No Such Thing as Perfect

If his mother ever found out, Toby would be screwed. Thankfully, Amelia Copper wasn't likely be walking into the bar of Eli's anytime soon. The teenager had been dealing relatively well with getting kicked out to Hogwarts. Really, he barely even thought about it most days. It was the nights that were a problem, when the nightmares came.

It was always dark in his dreams, perhaps because his subconscious was well aware that few physical sights could scare him. It was the words, the malicious whispers that emerged from the blackness, that made his dreams into the night terrors that they were. Someone else who doesn't want you, don't tell me you're surprised... Not even someone, an entire school. Oh Toby, I am impressed... Such a coward too, how many of your friends know you're a werewolf? None? Oh dear, is little Toby afraid of rejection? The voices would taunt him, continuously and relentlessly, until he woke the next morning, shivering underneath his thick comforter.

It was evening, however, and not the time of night where Toby would be alone in his bed. So the nightmares seemed like a distant memory, as they always did until the next time his head hit the pillow and the blackness engulfed him once more.

It was difficult, not being at school. The blonde had never felt so bored in his entire life. With the Pack there had always been things that needed to get done, and at school at least there had been homework. And Merlin, Toby was honestly missing homework, something definitely had to be wrong. But now Toby was floating, aimlessly and without a purpose. It wasn't that living with his mum again wasn't great, he'd missed the hell out of her, but she was at Hogwarts more often than she was home. And as much as he also adored his sister, Hallie was an emotional mess due to everything happening in her life and had little time for her younger brother. Not that Toby blamed her, his sister had gone through hell and was still so very strong, but the teenager did get rather lonely.

So, despite how mad his mother might get, Toby found himself sneaking into a bar. It was far from the first time, but it was the first time that he'd gone to Eli's. Previously, Toby had stuck to Knockturn Alley, in fear of being recognized. The teenager couldn't be sure if he'd gotten more reckless or just tired with Satan's atmosphere, but his feet had brought him to Eli's, and the werewolf had never been one to ignore his instincts.

The once-Gryffindor had never been the type to focus overly much on his appearance. He'd been told more than once that he looked quite a bit older than his sixteen years, but the teenager had merely brushed off the seemingly useless information. It was hardly useless now. Toby could easily pass for eighteen, and never gotten a second glance upon ordering alcohol because of it, everyone assuming that he was of age at the very least. The teenager had to admit to himself that the incorrect assumption had to at least partially be due to the scars.

His years with his Pack hadn't exactly been kind to Toby's body. While his muscle mass had at least doubled, the werewolf's previously soft skin had been darkened by the sun and littered with scars. Over the five-year span, his arms and back had been practically covered in raised and discolored skin, legs and chest also not managing to escape unscathed. Surprisingly, Toby had only gained a single scar on his face, a thick but colorless indentation that cut diagonally across one cheekbone.

Sitting silently at the bar and sipping upon a half-finished beer, Toby watched the people around him, waiting. What he was waiting for, the blonde didn't know. But he did know that he was waiting for something, had been waiting for something, and could only hope that whatever it was would hurry up and arrive already. He had never been very good with being patient.

The roar of the crowd was deafening and in the hours after the meeting between the Wimborne Wasps and the Tutshill Tornadoes at the Handler Ground, the sensitive ears of Frank Longbottom were still ringing. The clap of hands over his back had left the skin stinging and over the clamour and the rush of the game, the young man had shouted himself hoarse. However, despite the pitfalls of the day, a lazy grin had still alighted on the Chaser’s mouth, tugging up his moustache and lighting his toffee gaze with a childlike contentment.

After the hustle and bustle of showering off the sweat, blood and grime and taping up funny little niggles in their muscles or seeing that small cuts and grazes were sealed and healed, the Wasps managed to get dressed and ready to leave their adversaries’ stadium. It was decided at some point between one last clasping of hands in enthusiastic shakes with the staff and the players that the Wasps would go out and celebrate their win which had culminated with a gloriously un-graceful capture of the Snitch – their Seeker getting it caught in his ear.

The decision to go out was first met with protestations: dinner was demanded. Eventually, after much squabbling, it was decided that they would meet somewhere in the middle and that found them on the doorstep of the restaurant-cum-pub that was Eli’s. After devouring rich steak and pasta which they would scare off playing football the following morning – or, rather, Frank would while the others nursed hangovers – the group of rowdy Quidditch players found themselves some pleasurable company and headed into the bar, drinks in hand.

Said drinks were abandoned on the table in a booth and the majority of the players whisked off the girls they’d found in the restaurant, leading them to the dance floor where the atmosphere turned up a few degrees or so, the amount of people crowding on the lowered area of floor filling the air with a sweaty stickiness that was permeated with the smell of beer and sex. It seemed apt considering the place was owned by one of the most promiscuous of individuals. His conquests, like Frank’s teammates’, were as high profile as they were scandalous. No one emerged unscathed.

Fingers caught in Frank’s own and he found himself flush against a young woman in the midst of the writhing bodies, a world away from the booth where he had hoped to hide himself. His hands found her hips and he inhaled the perfume that permeated every inch of his skin, his eyes closing for a moment but not in ecstasy, rather in half-revulsion but he schooled his features against it revealing himself.

“C’mon… you’re so wooden,” the woman crowed in his ear, her teeth catching his lobe, pulling on it playfully before spinning away from him.

With a growl, Frank pulled her back to him and wrapped his arm tight around her miniscule waist, dipping her low before bringing her up against his chest once more, his hips rolling into hers. Her laugh sparkled up somewhere, joining the haze of smoke over their heads, and her hands looped together behind his head, her body sliding rhythmically into his. The perfume he forgot about and attached his lips to her neck, his fingers snaking under her top which did little to hide what lay beneath regardless of the amount of material – sheer under the light, she was revealed entirely to him upon a silver platter, his for devouring.

However, eventually, like all good things, the song came to its end and Frank extricated himself from the woman without further comment on her actions or his own. He breezed through the crowd, opening up the dress shirt he’d worn and loosening the tie around his neck. He sighed, releasing the collar from its squeeze about his neck and tossed his fingers briefly through his hair before making his way up to the bar on the heels of his friends who had trundled up and off of the dance floor in search of a drink.

“Seven beers, my good man!” Isaac slammed his hand on the bar surface, tightening his grip upon the new figure of his fleeting affection. He turned a pleasing eye on her and grinned before looking back at the barkeep. “And anything the ladies want, of course.”

Regardless of his will, Frank found himself with a cold beer in his hand. He pursed his lips a little and rolled the bottle across his face, cooling his skin, but he took nothing from it, merely setting it back down on the bar, watching as his friends trundled off, dragging their girls with them, back onto the dance floor to continue on with the music. Frank could find no solace in continuing to purvey a lady’s man image that wasn’t his to begin with. Thus, he took a seat on the barstool where the music seemed distant and the stress of maintaining a façade not so heavy.

“You didn’t want that to begin with,” the bartender accused with a half-smile, taking the beer off of the bar top, replacing it with a pint of coca cola, as though he knew, somehow, that Frank was about as interested in alcohol as he was in that woman he’d been dancing with. The Chaser smiled fondly and clasped his hands around the glass, watching the bartender as he set the bottle of beer down in front of a blonde man further down the bar.

Frank brought a hand up and rubbed it across his face, a weary groan escaping his lips. A chuckle resounded from the bartender but when Frank looked up there was no evidence of the man having laughed at all, his back having turned to him and his hands busying with wiping up the glasses. Frank smirked a little to himself and ran his finger around the rim of his glass.

“Frank!”

The said Frank jumped in his seat when he felt a hand clasp on the back of his shoulder. Isaac had returned, woman-less, with a red hand smeared into his skin in pink. He grinned lopsidedly at the Longbottom man and before Frank could really comprehend what was going on, he was wrapped up in a tight embrace.

“I love you, man. I’m sorry we took you here,” Isaac began to smooth down Frank’s hair which had grown somewhat bedraggled and confused. “But the important thing is you tried with that girl … well done man.”

A sloppy kiss was dragged across his cheek and Frank made a face as Isaac dragged him off of the stool, only to pop him, as though Frank’s weight was no burden, on the stool beside the blonde man who had been given Frank’s beer. Isaac patted his teammate patronisingly on the head and grinned before gesturing to the air between Frank and the unknown man nursing his drink, no doubt as much of an unwilling participant in the farce that was unfolding as Frank was.

Another hug was forced upon him and a rough order was muttered into Frank’s ear. Then, as though Isaac hadn’t even been there to begin with, the man disappeared back into the throng of people dotted around the club, leaving Frank with his order and the man upon which he was meant to bestow it.

Clearing his throat, Frank licked his lips and smoothed his fingers over his moustache. He adjusted his place on his chair and flashed as charming a smile as he could to the man beside him.

“Hi,” Frank spoke, his voice oddly confident despite the way he could feel his heart thundering in his chest, pleading with him to stop and to not adhere to the strange, prolonged game of dares that he and Isaac had been playing since they’d known each other. Yet, it was their code of friendship – if he dared Frank, Frank got to dare him back. For this one, Frank knew he’d have to think long and hard about what he was going to do to embarrass Isaac to the point where nothing would ever provoke him into suggesting this ever again.

“I’m Frank. That’s so you know what to scream. So, screw me if I’m wrong but … don’t you want to kiss me?”

Oh lord, Frank Longbottom, said a voice in the back of his mind that eerily reminded him of his mother, what have you done?

Toby couldn't help but notice, taking another sip of his beer, that the bar had gotten busier and a great deal more rowdy. The teenager had been lost within his own thoughts, and had clearly missed something that had excited at least a few of Eli's other patrons. Toby looked around, scanning the crowd for a few minutes and listening in on a handful of too-loud half-drunken conversations before finally figuring it out. A Quidditch team had arrived.

The ex-Hogwarts student had loved the sport, once. Most young wizarding boys did, the blonde assumed, but young Toby had taken it to a whole new level. Ever since he had learnt what the sport was, the young Cooper had used every holiday and birthday as an excuse to go see a Quidditch match. His father, also a fan of the sport, had been the one to take him, bringing a young Hallie with the two of them so that she wouldn't miss out.

Toby had stopped asking for match tickets after his father's death, but his love for the sport had remained. The werewolf could still remember that way that his young self would sit and listen, almost obsessively, to the Wizarding Wireless every time a match was on. Nine year-old Toby had been capable of listing every team in the United Kingdom, their players, and their statistics for the past and current season. Despite it all, Toby never had learned to fly.

His father had promised to teach him when he got old enough, and when it became obvious that was never going to happen, Toby had figured that he would learn at Hogwarts. Flying lessons had been one of the things he'd been looking forward to most about the magical castle. But then Toby hadn't gone to Hogwarts at age eleven like planned. He'd gotten bitten instead, ran away, and ended up with his Pack. He wondered if Hallie would be willing to teach him. The blonde hoped so, he couldn't think of anyone else who might.

Toby watched as the Quidditch players approached the bartender, and one of them rambunctiously ordered seven beers. Each member of the team was handed a drink in short order, before once again dispersing, as if the moves were some sort of dance, a ritual that happened on so regular a basis that none of them had to think twice anymore. Toby and his Pack-brothers had been like that once, but now was hardly the time to start thinking about them. That would just lead to the too-fast consumption of a dangerous number of drinks, and he'd never be able to sneak back into the house unnoticed when that inebriated.

Only one Quidditch player had remained at the bar, head turned at an angle where his face was out of Toby's line of vision. The man was clutching a soda now, and a small part of Toby wondered where the male's beer had gone as he swallowed the last dregs of his own. The bartender was quick to replace the empty bottle with a new one, and the blonde rewarded the quick service with a thankful nod, tossing a few coins onto the counter as he did so.

Toby had only had the time to take a couple sips, before the boisterous Quidditch player was back. The drunk male pulled his friend into an embrace, and Toby looked back towards the crowd, curious as to where the other five member of the team had gone. He'd only managed to spot one, before the team-member who had ordered the alcohol sat his friend down in the seat beside Toby. The blonde thought little of it, figuring that the two were making room for their friends to join them or something similar, and therefore looked away from the men and back towards the bottle in his hand. Taking a large swig because he wasn't buzzed yet and that wasn't okay, Toby rolled his shoulders backwards in a lazy stretch.

The man next to him cleared his throat, and Toby glanced over disinterestedly, only to realize that yes the man was looking at him and trying to get his attention. Back automatically straightening, the werewolf took in the man's charming smile and blinked twice, as if trying to clear his vision.

Eyes roaming over the wizard's face, Toby had to bite down upon the inside of his cheek to keep a smile from crawling across his own features. Damn, the man was attractive. The teenager had known that the Quidditch player was well-built, that much had been obvious even from several feet away. Toby had not, however, been expecting a face that attractive to be connected to such a body. But then the man had spoken...

"Hi, I’m Frank. That’s so you know what to scream. So, screw me if I’m wrong but … don’t you want to kiss me?"

...and Toby's mind momentarily short-circuited.

Eyes not leaving the man's face, Toby clenched his jaw, unclenched it, took a sip of his beer, and re-clenched again. It was a habit the blonde had picked up long ago, and something that he had a tendency to do when thinking. He'd once or twice been told that it made him look rather angry, and had spent a few weeks trying to break the habit before giving it up as a bad job.

"You are a cocky bastard, aren't you?" Toby asked rhetorically, in an amused tone that was barely louder than a murmur.

The thing was, Toby did want to kiss Frank. He was ridiculously hott, and clearly rather willing. It had been a while since Toby had snogged someone. Too long, really, and what kind of teenage boy would he be if he didn't take advantage of something like this? A Quidditch-playing, mustached walking wet-dream had literally just sat down next to Toby and told him of the worst pickup lines he'd ever heard. And Toby had found the whole thing unbelievably attractive.

The blonde was fully aware that this was probably one of the worst ideas he'd ever had, but honestly couldn't bring himself to care. He'd never been very good with impulse control.

Leaning forward and placing a calloused hand where Frank's left shoulder met his neck, Toby pressed his lips softly atop the other man's before pulling back slightly. Gently reconnecting their mouths a moment later, Toby nipped lightly at the other man's lower lip, before pushing his tongue forwards to meet Frank's own.

At the blonde’s words, Frank grinned doggedly and leaned forward, inclining his head all the more towards the man before him. Had it been any other situation, Frank knew he would have stuttered out a half-hearted but no less genuine denial in response to the idea that he a cocky human being. Genuinely, he was anything but. He didn’t enjoy the arrogance that hopped along on the coattails of Quidditch players. While it was a Gryffindor-ish trait, he didn’t like to think it applied to him too much. However, that in itself must have been an arrogant assumption – thus, he didn’t win regardless of his hopes and ganders.

“I’m whatever you want me to be,” Frank grinned, the line servicing itself wantonly, drawing them ever closer. He knew that the last utterance was as bad as the one that preceded it but if he won what was, at best, a childish bet and at worst quite possibly the worst attempt at setting him up in the history of the documented world, Frank would be satisfied. As it was, he didn’t have to wait long for his rebuttal. In fact, no longer than it took to squash a hair’s breadth of space between their heads.

The feel of soft lips that bore a subtle, almost unrecognisable strength, was at first an alien one to the Longbottom man. Regardless, his eyes slipped shut and a slight moan reverberated in his throat, gaining volume and body to its sound as the feeling departed from his quivering nerves. Frank licked at his lips, his dark eyes reopening to reveal them impossibly deeper in colour, clouded with a sudden lust that had emerged from weeks without satisfying a fire he hadn’t realise had been rising within him.

When their mouths joined once more, an involuntary gasp parted Frank’s lips as the feel of calloused fingers lit a path across his neck as they brushed past the sloping cotton of his thin t-shirt. His own hands climbed the length of the blonde’s thighs, sweeping up to grip at the shirt that clung to the man’s form, Frank’s knuckles whitening a little as he took the blonde in hand, pressing their mouths closer together.

Eagerly, tenderly, slowly, desperately, Frank’s tongue reached out, mingling with the other man’s, sloping, tossing and turning around its dance partner, holding designs on leading but finding itself subject to the will of the other. Frank’s fingers graspingly made their way northwards, looping through the scruff of hair at the nape of the other man’s neck. There they clung as Frank’s teeth grazed at the blonde’s lip on their path from his mouth to his jaw line and to his neck where Frank found and revelled in the electric pulse thrumming wildly under the other man’s skin, a beat to match his own.

“Merlin,” he groaned, unable to help himself, the pathetic nature of his lust truly dawning on the crest of his mind. Yet, he couldn’t prevent himself. He couldn’t desist. As his mouth moved back to that of the man before him and recaptured the taste that he believed belonged to his lover, mingling with that of the beer he’d drunk.

This wasn’t like him, he was sure he’d later try to excuse, but in that moment he was unable to help himself, as though being in the smoky room had left him inebriated, also. Further intoxicated by the man before him, Frank was without an ability to put a stop his desire.

He took it back, he took it all back. This had been far from his worst idea. In fact, Toby would have no problem whatsoever with cataloging kissing Frank among one of his best. Why he'd even needed to hesitate was beyond him, completely and utterly beyond him.

Toby's brain shut down, body now running on instinct and sensation. Full sentences and complex thinking were suddenly out of reach, leaving behind something primal and raw. The teenager had never experienced this side of himself before, previous happenings always being tainted by self-consciousness or awkwardness or nerves.

When warm hands slid up his thighs, Toby felt his eyelids flutter. The wizard's body was only partially controlled by his own mind, making noises without being told and moving before being asked. His hand had shifted slightly, moving to cup the back of Frank's neck. Using the convenient location of his appendage to pull the other man closer still, Toby smiled slightly into the kiss.

Moaning into the other man's mouth, the teenager registered a part of his brain that was practically begging for more contact. More in general, really. Previously unoccupied hand reaching forwards, it made contact with Frank's bicep, and Toby left it there, fingers curling around the other man's upper arm. Tongues continuing their tango, Toby began to unconsciously massage the skin underneath his hand in time to the movement of their mouths.

He inhaled sharply as Frank threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, only to whimper softly a moment later as the older male disconnected their lips. Then Toby felt teeth scrape against his neck, and was ridiculously close to whimpering once more, only for an entirely different reason.

The werewolf felt as much as heard Frank moan a single word into his skin, and the brushing of air against sensitive nerves sent a shiver down his spine. Releasing a pleased little murmur as the dark-haired man reconnected their lips, Toby licked at the corner of Frank's mouth before retreating, lips open in obvious invitation.

Respiratory rate escalating, the kiss got increasingly sloppier by the second. Aware of this, Toby reluctantly separated their tongues, burrowing his face in the base of the man's neck. Sucking at the skin beneath his lips, he pondered over the odd tingling sensation affecting certain areas of his face. One rather impressive hickey later, Toby deduced that the feeling was due to Frank's facial hair, and that the skin would probably end up red or irritated. He couldn't have cared less.

Sweeping a stripe of saliva over the bruise he'd just made on the other man's neck, Toby came to the slightly unsettling realization that Fred didn't even know his name. "Name's Toby," he informed the wizard, voice managing to sound like a growl even through the breathlessness. Having spoken, the teenager went back to laving at Fred's neck with his tongue.

Though his lungs heaved, Frank felt increasingly lightheaded and as though his wandering hands and gazing eyes were no longer his own but part of a different, lusty creature that desired suddenly so desperately the man before him. His heart felt as though bursting point was nigh – an expected inevitable that he’d embrace in ecstasy. In time, Frank would come to wonder after when the loss of feeling from another had provoked in him such a craving for that very thing. The heat of the other man’s body, the feel of his lips roving over his own: it was all enough to make a puddle of the Chaser and send him spiralling helplessly to the floor. Somehow, despite himself, he remained solidified, mewling regardless at the feel of his matched fervent desire against his skin.

A gasp sizzled past Frank’s lips as the tickling, tingling feel that at first dazzled his nerves but then drew them into this soporific lull. When Frank’s eyes flickered back into being he had the grace to feel something of shame bubble up within him. Never had he relinquished control quite like that. In his unbridled lust, for a second he’d released the reigns and allowed different, foreign hands uptake them with expertise unlike that Frank had ever before encountered in a man or a woman. Just as he was lead Chaser, he had always been the leader of the coupling. It was he who bore the bruises into skin. Rare was it, indeed, almost unheard of in fact, for him to allow that same treatment. Regardless, he revelled in it.

“So I know what to scream?” Frank retorted breathlessly as a chuckle rumbled through him.

Around them, the world seemed to bubble away, deafening yet still a million miles from the epicentre of the earthquake flying through Frank’s body. All of the warning signs had been sent along the Gulf Stream that had boiled the blood in his veins. There were no more alerts to give. It was as plain as the way his wandering hands had disposed of enough buttons on Toby’s shirt to snake his hand across the other man’s chest that Frank wanted the blonde – for as long as their stamina would allow them.

“Toby…” another moan broke the foundation of Frank’s sentence but he regained it, clawing back the tide to the storm beaten seashore. “Is there somewhere…we can go or …” again, he broke off, his words petering out into a repetitive stream of ffff, his tongue no longer able to quiver the sounds into words or take them wholly from his throat where they left of their own volition, jumping up into the air above his and Toby’s heads.

He had not kept his solidity, either. He was sure it was merely an out of body experience. His mind had escaped itself, found its way and abandoned his vessel body which had turned from skin to jelly to goo and coloured the tiles an odd cream and brown while a spectre of himself kissed Toby with all of the strength he bore to his name. All Frank would have to pray was that it was no dream, that everything really was quite real indeed.

Toby chuckled against Frank's mouth, puffs of air escaping from his lips to brush against those of his partner. He hadn't wanted Frank to know his name so that he knew what to scream, but the teenager supposed that it might come in useful for that very reason if the two of them kept it up. And Toby was really, really hoped that the two of them would.

The teenager hadn't ever done this before, hooked up with a complete stranger. Because that's what Frank was, a stranger. All Toby knew about the man was that he was a professional Quiddich player, his first name, and that he was a bloody brilliant kisser. The entire situation should have been awkward. They shouldn't have been compatible. It should have been sloppy and wet and gross and the type of thing that one never wanted to do again. But it wasn't, not by a long shot.

Toby threw his head back upon feeling Frank's touch upon the skin of his chest. The blonde had no idea when his buttons had come undone, or how Frank had even managed that with one of his hands otherwise occupied, but Toby hardly cared. Every nerve in his body was alight with pleasure, and Frank's touch somehow managed to soothe the aching want and make the fire under his skin burn hotter all the same.

Hearing his name being moaned from deep within the other man's throat was one of the best things Toby had ever heard. His heartbeat got faster, breathing became even more labored, and his vision began to swim, blurring around the edges like a dream. Then Frank suggested that they go somewhere, and like a switch everything was suddenly crystal clear once more.

"Yah, that's... really good idea," Toby panted against Frank's cheek, tongue darting out to lick swollen lips and accidentally brushing against the other man's skin in the process. "My place isn't gonna work," Toby admitted, left hand fisted tightly in the other man's shirt, trying not to think of what would happen if his mother caught him sneaking some random guy he met in a bar into their home. "Yours?" Toby suggested, hoping beyond hope that Frank would say yes.

The house in Wimborne Minster that Frank Longbottom had purchased after signing with the Wasps was a little cottage, larger on the inside, which stood on the waterfront. It overlooked the River Stour and peered out into the channel in search of the nearby Isle of Wight. The walls were Tudor wattle and daub, supporting a heavy thatched roof which had the habit of catching light at the most inopportune of moments in time. Thankfully, the fire in the hearth had dwindled to embers in the darkening afternoon and midnight evening and while the house kept its heat an intolerable darkness had spread out through it by the time the owner and his lover for the evening arrived on the rug in front of the fire. Lights ignited upon noting their arrival, candles flaring up from their roosts atop the mantle and on double helix stands which were dotted about the room. The light was so brilliant that for a moment Frank was startled and tore his lips from Toby’s long enough to get his bearings only to return his mouth to his lover’s as quickly as he’d taken it away.

The room adjoining the living space through wide arch was a cosy dining room that opened out through latticed French doors into the garden which, even in winter, was abundant with flowers that kept their own eco system in check. Another arch swept into the kitchen, a room which Frank would happily profess to spending the majority of his time in. However, it was to the stairs that Frank guided Toby, pushing the young man backwards gently before turning them and leading him up the narrow staircase that betrayed the age of the house despite the way that Frank had carefully done it up. The stairs turned into a half-landing where freesia lingered on a window sill in an old vase that had belonged to his great-grandmother. The scent followed them up onto the landing where an array of doors, some belonging to the house’s original structure, others not, leaned into the walls between moving pictures that documented members of his family, his time at Hogwarts and plenty of games of Quidditch.

Frank’s wandering hands left Toby’s skin long enough to find the brass doorknob which he twisted into openness, revealing a space wide enough for them to stumble in through, into the master bedroom. Frank’s bedroom had been kept sparse as his prints had been left on every other inch of the house regardless of his intentions. It had the best view, overlooking the river and the nature amongst it, and let in the best light, also, which prompted Frank to use dark mahogany for his furniture, dressing it up with light, starched linens and other, soft, white materials to offset the darkness of the wood. The bed was an archaic four poster he had unwittingly purchased with the house and with time and love he’d returned the canopy to its former glory, though granted bleached pale, and dressed it up with a multitude of pillows which betrayed him as their sudden burst of colour revealed his personality just like the rest of the house did despite his bizarre need to keep his bedroom ironically free of himself.

The candles here, too, burst into life and with a wave of his wand, Frank sent the curtains to their close across the bay window and the other sash windows dotted about the room. Two doors adjoined his space – one to the bathroom, the other to the wardrobe – but he didn’t pay either of those any mind as he pushed Toby’s shirt off of his shoulders and set about unravelling the other man fully from the clothes that Frank appreciated but negated in terms of their usefulness now that a certain rush of lust had demanded his body to intertwine itself with Toby’s. He wasn’t the type for bringing his lovers home with him – he preferred their homes. At least he could slip out before he was thrown out and with them not in his home he would not have to deal with such an awkward conversation. Yet something had made him bring Toby home with him and as he finally got the man’s belt out of the loops of his jeans and the buttons open, Frank understood why. He wanted this man and it was requited lust, not lust pressed upon him, unrequited by him.

“Jesus, Toby,” Frank breathed finally, unable to stop himself from moaning as his clothes too joined the skirmish taking place on his floorboards. At some point, Frank’s knees hit the side of his bed and buckled, sending him splayed across the duvet, bringing Toby down on top of him. His mouth eagerly south the other man’s as his fingers roamed, his palms brushing across the valleys and ridges that made up Toby’s physique behind the trickle of his fingertips, mapping out every turn and curve for a mental scrapbook and not for future use, or so he told himself. He kept himself primed for little tells that suggested here or there provided Toby with an unsolicited amount of pleasure. He knew where he would need to delve eventually but Frank was one to draw out the experience and see his lover rife and wriggling with wand as though the blood on fire in their veins, boiled with lust, would yet kill them lest Frank gave in and indulged their wishes. It was to Toby he turned his talented fingers now, determined that bringing this man home would not get the better of him and that he would see his own lust sated by prolonging Toby’s. By the time Frank finished with him, if Toby could walk straight then a small miracle would have been realised.

The house was oddly fitting, Toby couldn't help but think upon his first glance of Frank's home. The teenager hadn't had a clue what to expect, but upon seeing it couldn't imagine Frank living anywhere else. The place was hardly in perfect condition, but in a way that gave the building character. It was clearly lived-in, but cared for, and something about that made Toby feel all the more attracted to the man he was intertwined with.

Toby had no idea where the house was located, where Frank had taken him, and that knowledge should have bothered him a lot more than it did. The teenager was not capable of apperation, and was more than aware that not every home was connected to the floo network. Normally, the werewolf would be stressed and tense about the possible lack of escape routes, but the thought hardly crossed his mind. There was something about the stranger that Toby couldn't help but trust, something that had surprisingly little to do with the talented tongue in his mouth.

The two men stumbled through the door thoroughly wrapped in each other, and Toby opened his eyes with a puzzled glance when Frank abruptly pulled away. Blinking against the sudden brightness, the once-Gryffindor slammed his eyelids shut, smiling against Frank's lips as the older male connected their mouths once more.

Toby was lost in the feeling of Frank's touches, only vaguely ware that they were moving, walking through rooms that the teenager would normally be interested in surveying. A small part of his brain registered the French doors, the pictures covering the walls, but Toby swiftly dismissed the thoughts in favor of focusing all of his attention upon Frank. He could always think about those things later, and it was quite possible that he wouldn't have the option of being wrapped up with Frank later. That thought shouldn't have bothered him, but it did. A surprisingly large amount. Now was hardly the time to be analyzing such thoughts, however.

The bed was a large four poster piled with pillows, and Toby couldn't help but think that a bed had never looked more inviting. Frank efficiently divested him of his shirt, and the werewolf felt his hair stand on end as his skin was exposed to the cool air. A shiver that was only partially due to the temperature ran swiftly down his spine as Frank's hands wrestled with his belt buckle. The sight alone was enough to further dilate Toby's pupils, blue of his irises hardly visible around dark spheres.  

Moments later, they were on the bed. Frank had tugged Toby on top of him, and the werewolf had been more than happy to comply with all the grace of a drunken elephant. Gracefulness had never been one of Toby's strengths, and neither had patience. "Frank," he moaned, pawing at the other man's shirt, the offending piece of fabric preventing the precious skin-on-skin contact that he so craved. "I can't... I need," Toby gasped out between scorching kisses, unable to properly express his thoughts. Releasing a growl from low in his throat, the male grasped Frank's biceps and rolled, effectively reversing their positions. Taking advantage of the new angle, Toby quickly divested Frank of his shirt, tossing it in the general direction of his own discarded jeans. Arching up into Frank's touch, the teenager whimpered, pressing closer to the other man in an attempt to get more contact. Strong hands digging into Frank's back, Toby hooked a leg around one of the Quiddich player's, letting his body say what his larynx could not.

At some point during the night the men had admitted defeat and collapsed in a heap. Frank could remember clawing the bedclothes up around them but after that all that he committed to memory was a myriad of dreams and the feel of Toby beside him. When Frank woke that morning, the sunshine was already bright and flooding in through the windows. He lifted his head from the crook of Toby’s neck and looked around with bleary eyes. A small smile spread over his lips as he realised he was in his own home and wouldn’t need to escape before his lover woke. Frank spread a few fingers through Tony’s rough, blonde hair and took a moment to study the other man as his fingers slipped down Toby’s face. He was young, Frank noted in the sharp morning light. Fresh faced but at the same time, oddly weary and fitful even in sleep – as though he found no real rest.

Wary of waking Toby, Frank slid out of the bed and tucked the heavy covers around the other man to keep out the chill of the morning. He then lifted their clothes off of the floor. After folding up Toby’s clothes and setting them on the back of one of the arm chairs by the fire, Frank put his own in the washing hamper and then went into his wardrobe to fish out some clothes which he could wear about the house until someone called him out to rescue some sort of disaster – which was highly likely. Once tucked up in a jumper, a pair of jeans and some fluffy socks, Frank snuck out of the bedroom, careful to close the door quietly behind him.

Hopping down the stairs, Frank arrived at the front door just as a copy of the Daily Prophet was shoved through the door along with a handful of letters. Scooping the items off of the doormat, Frank padded along the hallway and into the kitchen where, already, the sun had filled it up to bursting. He smiled and set the newspaper and envelopes down on the kitchen table before making his way over to the fridge which was full to bursting point in preparation for a Christening he was meant to go to at some point during the coming week. The stipulation had been that each person had to bring food instead of a gift. Frank had gotten a gift regardless but he had no clue what he was going to cook – hence the overkill.

It would be a while yet until he had to worry after the Christening so Frank focused, instead, on getting a breakfast together for himself and for Toby. First of all he grabbed the fruit he’d bought the day before out of the fridge and set the punnets on the side. He then grabbed some eggs, a punnet of tomatoes and a packet of bacon. With that set on the side, he separated the fruit from the other things and took a pan off of hook he’d hung it on above the island. He then twirled round and set it down on the hob, turning up the heat. His hands sought the sunflower oil in one of the cupboards and soon enough the pan was coated with the golden liquid, sizzling away atop the heat. It was then that he added the bacon and things began to get underway.

While the bacon was cooking away, Frank set about sorting out his poached eggs. He’d found not long after moving into his home that the gnomes that liked to inhabit his garden were loath to take on one of the wandering chickens that his neighbours lost track of. So, clever as Frank is, he purchased some hens and a rooster and whilst the bloody bird proved ridiculously annoying, gnomes never worried him again thereafter and he had a near constant supply of eggs as the hens always felt the need to lay and the rooster, bizarrely enough, fancied next door’s rooster and not any of his hens. Seemed like he was more like his rooster than he realised.

Twisting one of the dials on his radio, music began to crackle into the kitchen and a happy grin spread over Frank’s features. Twirling around, spatula in hand, Frank vocalised the rising intonation of the music and once he came back to face the stove he reached in with the utensil to turn the bacon, just as the music gained some lyrics. He hummed along to the song as he ferretted about in the kitchen, putting the crumpets in the oven and setting about mixing the Greek yoghurt and the fruit together so they could go into another frying pan. Everything continued to buzz at its own pace and then all of a sudden it all started to come together at once with the tomatoes he’d only just cut up and put in the pan with the bacon warming beautifully.

Opening up the oven, Frank picked up the crumpets, his face contorting in discomfort as they burned his fingers. The Chaser put on a brave face, however, and set the crumpets down – two on each plate – before reaching to retrieve the skillet with the fruit in it. Grabbing a spoon out of one of the drawers, Frank carefully dribbled the fruit over the crumpets, making sure that all of it was on the crumpets before drizzling the sauce over the top. Setting the pan back on the stove, Frank took the bacon off and scattered a healthy helping of both the bacon and chopped baby tomatoes over the bed of watercress he’d set out. After setting that pan down he peppered balsamic vinegar over the tomatoes and bacon before going to fish the poached eggs out of the water he’d put them in.

With an egg set on top of the watercress, tomatoes and bacon, Frank lifted the plates onto the tray he’d pulled out from one of the cupboards and the crumpets joined them. After putting the cutlery down on the tray also, Frank threw a spell in the direction of the fridge and the glass cupboard. Safe in the knowledge that a carton of orange juice and two tumblers were following behind him, Frank retraced his steps and wandered back upstairs, the tray in his hands.
When he reopened the door to his room, the room was even brighter than before and he returned to the bed, setting the tray down on the side he had vacated. Frank lent over and gently shook Toby’s shoulder, a half-smile lifting up his lips.

“Hey Toby,” he murmured, “are you hungry? World’s calling for you, love.”