A stampede of anticipating students overhead. The shouts and cheers of the reds and their historic rivals–the greens. A hot and heavy quidditch match was duly approaching. But neatly tucked away from it all–under the quidditch stand rafters, safe from the eyes of the nearby world, were one such strawberry pair.
Clad royally in their opposing quidditch uniforms, they looked concerningly embroiled in each other to be true competitors. Ginny Weasley gasped as a bolstering hand wrapped her throat. A tongue licked a stripe under it before pressing a small, sucking kiss to the breastbone. She curled under his heat, huffing a quiet moan. “You’re going down Zabini–if you let me walk out there with hickeys.” It was a hiss, followed by a torturous glare shoved against his forehead. Blaise Zabini smirked, marking her again. “Maybe going down is what I like.” He breathed against her as the thundering feet over their heads drowned out Ginny’s noises. She shook her head vehemently, cursing. “Don’t lose for my sake.” she hissed. “This is a bet–remember?” Blaise pressed himself against her, forcing his pelvis to hers. He breathed in her warm, smoky scent, nodding into her - before pulling back - the picture of professionalism. “I remember,” he murmured, a grave expression on his shadowed features. For a moment, even to Ginny, he looked like the steely Slytherin she had once thought him to be.
“Good.” she smirked. “Hope you’re ready to munch.”
Blaise snorted, diving in for one last kiss to the redhead’s lips. “Humble, aren’t you?”
Ginny grinned up at him, shoving him off her. “Never for you. I’ll see you out there.”
Her hand slid over his thighs, gliding right where he wanted her and he was left, in the windswept corridors, a curse on the tip of his tongue, an auburn-wrought fire in his head. If Slytherin won today–the prize was almost too good to think about. But if Gryffindor won, the trophy wasn’t half bad.
Either way, the Weasel was his for the taking.
Half-time came and went. Gryffindor was ninety points up. Blaise was covered head to toe in mud, a look his fellow Slytherins lapped up like the militant hive-mind they were. The Gryffindors, comparatively, on the other side of the pitch, were radiantly clean–preferring to enchant the dirt off of them for appearances sake. They were blinding figures across the field, red and gold gleaming, but the vibrant red hair of Ginny Weasley ever more so.
Blaise turned away for the sake of hiding his blush, momentarily distracting himself with the proud stance of Gryffindor’s young chaser. She was playing well today–almost better than him. Not that he’d be casting her any mid-game approval; outside of these quarterly games he so treasured, their deal was almost nonexistent, and so when the rules were on, they were on.
For Ginny, it was effectively like edging herself for hours at a time. In all her rambunctious efforts, her heart racing, her hair whipping, her adrenaline pumping like a fiend of determination, the estrogen in her body during recent quidditch games was electric. It just wasn’t the same sitting in the stands. Here, she had everything as she wanted it; the high stakes of furthering her triumphant reputation, the envious, idolising eyes of her classmates and a game all of them could see–but none of them knew about–the odds of getting bounteously fucked by her most competent rival; Blaising-hot Zabini.
The rules were simple. If she won, he had to do whatever she asked. If he won, well–there was only one thing Blaise Zabini fantasised about and he hadn’t had it yet.
From her spot up in the clouds, Ginny squeezed the broom between her thighs, the warmth below her hips mulling a tension she longed to give in to. Fuck. They better win this game, she prayed - otherwise her clit would be dutifully ignored, by the experienced touch of her teammate later. And that, Ginny resolved, giving herself one more rock of the broom against herself before swooping lower–was just a sorry waste.
“Fuck—come here, Red.” It was a breathless whisper in her ear. Smooth, strong hands gripped the sore points on her neck like the hickeys told him where to touch. Her whole body flushed, libido swirling with freshly, defeated, indignation. The game had gone on too long, and the muscles on the Gryffindor side had given in to weariness. Slytherin had come out on top. And, Blaise? Blaise was going to get what he wanted.
The heat curled in her stomach as he touched her under her robes, visible to the red and green players if they looked. But they were cajoling, or celebrating their feelings over the result. Her arousal curdled amongst the crowd, revelling in the voyeuristic sense of being with him in front of their teammates—but equally zealous of having him all to herself as soon as the score was decided. She could tell he was slightly breathless, exerted from the game, and she had to strain to pick up on his words as the golden sun caressed their faces on its way below the horizon; it only added to the desirous tone audible in his voice. “That ass is mine, six.”
Less than ten minutes later, Ginny Weasley was getting thrown against the wall of the guys’ changing room, a moan gracing her throat as Blaise Zabini brought his hand down against her ass, slapping it once, then twice.
He kissed across her shoulders and spine, sucking over the baby hairs on her back. It felt remarkably good in combination with such a deafening match loss. She had shamefully failed, and now she was going to be punished for it, used. His trophy to be fucked. At least that was what the bet implied. Ginny Weasley would normally never let anyone catch her being submissive, but she’d had Blaise Zabini on his knees enough times to keep her pride intact.
She felt his eyes follow the hand he trailed from her cheeks up her back and imagined the look in his lustful chocolate stare. With a little tap, he pushed her towards the middle changing room bench—about a foot off the ground—and she crawled on top of it, her ass perky in the air, red pony tail pointed at the door. Blaise had forced the Slytherins to return to their tower without showering, and they’d consented, grinning, but the voyeuristic fear of someone—Merlin forbid, a teacher—coming in to hurry the absent team-members along, lingered in her mind.
They had never done this before, but during their last post-match rendezvous, when Ginny had remarked on her interest in it, Blaise had come just talking about it with her. She knew he’d been waiting for months. She swung her eyes back in anticipation, catching sight of Blaise’s astonishingly erect cock as confirmation. God, she’d forgotten just how much there was to the man. Her entire vulva between her legs was bristling with anticipation, practically dripping already.
But like she said, they hadn’t done this before. And going off Blaise’s hesitation behind her, it’d be new to both of them. So she felt slight relief in finding herself being dragged off the block again and backed once more into the lockers, Blaise facing her, with yes—brown eyes scorched with want.
He ran a hand down her, forcing his painfully hard cock against her. “This first,” he chastised, gripping her hips above his slightly, glancing down at the pool glistening between her legs. He huffed at the sight, biting off a moan and twitched his own shining erection against her. It slapped noisily against her lips and she cried out.
In response, his arm swept against her mouth, trapping her as he stuffed his tip inside her. Her scream enunciated into his bicep, hips slamming against the lockers.
Blaise breathed heavily, watching his cock in slight awe, drill in and out of her hole, and it thrilled her to feel how turned on her competition was, though they hadn’t been rivals like that for a long time. Blaise was eliciting a moan every time he pushed in her (wetly), and Ginny fought not to cry back.
She was supposed to be deserving of a fuck for failures, submitting, as she’d presumed—to the harsh pump of Blaise’s dick up her ass, whilst her clit lay blistering, unhanded and an orgasm unprioritised. But the way Zabini was slamming in and out of her at the moment, none of those things were happening. Blaise was so big and the angle so high, that her clit was inadvertently being rubbed every time he entered her, almost overstimulating the nub already. His hands scooped gently on her bare ass, a quiet grunt of “Ginge…” as his fingers kneaded her spreading cheeks against the metal, thumb swooping around the particularly delicate area of her arsehole. And the orgasm? Oh it was on the fucking way.
Her moans chorused against his broad shoulders, hips keening to meet his thrusts each time, feet bound behind his bracing back. His eyes were shut and it was allsoclose—the dinner of champions really—until she felt Blaise re-remember the terms of their bet. He pulled out of her harshly, his spilt cum seeping down her legs.
Back to the middle of the changing room. Back on all-fours. But now, her cheeks had been stretched against the width of the locker, both holes eager with his touches, more open to being fucked.
Smart, she thought, as she felt the desirable presence of his cock testing her behind. She pushed against him valiantly. He groaned, acquiescing her urge, and slammed into her slightly off-centre, leaving her crying out in the rush of the movement.
“Fuck, Zabini. Ow.”
He stilled, rubbing her sides softly until her cries dissipated—the curve of her abs, the sphere of her ruined ass, pulling her in deeper as she fought the urge to nosedive the wooden slats of the seat.
Another slam. Tentative, but she could feel the almost uncontrolled force behind it. Blaise was gripping her hips now; she could feel him arching over her, fucking her from a raised angle, hitting a spot inside her she was certain nothing would ever reach like this again.
The changing room echoed with their noise. The wet slam of his cock against her entrance every few seconds. Her loud cries as she jolted forward again and again. The brunette's own hurtled moans. God, how sacred. The occasional slap of his palm against her tortured cheeks.
“Fuck, red. This is–” Ginny finished the cry for him, finally gaining the ease to ground her ass back against his balls, pushing him deeper than earlier. “Yes,” she whined hollowly. “Fuck Zabini, yes.” She felt his hands slip round her hips and grip her waist, fingers contesting the length of her taut abs.
He was holding her like a tube, squeezing as he doubled his speed and it made her impossibly more aroused to imagine it from an outside perspective. Being used, being fucked into, in a way she could be stretched like this, held up like a toy.
She heard him start to splutter and came back off him slightly, feeling his fingers consequently slide down to her blistering clit. A victorious whine from her mouth as she found she was able to rub herself against them and still be filled with at least six inches of his dick. At his inanimate collapse, he was immobile, her toy to use—earnestly, she slammed her hips back and forth, bouncing on his softening, cum-soaked cock, his fingers drumming against her clit. The pleasure tripled where she needed it. It was ascending, her eyes closing with the soaring intensity.
She came a minute later, gasping and crying into his now-revitalised cradle, of pelvis, hands and thighs. It was like a warm hug and she curled into it, just for a second. There were tears pricking the corner of her eyes as she felt him release her, easing her sore hips off and down into the bench and she sniffed a long breath of sweaty air in as she turned shakily round to meet his still puffing face.
“Are you mad at me?” She harummed silkily, “for the last bit.” She meant the shameless use of his fingers to get herself off, obviously.
He smirked, shaking his head as he leaned in, pulling her chin in with two extended fingers, kissing her lips hungrily.
Nothing even slightly mature tumblr this time (back off plz) just my first ever jegulus fic!! slightly tender and a little bit slowburny. Dutifully, for @slytherinmicrofics
AO3
“Black, you serious?”
James Potter’s handsome face plumed around a rocketing grin, but it wasn’t entirely confident. James was never sure if the threats Sirius handed out were serious, especially when they revolved around his brother, who was the daily object of such uttered malifications and jibes.
How should he know? James didn’t have to delve in the complicated world of sibling dynamics. It seemed horrid.
Sirius, in response, shrugged, his eyes rolling to the ceiling, watching the aged remembrall he was tossing over and over again at the ceiling of the common room.
“Whatever.” he said.
As usual when mentioning another member of the Black family, he wore an insolent thin-lipped grimace. It occurred to James that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t know if Sirius was being serious when it came to Reg.
After another couple of throws, Sirius turned his head to James, his upright straining wrist grappling the caught remembrall for a second. “Yeah, why not.” Struggling to keep eye contact with James from his position on the couch, he looked away. “Maybe it’ll do him some good.”
In the slip of Sirius’ sleeve, James has spotted the red mark on the boy’s skin - the remainder of the Black tattoo Siris had burned out his skin just months prior. James sighed, but for all their sakes, returned a joke.
“That, and keep you in bed an hour longer.”
“Yeah.” Sirius said lacklusterely.
Then, “Nah, seriously Prongs,” he said, turning upright with a shake of his head, “I’m getting proper worried about the company Reg is hanging around here with. And-thing is,” Sirius went on, warming, “no one–no one knows if he believes any of their crap”, he hissed, glaring at James, “because he never–bleeding says anything.”
Sirius’ eyes flashed before he seemed to realise his outburst. He sat back, almost apologetically and affirmed quietly, “I want an eye kept on him.”
“But not your own.” James replied, hoping he wasn’t tripping the wire here.
“Can’t be arsed admitting to him I care, James.” Sirius said flatly.
“And he’d know I was parenting him if I went anywhere near him.”
“Maybe you should parent him.”
Sirius was off again like a cracker, and James had to bite down a smile.
He understood being related to a renowned pack of pure-blooded Slytherins was a commendable sore point for Sirius, one that would possibly never fade, but he’d never seen the quiet, industrious Regulus act in any such way that demanded Sirius to react like this. James had often found the younger brother to be resemblant of Sirius in an admiring, quippy sort of way, even if he was a bit socially awkward.
“He’s not my bastard child James, I didn’t fuck anyone to get fucking dumped on with an idjit like him, that was my fucking mother-”
“Alright, calm down Pads, blimey,” bemused James, eyes shifting around the lazy common room, fairly aware of at least four hangovers today.
He deflected, murmuring, “It’s not your job to rectify your entire bloodline’s future.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Sirius sounded disheartened.
“It’s your job to fuck it up individually.” James added, winking as Sirius grinned back at him.
“I knew you’d say something helpful eventually.”
To their natter and Sirius’ echoing uproar, Lupin padded through in his too-long mustard socks, treasured Madam Pomphrey presents. He graced them with a rare, pleasant smile. “What’s Sirius moaning and squealing about now?”
“Shut it Moony.” Said Sirius, but he looked embarrassed. “That’s your thing.”
Remus blushed slightly as Sirius rapped on, “James is just going to be looking after my poisoned genetic tumour of a brother for a while.”
Right. The punishment. James wasn’t actually sure what for: Regulus was going to be spending the cold weekday mornings helping James record his swim reps, a job dutifully and enthusiastically, carried out by Sirius in recent weeks. Speed swimming across the black lake was an increasingly popular hobby amongst the more athletic mavericks of Hogwarts in the warmer months, and James had never been one to back down from something slightly illegal.
He’d been getting up before the sun since the start of the year, Sirius along with him. He was slightly objecting of prospect that for Sirius, this challenge was like rearing a prize-winning swine, but was grateful for the accountability all the same.
“Oh.” Remus’ lips twitched, his stare beguiling, unrevealing.
“How becoming of you, James.”
Sirius looked between them.
The remembrall, out of sight-out of mind, turned red to nobody’s noticing.
James avoided both of their stares, suddenly irritated.
“Yep, can’t wait.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
In dawn light, the cold grey eyes of Regulus Black were dark enough James swore he could see the still-out moon in them.
It was laughable, James thought - how much Sirius hated this walking reflection of his same, recognisable features. The amused, but haughty, stare. The narrow, bolstering jaw. The same indignant brow, though broodier than Sirius’.
“So–I just, watch you swim?” The younger boy volunteered, after the two had peppered a silent trudge down to the lake.
“Not if you can help it.” James mused, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth at Regulus, who look unequivocally unimpressed.
“I just need your fingers-” he interjected, pushing his hand against the boy’s pale and cold hand, forcing his fingers round the stopwatch gently. “Right-there.” Regulus stared at him. “For when I come out.”
“God this is an uncreative punishment from Sirius.” He scoffed, taking a step back, rolling his eyes, just like him.
James looked at the eye bags cresting the top of his swallow cheeks and sighed.
“If he catches you saying that you’ve got a worse one coming. This one’s pretty painful as it is.”
Regulus tsked, clicking the top of the stopwatch. The mechanical beep sounded, dismissing James almost reproachfully from their warming conversation.
“I can deal with this, thank you.” he sniffed.
“Suits me. See you at eight, Reg.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Regulus Black was at the lake again.
It had become a quiet spot of sanctity for him ever since his godforsaken brother had tasked him with the trial of babysitting James Potter. Not that the elder Gryffindor was much of a challenge to look after.
Their arrangement hadn’t advanced much since that first conversation, and usually involved minimal jovial ‘good mornings' and ‘see you laters’ instead of extended chat, contributed to by factors such as the cold and the time, and the fact they had nothing much to say to each other. But still, Regulus had come to favour the routine. He cast his eyes over the still surface of the water now as he always did, partial to admiring it in its state of stillness; before the lean rocket of James Potter sent ripples east and west, and thrashed stripes all over it, almost continually for sixty minutes. He liked to watch James go in, disrupt it like a punch into wallpaper, or blood out a wound.
“Hey, chap.”
The soft, slightly hoarse tone of James came up behind him, edged always with that encumbering surprise that Reg was there before him. He supposed to James, it must seem like eagerness—which, to Sirius, would be mortifying, but in front of James, he found he didn’t really care. James was always happy to see him, and he admittedly, felt the same.
He wasn’t sure what Sirius’ objective with this so-called punishment had been—he hadn’t cared to ask in the beginning, and now not sure he wanted to watch James recall any previous impression of him directly. It hadn’t changed anything about his life, other than the fact that he now sometimes compared James Potters’ physique to that of the arrogant boys who loudly cajoled the corridors with their opinions.
His month of involuntary observation made him confident that not one of the boys he slept near to, even slightly compared. Not that that meant anything.
But as he watched James Potter strip his slept-in Beatles shirt off him, exposing the now-familiar rungs of his spine, Regulus decided that Sirius had fucked up. This had never been - and would never be punishment.
James was down to his boxer shorts, his wand, eliciting a quick waterproof sheen to them.
Regulus liked to notice the tan-lines on the older boy’s thighs; result of his lounging all over the grounds; now that winter was gone, James seemed to drink all the vitamin D from the sky. Regulus was still pale as ever. It gladdened him that Sirius also haunted his sunny best friend’s side.
With a splash, Regulus’ golden five minutes were over. James would disappear beyond the realms of entertainment for the next hour - like always - too fast and too submerged to reveal anything other than the fast scuttle of toned arms across the water.
And so Regulus collapsed against the bark of the tree, stopwatch teasing him mercifully.
He had sometimes invited the idea of joining James in the water, or at least supposed a reality where he might one day pick up a similar pursuit as the Gryffindor. But, he reasoned, James Potter was the only one stupid enough to do this at this hour for a reason.
Every time he fully stared at the depth of the black lake, his stomach tightened. The giant squid had seemed unbothered every time James had been swimming up until now, but Regulus supposed that was because it was still in hibernation. He feared for the day, soon, now that it was warmer, when it would wake up and see the tiny, pink, prey of Potter callousing its waters.
He thought about the other things in there too, and felt slightly nauseous, eyes searching the surface for Jame’s graceful butterfly strokes.
Ah, there, arching towards the bank he’d departed from with slower, tired arms.
Regulus relaxed. James would be out soon. And he could stop feeling any responsibility towards the boy sooner, the punishment was almost over.
The visual feast would return to the defiantly less-hungry, undeserving, eyes of his brother, he thought with bitterness.
James padded towards him, a mythical sight of bristling silver water drops and shining, rippling muscles.
His mouth panted in a pink purse, the noises echoing across the quiet grounds. Regulus swallowed, picking up James’ towel and holding it out for him. The slender steps of James arrived at last and Regulus was engulfed in a strange inebriated happiness as the boy reached for it with a grateful, genuine smile.
“Good swim? You’re getting faster.”
James nodded, shaking his head against the towel so that the mesmerising crown of lake droplets dissipated.
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