Title: Calor Cupiditatis

Author: AristideCauquemaire

Pairing: Scorpius Malfoy/James Sirius Potter

Rating: M for grown-up language and sexual situations and themes.

Warnings: original characters; slash, het, non-consensual situations (like, honestly now...)

Thanks to ice-queen and NeverthelessTwin for reviews that just make my day, and to greenerwhereyouwater for following this silly story of mine.

Some more kinky smut, y'all!

/

Chapter 9

/

There it was again, that improbable noise, that yell-sigh-moan that was really completely different than the meagre little yelp his shower gave. It was also completely different from that time he remembered, on the track from the Quidditch pitch to the castle. In here, where it was only the two of them in a low-ceilinged abandoned chamber, he could feel it deep in his stomach.

Potter's face was panic-stricken. He was now standing on tiptoes, trying to evade that invisible hand that was clutching his most sensitive parts. Twitching helplessly.

Scorpius didn't let go. He couldn't, he didn't want to. There was a fascination to this, to the sight of Potter dancing scared, that drowned out everything else, everything, so he squeezed a little harder to hear him moan once more. But this time, Potter screwed his eyes shut and bit his bottom lip, as if he wanted to keep everything to himself, inside.

And then he thrust his hip and Scorpius almost jumped – he may or may not have gasped, he didn't know – and pulled his hand away.

Potter exhaled mightily and let his head fall back until it hit the wood behind him. His Adam's apple bobbed. His legs were shaking. His fingers curled around the bookshelf struts.

Everything was different now.

Scorpius found himself shaking as well. Mostly, he felt like he was trembling inside. Like after that time he had flown that breakneck manoeuvre on his new White Lightning and almost killed himself. Only – more.

Or that one time with Sarah in detention, two floors, four weeks and a million miles away now.

Only, impossibly, much more.

"Please," Potter breathed, and then nothing else. It wasn't unambiguously please no or please stop. It also wasn't more please.

Scorpius didn't know what to do. Everything was now uncertain.

Somehow, he wanted to please, but he didn't know, how. Or why.

As he stood there, petrified, overwhelmed and scared, the glue finally dissolved. It turned out that Potter had been held on his feet mostly by the adhesive powers of the spell. His unsteady legs gave way as he slowly slid to the floor, fighting himself loose from the residual stickiness with the help of gravity.

Sitting there, he undid his belt without much hesitation, pried open the button and unzipped the fly, fingers hasty and shaking. His head fell back again, eyes screwed shut, as his right hand slid under the waistband of his pants. He sighed with relief at the contact.

Scorpius couldn't help but listen, and stare, paralysed by the entirety of the moment.

To him, it almost looked like he was in pain. The lines around his mouth and the way his eyebrows wrinkled...

And then those noises. Potter must have suppressed them last time, and he hadn't heard them through the door the time before that. But now he was close enough to even smell him – sweat, soap, very warm skin – and he was close enough for the little noises he made, the way that his breathing hitched and clicked in his throat in the rhythm of his hand.

He couldn't help looking at the moving hand as well although he tried not to. Potter used his left. He hadn't taken the time to get himself out all the way, so Scorpius could only see the tip, pink and wet, appearing and disappearing in the hollow of his clenched hand.

The movement became even more frantic very quickly, and then he pumped and bit his lip again to lock in everything that might have wanted to get out and shivered, exhaled, stilled.

The room seemed to go cold and Scorpius shuddered as well in his somewhat sweaty clothes and suddenly he felt like throwing up. The cold reached for his neck and squeezed. He gritted his teeth so they wouldn't chatter. Just like they had chattered that day of his flight, when he had his feet back on the ground and realised two things at the same time: That he had done, and barely survived, something monumentally foolish, and that he would inevitably do it again someday because there was no way not to think about it.

Potter wiped his hand on a tissue he had fumbled out of a pocket, stuffed himself back into his pants, zipped and buttoned up and got up on unsteady feet. Now that the spell had left and the reality of what had just happened was catching up with him, his face was blotchy, a shocked paleness setting in. If Scorpius hadn't known better, he might have thought that he looked like he was about to cry.

Which was fitting since Scorpius almost felt like that, too.

/

Just as Potter was trying to get back to his feet, Scorpius realised that he could see the tips of his own shoes. He fumbled his wand out of his coat pocket with tingling fingers – just where he had put it, right before he- with that same hand, he had-

He gritted his teeth, grasped the elmwood firmly, pointed it at the door and whispered "Alohomora". No sooner had the lock stopped clicking than Scorpius was already back in the corridor, slamming the door shut behind him again and running, hurtling down entire flights of stairs and dashing through mercifully empty hallways, visibility quickly spreading up his calves and knees and blooming on his fingertips.

Two corners before the Slytherin common room door, Scorpius stopped, breathless, and sat down with his back against the wall. He hugged his knees and pulled them up to his chest.

He recalled how the broom had quaked under him and how gravity had reached for him relentlessly, how it had clutched his stomach and seemed to pull it downwards into his groin. That moment when he realised that he was helpless against that pull- The feeling he'd had when Potter had moved was so very similar that it was almost the same even though it didn't make a bit of sense at all.

He closed his eyes and saw Potter leaning back like he had. He tried to figure out why his crunched-up face wasn't funny to him. Because it wasn't. The boys in his dorm made fun of O-faces all the time. Matthew Goldstein had been caught wanking in the showers three years ago – jizzed just as he realised that a bunch of other boys were watching him, too – and still suffered the occasional jibe and mime. And it cracked Scorpius up whenever anyone mentioned it.

But not with Potter.

Why?

He heard noises like those in the night once or twice every week – he was sharing a dorm with five other boys of sixteen after all – and they never caused him to do anything but roll his eyes and stick his head under his pillow.

When Potter made them, it wasn't like that.

Why?

Before he got anywhere with this thought, voices and steps came closer and he shot to his feet, patted down his trousers and jacket, tried to wipe the sweat from his face and straightened his shoulders.

He put his right hand into his coat pocket, out of sight.

/

Two hours later, Potter was on the broom before him. Within reach. That was enough of a reason to make a grab for the Firebolt's tail bristles and fly skywards so Potter might slide off the nose end.

Scorpius would later say that he had seen him get ready for a devastating – and perfectly fair – bludger shot against a completely unguarded and vulnerable Tiffany who had spotted her snitch just that second while her Gryffindor counterpart Albus Potter was on the other side of the field. He could say that she had been flying straight through the elder Potter's hit zone. Christopher, the Slytherin captain, even bought it without any question and promised him a tankard of Hogsmeade butterbeer for his effort and the noble sacrifice.

Nobody except himself and Potter knew that he had smirked at Potter who had managed to stay on his broom one-handedly – the other hand was holding the bat – and freed it from Scorpius' loose grip with an air roll.

Nobody else had heard him mock, "Aw, how rude of me to just grab you like that."

He'd had exactly two heartbeats to appreciate the anger on his face. Naked, raw, adrenaline-fuelled. It was honest and ugly and good, that way.

Then, Potter swung his bat at a bludger that had zoomed in from behind Scorpius' back – missing the back of his head by mere centimetres – and hit him right in the face with it.

Theoretically, he knew that bludgers were made of leather and not of stainless steel.

The next thing he remembered was ice cold water in his stinging face that felt about twice as big as it should be – his nose seemed to be installed at an entirely unlikely angle – and the feeling of something alive crawling up his oesophagus. He rolled to the side and heaved, which shot a spear of pain right into the bridge of his nose and, disconcertingly, into his upper front teeth. A collective groan went through the audience, loud enough to be heard over the pounding in his head.

Through the haze of tears he saw Hollinda Hughes in her beige mediwitch apprentice gown running towards him, wand already pointing at him – hence the ice cold water, he presumed – and a first aid kit at her side. He laid back and followed her loud, firm instructions as his eyes started swelling shut and his body went into nervous shaking.

Apparently one of the teachers had stopped his fall by turning the patch of lawn he landed on into jello which was the only reason why his bones were still intact – with the exception of his nose, cheekbones and upper jaw which Potter's bludger had dented quite badly. By the time Hughes was finished filling in the knock-out- induced gaps in his memory however, the bones were mended, his nose pointed the right way again and the swelling was already going down, the dull pain receding rapidly. "Much bedda," he confirmed. Sometime during the landing, he had bit his tongue, hard. Everything smelled and tasted coppery.

"Malfoy, can you play?" Christopher hadn't even bothered to dismount, he hovered nearby.

Scorpius answered "Yes" just as his mediwitch insisted "No", but both their responses were drowned in a sudden surge of booing and whistling from the audience.

Scorpius turned his head just as James Potter, under the watchful, disapproving glare of Madam Hooch, stripped his captain's armband and handed it over to Andrea Finch-Fletchley, one of the Gryffindor chasers. She put it on grimly.

When the exchange was done, he shouldered his broom and his bat, threw Scorpius a last dark look and a slightly less dark glance upwards at his team that had gathered in mid-air, and started toward the dressing rooms. The audience boiled, three quarters outraged, one quarter gleeful.

With only one beater left, the captain of the team gone and an additional penalty of twenty five points for unsporting conduct and unnecessary roughness, Gryffindor lost the match thirty five to three hundred and seventy.

Despite the fact that Scorpius eventually got to rejoin the match with nothing worse than a serious buzzing in his head and managed to score a total of ninety points, he still felt like there was something he needed to pay Potter back for. Or maybe thank him, he couldn't really say, even after mulling it over during the victory celebrations in the common room.

Potter bothered him. He bothered him so much and he could feel it getting worse.

/TBC

Told ya ^^;