Word Count: 1720
Summary: Where there's a wizard, there's a relic.
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers, including, but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Thank you, eeyore9990 and fodirteg, for beta'ing. This fic is dedicated to the_kinky_pet, who won the tailoring of my August daily_deviant offering by generously supporting marriage equality as a bidder in the livelongnmarry charitable event. ♥
"—can't . . . can't believe how . . . fuck, just like that," Harry panted, writhing under Severus' ministrations. The vane of the feather didn't provide much friction, but after almost an hour of being stroked by it, everywhere, feeling it caress his bound cock was as close to ecstasy as he knew he was allowed to be.
Severus enjoyed teasing him. That hadn't changed.
"Spread wider, Harry," Severus ordered, "and raise your arse."
Harry shuddered as the cool satin of the pillowcase slid under him to hold him up and open, gasping as the barbules made contact with the tender skin between his cheeks.
"Back all right?"
"Please," Harry said, wriggling as fluid leaked into the crevice Severus had just widened, was widening.
Even after so much time, however, he didn't struggle against the bonds holding his wrists tightly against the headboard.
Severus chuckled and continued to trace the quivering muscle of Harry's arse. "So much control."
"I've had time to . . . learn it."
"Mmm," Severus hummed, withdrawing the feather—only to turn it, apparently, and go to work tracing a circular path deeper and deeper inside of Harry with the quill. "Look how you open for me so greedily."
"Can't. Tied up."
Harry had been shaking for some time, but the sharp scrape of quill against his sensitive flesh was almost too much.
"Name the parts of the feather," Severus said, his breath hot between Harry's legs as he shifted his position.
"N—no, not now. Can't think."
"Name them, or I shall release you and return to my tea."
"I'm not. I'm thorough."
Harry gave an impatient jerk at his bonds. "You don't even know what—"
"Whatever imprecation you directed at me, I know it isn't true. Name them."
Suddenly, the feather was gone, and Harry groaned.
Severus' response was a snort.
The quill scratched a path down Harry's shaft, which was bound to his bollocks with leather strips. It hurt; Harry loved it.
"Good," Severus said, moving the very same in painting strokes over his bollocks.
"Oh, oh, I—"
"Start again," Severus ordered, removing the feather once again.
Tears of frustrated arousal stung in Harry's eyes, but he knew the rules and didn't argue. "Quill, vane—barb!" he exclaimed, to feel the feather's barbs against his perineum.
Severus shifted position at that and licked a hot stripe from Harry's tailbone through his spread arse to suckle one of his bollocks.
"Throbbing, are you? Begin again."
"Quill. . . . Vane. . . . Barb," Severus said slowly, his voice deepening with each word as he applied the relevant portion of the feather to Harry's prick.
Harry wasn't certain if he loved the sodding thing or not, but taking several deep breaths of air to steady himself, he said, "barbule. . . barbicel—there!"
"Oh, almost. But not quite."
"Wh—at? No, that's . . . oh! I can't. I can't, Severus."
His every muscles was tense. He was practically vibrating with need. Severus was going to kill him with a fucking feather!
"Perhaps," Severus murmured, in between nipping at the leather bindings of Harry's cock and bollocks, "if you'd begin again, the last part would come to you?"
I hate you.
"Whatever you're thinking, you know it's not t—true."
Harry's eyes rolled back into his head to hear the stutter; it meant that the old man was gasping for it, himself. Swallowing, desperate to remain in control of himself, he whispered a hoarse string of words: "Quill, vane, barb, barbule, barbicel, and . . . and on them . . . hamulus."
The stinging flow of blood rushing back into the depressions left in his body by the leather made Harry's eyes water, but the pain was pure pleasure to him. With a growl, Severus was upon him, his hands digging into Harry's hips, his belly sliding slickly in a torturously glorious rubbing against Harry's spending prick, and then he achieved true ecstasy by Severus' righting himself, positioning his prick just so, and sliding inside, forcing the walls of Harry's arse to accommodate him, filling him, stretching him, heating, filling, thrusting—
It felt as if his balls were emptying themselves of every ounce of semen he had, but through the frantic, uncontrolled shuddering, the pounding of Severus into him, Harry felt it again: the caress of the feather, and he came again, and again, and—
When Harry woke up, he wasn't sore, he wasn't bound, he wasn't even remotely tired; he didn't dare move, however, as he felt the feather's fire burn harmlessly over his skin. Left cheek pressed into the mattress, his arms outstretched and legs splayed wide, he didn't frot the sheet, either. Opening his eyes, he grinned to see Severus stroking his prick slowly in their old bedroom chair, which was now situated close to the bed.
"I can smell you from here," Harry said hoarsely.
Severus' mouth slackened and he sped his strokes—and the feather's ministrations sped, as well.
Harry fought not to laugh; it tickled, but more deeply than regular tickling. And he knew that what the feather was doing for him would be worth it.
"Used it on yourself?" he asked Severus, whose eyes were as dark as he'd ever seen them. Lust. Gods, yes.
"Let me get up. I want to touch you."
Severus closed his eyes briefly, stilled his hand, shook his head. "You had your turn yesterday. Ready now?"
"Oh, fuck yes."
"Then I suppose you may move to kneel before me. I want your mouth."
Even his old knee injury wouldn't bother him, Harry knew, as he pulled himself to the edge of the bed and then rolled off, crawling the short distance to Severus and his magnificent prick.
He took the entire thing into his mouth, his newly elastic throat, and swallowed; Severus grunted and twisted his fingers so tightly full of Harry's hair that Harry thought he might lose some of it—but he didn't care.
Salty, musky, tangy, sweet, mine, fuck, got to, need, must—
It was the first time in ages that they'd come together, and Harry could still feel the tingling on his lips, in his mouth, of Severus' seed as they lay sprawled together on their bed.
The soft red glow of the feather pulsed in the darkness from its position on their bedside table, well, from its position on Severus' bedside table: it was his, after all. Harry didn't even know how to activate it, but then, even after so many years of marriage, Severus found it difficult, in some ways and about some things, to trust.
Harry didn't mind; he'd long ago made peace with Severus' needs, so attuned to his own as they were.
"Knee all right?" Severus whispered.
"I can't believe we fucked five times before dawn."
"Is it dawn?" Harry asked, shifting his position so that he could look into Severus' eyes. "I'm still seeing stars, myself."
Severus grunted, the hint of a smile passing quickly over his lips. "You're not funny. You only believe that you are."
Grinning, Harry replied, "I know I'm a good fuck."
"Mmm, no argument there."
"And you, any aches or complains to complain about?"
"I never complai—"
"Ha!" Harry exclaimed, before Severus could complete the lie.
"Are you implying—"
Harry reached out to trace Severus' lips with a fingertip, which silenced his husband—although the tiny nip he applied to the tip caused a stream of shudders to cascade through Harry's body.
"Wicked old man," Harry murmured fondly. "Lying sod."
"Laying sod? Is that what I'm doing?"
Harry snorted. "I'm not sure that works as a euphemism."
Severus sucked Harry's finger into his mouth and tongued its tip until Harry felt himself harden again.
"You . . . you can't mean to do it again."
Now Severus snorted, and, rolling over to pin Harry to the bed with his body, he declared, "I am always serious, brat."
The bite to his neck made Harry buck, hard. "Right. Six times. I'm up for it."
"I know, and I intend—"
"Great-Grandad!" a strident voice called from beyond their bedroom door. "Your great-great-grandson has been at the potions again!"
"WHAT?!" Severus thundered, as Harry's hips fell back into the mattress and his erection wilted.
Severus was already off the bed and throwing on his robes before Harry could call for light, the feather's having dimmed.
"I told him to stay out of my laboratory!" Severus shouted, throwing open the door just as Harry pulled his robes on.
"What . . . what happened to your hair?" Rowena asked.
Harry laughed. "Can't an old man try a new colouring spell without you making a fuss?" he asked her, pushing past Severus and nimbly—and how good it was to be nimble, if only for a while—sprinting towards the stairs.
Detentions had been nothing to what passed for a "time-out" from Great-Great-Grandad Severus.
"I like it," Harry heard Rowena say, as she and Severus followed him at a more sedate—and less suspicious—pace.
"That was insufficient punishment for the boy," Severus complained later, and not for the first time that evening.
"Yeah, perhaps, but I didn't want a sulking kid interrupting us for some other reason. I'm aiming for six, I think."
"It won't count. We stopped," Severus replied, a bit of petulance colouring his tone.
Harry smiled and slipped a hand into one of Severus' as they stood looking out over the darkening countryside from their front porch. "That's your fault, you know."
"You were the one who wanted to be married in summer."
"It was a convenient time."
"Right, for the kids to visit, as well."
"Ah," Severus said, squeezing Harry's hand.
Even after close to seventy years of marriage, it was the closest Harry could expect to Severus admitting anything like fault. Of course, he hadn't cared about needing to be right for close to fifty, so it worked out.
"Everyone'll be asleep soon," Harry whispered, turning to embrace Severus.
He smiled. "Yes."
I love that feather, Harry thought, his spine straightening as Severus' tongue slid over his own. Breaking the kiss, he reached up to run his fingers through Severus' once again silver hair.
"Phoenix tail-feather relic or no, I prefer my own looks to what they were."
"I always prefer you as you are," Harry murmured, "but I'm still interested in making it six."
"And I, seven."
"Slytherin ambition—I can't fault it," Harry declared, leading Severus back to their bed.