and choke down another swallow of the strong, homebrewed plum brandy. I fully intend to be suffering from a hangover so ridiculously gruesome that nothing that damned hawk-nosed bastard has to say about my performance could be worse.
After all the money Father's spent on training over the years, all the hours Krum's been at me, shouting at me to lift my leg higher in a spin, to tuck my arms closer on my next quad, to jump again and again and again and again until my whole body aches, his Bulgarian curses echoing across the ice rink my parents built in the garden of the Manor--after everything, it comes down to the simple fact that the judges hate me. All of them. That's the only explanation for tonight. I'd skated a near-perfect long programme, if you didn't count that one damned bobble on my last spin, and even that wasn't enough to win me a medal.
The stool next to me scrapes the floor, and he drops into it, all wide shoulders and firm biceps and floppy black hair.
Bastard.
He's still wearing that ridiculous puffy jacket they've forced on us, the one with the Union Flag emblazoned on one shoulder, Great Britain stitched in four-inch high white Helvetica on the back. No one looks good in that awful red. No one but Albus-sodding-Severus-bloody-fucking-Potter, that is.
"Fuck off," I say and drain my glass, hoisting it towards the barkeep again, my elbows spread wide on the bar in front of me. The black cashmere of my turtleneck sticks to the wood, pulling slightly. It's a testament to how pissed I am that I don't give a damn. Mother will be appalled--she bought it for me at one of Prada's private shows.
Al just snorts and does not go away. "Your dad said I'd probably find you in a pub."
"My father's no fool." The barkeep pours me another glass. I glance over at Al. "If you insist on joining me, pay the man. The least you can do is to help me drown my sorrows."
"It's not the end of the world." Al digs into his pocket and pulls out two five euro coins. He drops them in the barkeep's outstretched hand. "I think you've had enough though."
I pull my glass to my chest, giving him a baleful look. If he takes my drink from me, I'll claw his damned eyes out. I swear to God, I will. "Don't be ridiculous," I say. "I came in first at the Cup of Russia and the Trophée Eric Bompard and second at the Grand Prix final." My voice rises into a slight screech. "Fourth place in the Olympics is the end of the world for me! Has your head hit the sodding ice one time too many to comprehend the magnitude of my disgrace?"
Al regards me calmly. "There were two points between you and the bronze, Scorpius. It was a tight race. It happens to all of us. That's just how it goes."
"They hate me, those judges," I mutter, lifting my glass to my mouth. "The whole ISU does. Mustn't let the sport seem too fey, now should we? Can't scare off the straight boys with anything that might suggest you'd be eager for an arsefuck in the changing rooms." The horinca is sweetly bitter. I swallow it, tilting my head back to catch the last few drops.
I frown, but I don't protest when Al takes my glass from me. He sets it aside. My head's too light, and I know it. "They don't hate you," he says.
"What do you know?" I say bitterly, laying my head on my crossed arms. My hair falls over my eyes, shadowing the light in blond. "You're a luger. And what an immensely Potter thing to do, to throw yourself down an icy spiral at death-defying speeds on a tiny sled."
"I could be a slider," Al says. He sips my horinca. "They go down headfirst."
With a groan, I press my face into the crook of my elbow. "Go away, you mad fool."
He won't, of course. He never does. We've known each other since we were thirteen, meeting at Eton as F-blockers in Walpole House. I left by the end of the term, my competition and training schedule incompatible with school. After a vicious row between Father and the Headmaster, I'd gone on to private tutors (all Oxbridge-educated, of course, save for Professor Snape who taken his doctorate in chemistry from Harvard and who had introduced me not only to the periodic table and P-chem but also to blow jobs when I was seventeen). Half a day in subjects, studying for my A-levels, and half a day on the ice, skating, skating, skating, with no one but an aging Bulgarian Olympian older than my father for company. It was a lonely life.
Al'd written me, though, and telephoned, like the idiotically persistent bastard he is, despite the fact that our fathers--Old Etonians the both of them-- despised each other as only schoolboy rivals can. They'd not been best pleased by our friendship, but they'd come to accept it, though it didn't keep them from slagging the other off any chance they had. Al's convinced they shagged at school. Only ex-lovers could hate each other so much nearly thirty years down the road, he says, and he may have a point. I suspect more of it comes from Father being a Tory financier and Mr Potter a Lib Dem MP and decorated war hero from Iraq, a distinction which annoys Father intensely as he cannot compete against it.
Al's fingers are light against the back of my head, barely stroking through my hair. It's oddly comforting, but I pull away after a moment, my cheeks warm. I like Al's touch more than I'm comfortable admitting. How horribly cliché is it to have fallen for your best friend? And really, Malfoys don't do clichés.
"Father told me I should butch my program up," I say into my jumper sleeve, still not looking up. The cashmere is soft against my lips. "Even Vitya agreed with him, and he despises Father, his paycheque be damned."
"It wouldn't have been you if you had."
That makes me lift my head. I narrow my eyes at him. "Are you calling me effeminate?"
Al snorts and swallows the last of my drink. "I'm just pointing out that you're no Fyodor Dolohov."
I curl my lip. My outspoken, ever so compensating rival is the darling of the skating world at the moment. Broad, masculine, and ridiculously Russian, he's no appreciation for the artistic side of skating. All he cares about are the damn jumps. As if it really matters that one be able to land a perfect quadruple Axel to be a champion. Unfortunately, the judges seem to agree with him. "I don't want to be a Dolohov," I say, petulantly enough that Al raises an eyebrow. "Oh, shut it."
Al shrugs. "He has the gold and you don't."
"Aren't you supposed to be making me feel better?" I scowl at him. "If so, your technique leaves something to be desired."
He smiles at me and stands, pushing his stool back. "Come on. You need to get out of here."
"I don't want to." I'm being childish and I know it. Al ignores me, choosing instead to rest one hand on the small of my back and edge me out of my seat. The world lurches slightly when my feet hit the floor, and Al catches my hips, steadying me.
"Okay?" he asks. His breath is warm against my cheek. I close my eyes for a moment, then nod, opening them again. His mouth curves up for the briefest moment, then he hands me my grey wool coat. "It's cold out there."
I draw the coat on, buttoning it. "How observant of you. They do call it the Winter Games."
Al flips two fingers at me. "Didn't know how pissed you were."
I wrap my scarf around my neck. It's a dark burgundy; Al's Nan had made it for me Christmas last. Father hates that I wear it, which of course makes it my favourite. "I don't want to go back to the house," I say. We've let a condo for the duration of the Games, but I can't bear Mother's pity or Father's disappointment at the moment. Grandfather will be the worst though. I've never been good enough for him, and he despises me for the fact that, unless my sexual preferences suddenly change, the Malfoy line--which can be traced back to the Normans as he never tires of reminding me--will die out. I wonder if he and Father have already had it out over my failure tonight. As infuriating as Father can be, he always defends me against Grandfather's criticism.
Mother will have gone to bed with a bottle of wine. Only Grand-mère could have diffused the argument between Father and Grandfather, but she's been buried two years now. God, I miss her. Sometimes I think she's the only person in my family who loved me unconditionally. At least she's been spared the indignity of my global humiliation.
"We can kip on Uncle Charlie's floor," Al says. "It's not a long walk, and the cold air will sober you up."
I tug my hat over my ears. "That's a fallacy, you know." My first few steps aren't as steady as I'd like, and I grab his arm. "Charlie won't mind?"
Al shakes his head. His uncle's a naturalist who's lived in Romania for thirty years now, studying the local reptiles. "He gave us keys. Rose escaped over there last night. Aunt Hermione was driving her mental." He gives me a half-smile. "It's Weasley Central at Mum and Dad's hotel. I'm just glad I've a room in the Village or I'd never sleep."
I envy Al his huge family. I'd never tell him that, of course. He'd tell his dad, and I won't give Mr Potter something else to hold over Father. Still, in my family, it's just me and my cousin Lucretia, Aunt Daphne's daughter, and Lucretia's an utter bitch at the best of times. I wouldn't mind knowing what it's like to have a passel of cousins, as mad as the Weasleys are at times. All times.
The air is sharp and icy outside. Snow is piled against the buildings, though the pavement and streets are relatively clear. A faint dusting of fresh white covers the ground, just enough to crunch beneath our boots.
"When's your first run?" I ask as we cross a street still crowded with drunken tourists at nearly one a.m. The Games are a giant party, bringing revellers from around the world. The Brits and the Americans are the worst, I suspect, though I think the Germans might give us a run for our money, and one mustn't forget the scattering of Australians who can drink anyone under the table with ease.
"Not until Sunday." Al slips his hand through my arm to help me clamber over a mound of snow. I don't need his assistance, but I like the press of his body against mine, so I don't object. He smiles at me. "Wood's got me taking as many practice runs as the Romanians will let me have."
I make a face at him. "You're our best chance at a gold now." My mouth twists down. "Don't bugger it up."
"Hey." Al pulls me beneath the shadow of a shop awning. "If I medal..." He hesitates. "It won't cause problems for us, will it?" He sounds young and foolish, and I want to shake him for being so thick.
Instead I shove my gloved hands in my pockets and keep walking. My breath is a pale huff that dissipates into the darkness. Al catches up with me.
"Scorpius," he says.
I don't say anything at first, and he falls into step beside me with a sigh. We reach the bridge that crosses the Prahova River. The Carpathians rise above us, their shadowed, snow-topped peaks barely visible against the black sky. There's something wild and beautifully unsettling about these mountains. Bram Stoker never visited the Carpathians when he was writing his masterpiece, but he still managed to capture a fractured reflection of their nature in his descriptions. I stop and lean against the stone rail of the bridge, staring out at the cold vista around us, lost for a moment in a fond memory of huddling beneath my covers, Dracula in one hand, torch in the other lest Mother or Father catch me reading such plebian trash.
The river is ice below us, thick and cloudy white. Some of the town children have skated on it today; I can see the fresh, faint tracks of their skate blades. Al rests his elbows on the railing next to me. His cheeks are pink from the cold, and a faint breeze ruffles the bits of black fringe sticking out from beneath his cap. He licks his chapped lips, and I fight back the urge to lean in and kiss him.
I don't, of course. I'm not a complete fool nor quite that drunk.
"So do I need to throw my run?" Al asks quietly. He doesn't look at me.
I wish I had a cigarette. Somewhere in the Village Viktor is scowling in his sleep at me. I sigh. "Don't be an idiot."
Al rubs a thumb over the stone carving on the railing. "If it's going to come between us, I'd like to know.”
"Oh for fuck's sake." I glance over at him. He's still staring down at the ice. He looks miserable. "You wouldn't do something that stupid."
He meets my eyes then, serious and solemn, and I want to strangle him. "Yeah," he says slowly," but I don't want you upset."
I punch his arm and he winces. "You are a complete imbecile, Albus Severus Potter. I can't believe you think I'd want you to throw your run just because you might medal and I lost the chance. You utter shit." My voice rises. "Do you really think that little of me? I lost tonight because of bloody ISU politics, Al. They don't like me. They don't want me in their sport, and they'd be damned happy to have me bugger off into the sunset after all of this. None of this has anything to do with you and your stupid throwing yourself down an ice track like sodding fool--"
Rough lips silence me. The kiss throws me off-guard; I grab at Al's jacket with one hand, twisting the Gore-Tex in my fingers. He presses me against the railing, his mouth moving against mine, and I should push him away, I know I should, but his liquorice-scented breath is warm against my lips, and I can't stop my groan when his tongue swipes lightly across my mouth. I pull him closer.
This is possibly the most inane thing I’ve ever done, in a short but distinguished career of folly, but I don’t care. It’s been eight years of foreplay now between me and Al and I’m pissed and upset enough tonight to drop my pretenses. My fingers curl around the nape of his neck, drawing him down again for another shaky kiss, my mouth open and soft beneath his.
Al’s hand grabs my hip; he holds me still for a moment, our breath mingling before he swears softly, and then his tongue slips over my teeth, heavy and warm. He moans softly when I suck at it, and when he shifts against me, I realize he’s as hard as I am. I arch against him.
It’s all I can do not to come in my trousers.
Jeering from across the bridge pulls us apart, reluctantly. Neither of us are fools, and while the crowds have thinned a great deal, there’s more than enough chance some drunken idiot will decide to do something incredibly stupid to express his (or her) displeasure at the sight of two blokes pashing.
I don’t look at Al. I can’t. I step away, pulling my coat tighter around me. “We should get to Charlie’s.”
“Hey.” His gloved hand touches my cheek, turning me towards him. His eyes are gentle. “Don’t.”
I pull back. ”Don’t touch me.” If he does, I won’t be able to stop myself. And I’m not about to ruin our friendship over some half-pissed pity shag.
Al drops his hand, his face shuttering. “Right.”
I start walking again. It’s not easy to do with a raging erection. I feel stripped and raw. The placket of my trousers pulls, rubbing against the damp head of my prick. I clench my fists and sigh.
Al walks behind me, close enough that I can hear his boots crunch through the snow. We pass the statue of Mihai Viteazul at the corner. I’m fairly certain Charlie’s flat is nearby, though I’ve only been to it once or twice over the years. I stumble over a kerb; I’m none too steady on my feet. I almost expect Al to be there, to catch me, but instead he lets me slide on the ice, falling to one already bruised knee. I wince at the sudden pain and push myself up with as much dignity as I can muster to stomp down the slick pavement.
“I can’t do this without you,” Al says quietly from behind me, and I turn, pressing my lips together in a frown. He just looks at me, his hands in his pockets, cap pulled down over his dark hair. Behind him in the distance I can see the Olympic torch burning, flames flickering against the dark sky. Citius, Altius, Fortius. We’d closed our emails to each other with those words every day for the past two years. It’s what we’d trained for, what we’d hoped for. Both of us.
I sigh, and lean against a wall. It’s hard and cold against my shoulders. “Why?” I ask. “You’ve got your family.”
“Come on, Scorp.” Al steps closer. “You know I need you.” He doesn’t look away.
I do. “You’re an idiot,” I say quietly.
“Maybe.” His fingers brush my elbow, light and gentle, as if he’s afraid to touch me. “You kissed me back.”
There’s no sense arguing that point. “I’m pissed,” I say instead, and Al rolls his eyes.
“I’ve seen you worse.” His gloved thumbs rub against my coat. “I want you tonight.” He looks down shyly, to devastating effect and I'm certain he knows it.
“And tomorrow?” My head’s not clear enough for this conversation and I can still feel his mouth against mine. “When you realise you’ve shagged your best mate--“
Al laughs softly. “My dad’s always said I should, at least once.” I just stare at him. He shrugs. “He told me about Uncle Ron when I came out to him. They were sixth form and too much whisky was involved, he said.”
I look at him in surprise. “Does your mother know?”
“She must if Dad’s telling me,” Al says, matter-of-factly. “And it couldn’t have been that much of a shock.”
He has a point.
“You're all mad,” I murmur, but I don’t pull away when his mouth brushes mine again.
This kiss is soft, careful. My hands are on his arms; he keeps his on my hips. We don’t let our bodies meet. And yet, the warm press of his lips against mine, the quiet sigh from one of us-both of us-when my mouth opens to his tongue has me hard again in moments.
I slide my hand up his arms, over his shoulders. Wisps of his hair catch on my lambskin gloves
Al pulls back, but he doesn’t move his hands. I can see his breath in the frigid air. “Uncle Charlie’s isn't far,” he says, his voice rough and uneven.
I nod. I’ll regret this decision in the morning, I suspect, but I’d regret more having never let him lead me down the street, our fingers twined together, the wind bitingly cold against our cheeks.
His uncle’s building is Soviet-era, dingy and squat on a quiet street corner. Al opens the flimsy outer door. We stop on the landing to kiss again, and Al presses me against the wall. He’s breathless, and his fingers dig into my arms. His mouth is gentle and when he drags his tongue across the back of my teeth, I moan and tighten my grip on his elbows.
“Fuck,” he says against my mouth, and I can’t stop the shiver that catches my breath. “I want-“
I know what he wants. I can feel him against me, cock straining through his trousers.
The stairwell is dark, barely lit by the sconces that flicker, casting long shadows against the wall. The Olympic improvements haven’t reached this neighbourhood; there’s no reason for them to. No one’s here in this grimy grotto to impress after all.
With a faint smile, Al slides down my body, his knees hitting the threadbare carpet with a solid thunk as he whips his knitted cap off and shoves it into his pocket. I stare down at him, and he's unbuttoning my coat from the bottom, pushing the dark wool aside.
"You can't be serious," I say, but he's already got both hands on my trousers, kneading my cock through them and I groan. My head thuds against the wall, and I press my palms to the rough plaster. "Al..." My voice rises as he squeezes my balls gently, the cotton of my pants catching on soft curls.
"Quiet," Al murmurs. I give him an incredulous look. He ignores me and tugs at my zip instead.
The moment his palm slides over my bare skin, I gasp, digging my fingernails into the wall. His touch is light against my prick, soft as he pushes back my foreskin. I can't look away from him, from my cock bobbing between us, the swollen red head brushing his flushed cheek, his dark hair floating above my pale thigh.
His fingers fumble with the buttons of his coat and he shrugs it off his shoulders, revealing his red turtleneck. Really, no one should look that bloody attractive in that outrageous uniform they expect us to wear. When I move slightly, my trousers slide further down my thighs, and Al grins up at me, his green eyes bright behind a thick black fringe.
"Careful." His breath is warm against my prick and I shudder. Viktor doesn't let me fuck. Sex takes away your focus, he claims, ruins your competitive edge, not that it seems to have mattered a damn this year. It's been ages since anyone's touched me--since Worlds in fact, and the charming assistant coach from Kazakhstan who'd given me a quick wank in a bathroom stall after my long programme.
That'd been almost a year ago.
Al's tongue flicks against the head of my cock and I hiss. I want this just as much as he does--more, most likely. He doesn't have a mad Bulgarian insisting on celibacy as a training technique. For all I know he can have orgies with the bobsledding teams. Bastard.
When he sucks me into his mouth I can barely choke back my soft cry. It catches in the back of my throat, and I lurch forward, grabbing at Al's shoulders. I'd forgotten how this feels; I've become so used to the warmth of my lotioned hand, tossing off hurriedly in a hotel bathroom, hoping that Viktor wouldn't be able to tell I'd come. This--I bite my lip as Al's mouth slides further down my shaft. I can feel him swallow around me. Fuck. This is so much better.
The soft cotton of his turtleneck wraps around my fingers as I twist them against his shoulders. I watch him suck me, his fringe shaking against his forehead with each quick bob of his head. He catches my hips, holding them steady as his fingernails bite into the jut of bone.
"Please," I say, my voice broken, aching. I can smell the earthy, greasy traces of potatoes and fried sausages, mixed with the astringent bite of cleaning solvents and the dull reek of old sweat.
Al just looks up at me, his mouth filled with my prick. I can see the press of my head against his cheek and it makes me want to shove him backwards to the floor, straddling his face and fucking his mouth hard and fast. I swallow hard and move one hand from his shoulder to his face, my thumb stroking his stubbled jawline. "Please, Al," I say again and he closes his eyes, breathing in for a moment before he pulls back, just enough, and I can see the dark skin of my cock gleam wetly in the faint light.
"Oh." The startled syllable is clipped. Al cups my balls, rolling them against my palm before squeezing them gently. "Oh. I--"
I want.
Al's finger curls behind my balls with a quick, light stroke as his mouth slides back down my cock, the flat of his tongue pressed against the underside. He sucks me deep into his throat, and I catch the back his head with one hand, my other palm slapping against the wall. My belly's tight, tense. "Al," I say breathlessly. His hair is thick between my fingers; I twist it, pull it, as I push his head towards me, my hips pressing up. "I'm going to--"
I arch against the wall. My shoulders push against the plaster, and I bite my lip, my teeth sharp and painful. My breath's ragged.
Al sucks me harder, his cheeks hollowing out as he tilts his head, angling to take me deeper. A shudder wracks my whole body and I scrabble against the wall before giving up and grabbing his shoulders again as I thrust into his mouth. His nose nudges against my stomach, and I can feel flicks of warm wetness from his mouth strike my hip. And then he presses against my skin with a fingertip, just behind my balls, just above my arsehole, and I can't hold back any longer.
With a choked groan, I come, my body shaking, bending over Al, my fingers grabbing his shoulders, pulling at his jumper. Al sucks me eagerly, swallowing as fast as he can, but creamy spunk still slides from the corner of his lips, smears over my cock as I thrust into his mouth again and again.
The hall is silent save for my ragged gasps. Al pulls back slowly, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth. My come smears across his cheek, and he swallows. "That," he says, voice raw, "was rather brilliant."
I slump back against the wall. "Shut up," I say. I can feel the heat in my face.
Al just gives me a slow, lazy smile as he leans back. "Make me?" His fingers slide over his thighs, and I watch them slip across faded denim to the zip of his jeans. I can see the bulge of his prick. I lick my bottom lip.
"What floor's your uncle on?"
"Fifth."
My eyes flick up the staircase. "We're on the third."
"Observant." Al unbuttons his jeans and tugs at the zip. I can't tear my eyes away from the triangle of white cotton it reveals. He looks up at me. "I'm not going to be able to walk up those stairs after that."
My mouth twitches. "You can't be that bad off."
Al catches my calf with one hand. His thumb traces circles over my the folds of my trousers. "Sure about that?" His voice is light, but his gaze doesn't leave my face.
“Get up, you fool,” I murmur. I’m already tucking my prick back into my pants, pulling my trousers back to my waist and zipping them. “Anyone could come by…”
“I don’t care.” Al pushes himself up. He kisses me, and I can taste myself on his tongue. I can’t stop the shiver that goes through me he presses me back against the wall. I reach a hand down and rub hard, feeling the damp heat through his cotton y-fronts.
My mouth slides along the curve of his jaw; his stubble rasps my chapped lips. “This changes everything, you realise.”
Al huffs a laugh into my hair. “You think?” He rocks forward, his hands tight on my hips. This is ridiculous. I know it is. We’re rutting against each other in a hallway, for Christ’s sake.
“Viktor’s going to be furious.” I slide my hands beneath his turtleneck to his muscled back. His skin is warm against my palms and I can’t stop myself from wondering what it will feel like to have him above me, his cock moving inside of me as I gasp for breath.
“Do you care?” Al drags his mouth across mine, and I lose myself in the kiss again.
When I finally pull away, breathless, I grab his hand. “You can’t do what I want you to do here,” I say, and I pull him towards the stairs, barely giving him enough time to scoop up that horrible jacket.
Two floors feel an eternity. Al fumbles for the keys in his pocket; I finally knock his hand aside and reach in, pull them out. He hisses as I tug his half-open jeans across his swollen prick. “Prat.”
I just smile and with a shaking hand, open the flat door.
It’s dark inside, and Al pulls me back against him in the hallway, kissing the side of my neck. He bites, hard, and I know it’s going to leave a mark. I don’t give a tinker's damn. Instead, I turn in his arms, pressing myself against him. I work my hand between us, letting my fingers barely brush the swell in his pants.
Al groans.
“Hush,” I say, and I catch his mouth with mine, sucking lightly on his tongue until he makes another choked gasp.
“Spare room?” I ask.
He shakes his head in the shadows, the light from the streetlamps down below catching his cheek. “Rose, probably,” he says, and he drags me down a short hall into a small room lined with books. There’s a plaid sofa beneath the paned window, wide and long, with curved arms and carved legs. A quilt’s draped over the back; pillows are stacked on the floor next to it. I look at him and he shrugs. “I told Uncle Charlie I might stay the night. The blokes next to me in the Village seem to be intent on going through all the damn condoms they handed out last week.”
I raise an eyebrow. “How many have you used?”
Al grins at me and pulls one from his jacket pocket. He holds it up; the silver foil glints in the light from the window. “This is the first contender.”
I take it from him and turn it between my fingers. “Maybe I should put it into play.”
He just watches me. “If you want.”
I set the condom on the edge of Charlie Weasley's desk. I shrug out of my coat, setting it aside on the broad surface. A stuffed lizard watches me from its perch on a shelf above us. I can’t believe I’m about to do this with my best mate. I pull my jumper over my head and fold it carefully, not looking at Al as I set it on my coat.
“You’re beautiful,” he says softly. I can feel him behind me, and when his fingertips brush down the curve of my spine I close my eyes and breathe out. My prick swells slightly, not much, but enough to make me realise that he could make me come again. Soon.
“Al,” I say, but his hands are on my trousers again, and with a tug he slides them and my pants over the curve of my arse. I grab the edge of Charlie’s desk. “Al,” I say again, but it breaks off into a gasp as I feel his mouth against my arse.
His tongue drags across the fold between my arse and thigh. “Shut it, all right?” He licks my skin again. “I’ve been wanking to fantasies about this for years. You’re never this talkative in them. Spread your legs.”
I bite back a laugh. “And if I refuse?”
Al nips my inner thigh. “You won’t,” he says confidently.
He’s right. I shift slightly, spreading my legs for him and when his mouth slides up, his tongue flicking through my crease, I groan and clench the edge of the desk. It’s been almost two years since I’ve been fucked properly, like this, and the promise of a thick cock inside of me makes me ache. Damn Viktor and his rules to hell and beyond. Al licks me, presses his tongue against my hole, and the noises he’s making, the soft grunts and gasps and moans go straight to my prick. It stiffens slowly, rubbing against the edge of the desk. I’ve never been hard again this quickly. Not even when I was seventeen and wanking as often as my schedule allowed.
The skin between my arsecheeks is wet and slick; Al holds my arse open so he can slide the tip of his tongue inside of me. “Fuck,” I say, tensing, and he laughs softly, and presses deeper.
When he finally pulls back, I’m shaking. There’s a whisper of fabric hitting the floor, and then Al’s sliding up me, his bare skin against mine. I swallow hard and push against him. His prick slides over my arse; he’s managed to get it out of his jeans and pants while he tongued me. He breathes out sharply.
“Slow now,” he says against my shoulder.
I grunt in annoyance. “Fuck me.” I can feel him smile against my skin.
He kisses the nape of my neck. “Impatient, are we?”
I answer by circling my arse against his cock. I want him inside of me. Now. Al pulls back; I look over my shoulder. “Condom?”
“Oh.” I grab it from the edge of the desk. “Come here.” I rip the slippery foil open with shaking hands and Al watches me, his eyes dark, as I unroll it on his cock.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him like this. His jeans are bunched at his knees; his lanky body is lean and brown in the moonlight, his shoulders broad and muscular. I’m amazed by how different we are.
When I finish rolling the thin rubber down his prick, he closes his eyes and breathes out. He’s hot and heavy in my hand, and I can’t resist stroking him lightly. His eyes flutter open. “Scorpius,” he says, and it’s a plea.
I smile and lean forward, pressing my mouth against the pulse in his throat as I twist my palm over the latex-clad head of his cock. “Tell me you have more lube.”
“I’m not a complete idiot,” he says, and his throat rumbles beneath my mouth. I pull back and raise an eyebrow.
“Walking around with it, are you?”
Al’s mouth quirks. “Does it make me a slut if I say yes?”
“It makes you pathetic,” I say, my fingers still sliding over his prick. My own bobs between us, stiffening as it brushes against his. “If this actually is your first condom of the Games.”
He kisses me, rough and quick. “First one in months,” he whispers, and I pull back, staring at him for a moment before I turn to grab the desk.
“Fuck me, Al,” I say, canting my hips and sticking my arse in the air. His breath catches audibly.
I hear the plastic click of the lube bottle opening, and then his fingers are against my crease, slick and hot as he strokes my hole before he slides a finger in. I tense, and he presses his mouth to the side of my throat. “Relax,” he says, and he twists his finger slowly, loosening me.
I brace my hands on the surface of the desk and feel my heart thud against my chest. I’m half-certain I’m ruining everything with this, one final night of destruction. Our friendship won’t be the same. But Al's hand twists again and another finger presses into me and I couldn't care less. All that matters is this. If there's anything left standing tomorrow, we can think about it then.
He swears as he fucks me with his fingers, slow at first and then quickly, his words panting against my shoulder in short, quick gasps. “I want you,” he groans, and he has three fingers inside of me, deep and full, and I'm riding them eagerly. “Scorpius-“
I press back against his hand, taking his fingers deeper. “Please. God. Now,” I demand.
Al pulls away slowly, and for a moment I panic as the air hits my wet arse until I feel the blunt head of his prick opening me. My brain shuts down, unable to believe this is finally happening.
I cry out when he pushes into me. It hurts, even after the finger fucking, the way it always does when I take a cock up my arse for the first time after months. Years, honestly. I lurch forward, but he catches me, his arm around my stomach, and he holds me steady. “Careful,” he says, and I know he’s talking to himself as much as he is to me.
The quivering in my legs settles and the pain dulls. Al strokes a hand down my back, over and over. It’s oddly calming. “I’m all right,” I finally manage to say.
He moves slowly, gently, his hands curling around my hipbones. The pressure aches at first, but he angles his hips just right and within a few strokes I’m gasping, my cock hardening and dripping onto the worn wooden surface of the desk.
“You have the best arse,” Al says, breathlessly. His thumbs stroke over my skin as his hips snap against mine.
I laugh and press my hips back into his next thrust. “Figure skaters usually do. All those--” I break off into a groan as he pulls me tight against him. His balls slap against the back of my thighs. “All those jumps, the triple Lutzes and quads and-oh, fuck, don’t stop.”
He leans forward and bites my shoulder. “Don’t plan to,” he says, and he slams into me, pressing me into the desk. My wet cock rubs between the wood and my skin and I groan, my hands scrabbling over file folders and loose paper.
“Al-“
He fucks me in quick thrusts, his breath heavy and gasping against my ear. I tense beneath him, spreading my thighs as wide as my bunched trousers will allow, arching my back and pressing my arse into each slap of his body against mine.
One impossible, fantastic stroke and I come fast, my shoulders shaking as I try to hold myself up. Spunk spatters across the desk, over papers, and I don’t care.
The lizard stares down at me from the shelf, disapproving.
“Oh, shit,” Al groans, and he pounds my arse, pressing me across the desk, my skin smearing come across the worn wood. His hands slide hotly against my hips, my back, my shoulders, holding me as he fucks me. I clench my arsecheeks and he cries out, shuddering above me. “Scorpius-“
He collapses onto me, gasping, and we lie there for a moment, sweaty and sated.
Then he presses his lips to my cheek. I lift my head and catch his mouth with mine, drawing him into a slow, languid kiss.
“Tell me,” he says against my mouth, “that we’re going to do that again. And frequently. I have a hell of a lot of condoms left.”
I love his heavy weight pressing against my back, the burn of his cock still in my arse, the looseness spreading through my limbs that is better than anything. “We’d better.” I flick my tongue against his bottom lip. “Viktor be damned.”
“You’re still training for Worlds.”
I shift, the muscles in my back protesting. He pushes away from me reluctantly, and I hate the emptiness left when he slides out of my arse. “We could sneak around.”
Al winces as he rolls the condom off his prick and tosses it in the bin next to the desk. “Remind me to empty that tomorrow,” he says, and then he looks at me. I’ve turned, and I’m leaning against the desk, my spent cock limp and sticky against my balls. “And are you asking me to, for all intents and purposes, help you lie to your coach?”
“Yes?”
He eyes me. “That’s rather hot.”
I kick my trousers off and step out of my shoes. “I know.” I brush past him and settle on the sofa, pulling the quilt over my sock-clad feet and shaking legs. “So that’s a yes?”
Al pushes his jeans and pants off. “Am I stupid?” He crawls onto the sofa with me, burrowing under the quilt. Our bodies are pressed against each other, our thighs entwined. I love the feel of him against me, the faint earthy scent of his breath as he presses his forehead against mine. “So,” he says softly, “this isn’t an enormous cock-up, is it?”
“An enormous cock up where?" I grin and smooth his hair back off his forehead. His brow is still wrinkled and he pulls me into a serious answer. “It probably is, but I think it’s one we have to make.”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I draw him closer, wrapping my arms around him. I don’t care what our parents say or whose father will get more superiority out of this situation. What the ISU or Viktor or the press will say. What the whole bloody world will say. Sod them all. We’ll deal with that tomorrow. For tonight, I just want to lie here with him and pretend the world doesn't exist.
“We’ve lost our minds, you know,” Al murmurs against my throat. "I think I like it."
So do I.
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