I am doomed.
This picture reminded me immediately of isiscolo’s Giant Squid/Ondine Maxime fic (which is a great read, very well done):
Thank you, little_needle for leaving the link to vintage_sex on your journal. Came across it a bit ago and couldn’t for the life of me recall the name of the community.
I frolic, for I have finished editing up this which was not edited to my liking by the end of the challenge, but was posted anyhow; the exclusivity date ended a couple days ago, therefore, it is now being shoved into my journal, as you can see. If anyone would like to beta--Natt finds these lovely people hard to come by--you might drop a little note!
This pairing is fun. I plan another. Though, I wish now that I’d taken this one a bit slower.
Pairing: Harry Potter/Gilderoy Lockhart
Summery: During an emotional moment, Lockhart takes his frustration out on Harry.
Notes: This was Harry Potter Chanslash Challenge #23: Gilderoy Lockhart has...interesting uses for his memory charms. The night Harry has to serve detention with him will be spent doing more than just answering fan-mail. Key points: Must be NC-17. Harry's second year. By: Switchknife.
What You Have
Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment.
“What are you talking about, Harry?” He leaned over the table of quills and photographs, looking far more confused than he should have. After all, he had to have heard that frightening voice in the walls, too. “Perhaps you’re getting a little drowsy? Great Scott—look at the time! We’ve been here nearly four hours! I’d never have believed it—the time’s flown, hasn’t it?”
“Professor, I swear! The voice…it…. Are you sure you didn’t hear it?”
Lockhart looked down at him, face squashed into itself, lips creasing. “I…well, of course I did, Harry.”
“You did?” Harry felt the anxious turning of his stomach start to subside. He wasn’t going mad! Lockhart had heard it, too.
“Yes, yes, I did.”
“Then”—he hopped up, suddenly hunching over in thought, his hands twisting around the lint that filled his pockets. His head had emptied as soon as Lockhart admitted, though strangely, that he had heard the voice as well. What was that thing? Should they go to Dumbledore? “Oh! Come on!”
“What?—oh!” Harry had snatched a fist full of the man’s stupid robes and yanked him towards the door. “Now, wait just a—”
Harry made to open the door, but Lockhart was over him, his hands batting Harry's away from the knob, tangling their fingers together.
“We have to see Dumbledore! Something’s in the walls!”
“Wait, young Harry—oof!”
Harry’s elbow collided with him a little harder than he’d meant it to, and Lockhart stumbled backwards, clutching his stomach. He let out a whoosh of air as his back met the edge of a table with a clack.
The door made a similar clack when Harry shut it, which was what made him notice the nearly silent room. No more threatening voice. Just a final ragged note from past Lockhart’s glistening teeth and the echo of Harry’s footsteps toward him.
Lockhart blinked at him through the waves of hair before his eyes, breathing quickly, while he continued to rub his stomach.
“Are you all right, sir?”
He flashed a smirk, though not the impish sort one would expect from Malfoy—only a weak quirk of his lips. “This isn’t the first time you’ve caused a ruckus for attention, Harry,” he said breathily.
“Attention?” Harry’s mouth dropped open. “You told me you heard the voice! And now it’s gone! And—” He growled, shoving his fingers under his tufts of hair, palms over his eyelids. He wanted to shout at Lockhart, but he didn’t think he could stand another moment with this ridiculous man, much less another detention. He turned, aiming to leave the room.
“Now, now.” Lockhart’s hand was on his shoulder, pulling him backward. “There’s no use trying to impress me with dramatics, Harry.”
His bottom hit the seat of a wooden chair.
“I’m not trying to—”
“I understand. No need to be flustered! It’s perfectly natural for an ambitious lad to make up outrageous stories—”
“You said you heard it!”
“Ah.” Harry’s brow furrowed at the tone. Lockhart sat, rubbing the back of his neck, and eyeing Harry in a most peculiar way. With his lips pressed into a moue on his tilted head, an almost despairing feeling came from him and, while Harry was still recovering from being frightened, deceived, excited, and confused all in moments, he nearly felt for Lockhart. “Well,” he said at last. “You can’t be angry with me for trying to help you out—calm that fantastic imagination of yours? You know what I mean….” He waved a hand.
That was it? He’d gone through that scuffle because Lockhart was trying to calm him? He couldn’t have gone mad (he had heard the voice!). He just couldn’t have. “No...you said you heard it.”
Harry had never seen Lockhart sigh such a sigh before. “I know what I said—”
“Can you blame me?” His usual smile crept back as he gave Harry an almost playful shove. “Come on, you were joking, so I joked back!”
“No, I wasn’t—”
“I know what this is about.” His voice wistful, Lockhart leaned forward, pinning Harry to his seat with his bright, sparkly eyes, the lids of which came down lazily while Lockhart reached a hand out to Harry, running his fingertips under Harry’s fringe. He touched the scar, sending tingles under Harry’s skin, and the blacks of his eyes became larger while Harry could only stare.
He recalled Uncle Vernon once telling Dudley not to run away from a crazy man—just to give him all his pocket money. But Harry didn’t have any pocket money. So he did run.
Lockhart had caught his wrist, wringing it in the process. An apologetic expression passed over Lockhart’s face before he pushed Harry against the same table he had run into before, Harry’s shoes scraping against the stones as he tried to lodge his heels in between them.
“You needn’t run or be embarrassed, Harry, because I know what’s going through your mind.”
That desperate look came over him again. It didn’t go well swirled around with his normal charming face, because this face wasn’t charming at all. It was simply disturbing.
“I really think I should go now,” said Harry. He’d never noticed how big Lockhart’s hands were before he wanted to move far, far away from them.
“It’s all right. You can’t imagine how good this makes me feel, young Harry, knowing what you feel. You remind me so much of myself—have I told you that?”
Harry shrugged his shoulders, face tight with worry.
“And I can’t imagine how intimidating this must be for you. You were in the spotlight for such a long time and now I—Gilderoy Lockhart—am here taking all your glory away.”
The grip on his wrists tightened, and Harry shook his head, wanting only to shove him to the floor and storm past—or stomp on—his body. Lockhart moved his face so close that Harry could smell the scent of lavender on his hair.
“First, when you resorted to handing out signed photos today, I thought little of it, but now these stories! Harry, jealousy is perfectly natural!”
“N-no, please—” He imagined his bones were going to crack under Lockhart’s pressure. Though, Lockhart wasn’t looking directly at him as much as he was looking through him, now. And his eyes, they took on a sort of gloss.
“But, it took such dedication for me to get where I am, Harry. Do you know? Years, it took!” He shook Harry’s wrists. “Years!”
Mind finally returning from wherever it had been, he refocused on Harry’s face that was nearly as screwed up in fright as Lockhart’s was in sorrow. A clear drop ran from one blue eye down his cheek. Harry’s own eyes widened.
“Don’t you get it?” he whispered.
“You…with your scar and your innocent face…that’s all it took.” To Harry’s relief, Lockhart released him and pointed to his chest. “And me?” His mouth turned to a very outward grimace; several more tears slid down his face, sprinkling onto his robe front. “I’ve worked my w-whole—”
He stopped, voice having turned more moan-like than whisper-like. Lockhart put his head into his hands, his shoulders jumping with silent sobs, and Harry made a move toward the door. “Oh!” he said, as arms shot out to pull him back toward Lockhart’s broad chest where he shoved his face, hot and red, into the bend of Harry’s neck. It was such an abrupt move that he wobbled, and had it not been for the man’s thick head of hair to grab onto, Harry might have toppled.
Lockhart let loose a shriek of pain, though he did not loosen his grip, and he continued to cry; Harry could hardly make out his words. “So h-hard and long I’ve worked! My w-whole thirty-three years! And you, you…don’t you see why…?”
“No! I don’t see! Just let me leave…just….” He didn’t want to be here. Not with Lockhart doing odd things, sniveling like he was. “Please, sir,” he said in a smaller manner than he had intended. “Let me leave. I won’t mention the voice again.”
He tightened his grip around Lockhart’s head, not knowing what else to do but hold onto something.
It happened so quickly Harry was surprised he remembered to keep breathing: shaking hands made their way under his jumper; the corner of the table jabbed him when he flew back, when Lockhart’s hands cupped his ribs.
“Hold on, you must understand!” said Lockhart.
“No! What are you doing?”
The man pulled himself off the floor, blinking his wet eyes, and Harry looked from side to side. There were walls everywhere and the door was behind Lockhart, so he did the only thing he could. He turned around and fled—right into the table he’d been leaning against. Then Lockhart was behind him with his hands placed on the table, on either side of Harry, his chest flat against Harry’s back.
“Stop, now, stop,” he said as Harry wriggled, head bowed. Lockhart sniffed, his nose shoved into Harry’s neck. Upper lip curling in disgust, Harry forgot to struggle when he felt a long and rigid something bobbing against his back. What? No. Lockhart’s trousers were on his body! When Harry looked down, yes, they were still there, brilliant magenta. He closed his eyes, realizing Lockhart had just taken it out of his trousers.
But, no, he couldn’t be doing what Harry guessed he was doing, because professors did not do things like that. Not even weird ones like Gilderoy Lockhart. Lockhart wasn’t taking off Harry’s jumper and yanking his trousers and pants down around his ankles. It simply wasn’t so. Couldn’t be so.
The shudder of Lockhart’s cold, sniffing nostrils on his neck gave Harry gooseflesh. “You d-don’t know…you don’t….”
What didn’t he know, for Heaven’s sake? If he could only gather himself (not to mention his clothes) up long enough to shake some sense into Lockhart then this could stop; but his mouth was not working anymore than his arms and legs were, and Lockhart, with his other parts that seemed in much better condition, did not make it easier when he did something that made Harry’s legs tremble and his mind shout this isn’t allowed: he began to move his pelvis.
“I’ve always wanted to be the best, Harry!” Lockhart sobbed onto him, his tears trickling in warm drops down Harry’s spine. “Always!”
Harry was too shocked to move. Pull up your pants and push him away, his mind told him, but it could not convince his limbs that those were an acceptable actions.
“You…so young to have such glory…my entire life I’ve worked—” Lockhart’s whole body shuddered, though Harry was not sure if it was because of his crying.
“Oh!” bellowed Lockhart, taking hold of Harry’s hips and holding him closely; his body felt much larger than it looked. As though it were being pelted with Bludgers again and again, his pelvic bone burst with pain each time Lockhart knocked him against the sharp edge of the table, rattling the inkpots; Harry noticed the squeak of his palms slipping along heavily varnish wood, the way the nibs of each quill clicked against it in time with Lockhart’s hips; the torchlight seemed very bright.
It didn’t make sense. Lockhart had no reason to nestle himself against the split of Harry’s bottom, but here he was, heavy and wild upon him, and surely about to do something much more horrendous; his hand quivered all the way it traveled around Harry’s body. Harry let out a screech that he was quite ashamed of when Lockhart seized something that no-one besides Harry had ever touched. Face searing, he shook his head from side to side and leaned against Lockhart’s chest so the man could feel his disapproval. No, no, no, put that down. Please, no, you shouldn’t—
His head no longer shook in disapproval more than it thrashed in bliss. But he should not have been enjoying it, his most private part being clenched so, nor his own nude back scraping the buckles, ruffles, and bows of those alarming robes. He knew what was going to happen soon because he had fiddled with himself down there often enough to know: he would become as stiff as Lockhart shamelessly was and then he would spurt out all over himself. No one was supposed to see him like that. He couldn’t let anyone hear him whimper or breathe as roughly as Lockhart was doing into his ear.
When he pushed back to free himself, though, Lockhart grunted and pressed Harry right back into his hand. Harry made a similar noise and had to hold on to the table to keep his pelvis from smashing into it again.
“Please,” Harry said. What he meant by it, he did not know. Just please. Please let him go back to his dormitory. Please keep touching him there. Please don’t let anyone find them. Please let someone find them.
Lockhart’s voice sounded less watery, and Harry noticed that he could no longer feel the cold of sitting tears on his back.
“You—don’t know—how I—need—this,” he said. His moments were becoming less and less rhythmic. “How I need…what you have.”
His body stiffened; Harry felt wetness streak his back, although he did not think it was tears.
He slumped, pressing Harry onto the piles of smiling, winking photos. He had not thought Lockhart was the type of person to sweat so much. But the stuff was there, making their skin slick so that it was difficult for him to rest his head on Harry’s neck. Eventually, his forehead leaned into Harry’s hair, his hands rested on Harry’s hips, and he breathed—or puffed, rather.
One of the Gilderoys in the photos was leaning on his border, trying to catch a better glimpse of what they were doing. Embarrassed, Harry tried to cover the photo with a roll of parchment and ended up knocking over an inkpot with shaky fingers. The noise did not stir Lockhart, but Harry was sure he was about to let up off him, and then he would see the black all over his photos. Lockhart seemed very fond of his fan-mail; if…what had just happened between them…occurred while he was sad, Harry did not want to be under him while he was angry.
He leaned forward a tad, reaching for the toppled inkpot—
“Come to me…let me kill…let me kill you….”
His head snapped up and bashed Lockhart on the nose.
Why hadn’t he thought that before?
Harry scrambled to pull up his trousers before Lockhart could regain his senses; however, they were twisted in his underpants and he toppled onto the floor in his efforts. Lockhart, pinching his nose, and with his soft part dangling out of his magenta robes, reached out quickly. Assuming he would be grabbed again where he was still half hard, Harry shuffled as best he could back into the leg of the table; the pile of envelopes tumbled on top of him.
“Professor, please, no—” He held his arms out, frightened, as Lockhart kneeled next to him.
The voices were getting louder. Why couldn’t Lockhart hear them?
“Don’t rip me!” he screamed before he thought of what he was saying.
“Rip you?” He looked down at Harry with wide, startled eyes. Harry felt very small lying nude under Lockhart, who looked as though he were staring at an injured lamb. He turned toward the clothes wrapped around Harry’s legs, shut his eyes, and whispered, “What have I done?”
Before Harry could plead again, he was being flipped over and something soft ran up his bottom and onto his back. “What’re you—?”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Just hold still.” Of course, that made Harry twist around to see what was going on. Lockhart was smearing white gunk off his skin with a pink checkered handkerchief. He wadded it up and shoved it into his pocket.
Lockhart clambered to his feet and spun around, presumably to stuff himself back into his pants, so Harry pulled on his clothes faster than he could ever remember doing, finished, and found Lockhart staring at him, still wide-eyed. It was awfully late to be blushing, but Harry did when his eyes Lockhart’s, which were blinking rather rapidly.
The man couldn’t seem to decide whether to run away or cry. Harry could identify.
“I…I can go, then?” He edged toward the doorway, stepping over an envelope addressed to Gladys Gudgeon. Gryffindor Tower was far off and he did not think his legs would last much longer.
“Uh—wait one moment! Give me time to readjust myself, young Harry.” A bit of his normal tone sunk back into his voice.
“What do you mean?” Lockhart was confusing him again. He just wanted to go to bed—to get away from this mad man, his office that smelled of sweat and semen, and that godforsaken voice in the walls. He wanted to wake up tomorrow and not know that this night had ever occurred.
“You’ll understand in a moment,” he said, smoothing his wavy hair back into place. “Then again—no, you won’t.”
He pulled out his wand.