Learned something about my calc prof today…
More than anything, Klaus enjoyed waking up to him. So often he woke in a fury, one or more of their various torturous having haunted their dreams. Klaus would wake up in a sweat, a silent scream as he shot straight up, Stefan still at his side.
It was always a miracle to him, the way Stefan controlled himself so suitably, banished his ripper ways and in sleep could not forsake them. His mouth would curl into a sinister smile, his body twisted into a sort of hedonistic pretzel. A sheet mangled about his legs, barely covering any expanse of skin. It as in his frantic state, blood still boiling that he founds Stefan more alluring. And implicit need takes over him.
It is in this struggle he sets himself to the task of moving his mouth over any touch of skin, fingers lingering over the hips he fought so hard to bruise. It always healed too quickly to leave a mark. Still, Klaus was a fury, tasting every inch of chest, then abdomen, solid muscles. When his lips found the already hardening cock, he smiled, devouring him hole with no warning. Klaus was not timid and he doubted there was a better sight than Stefan’s fingers fisted into the sheets as he struggled to gather his wits, still sleep ridden.
He would suck him down hard then, pulling him deep into his throat, wait until he saw the flash of green that told him Stefan had opened his eyes, was watching him. Then a hand on his head, timid, unsure if the dominance would unsettle such a delicate balance. But Klaus felt the encouragement and swallowed around him. Released a pleasurable hum and felt Stefan’s head lull back, the fingers gripping that much harder. His pleasure mounted and Klaus could taste and feel the cum drip down his throat. The hand at his head fell slack and Klaus sucked his way to the head of Stefan’s cock, his tongue passing over it with one final swirl.
Stefan always lets out a moan, followed by a surly grunt and motions for Klaus to come back. His pleasure important, but not so present as Stefan’s need to hold him. He knows he’ll repay the debt later. “Good morning,” he breathes against the hybrid’s lips, his eyes still foggy in part form lust and part from sleep.
Submitted by the-amazing-gracie
Headcanon: after the war, after losing so many friends and loved ones, Harry and Hermione decide that they are overdue for a long needed break from the magical world, and their respective ill matched partners, and relocate to muggle London, where Harry discovers contacts and Hermione decides to cap off the transition out of her old life by chopping off her signature bushy hair. Hermione was content spending her days running a bookstore Harry kindly helped her purchase, and Harry was just happy to spend his days helping Hermione at the shop and not fearing for his life or the life of those close to him or the wizarding world in general. It calmed him, this quiet life with Hermione, listening to her soft voice soothing the jagged nerves frayed from war, as she listed titles a customer might like to try or making him smile at her enthusiasm when discussing all the books she’s read and all the ones she’s yet to. And when he misses the the cacophony of the Burrow, and he does miss it, just strangely not the red haired girl who had so suddenly captured his attention yet held it so fleetingly now, he would walk down the crowded streets near the shop, always near the shop, because even with the war behind him it still made his breath hitch nervously in his lungs and his wand hand twitch if Hermione was out of his sight too long, and sometimes when it seemed that no customer was going to grace the bookstore’s doorway, he would smile at Hermione with the grin that he was beginning to notice brought a slight blush to her cheeks and a tremor to the hand he would clasp in his own, and drag her out into the open air, their fingers tightly wound together as they navigated the streets they were coming to know so well. Here, there were no dark wizards waiting to curse them, no owls to remind Harry of the snowy white one he’d lost and the ache she’d left in her enforced absence; it was also here, with Hermione—his best friend, the one person who had always been there for him no matter what—that it seemed tellingly easy to forget their supposed soulmates. He would often surreptitiously glance at her through half-lidded eyes while walking side by side, bundled in their winter coats, and marvel at how beautiful she looked, with her soft and short brown hair that made her look like a pixie, like something not of this earth, and his heart would stutter painfully in his chest and he’d have to turn his head away to look at some faceless passerby until he got his breathing, which had somehow become slightly erratic just from looking at the girl he’s known since childhood, under control. But it seems like these days his eyes can’t help but track back to his other half and he can’t help but take another look, and when he sees that Hermione has stopped and is standing there, with her mouth gently curved up at the corners from whatever thought has graced that beautiful and brilliant mind of hers, his heart stutters violently in his chest. But he does nothing to stop it this time. He just looks away, let’s the feeling wash over him, and waits for her hand to slide into his, like it always has and always will.
harry and hermione