Guilty Pleasure

Remus sat in a bed of black satin, vaguely amused by the slick-slippery feel of it beneath his fingertips. He held a fag in his other hand, though the heady scent of incense clouded the smell of burning tobacco.

Malfoy set his quill down and capped his inkwell. “I wish you wouldn’t smoke those Muggle things in here,” he drawled.

“You gave them to me,” Remus said. Funny that he could be bolder with Lucius Malfoy than he had ever been with his friends. “Said it was your fiancée’s idea of slumming.”

“The fact remains that they’re disgusting.” Malfoy put out the lamps with a flick of his wand, then crawled onto the bed. The lights of Hogsmeade below slipped through a crack in the curtains, giving them just enough light to see by.

Remus, in response, simply stubbed out his cigarette in a glass bowl that was certainly not meant to be an ashtray. “Disgusting because they’re Muggle?”

“Yes. On top of the foul taste it leaves in your mouth,” he said, then used his fingertips to guide Remus’ lips to his. Just before their mouths brushed, Remus felt the tip of Malfoy’s wand graze the corner of his lip, and Malfoy sneered, “Scourgify.” It burned Remus’ tongue and the roof of his mouth, left his teeth tingling as though he’d sipped hot soup and followed it with icy water, but Remus was no stranger to pain; he didn’t make a sound.

“Is this your idea of slumming, then?” Remus asked, still close enough that he could almost feel Malfoy’s mouth. “A half-blood Gryffindor boy fucking you in the same bed where you fuck your fiancée?”

Malfoy smiled, showing all his teeth, and tangled a hand in Remus’ hair. “Not in the same sheets, of course.”

Remus laughed, though it wasn’t the sort of laugh anyone else would recognize coming from him. “Of course. I’d imagine she gets white ones.”

Malfoy laughed right back, and that was as cold and cultured as any other part of him. “My, you are feisty tonight. Will I have to teach you to yield again, or are you going to try to punish me for my insolence?”

Remus growled and lunged forward, pressing his mouth roughly, sloppily to Malfoy’s. Malfoy let him take control for a moment, let him nip and jab and suck, but slowly, slowly he was coaxed into something lazy and languid, and he drowned in the cool taste of Malfoy’s mouth.

It wasn’t near enough to the full moon for him to fight for control, and so he found himself with his hands bound to the headboard, gagged – To stop your vile tongue, Malfoy had said – and on his knees, legs spread wide for Malfoy’s probing fingers.

Fiery lines drew slowly down his back, one at a time and feeling like a large, terrible needle, under the tip of Malfoy’s wand, and he bucked back, felt one of the smooth, perfect lines falter. The fingers went still for a moment and Malfoy cursed at him; Remus felt a smug pleasure run through him, even though the wand moved more slowly now, slid farther to slice around one buttock.

But finally, finally, Malfoy slid his cock inside him, and Remus arched, squeezing his muscles tight around him. Malfoy sighed and traced a cool finger along one of the welts he’d raised. Remus shuddered beneath it and squeezed again, hoping to get more pleasure than pain – he always did, in the end, but Malfoy always made the threat clear.

This was Remus’ guilty pleasure, what he did every Hogsmeade weekend, rather than buying candies or joke shop goods or getting butterbeer with his friends. Remus spent the evening in Lucius Malfoy’s private hotel room, fucking or being fucked by someone who was almost certainly involved in the anti-Muggle campaign that this Lord Voldemort was launching. Someone who was most certainly a killer, like the wolf inside him.

Strangely, this was the thought that brought him off, along with one particularly powerful jab of Malfoy’s hips that made the welt on his arse burn viciously.

Later, when he was sated and lying, nude and healed, on the laughable luxury of satin sheets, and smoking another cigarette that Malfoy rolled his eyes at, he stared off at the snowy landscape barely visible from the crack in the curtains, wondering if, perhaps, guilty pleasure was all he would ever allow himself.