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firewhiskeyficTitle: If You Won’t Eat My Rock Cakes Have My Cock Instead
Author:lq_traintracks
I am of legal drinking age in my region: Yissss!
Pairing(s)/Characters/Fandom: Good lord okay. Bill/Charlie; Hagrid/Charlie/Bill; Hagrid/Draco; future Harry/Draco (Hagrid’s warming him up, you see); Hagrid/Pansy; Hagrid/nameless OMCs and OFCs
Challenge/Prompts used: All of them, bruh!
Summary: Smut in the cottage. Or, Hagrid spends a wholesome evening alone.
Rating/Warnings: Fucking hell. E/NC-17. Underage; dub-con (due to plying with alcohol); sibling incest; age difference, SIZE DIFFERENCE (ahem); anal sex, oral sex, tits (aw yeah); vaginal sex; threesome; spitroasting (both kinds; you’ll see); come eating; a little name-calling (you know, sweet talk); meta???
Word count: 1,200 or something?
Author's Notes (if any): Y’all just had to do it. You had to do a Hagrid prompt. *facepalm* I blame you. Also what is tense anyway?? Pffff!
Hagrid liked nothing better on a cold evening than
(Okay, look. If I do this, it’s not my fault. *I* didn’t prompt Hagrid and then add ‘stripped bare’ whatt the shitting fuck you two. I can’t be held responsible for this. I might try to write an innocent little vignette between the dirty ones so that I an just delete the filthy abominable parts for the non-drunk version of this idek jesus.)
a pair of seventh years on his rug, fucking and sucking in front of the fire.
(Or, if you prefer, a nice hot toddy and a view out his icy window of banks and banks of snow, piled up against the castle, ah life!)
He liked the ones fresh from the Forbidden Forest. “Come in for a piping hot tea, lads,” he’d say. He’d learned that the offer of rock cakes was less condusive to luring than he’d once imagined.
Get a fine, strapping bloke shivering in front of the fire. Ease his friend’s jumper off, claiming it was damp from the wet flakes of snow. Spike the tea. Tell increasingly more ribald stories of youthful conquests and ‘oh to be young and virile again with such hard, heavy cocks…’
(Hagrid enjoyed a leisurely jigsaw puzzle on a chilly night alone. A good thousand piece Ravensburger would turn a smile upon his lips. A nice Anne Geddes baby. Fuck that Thomas Kincaide though.)
He’s got the eldest Weasley boys in his cabin tonight, and he’d have thought he’d have to work harder to get two brothers to go at it. But they just needed a shot of whiskey each and a few insinuations, and the older one has his brother on his hands and knees, plunging into him from behind.
Hagrid’s breath goes ragid (lol). He unties his trousers (idk he’s old fahsioned), pulling his cock out and stroking it in his meaty fist.
(I refuse to write the accent. For the most part. You know how it goes, you can hear it)
“Lemme in there, lad,” he manages to get out.
(Hagrid is celebate. Nary a cock or a cunt to stick his dick in. He’s a saint actually. He’s taken holy vows of chastity.)
Bill pulls out, his cock slick with lubricant, cheeks red from exertion now rather than cold. They’ve done this before, Hagrid realises. They’ve done this a lot. The knowledge has him salivating, but he can’t use his mouth right now. He’s too ready to fuck.
“You mustn’t tell now,” he says when he gets Charlie Weasley in place, backing into his cock and wincing from the pain of it. Hagrid grunts, works it in a little more. “That’s a nice lad,” he says. “Just… twelve more inches’ll do yeh.”
It’s a good thing Bill prepped him. The boy’s not loose, but he’s… amenable to taking a man’s cock. Or a half-giant’s, even. It’s not llong before he’s slamming back into it like a whore, and Bill’s fitting his cock into Chalries mouth now, and they’ve got him at both ends.
(Hagrid does love a good spitroast, the meat turning over the flames, fat dropping and hissing, the smell of cooked meat and spices permeating his small abode.)
The Malfoy boy was easier than Hagrid thought he’d be too. He’s so skinny and sad, sicth year. And all it takes, Hagrid realises, is a promise to smooth the way between him and Harry. That gets Draco down on his knees and a dick in his mouth right quick.
(I’m going to hell.)
He can’t take but the head, and his mouth is so stretched it’s obscene. But Hagrid combs his sweaty hand into the boy’s lovely hair and says, “Such a pretty cocksucker. Harry’ll love that.”
The poor sod comes in his pants, hearing it. What a pathetic little todder, Hagrid thinks as he strokes himself and comes down that pale, swallowing throat.
(Tosser. That word was ‘tosser’, my friends. *consumes more alcohole*)
He likes a lady too, and he knows how to get ‘em wet for it. Pansy Parkinson takes him from behind because, to hear her say it, she “can’t stand [his] fucking face.” It makes no difference. He can come up a pussy all the same like this. And palming their tits is a sheer delight when t hey’re hanging down like that.
(Never let it be said that Hagrid couldn’t enjoy great literature. He loved a good Jeffrey Archer book, he did. And sometimes a Jimmy Patt. He was sick of Grisham’s lawyers, but he could be talked into the new Danielle Steel with a positive Goodreads review.)
Some of the students (for it was always students; what’s the song say? ‘Never gonna stop, give it up, such a dirty mind, I always get it up for the touch of the younger kind.’ Poetry.) overstayed their welcome. Addicted to his cock, they were! He’d tell ‘em, “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days,” which was a weird way to work that prompt in, but beggers (i.e. characters who this author was forced into maligning) can’t be choosers.
It was hard to boot them when they looked so lovely, spooning each other on the rug by the fire (which counts as ‘cuddling by the fire’ btw).
But Hagrid was a man who needed his sleep. And after he’d come up an arse, or down a throat, or across a bouncy pair of tits, there was nothing he liked better than a long, mid-winter snooze.
(“Bye, Hagrid!” his students would say when they’d snubbed his rock cakes and enjoyed his tea and it was time to return to their studies and lessons and fighting an evil fuckwad with no nose. And Hagrid would wave good-bye to them, always eager for their next visit on a cold Scottish night—)
and their sweet, firm, rosy arsecheeks as he would stuff his fat, drooling cock up ‘em and come until it ran out, down their trembling legs, and onto his rug, and he’d make ‘em lick it up, those little slags. “Lick up my come that’s dribbled outta yer arse. Fucking gorgeous, licking it up off the floor, aren’t you?”
(“Until next time!” Hagrid called into the night at their retreating backs, their scarves lifted by the stiff wind. “Until next time.” And he’d bolt the door, turn to the hob, and set a new kettle on.)
The End
Author:
lq_traintracksI am of legal drinking age in my region: Yissss!
Pairing(s)/Characters/Fandom: Good lord okay. Bill/Charlie; Hagrid/Charlie/Bill; Hagrid/Draco; future Harry/Draco (Hagrid’s warming him up, you see); Hagrid/Pansy; Hagrid/nameless OMCs and OFCs
Challenge/Prompts used: All of them, bruh!
Summary: Smut in the cottage. Or, Hagrid spends a wholesome evening alone.
Rating/Warnings: Fucking hell. E/NC-17. Underage; dub-con (due to plying with alcohol); sibling incest; age difference, SIZE DIFFERENCE (ahem); anal sex, oral sex, tits (aw yeah); vaginal sex; threesome; spitroasting (both kinds; you’ll see); come eating; a little name-calling (you know, sweet talk); meta???
Word count: 1,200 or something?
Author's Notes (if any): Y’all just had to do it. You had to do a Hagrid prompt. *facepalm* I blame you. Also what is tense anyway?? Pffff!
Hagrid liked nothing better on a cold evening than
(Okay, look. If I do this, it’s not my fault. *I* didn’t prompt Hagrid and then add ‘stripped bare’ whatt the shitting fuck you two. I can’t be held responsible for this. I might try to write an innocent little vignette between the dirty ones so that I an just delete the filthy abominable parts for the non-drunk version of this idek jesus.)
a pair of seventh years on his rug, fucking and sucking in front of the fire.
(Or, if you prefer, a nice hot toddy and a view out his icy window of banks and banks of snow, piled up against the castle, ah life!)
He liked the ones fresh from the Forbidden Forest. “Come in for a piping hot tea, lads,” he’d say. He’d learned that the offer of rock cakes was less condusive to luring than he’d once imagined.
Get a fine, strapping bloke shivering in front of the fire. Ease his friend’s jumper off, claiming it was damp from the wet flakes of snow. Spike the tea. Tell increasingly more ribald stories of youthful conquests and ‘oh to be young and virile again with such hard, heavy cocks…’
(Hagrid enjoyed a leisurely jigsaw puzzle on a chilly night alone. A good thousand piece Ravensburger would turn a smile upon his lips. A nice Anne Geddes baby. Fuck that Thomas Kincaide though.)
He’s got the eldest Weasley boys in his cabin tonight, and he’d have thought he’d have to work harder to get two brothers to go at it. But they just needed a shot of whiskey each and a few insinuations, and the older one has his brother on his hands and knees, plunging into him from behind.
Hagrid’s breath goes ragid (lol). He unties his trousers (idk he’s old fahsioned), pulling his cock out and stroking it in his meaty fist.
(I refuse to write the accent. For the most part. You know how it goes, you can hear it)
“Lemme in there, lad,” he manages to get out.
(Hagrid is celebate. Nary a cock or a cunt to stick his dick in. He’s a saint actually. He’s taken holy vows of chastity.)
Bill pulls out, his cock slick with lubricant, cheeks red from exertion now rather than cold. They’ve done this before, Hagrid realises. They’ve done this a lot. The knowledge has him salivating, but he can’t use his mouth right now. He’s too ready to fuck.
“You mustn’t tell now,” he says when he gets Charlie Weasley in place, backing into his cock and wincing from the pain of it. Hagrid grunts, works it in a little more. “That’s a nice lad,” he says. “Just… twelve more inches’ll do yeh.”
It’s a good thing Bill prepped him. The boy’s not loose, but he’s… amenable to taking a man’s cock. Or a half-giant’s, even. It’s not llong before he’s slamming back into it like a whore, and Bill’s fitting his cock into Chalries mouth now, and they’ve got him at both ends.
(Hagrid does love a good spitroast, the meat turning over the flames, fat dropping and hissing, the smell of cooked meat and spices permeating his small abode.)
The Malfoy boy was easier than Hagrid thought he’d be too. He’s so skinny and sad, sicth year. And all it takes, Hagrid realises, is a promise to smooth the way between him and Harry. That gets Draco down on his knees and a dick in his mouth right quick.
(I’m going to hell.)
He can’t take but the head, and his mouth is so stretched it’s obscene. But Hagrid combs his sweaty hand into the boy’s lovely hair and says, “Such a pretty cocksucker. Harry’ll love that.”
The poor sod comes in his pants, hearing it. What a pathetic little todder, Hagrid thinks as he strokes himself and comes down that pale, swallowing throat.
(Tosser. That word was ‘tosser’, my friends. *consumes more alcohole*)
He likes a lady too, and he knows how to get ‘em wet for it. Pansy Parkinson takes him from behind because, to hear her say it, she “can’t stand [his] fucking face.” It makes no difference. He can come up a pussy all the same like this. And palming their tits is a sheer delight when t hey’re hanging down like that.
(Never let it be said that Hagrid couldn’t enjoy great literature. He loved a good Jeffrey Archer book, he did. And sometimes a Jimmy Patt. He was sick of Grisham’s lawyers, but he could be talked into the new Danielle Steel with a positive Goodreads review.)
Some of the students (for it was always students; what’s the song say? ‘Never gonna stop, give it up, such a dirty mind, I always get it up for the touch of the younger kind.’ Poetry.) overstayed their welcome. Addicted to his cock, they were! He’d tell ‘em, “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days,” which was a weird way to work that prompt in, but beggers (i.e. characters who this author was forced into maligning) can’t be choosers.
It was hard to boot them when they looked so lovely, spooning each other on the rug by the fire (which counts as ‘cuddling by the fire’ btw).
But Hagrid was a man who needed his sleep. And after he’d come up an arse, or down a throat, or across a bouncy pair of tits, there was nothing he liked better than a long, mid-winter snooze.
(“Bye, Hagrid!” his students would say when they’d snubbed his rock cakes and enjoyed his tea and it was time to return to their studies and lessons and fighting an evil fuckwad with no nose. And Hagrid would wave good-bye to them, always eager for their next visit on a cold Scottish night—)
and their sweet, firm, rosy arsecheeks as he would stuff his fat, drooling cock up ‘em and come until it ran out, down their trembling legs, and onto his rug, and he’d make ‘em lick it up, those little slags. “Lick up my come that’s dribbled outta yer arse. Fucking gorgeous, licking it up off the floor, aren’t you?”
(“Until next time!” Hagrid called into the night at their retreating backs, their scarves lifted by the stiff wind. “Until next time.” And he’d bolt the door, turn to the hob, and set a new kettle on.)
The End