spark_of_chaos (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} spark_of_chaos) wrote,@ 2007-02-18 18:44:00 |
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Braille (Harry/Draco, NC-17, ~3500)
Title: Braille
Summary: Let me learn you like Braille. Let me learn every part of you, every motion, every sound. Let me drink you and inhale you, let me swallow your sighs. Let me see you.
Pairing and rating: Harry/Draco, NC-17
Author's notes: It's been a while since I last posted a story. This one explores a train of thought that has haunted me for a while.rinsbane and lusiology polished the rustiness off my writing and made sure it read just as I had meant it to read. The work of the beta is a very, very important one - as important as the author's, if not more. Thank you so much for your efforts!
Braille
~(*)~
Just say it: undress. It's no big deal. Just a word. Undress. Undress. Undress.
The room is quiet, and the flames in the fireplace fill it with shadows dancing ghostly in the corners. The space is perfectly empty and still, frozen in surreal midnight stupor.
Just say it. There'll be no real opposition, no opposition at all.
If he wishes it, he can take it, and no one will say anything. One word.
Undress.
It wouldn't be hard at all. The temptation is sweet and near, and his gut aches for him to take it. If only his mouth would form the word –
His lips shape it soundlessly and he almost tastes it, hot and teasing on his tongue. It will roll off like a sigh, effortlessly. Just…
Yeah, that's right, rape him. Where's my brain for god's sake, stop thinking this!
But it won't be a rape, will it? He won't take anything, he just wants to give and there's no one to give it to. All he wants is to know, to feel that prescient bit of bone-deep knowledge, the first slide of skin against skin, the pleasure strumming through a body not his own. Just this one time.
Undress.
There is nothing under the robes; he has seen so – one layer of cloth that will fall obediently away.
"Undress." The word leaves his lips in a whisper and feels alien, both hot and cold, sharp.
The figure on the blanket in the centre of the room shifts for a moment, then quiets, still sleeping soundly. The light of the fire makes the hair fairer than moonlight, more alive than liquid gold.
He's a Malfoy. What the fuck do you care what colour his hair is!
It will be fine and smooth and will slide through his fingers like water.
Harry closes his eyes against the lump in his throat. If he focuses, he can taste the skin in his imagination. He can see the body, lean and warm. He can hear the voice, rough from teasing fingers; the clean arch of the neck.
No one will see. No one will know. Whatever happens will remain shuttered here, between the four walls of this prison sanctuary, in the silent dance of the fire, along the ever-rushing hands of the non-existent clock.
You will know. And he also.
Just once?
Will it be not enough?
Will it be?
Malfoy sleeps curled together like a ball, as if he is expecting a strike. Perhaps he is. Knees against his face, hands in fists under his chin, all tensed up even in sleep. All Harry can see is the hair, livened up by the firelight.
His skin will taste like sweat, like sun, like Madam Pomfrey's honeysuckle fever relief.
Harry bites his lip as a thin shiver trickles down his neck. His own skin has lost the kiss of sunlight long ago.
You've gone mad.
And perhaps he has.
He is tired, so tired, and he can see nothing in his future. He wants to quit but no one asks him. He wants a reprieve, a way out of this situation, because it is war no more; war means facing each other and getting it over with, winning or losing, killing or dying. And this standstill only lengthens the horror of expectation. He wants... he wants something different, a world beyond the waiting and planning. He wants a warm body with skin softer than tears and warmth unlike his own.
He wants.
"Undress." The word comes out calm and sure this time, not a whisper anymore, and caresses Harry's lips like a lover. Gentle.
The body on the blanket stiffens, not more than a momentary tension before liquid calm swallows it seamlessly, but it is enough. Malfoy is awake. Shock hangs upon them like a feather in a vacuum, delicate and instantly broken.
"I just want to touch you. This once. Nothing more. Just touch."
"Fuck off, Potter. Is this what the Great Side of Light is all about?" Malfoy's voice is perfectly expressionless, hard but brittle, for he has nowhere to go, nothing to do, no choice except to comply should Harry force him.
"Please." He closes his eyes and his fingers scrape the floor as they coil into fists by his sides. He doesn't want that. He needs... His stomach is one huge ball of desperation, shame and humility, raising bittersweet in the back of his throat. "Just once."
"I am no one's plaything." Viciously spit, angry, defensive, and Harry instantly feels dirtied and low.
Silence falls and stretches, deep and cool, and he feels himself tremble, as if in cold. How long has it been since he last laughed? Since he last cried? Since he felt human? Since he talked to someone for the pleasure of it, without measuring every word and weighing every glance? Since he last let go and gave himself up? Gave in?
He has been here all that time it took Madam Pomfrey to patch Malfoy up, has seen all the pain, the blood, the scars. The skin. The grace. The mouth.
What were you thinking?
He swallows, his head bowed. "I apologise." Every word is a physical hurt within him. "I forgot mys..."
"Just once." Malfoy's voice is different now, neutral and aloof, as if he suddenly sees how he is handing Harry the rope to hang himself. He probably does.
Harry's limbs turn to water, his blood to fire, and he sways.
Weakness, this is a weakness...
"Once," Malfoy repeats, setting the rules. "Anything you want. But when McGonagall comes, you'll side with me."
Siding, what siding, there would be no siding, for McGonagall wouldn't buy any of it, wouldn't allow it, and what will happen when Malfoy feels cheated?
There's a proper word for your little exchange...
No, it's not that.
Isn't it? You are a coward.
Harry opens his eyes. Malfoy is now sitting up, his face shuttered and blank, bargaining his body for his life with his eyes wide open, the wheels in his mind visibly at top speed.
He expects you to hurt him. To fuck him raw and tell everyone what a whore he is. To play him.
He trusts me.
No, he doesn't.
Oh, yes, he does.
The shadows are moving restlessly, irregular, deep with uncertainty and promise. Harry feels his mouth go dry, his heart beating heavily in his throat, heat coiling within him.
He is bone weary and tired, fed up of catching; all he wants is to fall, down and head-first and fast, with no safety net but secure nevertheless. He wants to dismantle that flawless body, to study it and see once and for all, what is it that he himself lacks so badly and seeks in others so feverishly. What is it that shines like a beacon through the fog of the drag-down heaviness of everyday life; that taunts him mercilessly, almost warming him before flashing far away again; that makes him feel left behind and forgotten.
He needs that someone who would fire up to his touches effortlessly, and whose fire will light up Harry's own. Someone who can take him and break him and make him but will give to him also. He wants fears needs fears craves is terrified of longs for another person, full stop, and the mere thought of it makes him shake and freeze, hot and cold and weak. And now, this body mind soul person Malfoy will be enough, has to be enough to sustain him and keep him going, because Harry can't bear the alternative, won't bear it.
What am I doing?
Does it matter?
He moves forward, shrinking the space that divides them, turning his mind off. There's a carpet on the floor and that's it, a couple of pillows and a pile of blankets. Malfoy's dark, watchful eyes; a barely suppressed wince, guilt.
It is too late now, already too late, and Malfoy seals it with the buttons of his robes, slid open by nimble fingers. The fabric slides off smoothly, even more so than Harry has imagined it would, and reveals a body Harry aches to explore.
For a moment, he stops breathing.
"I'm a fool," he says to himself aloud, and he is but there is so much skin, so many curves, so many intriguing places that he can't think straight.
"Yes, you are," Malfoy tells him. "But you promised."
Did he?
He leans forward, eyes falling closed, but Malfoy turns his head and Harry's lips connect with a barely stubbled cheek. He traces the edge of it with his nose, that sweet place where it becomes hard and defined, then under the jaw, and breathes in the scent of firelight and warmth and man.
Harry inhales and his head spins, drunk on the possibilities, desire swelling within him. He licks once, surprised at how good that feels, then repeats and senses how Malfoy relaxes minutely in his arms. Harry makes his way up and down the offered neck, kissing and nuzzling here and there, discovering a string of sweet places, sinew and stretched muscle.
Malfoy just sits there, making no sound at all, not moving, and after a while Harry feels infinitely inadequate and pathetic, getting drunk on the barest sensation when he can take anything he wants. He takes a steadying breath and the scent immediately gets to him again, the intoxicating presence of another person. He has the insane urge to bite, to lick, to own; to inhale the moment and never let go. He does as much as he dares, mouthing a spot, using his teeth only just, then soothing with quick, liquid kisses, and Malfoy unexpectedly trembles and makes an amazing sound, wet and breathy, half-bitten in the back of his throat.
Only then does Harry notice the quick strum of blood under the smooth skin, the rushed breathing, the head thrown back. Reverently, he kisses the dip at the base of Malfoy's throat, licks the pulse point, then holds the collarbone between his teeth and traces it, the hardness of it covered in supple whiteness.
Malfoy laughs, a sound far too quiet and breathy to be unkind, but Harry thinks it is, a disbelieving mockery of his amazement. He bites the plumpness of the shoulder, hard, and Malfoy hisses alarm. Harry leaves it, apologising not a second later with open-mouthed kisses elsewhere.
There's a part of Harry that can't quite believe what is happening. He needs to touch Malfoy, to hold his waist, to measure his hips, to feel the ripple of his back muscles – just to be sure this is not an illusion. He is there, before Malfoy's kneeling form, kneeling also, and simply holds him, face buried in Malfoy's neck, rubbing and pushing like a cat.
"My God, Potter," Malfoy breathes, and Harry thinks he sounds amazed as well.
Harry can't help himself; he needs to taste all there is to taste, neck and chest and flat nipples that raise under his lips. He has to see every freckle and every roughness, to touch them and smell them, to mark everything as his, as owned.
So perfect...
Only it isn't, is it, and that makes it so much better, so much more real and exquisite. Too sharp shoulders and backbone like a string of pearls and concave stomach, and even the way Malfoy arches into his mouth is elegant and composed and controlled, and Harry wants to know how this happens but can't quite figure it out – the taste and sense of perfect aloof aristocracy get lost in Malfoy's all too compelling body heat.
There is a scar across Malfoy's chest and Harry follows it with his tongue, leaves a string of kisses on either side, rubs it with his cheek, as if that can flatten it back to nonexistence, as if that can bring back the flawlessness he himself marred so long ago.
Harry makes Malfoy lie back and takes his arm. The muscles of it move under his touch, strength and delicacy twisting together. The shoulder is perfectly round, part soft, part hard, alive, and flows down, down, wiry, to the tender inside of the elbow, the skin there bruising so easily under Harry's mouth. The veins of the forearm are blue and prominent, the skin over them vibrant with the taste of life, and the wrist is both slender and wide under Harry's teeth.
His palm is in a loose fist, and when Harry persuades it open, it turns out sweaty on the inside – a taste Harry likes and licks off, bestowing kisses upon the pads of flesh, sucking on the fingers, drawing them in his mouth, swirling his tongue around them. Malfoy shifts and makes to move closer, his hand clawing reflexively against Harry's face.
Take me. Hold me.
Harry kisses the centre of the palm, pushes his tongue between the fingers until they spread wide, then turns and lays his cheek on Malfoy's stomach. It heaves under him, rushed breathing and racing pulse, and Harry soaks in the feel of it, the feel of Malfoy's hand in his hair, pulling him closer. For a flash of head-spinning sensation, Harry wants nothing more than to be held like that and simply wanted.
Harry turns and kisses the bellybutton, fills his mouth and nose and brain with supple heat and the liquid scent of desire. He opens his lips wide, his tongue sliding in circles, then sucks until he leaves a red blotch, a passion mark as perfect as the skin beneath it, just on the dip next to Malfoy's hipbone.
The sweat is muskier here, and Harry's mouth waters, and he swallows against the sudden hunger. He slides his nose along the vulnerable valley joining leg and torso; his mouth, his tongue. Malfoy's breathing is now harsh and Harry hears it louder than his own, like the rhythm of a song, in and out and in and out, irregular.
Harry can't stop running his fingers along defined muscles, over hardly visible goose bumps, through hairs so fine they barely exist. He fancies he can read Malfoy's shudders before they happen, can hear his sighs before they are breathed.
How many times have I wanted this...
How many times Harry has been sucked off by eager, willing partners. How many times he has fucked yet another person trying so desperately to please him, to give themselves to Harry Potter, that Harry himself has always felt the act, not the person, the action, not the sensation. This total, uncaring abandon to Harry's hands is what he has always wanted, to just be let to please. To touch and explore. To simply be. No pressure, no undue expectation towards him, nothing to make him freeze up.
Malfoy moans, and it is a needy sound Harry devours before licking a path down the inner side of thighs that spread wide open on their own accord. Malfoy makes a sound of protest, deep in his throat, and thrusts his hips a little. But Harry doesn't care, can't care, because he is far too gone, far too drunk, weak with desire.
Malfoy is ticklish around the knees, and Harry thinks he might have never heard something as fetching as that half-gasped giggle.
He sits back on his heels and stares at Malfoy's body, now sweaty and arched in a show of wiry muscle and sinew on the messed blanket; at Malfoy's lips bitten between teeth as white and even as Harry's ever seen; at Malfoy's cock full and flushed with need. Harry licks his lips and nearly balks, uncertain and wobbly. He wants to... No, he craves to, needs to, aches to make Malfoy cry out and writhe, to unravel him and see what he's made of, to figure out how this quiet resignation has come to meld with the fluid uncaring cool of the youth he remembers.
Malfoy thrusts his hips up, and Harry thinks, what the hell, and bends down to lick the head. Malfoy groans, his cock leaping, and Harry has never tasted anything like this before. He kisses the cock, the head of it, then down, and his gut clenches, part shame, part unnamed hunger. The next thrust pushes Malfoy into Harry's mouth, and there are teeth, skin sliding against lips, and Harry thinks he wants to lick it forever. The head hits the back of his throat and he gags, hard, not really expecting that, pulls off and has no idea how to do this right.
"Tell me," he says, his voice deep and low, odd. "Tell me what you want; tell me how to do it."
Harry swirls his tongue around the ridge of the head, eager to please, and Malfoy's first sound is rather inarticulate. Then he stills his hips and throws an arm over his face, and when his voice finally comes out, it's rough and ragged.
"Take it slow." Harry does, careful to use lips and not teeth, and wants to add some tongue but can't coordinate it all. Malfoy can't quite suppress his thrust, his whole body going rigid with tension.
He wants me. He wants me. He hates Harry Potter, but he wants me.
"Don't go deep," Malfoy draws between clenched teeth when Harry's about to do just that. "Try to suck a little."
Harry follows, and there's a sound that makes him want to giggle like an idiot. He thinks that cock is tailor-made to be sucked on, hard but soft, and slick, and so alive and responsive under his caresses. He backs up then goes down again, and it's so difficult to keep his lips over his teeth. When he grazes the ridge around the head, not gently, and starts, only making it worse, Malfoy hisses in a way that causes Harry's head to spin with liquid longing, a sound humid and desperate, and thrusts himself into Harry, deep. Harry backs off before he can gag, his tongue fretting against the rough spot on the underside, and thinks he might be getting the hang of it.
The rhythm slowly smooths and Harry manages to bob his head without too much teeth, a lick here and there, and sucks his way down deeper and deeper every time.
Harry's jaw is going to be sore, if it already isn't, but he loves how this feels, slick and addictive, connected, in a way he has rarely experienced.
"Like that," Malfoy rasps out. "Just like that," and Harry thinks he wants to bottle the moment and lull himself to sleep with it when the sheets of his bed are cold and clammy and silent, late at night.
His hands are sweaty when he gathers his wits enough to use them on Malfoy's balls, and he has the muscle-tense desire to just hold everything of Malfoy and never let go, to take him whole and lock all that glorious life within himself. The skin under his fingers is almost like parchment, both soft and rough and even, but not, and he rolls the balls in his palm.
"Gentle there," Malfoy says, barely, his hand moving over the back of Harry's head and neck.
The rhythm goes faster almost without Harry noticing, and he discovers he can actually breathe if absolutely necessary, and that Malfoy's thighs are made to hold on to.
"Potter..." Malfoy's hand fists in his hair, and he is fucking Harry's mouth now, steady and fast. "Potter, back off if you're not to... I'm gonna come."
Harry stills and pulls back minutely, unsure what to do, and it doesn't matter anymore, does it, because Malfoy is coming, body rigid and bowed, hips snapping quickly, filling Harry's mouth. The flavour, bitter and salty and slick, should be horrible but isn't, and Harry catches his breath for long moments against Malfoy's damp thigh while Malfoy does the same, his body going limp with every intake.
Harry has never felt so high on sensation, so thrumming with energy, so thoroughly empty and alone. He clings to Malfoy's leg, trying to prolong the moment, breathing in the quickly evaporating careless desire. Harry squeezes his eyes shut and realises what a fool he has been all along, how he's had the one half and wanted the other, when he's needed wholeness all the while.
Malfoy moves against him, and Harry is about to retreat when a hand on his shoulder pulls him up until he can watch Malfoy in the eye. Malfoy's lips are puffy and bitten, and Harry knows his own are even worse. He licks them, tasting spit and come, and his whole body trembles when Malfoy's gaze follows the brief movement.
Malfoy's gaze snaps back on him, slate grey and intent, and Harry thinks it makes all other colours pale in comparison.
"Say my name," Malfoy tells him, fist in his hair, and when Harry draws a shaky breath in to do so, he inhales man and sex and firelight.
"Draco," he whispers, and a knot within him untangles with unexpected ease, even though the hand in his hair is near painful now.
But then Draco kisses him full on the mouth, rough and slick and deep and so fucking good, and it doesn't matter anymore, the hand, the eyes, the shame.
"Draco..." he breathes again, and feels the first faint brush of lips against his neck. He closes his eyes and his head falls back.
~(*)~
The End
~(*)~
If you enjoyed thit fic, you can also go read
Spark Of Chaos' other fics
Remember that comments = ♥
Title: Braille
Summary: Let me learn you like Braille. Let me learn every part of you, every motion, every sound. Let me drink you and inhale you, let me swallow your sighs. Let me see you.
Pairing and rating: Harry/Draco, NC-17
Author's notes: It's been a while since I last posted a story. This one explores a train of thought that has haunted me for a while.
rinsbane and lusiology polished the rustiness off my writing and made sure it read just as I had meant it to read. The work of the beta is a very, very important one - as important as the author's, if not more. Thank you so much for your efforts!Just say it: undress. It's no big deal. Just a word. Undress. Undress. Undress.
The room is quiet, and the flames in the fireplace fill it with shadows dancing ghostly in the corners. The space is perfectly empty and still, frozen in surreal midnight stupor.
Just say it. There'll be no real opposition, no opposition at all.
If he wishes it, he can take it, and no one will say anything. One word.
Undress.
It wouldn't be hard at all. The temptation is sweet and near, and his gut aches for him to take it. If only his mouth would form the word –
His lips shape it soundlessly and he almost tastes it, hot and teasing on his tongue. It will roll off like a sigh, effortlessly. Just…
Yeah, that's right, rape him. Where's my brain for god's sake, stop thinking this!
But it won't be a rape, will it? He won't take anything, he just wants to give and there's no one to give it to. All he wants is to know, to feel that prescient bit of bone-deep knowledge, the first slide of skin against skin, the pleasure strumming through a body not his own. Just this one time.
Undress.
There is nothing under the robes; he has seen so – one layer of cloth that will fall obediently away.
"Undress." The word leaves his lips in a whisper and feels alien, both hot and cold, sharp.
The figure on the blanket in the centre of the room shifts for a moment, then quiets, still sleeping soundly. The light of the fire makes the hair fairer than moonlight, more alive than liquid gold.
He's a Malfoy. What the fuck do you care what colour his hair is!
It will be fine and smooth and will slide through his fingers like water.
Harry closes his eyes against the lump in his throat. If he focuses, he can taste the skin in his imagination. He can see the body, lean and warm. He can hear the voice, rough from teasing fingers; the clean arch of the neck.
No one will see. No one will know. Whatever happens will remain shuttered here, between the four walls of this prison sanctuary, in the silent dance of the fire, along the ever-rushing hands of the non-existent clock.
You will know. And he also.
Just once?
Will it be not enough?
Will it be?
Malfoy sleeps curled together like a ball, as if he is expecting a strike. Perhaps he is. Knees against his face, hands in fists under his chin, all tensed up even in sleep. All Harry can see is the hair, livened up by the firelight.
His skin will taste like sweat, like sun, like Madam Pomfrey's honeysuckle fever relief.
Harry bites his lip as a thin shiver trickles down his neck. His own skin has lost the kiss of sunlight long ago.
You've gone mad.
And perhaps he has.
He is tired, so tired, and he can see nothing in his future. He wants to quit but no one asks him. He wants a reprieve, a way out of this situation, because it is war no more; war means facing each other and getting it over with, winning or losing, killing or dying. And this standstill only lengthens the horror of expectation. He wants... he wants something different, a world beyond the waiting and planning. He wants a warm body with skin softer than tears and warmth unlike his own.
He wants.
"Undress." The word comes out calm and sure this time, not a whisper anymore, and caresses Harry's lips like a lover. Gentle.
The body on the blanket stiffens, not more than a momentary tension before liquid calm swallows it seamlessly, but it is enough. Malfoy is awake. Shock hangs upon them like a feather in a vacuum, delicate and instantly broken.
"I just want to touch you. This once. Nothing more. Just touch."
"Fuck off, Potter. Is this what the Great Side of Light is all about?" Malfoy's voice is perfectly expressionless, hard but brittle, for he has nowhere to go, nothing to do, no choice except to comply should Harry force him.
"Please." He closes his eyes and his fingers scrape the floor as they coil into fists by his sides. He doesn't want that. He needs... His stomach is one huge ball of desperation, shame and humility, raising bittersweet in the back of his throat. "Just once."
"I am no one's plaything." Viciously spit, angry, defensive, and Harry instantly feels dirtied and low.
Silence falls and stretches, deep and cool, and he feels himself tremble, as if in cold. How long has it been since he last laughed? Since he last cried? Since he felt human? Since he talked to someone for the pleasure of it, without measuring every word and weighing every glance? Since he last let go and gave himself up? Gave in?
He has been here all that time it took Madam Pomfrey to patch Malfoy up, has seen all the pain, the blood, the scars. The skin. The grace. The mouth.
What were you thinking?
He swallows, his head bowed. "I apologise." Every word is a physical hurt within him. "I forgot mys..."
"Just once." Malfoy's voice is different now, neutral and aloof, as if he suddenly sees how he is handing Harry the rope to hang himself. He probably does.
Harry's limbs turn to water, his blood to fire, and he sways.
Weakness, this is a weakness...
"Once," Malfoy repeats, setting the rules. "Anything you want. But when McGonagall comes, you'll side with me."
Siding, what siding, there would be no siding, for McGonagall wouldn't buy any of it, wouldn't allow it, and what will happen when Malfoy feels cheated?
There's a proper word for your little exchange...
No, it's not that.
Isn't it? You are a coward.
Harry opens his eyes. Malfoy is now sitting up, his face shuttered and blank, bargaining his body for his life with his eyes wide open, the wheels in his mind visibly at top speed.
He expects you to hurt him. To fuck him raw and tell everyone what a whore he is. To play him.
He trusts me.
No, he doesn't.
Oh, yes, he does.
The shadows are moving restlessly, irregular, deep with uncertainty and promise. Harry feels his mouth go dry, his heart beating heavily in his throat, heat coiling within him.
He is bone weary and tired, fed up of catching; all he wants is to fall, down and head-first and fast, with no safety net but secure nevertheless. He wants to dismantle that flawless body, to study it and see once and for all, what is it that he himself lacks so badly and seeks in others so feverishly. What is it that shines like a beacon through the fog of the drag-down heaviness of everyday life; that taunts him mercilessly, almost warming him before flashing far away again; that makes him feel left behind and forgotten.
He needs that someone who would fire up to his touches effortlessly, and whose fire will light up Harry's own. Someone who can take him and break him and make him but will give to him also. He wants fears needs fears craves is terrified of longs for another person, full stop, and the mere thought of it makes him shake and freeze, hot and cold and weak. And now, this body mind soul person Malfoy will be enough, has to be enough to sustain him and keep him going, because Harry can't bear the alternative, won't bear it.
What am I doing?
Does it matter?
He moves forward, shrinking the space that divides them, turning his mind off. There's a carpet on the floor and that's it, a couple of pillows and a pile of blankets. Malfoy's dark, watchful eyes; a barely suppressed wince, guilt.
It is too late now, already too late, and Malfoy seals it with the buttons of his robes, slid open by nimble fingers. The fabric slides off smoothly, even more so than Harry has imagined it would, and reveals a body Harry aches to explore.
For a moment, he stops breathing.
"I'm a fool," he says to himself aloud, and he is but there is so much skin, so many curves, so many intriguing places that he can't think straight.
"Yes, you are," Malfoy tells him. "But you promised."
Did he?
He leans forward, eyes falling closed, but Malfoy turns his head and Harry's lips connect with a barely stubbled cheek. He traces the edge of it with his nose, that sweet place where it becomes hard and defined, then under the jaw, and breathes in the scent of firelight and warmth and man.
Harry inhales and his head spins, drunk on the possibilities, desire swelling within him. He licks once, surprised at how good that feels, then repeats and senses how Malfoy relaxes minutely in his arms. Harry makes his way up and down the offered neck, kissing and nuzzling here and there, discovering a string of sweet places, sinew and stretched muscle.
Malfoy just sits there, making no sound at all, not moving, and after a while Harry feels infinitely inadequate and pathetic, getting drunk on the barest sensation when he can take anything he wants. He takes a steadying breath and the scent immediately gets to him again, the intoxicating presence of another person. He has the insane urge to bite, to lick, to own; to inhale the moment and never let go. He does as much as he dares, mouthing a spot, using his teeth only just, then soothing with quick, liquid kisses, and Malfoy unexpectedly trembles and makes an amazing sound, wet and breathy, half-bitten in the back of his throat.
Only then does Harry notice the quick strum of blood under the smooth skin, the rushed breathing, the head thrown back. Reverently, he kisses the dip at the base of Malfoy's throat, licks the pulse point, then holds the collarbone between his teeth and traces it, the hardness of it covered in supple whiteness.
Malfoy laughs, a sound far too quiet and breathy to be unkind, but Harry thinks it is, a disbelieving mockery of his amazement. He bites the plumpness of the shoulder, hard, and Malfoy hisses alarm. Harry leaves it, apologising not a second later with open-mouthed kisses elsewhere.
There's a part of Harry that can't quite believe what is happening. He needs to touch Malfoy, to hold his waist, to measure his hips, to feel the ripple of his back muscles – just to be sure this is not an illusion. He is there, before Malfoy's kneeling form, kneeling also, and simply holds him, face buried in Malfoy's neck, rubbing and pushing like a cat.
"My God, Potter," Malfoy breathes, and Harry thinks he sounds amazed as well.
Harry can't help himself; he needs to taste all there is to taste, neck and chest and flat nipples that raise under his lips. He has to see every freckle and every roughness, to touch them and smell them, to mark everything as his, as owned.
So perfect...
Only it isn't, is it, and that makes it so much better, so much more real and exquisite. Too sharp shoulders and backbone like a string of pearls and concave stomach, and even the way Malfoy arches into his mouth is elegant and composed and controlled, and Harry wants to know how this happens but can't quite figure it out – the taste and sense of perfect aloof aristocracy get lost in Malfoy's all too compelling body heat.
There is a scar across Malfoy's chest and Harry follows it with his tongue, leaves a string of kisses on either side, rubs it with his cheek, as if that can flatten it back to nonexistence, as if that can bring back the flawlessness he himself marred so long ago.
Harry makes Malfoy lie back and takes his arm. The muscles of it move under his touch, strength and delicacy twisting together. The shoulder is perfectly round, part soft, part hard, alive, and flows down, down, wiry, to the tender inside of the elbow, the skin there bruising so easily under Harry's mouth. The veins of the forearm are blue and prominent, the skin over them vibrant with the taste of life, and the wrist is both slender and wide under Harry's teeth.
His palm is in a loose fist, and when Harry persuades it open, it turns out sweaty on the inside – a taste Harry likes and licks off, bestowing kisses upon the pads of flesh, sucking on the fingers, drawing them in his mouth, swirling his tongue around them. Malfoy shifts and makes to move closer, his hand clawing reflexively against Harry's face.
Take me. Hold me.
Harry kisses the centre of the palm, pushes his tongue between the fingers until they spread wide, then turns and lays his cheek on Malfoy's stomach. It heaves under him, rushed breathing and racing pulse, and Harry soaks in the feel of it, the feel of Malfoy's hand in his hair, pulling him closer. For a flash of head-spinning sensation, Harry wants nothing more than to be held like that and simply wanted.
Harry turns and kisses the bellybutton, fills his mouth and nose and brain with supple heat and the liquid scent of desire. He opens his lips wide, his tongue sliding in circles, then sucks until he leaves a red blotch, a passion mark as perfect as the skin beneath it, just on the dip next to Malfoy's hipbone.
The sweat is muskier here, and Harry's mouth waters, and he swallows against the sudden hunger. He slides his nose along the vulnerable valley joining leg and torso; his mouth, his tongue. Malfoy's breathing is now harsh and Harry hears it louder than his own, like the rhythm of a song, in and out and in and out, irregular.
Harry can't stop running his fingers along defined muscles, over hardly visible goose bumps, through hairs so fine they barely exist. He fancies he can read Malfoy's shudders before they happen, can hear his sighs before they are breathed.
How many times have I wanted this...
How many times Harry has been sucked off by eager, willing partners. How many times he has fucked yet another person trying so desperately to please him, to give themselves to Harry Potter, that Harry himself has always felt the act, not the person, the action, not the sensation. This total, uncaring abandon to Harry's hands is what he has always wanted, to just be let to please. To touch and explore. To simply be. No pressure, no undue expectation towards him, nothing to make him freeze up.
Malfoy moans, and it is a needy sound Harry devours before licking a path down the inner side of thighs that spread wide open on their own accord. Malfoy makes a sound of protest, deep in his throat, and thrusts his hips a little. But Harry doesn't care, can't care, because he is far too gone, far too drunk, weak with desire.
Malfoy is ticklish around the knees, and Harry thinks he might have never heard something as fetching as that half-gasped giggle.
He sits back on his heels and stares at Malfoy's body, now sweaty and arched in a show of wiry muscle and sinew on the messed blanket; at Malfoy's lips bitten between teeth as white and even as Harry's ever seen; at Malfoy's cock full and flushed with need. Harry licks his lips and nearly balks, uncertain and wobbly. He wants to... No, he craves to, needs to, aches to make Malfoy cry out and writhe, to unravel him and see what he's made of, to figure out how this quiet resignation has come to meld with the fluid uncaring cool of the youth he remembers.
Malfoy thrusts his hips up, and Harry thinks, what the hell, and bends down to lick the head. Malfoy groans, his cock leaping, and Harry has never tasted anything like this before. He kisses the cock, the head of it, then down, and his gut clenches, part shame, part unnamed hunger. The next thrust pushes Malfoy into Harry's mouth, and there are teeth, skin sliding against lips, and Harry thinks he wants to lick it forever. The head hits the back of his throat and he gags, hard, not really expecting that, pulls off and has no idea how to do this right.
"Tell me," he says, his voice deep and low, odd. "Tell me what you want; tell me how to do it."
Harry swirls his tongue around the ridge of the head, eager to please, and Malfoy's first sound is rather inarticulate. Then he stills his hips and throws an arm over his face, and when his voice finally comes out, it's rough and ragged.
"Take it slow." Harry does, careful to use lips and not teeth, and wants to add some tongue but can't coordinate it all. Malfoy can't quite suppress his thrust, his whole body going rigid with tension.
He wants me. He wants me. He hates Harry Potter, but he wants me.
"Don't go deep," Malfoy draws between clenched teeth when Harry's about to do just that. "Try to suck a little."
Harry follows, and there's a sound that makes him want to giggle like an idiot. He thinks that cock is tailor-made to be sucked on, hard but soft, and slick, and so alive and responsive under his caresses. He backs up then goes down again, and it's so difficult to keep his lips over his teeth. When he grazes the ridge around the head, not gently, and starts, only making it worse, Malfoy hisses in a way that causes Harry's head to spin with liquid longing, a sound humid and desperate, and thrusts himself into Harry, deep. Harry backs off before he can gag, his tongue fretting against the rough spot on the underside, and thinks he might be getting the hang of it.
The rhythm slowly smooths and Harry manages to bob his head without too much teeth, a lick here and there, and sucks his way down deeper and deeper every time.
Harry's jaw is going to be sore, if it already isn't, but he loves how this feels, slick and addictive, connected, in a way he has rarely experienced.
"Like that," Malfoy rasps out. "Just like that," and Harry thinks he wants to bottle the moment and lull himself to sleep with it when the sheets of his bed are cold and clammy and silent, late at night.
His hands are sweaty when he gathers his wits enough to use them on Malfoy's balls, and he has the muscle-tense desire to just hold everything of Malfoy and never let go, to take him whole and lock all that glorious life within himself. The skin under his fingers is almost like parchment, both soft and rough and even, but not, and he rolls the balls in his palm.
"Gentle there," Malfoy says, barely, his hand moving over the back of Harry's head and neck.
The rhythm goes faster almost without Harry noticing, and he discovers he can actually breathe if absolutely necessary, and that Malfoy's thighs are made to hold on to.
"Potter..." Malfoy's hand fists in his hair, and he is fucking Harry's mouth now, steady and fast. "Potter, back off if you're not to... I'm gonna come."
Harry stills and pulls back minutely, unsure what to do, and it doesn't matter anymore, does it, because Malfoy is coming, body rigid and bowed, hips snapping quickly, filling Harry's mouth. The flavour, bitter and salty and slick, should be horrible but isn't, and Harry catches his breath for long moments against Malfoy's damp thigh while Malfoy does the same, his body going limp with every intake.
Harry has never felt so high on sensation, so thrumming with energy, so thoroughly empty and alone. He clings to Malfoy's leg, trying to prolong the moment, breathing in the quickly evaporating careless desire. Harry squeezes his eyes shut and realises what a fool he has been all along, how he's had the one half and wanted the other, when he's needed wholeness all the while.
Malfoy moves against him, and Harry is about to retreat when a hand on his shoulder pulls him up until he can watch Malfoy in the eye. Malfoy's lips are puffy and bitten, and Harry knows his own are even worse. He licks them, tasting spit and come, and his whole body trembles when Malfoy's gaze follows the brief movement.
Malfoy's gaze snaps back on him, slate grey and intent, and Harry thinks it makes all other colours pale in comparison.
"Say my name," Malfoy tells him, fist in his hair, and when Harry draws a shaky breath in to do so, he inhales man and sex and firelight.
"Draco," he whispers, and a knot within him untangles with unexpected ease, even though the hand in his hair is near painful now.
But then Draco kisses him full on the mouth, rough and slick and deep and so fucking good, and it doesn't matter anymore, the hand, the eyes, the shame.
"Draco..." he breathes again, and feels the first faint brush of lips against his neck. He closes his eyes and his head falls back.
~(*)~
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