That Fucking Curse
crack, 3333 words, find it on AO3
Harry looked down at his dick.
“Call me Richard,” it said in a low, self-pleased whisper. Harry smacked his head against the wall harder.
“This isn’t real,” he told himself, out loud. His own voice was high and scratchy in his ears. He needed a drink. He needed to lie down and maybe to, er, die, or something.
“I assure you it is, my boy,” said—said—the thing peeking from his trousers, and what, the fuck, was even happening?
“What,” said Harry.
“It is as real as you or I. As real as us both. You can feel me, can you not? In your hand.”
Harry released it as if struck, biting down on a scream. His cock bounced once, and gave him an almost accusatory look, which—what. His cock didn’t have eyes to give any sort of look with. Harry was rather certain it could not in fact give him a look.
But it did, sort of, a withering one, and Harry slumped all the way down to the floor on a sigh. He rubbed his face until it tingled. A curse, he thought, bleakly. He got himself cursed with a talking dick. This was so far out of the usual that it almost seemed plausible.
“Unsatisfactory,” said the thing with the voice. “Harry. You cannot just leave me like this.”
“Leave you,” Harry echoed. His head felt oddly light.
“Do not!” with a tinge of urgency. “It is in poor grace to keep a man hanging.”
Harry made a sound, high in his throat. Not quite laughter. “A man,” he said. “You are not a man. You’re a cock. You’re a talking, whining cock who’s talking to me and making absolutely no sense. And you’re attached to me. By flesh. And you are talking. And you are a cock.”
“I have a name, you know,” huffed the talking cock, and Harry—lost it. Chuckling helplessly into his palm:
“A name!” he nearly yelled, hoarse, “you have a name!”
Another bounce made him gasp. “Yes. It is Richard, as you well know. Take good note of it, Harry. Sooner or later you will do as I tell you, and it had better be sooner, or we will both be quite unhappy.”
The chuckling became raging laughter, reedy. “Bossy,” he whispered to no one in particular. “My cock is so bossy.”
“Your cock,” said his cock, “is Richard, and he is chagrined, seeing as you refuse to heed—”
“My cock,” Harry said, louder. He was heaving for breath. Could not get it to fit inside his flailing lungs.
A moment or longer passed like that, the only reminders that Harry was still alive in his squirming belly, in his hiccoughing chest, in his hard, aching cock. Richard was hard. The thought alone sent him deeper into hysterics.
“Will you—” when Harry was wailing, “—just, listen! I am sick and tired of the neglect. You have to let me find release. You must, or else we go mad. I can help you. I can make it so good for you. Harry, let me.”
“Mad.” The whole thing was… he sighed. “Go mad.”
“Yes!”
“You mean, madder than my cock talking to me.”
“Yes.”
“Madder than my cock deciding its name is Richard.”
“Quite so.”
“Madder,” Harry’s voice rose, “than it demanding I bring it off. In clearly enunciated words.”
“Yes, yes, yes! Much madder than that! Would you have me beg? Is that what you want, you monster?”
Harry’s belly was in stitches. He could hardly even gasp. “Now I’m a monster,” he rasped, wiping his eyes. “Because I refuse to let Richard come.”
“I know your type,” Richard was saying, seething, probably giving him another one of those looks, Harry couldn’t tell, wasn’t watching. “You’d have me in a cage night and day. You would lock me, and throw away the key, and give me no relief. You would toy with me until I am panting, desperately untethered, on the precipice, and just as I reach the edge, you would snatch it away from me, leaving me helpless, inflamed, raging. Is that what you like, Harry? Is that how you would treat old Richard?”
Gooseflesh rippled up his arms, down the back of his neck, and then the last words hit. “Old,” he said, “o-old… Richard…” truly, helpless, dissolving into mindless laughter, descending into true madness. This, he decided, was the cruellest curse he’d ever encountered, and the most hilarious thing he’d experienced, and he hated and adored whoever did this to him. George, he expected. Or maybe Malfoy. He was always happy to play a trick or two on him, the bastard.
“Oh,” said a voice, a—right, said Richard. “What was that you were thinking about? Go back. It felt good.”
Panic cramped in his gut strangely like laughter.
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