Archive of Our Own ^beta

Gil, with his heart as gold as his locks, lays Harry down upon the plush couch. Harry's raven hair fans out like a dark halo against the crimson velvet, his eyes gleaming with anticipation and a hint of vulnerability as Gil's calloused hands brush over his body. They share a knowing look, a silent declaration of their love, a secret language that speaks louder than any words could in the quiet sanctuary of the moonlit common room.

The air is thick with desire, the scent of their yearning blending with the faint aroma of candle wax, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that seems to wrap around them like a cocoon. The flames flicker erratically, casting shadows that play across their entwined limbs as Gil's hands explore Harry's body. His fingertips trace the lines of Harry's waist, the muscles of his abdomen, and the swell of his hips before coming to rest at the buckle of his belt. With a smooth, practiced motion, Gil undoes the clasp, freeing Harry from the confines of his pants.

Harry's cock juts out, eager and demanding, as Gil's hands glide over his bare skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Their eyes never stray from one another, the connection between them as potent as the scent of the sea that lingers in Uma's hair. Gil's gaze drops to Harry's ass, the sight of which sends a bolt of lust straight to his groin. He caresses the firm mounds, feeling the warmth radiating from Harry's skin, the softness that belies the strength hidden beneath. The bottle of lubricant they've pilfered from the apothecary sits on the floor, a silent witness to their many stolen moments.

Gil's hand wraps around it, his thumb brushing over the cool glass before popping the cap. He coats his fingers with the slick substance, watching as the liquid gathers in his palm, reflecting the candlelight like a tiny, shimmering pool.

With the same tender care that he would use to pet a wild beast, Gil presses a single finger against Harry's tight opening. Harry's breath hitches, his body tensing before he relaxes, welcoming the intrusion. The digit slides in with a sigh that is part pleasure, part relief. Harry's eyes never leave Gil's as he feels himself being stretched open, the pressure a delicious ache that makes him squirm with need.

Another finger joins the first, the slow, rhythmic brush setting Harry's nerves alight. His whimpers are music to Gil's ears, a sweet symphony of pleasure that fuels his own desire. His hand moves in tandem with his fingers, stroking Harry's cock, coaxing it to its full, rigid length. The sounds of their love fill the room, a crescendo of moans and sighs that echo off the stone walls. Finally, Gil can wait no longer. His cock, hard and insistent, nudges against Harry's opening. Harry whispers his consent, the words barely audible but resonating deep within Gil's soul.

He pushes in, the heat of Harry's body enveloping him in a fiery embrace. Inch by inch, Gil claims Harry, their bodies melding together in a dance as old as the stars that wink down at them from the night sky outside.

Their movements are a symphony of passion, each thrust a note of love played upon the strings of their beings. The couch beneath them sighs and creaks in protest, a silent witness to the fierce love that rocks it. Sweat beads on their skin, their bodies moving in a fluid, erotic ballet that leaves no part of them untouched, unexplored. Their climax is a crescendo, a burst of light in the darkened room. Harry's eyes fly open, and Gil sees the universe in the depths of those raven orbs as he fills Harry with his warmth, his love, his very essence. The room seems to hold its breath as their bodies convulse with pleasure, the only sound their ragged gasps for air.

Afterwards, as they lay tangled together, panting and spent, they notice the stains on the couch. Gil chuckles, his smile wicked as he suggests they claim it was a wildfire of passion that had left its mark. Harry's laughter is like a caress, his voice a balm to Gil's soul.

But fate, ever the trickster, has other plans. Crafty Freddie Facilier stumbles upon the evidence of their love the next day. Her eyes widen with a mix of shock and calculation. The room goes still, the air pregnant with the tension of their secret now laid bare. When the fearsome Uma finds the couch, the room seems to shake with her fury.

"Who did this?" she roars, her eyes scanning the room like a storm searching for a target.

The lovers, their hearts pounding in unison, hold each other tightly, knowing the tempest they've unleashed.