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So Much For The Afterglow
Draco, Neville. Five minutes past three in the morning.
There doesn't have to be a reason.
"..fuck you fuck you fuckyou."
It is sweaty-sex and altogether obscene. The night is chilly but here in the bed everything is hot and musky and tainted with the rusted smell of blood and cum.
Draco is fucking himself into the burrow of Neville's body and each damp slap of their bodies resounds in ripples across Neville's flesh. Neville cannot breathe and his toes pedal against the sheer floorboards, striving vainly for purchase. He is limp and graceless and grips the blankets with his fingernails; they bunch up in his palms. His mouth tastes dirty, rancid, like fruit left too long in the sun, and he lets a thread of saliva spool from his lips and smear stickily across his forearm.
In this moment he has no mind beyond Draco and the immediacy of Draco inside him; his thoughts are focused and primal and his cock is squashed between the mattress and his belly. He exists in a limbo of sorts, suspended in a state of divine rapture and torment; he measures seconds in the arrhythmic collisions of crotch and ass. It is a violation which he welcomes. His entire Self is wound up and clutched in the meat of his prostate, a little kernel of Nevilleness which wants and needs this battering, this cruel and glorious brutality.
His pudgy knees are parted, not quite touching the ground; he is off balance and wobbling. Sweat bleeds from his pores and trickles into the creases of his slippery skin, smearing him, slicking him. There is a tendon in the back of his thigh which feels as if it is on the point of explosion; the muscle must be tearing away from the marrow by now and he doesn't have the wit left to care. His stomach is prickling from friction and his own precum and he makes a fine sight for Draco who -- in order to preserve his aesthetic sensibilities -- has his eyes tightly closed. He feels his way over and into Neville's body with his hands and the blind eye of his dick.
Inside... a heated intestinal place of tight ribbed muscle. It is snug and grips him like a fist. It is moist and sucks on him like a mouth, it is a vacuum. Draco sees it as red; he sees only red, and Neville's moans and whimperings are red, too. They peel from the boy's lips like tattered crimson flags of surrender. Draco digs himself deeper, tighter, where Neville's voice cannot reach him -- but he does not open himself to the boy, even in the flesh. He is inside, though; he is biting hot vicious lustful insensible; he is working himself at a fever pitch and feels his skin becoming raw, an ache which ascends beyond the primitive throb of his erection.
He tears into the boy forcibly but feels no relief. There is an anger in him that cannot be expressed in the simplicity of sex. His rage is a complex thing. It is a rage of constraint and contradiction and he is horrified to find himself experiencing such desperation, it is like looking into a mirror and finding an unfamiliar face. He is disfigured, then, by this anger. It makes his features contort and his nails raise harsh lines on the metre of Neville's skin. Words rasp from Draco's mouth, feeble orders and inchoate curses.
Right now in the heat of this crucial moment he could grip a rounded buttock in each hand and tear the boy in two, he could fuck past the pleasure and on into the pain, he could worm his cock deeper into the boy's guts and further. He could fuck his dick all the way into the lush grey-matter core of Neville's brain, but at the last moment Neville's body resists him and Draco -- furious and dizzy -- cums in a manner which is almost incidental. His momentum continues, however; he pushes futilely even as his cock spurts seed and limes itself in its own congealing refuse.
Then it becomes a waste of his time and he withdraws. Neville, unbalanced by the release of Draco's body, falls all the way off the bed. He sits there in a squat while Draco drips out of him, while Draco stands above him and pants hoarsely with his hand resting on the bedpost.
"Okay," says Draco.
"Huh," says Neville.
Draco puts on his clothes and ignores the pain in his crotch, knowing intuitively that pissing for the next few days will be an exercise in extreme caution. He is burnt out and his flaccid cock is all sore membrane and bruising; he reeks of sex from scalp to toe; he looks at the puddle of fat stinking leaking Gryffindor on the floor at his feet and thinks: //So much for the afterglow.//
He tugs his trousers suggestively low over his hips. Attempting to pitching his voice in a deceptively careless tone he says, "I'll see you later, won't I," but the words come out in a rush, scattered and discordant as his mood.
Draco saunters out, pretending he doesn't hear the echo of his shameful sex-struck babble repeating ad infinitum in his sensitive ears. From Neville's perspective, however, the Slytherin appears as he always has -- serene and inscrutable, a sinewy, icy and above all beautiful creature.
There doesn't have to be a reason, and these days Neville wishes forlornly that he didn't have one.
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