Title: Flash and Circle (1/2)
Pairing or Character(s): Albus Dumbledore, Gellert Grindelwald, Tom Riddle. In various and sundry combinations.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: B/D, mild D/s, mild S/M. Gratuitous nudity.
Author's Note: Hmm, self, I said as I finished reading DH. I wonder what the world would have been like if Dumbledore and Grindelwald had taken over after all. So, I have a universe. I have a meta-plot. I have painstaking historical and diplomatic analysis. …well, I spent a lot of time on Wikipedia, anyway. And then I sat down to write the first fic in my lovely new AU, and it was basically just kinky sex. And involved Tom Riddle. I’m so predictable. The second part is here.
The boy is on his knees.
His shoulder blades protrude, sharp and ungraceful, over the delicate curve of his spine. His dark head is bent forward, eyes lowered. His hands are clasped behind his back.
He still wears his cotton y-fronts – Grindelwald has permitted him to retain that dignity, at least – but beyond that he is naked. His smooth, pale skin seems to glow in the firelight.
Albus stands frozen in the doorway, watching the pair of them. If either one has heard him, they give no sign. Gellert is standing just behind the boy. He seems to have forgotten that he is not alone: he gazes into the fire. Absently, he runs his fingers through the boy’s hair. The boy shivers, and Albus can see his intertwined fingers clench hard, just for a moment, before he relaxes.
Gellert leans over the boy, whispers something in his ear that makes the boy whimper and wriggle, and Gellert laughs softly. His laugh is a rich, warm chuckle, and as always it makes Albus’s skin prickle. He watches as Gellert curls around the boy, stroking his chest – the boy gives a stifled gasp when Gellert’s clever fingers twist and pinch – and kissing his face.
At last Gellert rises, his robes brushing against the boy’s bare shoulder, the curve of his back, and turns to look at Albus.
“Look,” he says, and holds out his hand. “Albus, look. I’ve found us a toy.”
The boy startles, half-turns to look over his shoulder before he remembers and drops his head again, but there is a line of tension that was not there before. Gellert will have promised him punishment if he disobeys, but Albus can see how badly he wants to move, to speak, to cover his nakedness.
Albus steps into the room and slides his own hand into the one he knows so well. “And who is this?” he asks softly. His voice is meant for Gellert’s ears alone, but the room is silent but for the crackle of the fire and the boy’s quickening breath.
Gellert draws him closer, sliding his arm around Albus’s waist until they are pressed together, flank to flank. His other hand finds the boy’s face, and he caresses the soft cheek with his fingertips. “This is Tom,” he says, and the boy jerks a little, almost a flinch. Gellert draws his hand away, and his fingers are wet with tears.
“Silly boy,” he says, almost fondly. “Tom, you must pay your respects to Chancellor Dumbledore.”
The boy – Tom – raises his head a fraction of an inch, then freezes, uncertain how much he is permitted to move. Gellert gives his wonderful warm laugh again, and nudges Albus forward. “Go and say hello,” he says, and Albus drops to his knees beside Tom and tilts the boy’s chin toward him.
After a moment, Tom meets his gaze. His eyes are dark in the firelight, and shine with unshed tears, but his tongue flicks out to wet his lips and he whispers, “Lord Chancellor. Sir. It is an honour to meet you.”
“Tom is a student at Hogwarts,” Gellert says, putting a proprietary hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He fosters with the Malfoys, isn’t that right, Tom?”
“Yes, my lord. Since my magic came.” Tom glances up at him, fright and confusion naked in his face.
“He fears us,” Gellert whispers, and he twines his fingers in Albus’s auburn hair. “Tell him we mean no harm, Albus. Tell him we will not hurt him unless he asks us to.”
The boy does not look reassured, but Albus repeats the words in a soothing voice, and gently strokes the boy’s cheek, and at last Tom blinks and assays a tiny smile, no more than a quirk of his lips.
“Very good,” Gellert says, and he tugs at Albus’s hair until the breath catches in his throat and he presses his face to Gellert’s leg. “Very good,” he repeats, and smiles as Tom’s eyes widen.
“My love.” Albus finds his voice at last. “What would you…?”
“Do you want him?” Gellert asks, and colour rises in Tom’s cheeks. Albus sees him clench his hands again and bow his head. From this new angle he can see, too, how the boy bites his lip, and how he twitches closer to hardness. “Do you want your toy?”
“My Muggle-born toy?” Albus asks, regarding the boy. He must be, or he would live with his own family instead of fostering with wizards. Brought into the fold. Yes. The boy is one of theirs. He strokes Tom’s cheek again, with a feeling something like affection. What would this boy have been, without them? Outcast. Alone. He glances up at Gellert. “Yes.”
Tom gives a shuddering sigh of relief, and slumps for a moment, but Gellert flicks him briskly with his wand and the boy yelps, then clenches his jaw in shame. “I told you to be silent,” Gellert says. “Can you do that, Tom? Or must I use magic?” He pauses a moment, as if awaiting an answer, then laughs and pats the boy’s head. “Good boy. You must not speak unless you are spoken to. Surely the Malfoys taught you some manners, Tom. You are very pretty, but you must sit there nicely and do as you are told.” The tip of his wand traces the sensitive line of the boy’s throat. “Can you do that, Tom? You may nod.”
Tom does. “Good,” Gellert says, and his wand disappears again. “Well, my love.” He draws Albus to his feet and leans against him for a moment. “How shall we have him? Both at once, or in turns?”
“As you like,” Albus says, and kisses him swiftly. “He was yours first.”
“Yes,” Gellert says thoughtfully, and he considers the boy. “I think we should take him to bed, Albus. The two of us. I suspect Tom will prove very enthusiastic.”
Tom shivers, and Albus sees the pink little nubs of his nipples go hard, sticking out from his chest. He wants to pinch them, to lave them with his tongue or nip at them until Tom is writhing sweetly between them on the bed, but he has learned in his long lifetime that pleasure delayed is all the sweeter.
“Bed,” says Gellert decisively, and he lifts Tom to his feet. The boy is taller than Albus had thought, nearly as tall as Gellert, and he is very hard inside his pants. Albus takes Tom’s arm in his, and Tom follows him obediently down the corridor and into the large bedchamber with its high-canopied bed.
“Lie down,” Gellert instructs, and Tom clambers up onto the bed and lays himself out, taking care not to disturb the coverlet. He is breathing quickly – from nerves, Albus thinks, not exertion – and the vulnerable flat of his belly rises and falls with each gulp of air. His hands are at his sides, clenching and unclenching anxiously.
They fall on him together. Albus kisses his cheeks, his eyelids, his yielding mouth, and then Tom wraps his arms around Albus’s neck and kisses him back, hungry and eager. Gellert’s mouth finds one nipple, and he bites at it until Tom is moaning into Albus’s mouth and squirming to get closer, to get away.
Albus draws back at last and watches the boy’s flushed cheeks, his panting, his swollen lips. His eyes have fallen shut, and he makes a noise halfway between a groan and a whimper when Gellert leaves his sore, red nipple and fastens his mouth instead to the other one, teasing it harder still then biting again.
“Please,” Tom whispers, “please,” and he is writhing on the bed, his legs curling under him, snake-hips twitching helplessly, but he does not dare to move away. The sensitive swell of his erection is leaking wet through the front of his underpants, rendering the sensible white cotton obscenely translucent.
“Hush,” says Gellert, drawing away from him. “I told you not to speak, Tom, and you cannot even do that for me.” His wand is in his hand in a single smooth motion. The boy starts and cringes and tries to squirm away, but Albus is beside him. He holds the boy still and gentles him with wordless whispers and caresses. Tom bites his lip, and then he breathes, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, my lord. I’ll be good, I promise.”
“I know,” Gellert says, and then at last he kisses Tom full on the mouth, winding his arm – still clothed in his fine, rich robes – around the boy and pressing their bodies tight together. He kisses hard, Albus knows, and the boy is twisting against him with abortive little thrusts of his hips. When Gellert finally frees him, Tom falls back onto the bed and pants helplessly. His lips are bitten and red. “I know that you will be good,” he says, tracing the hollow of Tom’s hip with the tip of his wand, “because we shall make it easier for you.”
With a twitch of his wand, he calls up the long silk cords that hang from the bedposts and watches with satisfaction as they twine themselves around the boy’s bony wrists and ankles, stretching him across the bed, spreading his thighs. Albus can see the pulse thumping in the dip of his neck.
“You must stay quiet,” Gellert tells him, putting a finger to the boy’s lips. “Can you do that for me, Tom, or do you need me to gag you?”
Tom shakes his head, hard. No, Albus can see, he does not want to be gagged. He is biting his lip hard, teeth digging in to the swollen flesh. “Good,” says Gellert, and then he turns away from the boy to smile at Albus. “A very nice toy,” he says reflectively. “Do you like him, my love?”
Albus does not trust his voice; he nods. The boy lies spread across their bed, watching them with wide dark eyes. He does not fight the restraints that draw his arms above his head, though every now and then his hips twitch as if he wants to move. There is a fine dusting of black hair in his underarms and trailing down his belly from the dimple of his navel, but his cheeks, when Albus kissed them, were still soft and smooth.
“He is very pretty,” Gellert muses, and leans against Albus. “I met him at Domitian Malfoy’s party. I believe he is the same age as the Malfoy boy, but much cleverer. He was very flattered to be asked here, our little Tom.”
The boy is listening. There is a flush of pleasure in his cheeks. He smiles. Albus smiles back at him. He is a sweet, obedient little thing, as well he should be: he knows what they’ve done for him and the other children like him.
“I think we may be a trifle overdressed,” Albus says gently. Gellert sometimes reminds him of a cat with a mouse, and while he enjoys the anticipation he is also eager to touch the boy, to watch Gellert touch him.
“You may be right, my love,” Gellert murmurs, and begins to slide out of his robes. It as been years since that first stolen kiss in Godric’s Hollow, the summer of plans and dreams and fleeting touches in his mother’s parlour, but Albus still loves to look at him. He is coarser, stronger, than he was, but Albus knows every inch of him, every scar. He is still beautiful.
When Gellert’s chest is bare, Albus tears his eyes away and begins to strip down himself, folding his robes and Gellert’s together and setting them aside. Gellert holds his long auburn hair away from his neck and nips at his throat until Albus is groaning. At last he helps Albus slip off his silk underpants. They are far past the point of shame with one another, and when Gellert makes an appreciative noise and wraps his fingers around Albus’s shaft he only throws his head back and sighs.
The boy twitches on the bed, as though trying to scratch an itch he cannot reach. They are both naked now, and he watches them with something more akin to curiosity than lust. They must seem very old to him: it is Gellert’s hundredth year, though his hair is still as blond, his eyes as bright, as ever.
“How shall we take him?” Gellert whispers, and licks a hot curve over the shell of Albus’s ear. “I wonder how many times we can make him come.”
To be continued.