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It’s been four months already. Four months into the year for which Quirrell agreed to have the Dark Lord himself attached to his soul. And all things considered, it could be going a lot worse. Once they got past the initial awkwardness of their situation, and once Quirrell stopped trying to perform the part of the evil henchman, they actually became pretty fast friends.
There is still something nagging at him, though, and it’s becoming increasingly hard to ignore… pun not intended, but accurate. Let’s just say he’s a grown man, and he has urges, and true privacy is literally impossible to come by when there’s another man’s living face attached to the back of your head. Needless to say, he’s getting pretty fucking frustrated.
There have been mornings where he was about 80 percent sure he had woken up before Voldemort, but that 20 percent of uncertainty was enough for him to not risk… taking care of the issue. He has to live with the man for another eight months yet; he’s not about to do something that potentially mortifying in the same bed as him. No, worse . In the same body.
One morning in particular, Quirrell is mulling over this particular conundrum, and he hears the familiar snarl of a voice from behind him. “Hey, Quirrell.”
“Yes?”
Voldemort hesitates for a moment. The curious thing about having a face on the back of your head is that you can feel it move; in this case, Quirrell feels Voldemort’s mouth open and shut a couple of times silently. Anticipation swirls in Quirrell as he waits for Voldemort to find the words he’s looking for.
“You can… take care of that if you need to. By the way.”
Quirrell blinks. Okay, surely he has to be misinterpreting that.
“Take care of- of what?” That damned stutter rears its head again. Voldemort sighs, exasperated.
“Come on man, you know what I mean. I…” Voldemort hesitates. He lowers his voice, as if anyone is there to overhear. “I can feel it too, you know.”
Quirrell wishes he could curl up and die right there. His face feels so hot it’s a wonder it’s not burning a hole in his pillow. And as if that’s not enough, the problem seems to think that’s an appropriate time to twitch . His heart races as Voldemort grunts frustratedly in response. It suddenly washes over Quirrell how intimate this is. There is nothing he can possibly hope to hide from Voldemort - no skip of the heart, no rush of arousal, no shortness of breath, no tiny facial twitch - because he feels it all too.
Then a more curious sensation hits Quirrell; his arms moving without his say-so. He knows that Voldemort can do this, but he barely ever seems to take any opportunity to do it. Quirrell’s own fingers trace a slow, gentle line down his chest, over his stomach. The motion is slight enough that Quirrell could easily take over from him, and Voldemort is surely doing that on purpose. This is a mere suggestion, if anything. A gentle encouragement. The tenderness of that makes Quirrell’s heartbeat even louder in his ears… their ears, he supposes. Wizard God, this is insane .
Part of him wants to just let Voldemort take control of the whole affair. Partially because it would mean Quirrell wouldn't have to think about it anymore, but also partially because… well, it just sounds enticing. The familiarity of his own hand on his own dick, paired with the surprises of another person’s mannerisms and motions… maybe Voldemort would even talk dirty to him while he-
He’s snapped out of his thoughts by Voldemort clearing his throat. ( Their throat?) The Dark Lord speaks, sounding fascinatingly uncertain. Bashful, even.
“Look, man, you’re gonna have to-” Voldemort lets out a nervous little laugh, and that makes Quirrell’s heart jump. The thought that the other man can tell makes it jump again, makes his face burn brighter. Voldemort continues. “I can’t see what I’m doing.”
The reality of that crashes over Quirrell like a tidal wave, and he finds himself laughing, sudden and strong. He feels Voldemort smile. In a small experiment, Quirrell brings one of his own hands up to his lips and places an apologetic little kiss on the back of it. Voldemort’s smile becomes a shocked but impressed little grin, and the back of Quirrell’s head starts to feel as warm as the front. Bingo. Quirrell chuckles warmly as he speaks, heart soaring in their shared chest.
“God, of course you can’t. Sorry. I’ll, uh…”
Voldemort hums affirmatively. No need to finish that sentence, he guesses.
Quirrell takes a deep breath and bites the bullet. He trails his hand down the same route Voldemort took, and continues it. He finally takes hold of his aching cock, and gasps. Voldemort gasps too. Quirrell curls in on himself as he begins to stroke, panting heavily. It occurs to him that for Voldemort this might feel a bit like arching his back. The thought makes his mouth go dry, a spark of further arousal travelling through him.
It suddenly occurs to Quirrell how much power he has right now. He has the Dark Lord panting from his lungs. He Who Shall Not Be Named knitting his scalp together to make pinched brows. His Dark King using the fingers of his free hand to grab at his bedsheets. Quirrell’s hand goes harder, faster. There’s something beautifully easy about knowing for a fact exactly how good you’re making your partner feel. He fears he could get used to this, if he’s not careful.
With both of them so affected, and only one central place for it all to go - not to mention how pent up they were to begin with - it doesn’t take long for a pressure to start building.
“V-Voldemort, I… I’m… We’re…”
“I know, Squirrel.” The nickname gently slipping out doesn’t go unnoticed. Quirrell doesn’t think he’s ever heard Voldemort call him that while sober before. It takes a fork to his heart. Makes him gasp, then groan. Voldemort echoes it, then speaks again in that familiar condescending tone, although it’s dulled somewhat by the huskiness of his voice. “I feel everything that you feel.”
“Everything?”
The word is out of Quirrell’s mouth before he can think about stopping it. He feels Voldemort gasp and grasp the sheets tighter - nervousness this time, he thinks - and lick his lips before answering. Their heart feels fit to burst from them… although which way it would go if it did so is anybody’s guess.
“I… I think so. Yeah.” There is so much weight carried in Voldemort’s voice, and yet Quirrell feels like he could float off the mattress.
“I-Is everything… okay?” He sure hopes Voldemort understands what he means by that because he feels like he can barely string a sentence together. Voldemort huffs out something a bit like a laugh.
“Yeah. Everything is wonderful.” He pauses. “Well, except… maybe one thing.”
That makes Quirrell frown. He slows his hand to a stop, ignoring the way his body protests.
“What is it?”
Instead of answering with words, Voldemort takes control of Quirrell’s hand again. This time, he doesn’t have to locate anything. He’s already in the right place, he just has to…
Quirrell pants, astonished, and takes over gripping the bedsheets as he watches his own hand hesitantly, clumsily jerk him off. With the mannerisms and rhythm of someone else. Familiarity and surrealism clash in his mind and somehow he thinks it might be the hottest thing he’s ever seen.
Voldemort makes needy, breathless little sounds as Quirrell shifts his hips to fuck into that hand, and Quirrell finds himself echoing them. As they build to their crescendo, Voldemort hisses something.
“Wizard God , I wish I could see you right now, Squirrel.” As if that desperation wasn’t already made clear enough, Quirrell also feels it, heavy and rotten and beastly in his chest. He can’t tell whose it is. Maybe it doesn’t matter. “Bet you look so fucking pretty.”
And with that, the tension finally snaps. If either of them had the wherewithal to study it, the strange combination of two people’s spasms of pleasure going through one body would surely be fascinating. But all Quirrell can process is that he’s never cum so hard before. He sees stars, and he sees nothing, and he feels everything ever.
When they both return to Earth, Quirrell realises his hand has moved from his dick. It’s now resting on top of his other hand, the one that’s balled up in the sheets. There’s evidently been some attempt by the top hand to thread its fingers between those of the bottom hand. It takes a few seconds for him to understand, but when he does, he hardly believes the conclusion.
In the midst of their climax, Voldemort had instinctively tried to hold his hand.
It’s imperfect, and incomplete, and a bit sticky, but the sentiment is so sweet that Quirrell doesn’t even care. He grins and clasps his hands together properly. Voldemort barks out a shocked little laugh and grows warm again. The hands squeeze each other, and Quirrell is about 80 percent sure he didn’t do it.
Quirrell swears to himself that he’s going to figure out some sort of mirror setup later, because he needs to see Voldemort’s smile. He bets it’s beautiful.