Coiled (Book 1 of 2)

... Whatever You Say

April, 1978.

"... And here I was, beginning to think you'd forgotten all about little old me ..."

That earns a cold, hollow laugh. And with that laugh, arms crossing in silent appraisal.

Sighing irritably at the absence of an actual reply, he tries again, "What, then?"

Finally, the black eyes narrow. A condescending murmur, "... Are you drunk?"

Holding up the bottle, he shakes it. The little liquor that remains sloshes about wildly, "Would you honestly expect anything less?"

"From you? No. I certainly wouldn't."

"And what? You're just going to stand there like a spectre? Or ..."

A beat of silence, then the shuffling of feet as he turns and shuts the door, "Where are your parents?"

"Hell if I know. Gone, like always."

"So we're alone then?"

"Unless you count the house elves."

Shared laughter at this, an absurd notion.

"I most certainly don't."

"Then yes, we're alone."

A small staring contest ensues, as one approaches the other. Leaning down, he poses his next question, "Too drunk to stand?"

Unblinking, the other stares back, provocatively biting at his lip, "For what to stand?"

A hand, slipping down onto his trousers, "This. Obviously."

"Feel for yourself."

"So then ..."

Leaning his lips forward, his hand comes to rest on top of the other's as his whisper cuts him off, "- We haven't fooled around in weeks."

"... And? Your point being?"

"Now, you show up here, out of the blue."

"I thought that was the understanding between us. Casual, noncommittal. No strings."

"Of course. But that doesn't mean I can't at least be curious about your timing."

"... I find ... I find myself in need of an uncomplicated release."

"Why?"

"You know, you're a hell of a lot more attractive when you don't ask so many questions."

"You mean when I play the role of the idiot that everyone expects me to be."

An indifferent shrug, then a commanding whisper, "Come. I want my release."

The one, rising up out of his chair, the other, grabbing his wrist and leading him to the bed.

The two of them, slowing peeling off their shirts and casting them aside as they stare one another down.

"... Tired of being Alecto's lapdog yet?"

The tone there, a bit too mocking. A bit too bold, perhaps.

Sure enough, a snarl as the other grabs him by the belt and pulls him closer. With quick, unfeeling precision he roughly undoes the belt, and the buttons of his trousers along with it, "Take - it - back."

Mischievous laughter, "... Make me."

He's pushed down on the bed at that, the other climbing on top of him, bringing his lips against his, "I'm no one's lapdog."

Another laugh, this one dismissive, "Oh? ... Not even ..."

Razor sharp silence and stillness.

And then ...

His hand flying to his throat, fingers wrapping tightly, possessively as he leans back, black eyes flashing with anger, "Not even WHAT?"

Unfazed by the chokehold, the one pinned shakes with amused, guttural laughter, "...Your - favourite - little - blond - boy -"

He tightens his grip around his neck for a few extra seconds. Then roughly releasing it, he slides off of him, off the bed. Rising up as he undoes his own trousers, "Mark my words: he'll be my lapdog. Not the other way around, yes?"

More amused giggling, "... Whatever you say."

"Whatever I say?"

"Yes."

"What I say ..."

".... Yes?"

"... I say flip over for me, on your knees. And bring your ankles to the edge of the bed."