Part 10 - This is How
This is how it could be.
I can feel your hand against my chest, it's moving so slowly it almost, but not quite, hurts. My legs are starting to fail me, and your arm around my waist only makes it worse. I have never been this close to you before. It feels strange and frightening and warm, your wet skin against mine, it feels foreign and perfect. We are looking at each other, and I recognize that expression on your face, the tension in your arms, the provocation in your eyes, though I've never seen it in you before. That look is making this hard not to accept.
My heart is beating so fast, blood rushing in my ears like I'm sinking into a pool of it, like it's going to fill my mouth and close over my head. I'm not sure that I'm breathing, except that I can feel my chest rising closer to you, itching to fall into you, my veins pressing me forward to get more of you, and I can see a few of the hairs on your forehead swaying a little, your face is so close to my mouth.
My mouth. Your face, downy hair on your cheeks, your lips parted, you are panting some, exertion and something else. I can see your desire written all over you, like prophecy. I can see it coming, the rhythm of the muscles in your jaw tensing are a warning, a demand. I want to kiss you. You don't know that I have kissed you before. How can you not know?
Maybe you do know. Maybe you know and have been waiting for me to do it again.
Have I failed you?
I feel a growl rise in you, your eyes narrow, the look you give me when you are about to throw a punch in my face. At this point I would almost welcome it; any more contact with your skin might send me over the edge, I would have a reason to collapse. But you don't hit me.
You shove me backwards against the wall, the foil in my hand scraping against the floor, my head slamming into the tile. You have me pinned with your chest, your hand squeezing mine, the hot metal of my foil pressing painfully into my skin until I release it and it clatters to the ground. You are larger than I am, though normally I pretend that I don't notice this. Your strength has overpowered me. Your desire keeps me standing, facing you, staring into the shadows of it dancing behind your eyes; my own makes my breath stick in my throat.
Your other hand is sliding up my torso and wraps firmly around my neck. I am trembling, but so are you. I swallow, hard. You're still looking at me. I don't blink.
When you kiss me, it is strangely sweet, tentative, like the one before. You are moaning slightly, you are inviting me inside you. Refusal is not an option; you push your fingers into my throat and drag your lips over mine. All I feel is fingers, pressed into my hand, wrapped around my throat, and lips, breath, your damp, hot chest against mine and cold tile against my shoulder blades. You pull back, release my fist and press the palm of your hand against the tile beside my head. You look me and whisper, "suck me." I am defiant, in spite of the hand wrapped around my throat that just squeezes harder. I glare at you, and then eye the foil lying idle on the floor next to you.
You throw me to the ground, my knees cracking wetly against the concrete floor, your hand shoving my head down. My lips graze your body as you pull me towards you push me downwards at the same time; the soft hair on your chest, the dip of your navel, the buckle of your belt scraping against my cheek. You undo your trousers with one hand while I watch you, your fingers still clutching at my hair, holding my face inches from your body. My knees are aching and I want to touch you, but I can't let you see how much. When your ridiculously oversized clothes are pooled around your feet you kick them away, standing naked in front of me, pulling on my hair. You pry my jaw open with your thumb, fingers clawing at the soft indent under my jaw, and say, "suck me," as you shove your cock into my mouth, nearly making me gag. I suck you as you tear at my hair and groan prettily.
No. This isn't right.
We are in the trophy room; I have just insulted your mother. There must be a part of you that knows I do this so that you'll touch me, but I'm not sure I want you to know this. You throw the first punch and it crunches into my jaw. I wince and taste blood. I pull a small knife out of my pocket and wave it in front of you. "Try me, Potter. I'm not afraid to kill you," I say lazily. You swear, your face turns red, and I make a swipe at you, which you dodge. Your reflexes have always been better than mine, this is why you're the better seeker, though I refuse to acknowledge this. You lunge at me, knocking me to the floor, grabbing the knife out of my hand and slicing at me. The metal zings through the air and makes contact. My head slams into the flagstones on the floor and I pass out, feeling my own knife cutting into the skin of my chest.
When I come to, I feel your tongue on my stomach. I am burning, you have cut me, a thin, shallow flesh wound only, but in a long, straight slice from mid-chest down to my navel, like a gutted fish. You are licking up the blood that seeps up through it, lick, stop, stare, lick. Your lips touch me and disappear, touch, lick. I pretend that I am still unconscious.
You want to damage me. You are still angry, I was extremely harsh in my insults. Your mother, your father, your godfather, your friends, your lover. You. You want me dead, you want to taste me bleeding, weak, helpless and at your mercy. You have no mercy. You have sliced off my clothing, I am naked, I can feel the rough wool of your robes against my stomach. Lips on my chest, lick, burn, lick, disappear. I don't move, not even my eyes hidden behind my eyelids. I breathe evenly, which is a struggle. Lick. I can feel your face press against my left nipple, your hands absently touching my waist. Breathe. Lick.
You reach the upper end of the cut and then slide your tongue back down its length, and then up again. Breathe, breathe, don't move.
I feel the knife against my skin again, pressing into the hollow between my hip and my stomach until it gives, slicing me in a slow curl down into my inner thigh. It hurts, but I don't wince, I cannot wince. A pause, your hands gripping my thigh. Lick, stare, burn, touch, lick. Your face moving down my body, between my legs, don't move. Lick.
No no. That isn't it. That's not you, is it, Harry.
You have won the Gryffindors yet another Quidditch victory, and we are sour at you. As punishment, Crabbe and Goyle have stripped you, tied your arms down and spread wide against the bench in the herbology garden, bent at the waist, your cheek pressed into the rough wood, a thick, oiled rope around your neck. Your glasses are smashed to pieces beside you. There is a broken practice snitch in your hand. You are supposed to learn something from this, something of the humiliation we always feel every time you beat us. Your legs are spread and are tied down. You are struggling. You're not very good at being humiliated.
I am carrying my broom, walking back to school through the garden, and find you like this. Crabbe and Goyle know better than to try to touch you, though you worried that they might. They have left you here to remind you about what happens when you displease us, they have hidden you away from your friends, given them false leads, they are searching the dungeons for you, probably. You have been left here as a kind of gift to me. Seeker to seeker.
You can't see me. I stroke your ass gently, watching you squirm. "Fuck off." You try to say it firmly, but it comes out as a squeal, as pleading. I would laugh, but then you would that its me. I stroke your thighs, your back, and your ass again, first with one hand, and then with two. When I reach around you I can feel that you are excited, and you sob when I grab hold of you. "No." I squeeze, shift my hand up, down, and then trace just my finger tips on the tip of you. I feel dampness, and smile. You growl, you groan, you swallow and hiss warnings that mean nothing, helpless as you are. You are still struggling. I stroke your stomach with one hand, your ass with the other, listening to your laboured breath and feeling the texture of your skin. I bring my fingers to my face and inhale. You smell like desire, like fear.
I get down on my knees behind you, tracing my tongue along the cleft of your ass, my fingers tracing your ribs, your stomach, your damp cock jumping in my hand. You wince and cringe, you cry. You are terrified and I can feel it the ring of muscle tensed and angry under my tongue. I stroke you and probe you and your own fear must hurt you more than this. You smell like sweat and like you, there's a golden edge to it. You are pleading with me, you want me to untie you and let you go. I am infinitely gentle with you, but this doesn't seem to help you to relax. The more gentle I am, the more you tremble, the more you fall apart. My tongue is inside you, my fingers massaging your cock, you weep and curse and pull at your bonds and press yourself back into me, pushing me further inside you. I have no boundary with you. There is nowhere I will not go.
Your grip on the broken snitch becomes so tight that it collapses in your hand, the pieces of it falling on the bench, tinged with your blood. The sound of you cursing, groaning, pleading, struggling against me and toward me, makes me want you more.
I didn't think I could want you more.
You are shaking and crying, defeated now, you have lost hope that I will let you go before you have come, before I have come. I'm not sure which you are dreading more. I kiss the insides of your thighs gently, I want you to feel my benevolence. You are still straining against your bonds, even without hope, as if this straining will remind me of your unwillingness. You are afraid I will hurt you. My precious one, I won't hurt you. Not yet.
No no no. Definitely not. This isn't right either. It can't be like that.
I tripped the weasel down the stairs, I dumped brown paint into his sister's hair. I threw Longbottom into a garbage bin and set the mudblood's wand on fire. I am behaving like a six-year-old to get your attention. It works. You got caught picking a fight with me and now we are here, in the Defense against the Dark Arts classroom, together, alone. You are very angry with me, and normally you would just punch me and hiss and spit, but not today.
Today you have decided to test out your Imperius skills. While you are very good at shaking this one off, I am not. Believe me, I've tried. You've seen me in class, you know it's true.
The first thing you do is tell me to strip, which I do. I snarl and swear at you the entire time, it's allowed. I'm not supposed to enjoy this, this is supposed to be a punishment. You stand in front of me, nose to nose. I feel compelled to kiss you, but I'm not sure if you've asked me to do this or not. I grab you by the wrists and move your arms behind your back, like I did outside that once, and I lean forward and kiss you lightly, exactly the same way I did before. You allow me to do this for a while, you kiss me back sweetly, you move your tongue along my lips and into my mouth so gently I start to relax. When I move my hands away from your wrists and up along your back, into your hair, cupping your face, you take my lower lip between your teeth and bite down, so hard I bleed. You step back and look at me, licking your lips, and smile.
"It was you," you say, smug. "How disappointing." I'm swearing under my breath, my hands falling against my naked thighs. I narrow my eyes at you, I feel cheated. "Didn't want me to know? Well, secret's out now, Malfoy. Now, what shall I do with you?" I grumble and stare at you defiantly. You instruct me not to move, and slide your hands across my chest, down my back. You stare at me, our eyes are locked, your hands travel over every inch of me within your reach, sometimes roughly, sometimes gently, but always with your hard eyes trained on mine, watching for reactions. A cupping palm, a tug, a stroke, a butterfly touch, fingernails digging into me, drawing blood, drawing light pictures against the small of my back. The tip of your index finger prodding inside of me. Eventually I cannot bear the weight of your watching, and I close my eyes.
After that your tongue takes up where your fingers left off, gentle where they were harsh with me, almost apologetic. And then you bite into my stomach, my hip, my calves, the soft spot behind my knee, and laugh when I wince, when I cry out in pain, surprise. You lick at the thick muscles on my neck, you rub the insides of my thighs. You seem to find the whole thing outrageously funny. You grab my cock roughly and tug at it, laughing even more when you find me getting even harder, when you find that fluid is seeping from me. "Does this turn you on, Malfoy? You sick little fuck." I open my eyes and sneer at you.
You have instructed me to get bend over, to grab my ankles, which I do. I am panting and swearing and telling you what a whore's son you are. You just laugh. You are standing behind me now, I can hear you pulling at your trousers, I hear the zip, the clank of your belt. My head between my knees I watch see the cuffs of your trousers fall, slipping lower at your ankles, hiding your grubby old trainers two sizes too large. You grab me by the hips. I can feel you teasing my ass with the head of your cock and I moan.
"You really are a sick fuck, Malfoy." You shove yourself inside of me and I scream, because you want me to.
Oh, god no. Definitely not you. Where are you in all this, Harry? How do you want me?
You come to me while I'm sleeping, you sneak into the Slytherin dorms. Perhaps you do this often, passing a sleeping draught off as pumpkin juice, putting all the Slytherins to sleep so that you can have your way with me. You must sit facing me in the Great Hall each evening just to watch me tip the juice into my glass and drink up my own fate. But one night I don't drink.
I wake up when you pull back my curtains, but I don't say anything. I can see that it's you and I'm intrigued. You look very beautiful in the moonlight, which seems to appear here in the dungeons just to glint off your naked chest like that, just to entice me. You pull off your shoes, your trousers, you run your fingers through your hair and then pull my blankets off me, folding them on one side, and I lie still, on my back, my eyes only half-closed in the dark. You stand there for a few moments, just observing me, waiting. I wonder what comes next, I wonder if there is something I normally do at this point. Should I scream? Should I sit up and ask what he's doing here? Should I feign sleep?
The weight of your stare is heavy against me, I feel my skin growing flush with fear, confusion, exhilaration, embarrassment, excitement. I wonder which parts of me are most interesting to you, if any parts of me are beautiful. I feel a warmth close but not touching me, as if your hands are hovering over my skin. I feel my lower stomach spin and realize that you can't miss my reaction to you, staring at me as you are. I wonder if I disgust you.
You kneel on my bed and sit back on your heels. I can feel your knees against my hip as you press one warm palm over my navel, fingers stroking my belly. I start slightly at the feeling, so intense and sweet and serious. Your other hand falls lightly against my chest, and your fingers explore me gently, inching along my ribs, playing at my waist, pausing to feel the dip at my collarbone. You pull the tips of your fingers over my body like a hot wind. After so long left unattended, you ghost your fingers over my cock and I nearly come just then, my body lunging forward. I shiver and moan, and you smile. You whisper, "Are you dreaming yet?"
"Yes," I whisper back. "I think I'm dreaming."
"Good," you say. You lie down next to me and kiss me, and I roll onto my side. You kiss me the way you did outside on my birthday, like you mean something by it. You kiss me the way I would have kissed you after that, deeper, longer, your tongue flicking against mine, rolling over me. Your hand is pressed against me, sliding up and down my back, fluttering at the base of my spine and then caressing up against my shoulders, my neck into my hair. You tease my lips with your tongue, smile warmly into me, you kiss the tip of my nose, my chin, my cheekbones, my eyes, my lips again, gently, less gently, deeply, softly, with firm determination. You kiss me and I kiss you back. You lift my knee and slide your thigh between my legs. "I like it when you're dreaming," you say, shifting your thigh against me slowly, letting me give you a pace with the movement of my hips against you.
"So do I," I whisper. I nuzzle my face into your shoulder and breathe you in. You curl your arms around me and kiss my neck.
I want. I want to stroke you, I want you inside of me, around me, I want you beneath my hands and my tongue; I want to be so close to you I forget where I stop and you begin. I want to be everything you ever wanted. What do you want?
The large, soft bed, the quilt, roses on the bedside table, the sun setting in the windows, music playing somewhere nearby. You smile, you take my hand, and we curl up into each other on the bed like children, like innocents. You hug me but I'm wearing a thick sweater, I have gloves on, my feet are buried in my winter boots. You kiss me sweetly, you tell me you love me. For this moment I believe it. But I'm not sure where I am in here, I'm not sure you can see me.
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