FIC: Five Ways to Fuck, ??/??, R
Title: Five Ways to Fuck
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: ??/??
Rating: R
Word Count: 500 words
Summary: Mostly, though, it's any way you want to.
Additional Notes: It started out Terry/Michael, somehow I think it ended up being Blaise/Theodore, thus naturally I think this ought to be for ccharlotte (making up for the last fic) and starflowers (thank you for the drabble :D). Because I need to cut me some slack, this is also for fanfic100, for the prompt How? I apologise for the title, no better one presented itself to me between writing the fic and now. (Also, I am SO unsurprised that despite the title and subject matter, this refuses to go past R.)
The first time is gentle and slow, tentative and exploring, breathtaking and a bit surreal. He kisses you deeply, feather-lightly, everywhere; his tongue swirls and lines on your skin, above wildly beating heart. Your eyes are closed; you see him with with your fingers in his hair, your hips by his waist, your neck nestling his head by the curve where neck and shoulder meet. You lift your legs against his thighs, run your foot against the muscle of his calves.
You murmur and he sighs, you whisper and he moans. It is unhurried, tender, and you never forget it.
***
Some days it’s with silk ties, bound securely around your wrists, around your mouth. Twice it was with rose petals ghosted over your skin, over areas only he’s had the chance to discover. On certain days it’s bent over the kitchen sink, trousers half-undone and groaning over the unwashed dishes. Sometimes it’s against the bathroom tiles, your mouth half-open, his closed over you, rivulets of water streaming down the paleness of his back. Once it was in the cinema, in the last row, where he bit his lip to keep from screaming.
Mostly, though, it’s any way you want to.
***
There are no words, no prelude to anything. Instead he presses himself against you, and you shiver when he nips at your earlobe, wets the spot just below your ear with his tongue. He tells you what to do, to keep your mouth shut, your hands still; he speaks with the quiet confidence of authority that knows it is going to be obeyed.
When he finally turns you around to cover your mouth with his you think you see a hint of green in his eyes. When you gasp out his name he smirks, like he’s proven something.
He has.
***
Your back hits the edge of the door frame, and you wonder why it feels rougher than it should have been. Your head is still reeling from the sudden impact, blood still pounding with barely restrained anger, and it’s interesting how you hiss just as he growls, coming together like the wild chorus to your primal song.
“Fuck you.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
He taunts you and your smile is ugly; you refuse to heal the scratches on his arms and back, he grits his teeth to keep from begging. It is cruel, heated, and you like it.
***
Your eyes are closed; this time, you wonder if you dare open them. His lips press fluttering kisses against the lump in your throat, his hands pin your own, clenched and defeated, down; he parallels your body chest to stomach, waist to thigh, in an odd tangle of limbs clashing disjointedly.
It is quiet, unhurried and reluctant to end, drawing out the final tremors of your sighs until its echoes are all that’s left in your mind. Your fingers run through his hair; he rediscovers what makes you shiver.
But it is too late; in the morning you are gone.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: ??/??
Rating: R
Word Count: 500 words
Summary: Mostly, though, it's any way you want to.
Additional Notes: It started out Terry/Michael, somehow I think it ended up being Blaise/Theodore, thus naturally I think this ought to be for ccharlotte (making up for the last fic) and starflowers (thank you for the drabble :D). Because I need to cut me some slack, this is also for fanfic100, for the prompt How? I apologise for the title, no better one presented itself to me between writing the fic and now. (Also, I am SO unsurprised that despite the title and subject matter, this refuses to go past R.)
The first time is gentle and slow, tentative and exploring, breathtaking and a bit surreal. He kisses you deeply, feather-lightly, everywhere; his tongue swirls and lines on your skin, above wildly beating heart. Your eyes are closed; you see him with with your fingers in his hair, your hips by his waist, your neck nestling his head by the curve where neck and shoulder meet. You lift your legs against his thighs, run your foot against the muscle of his calves.
You murmur and he sighs, you whisper and he moans. It is unhurried, tender, and you never forget it.
***
Some days it’s with silk ties, bound securely around your wrists, around your mouth. Twice it was with rose petals ghosted over your skin, over areas only he’s had the chance to discover. On certain days it’s bent over the kitchen sink, trousers half-undone and groaning over the unwashed dishes. Sometimes it’s against the bathroom tiles, your mouth half-open, his closed over you, rivulets of water streaming down the paleness of his back. Once it was in the cinema, in the last row, where he bit his lip to keep from screaming.
Mostly, though, it’s any way you want to.
***
There are no words, no prelude to anything. Instead he presses himself against you, and you shiver when he nips at your earlobe, wets the spot just below your ear with his tongue. He tells you what to do, to keep your mouth shut, your hands still; he speaks with the quiet confidence of authority that knows it is going to be obeyed.
When he finally turns you around to cover your mouth with his you think you see a hint of green in his eyes. When you gasp out his name he smirks, like he’s proven something.
He has.
***
Your back hits the edge of the door frame, and you wonder why it feels rougher than it should have been. Your head is still reeling from the sudden impact, blood still pounding with barely restrained anger, and it’s interesting how you hiss just as he growls, coming together like the wild chorus to your primal song.
“Fuck you.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
He taunts you and your smile is ugly; you refuse to heal the scratches on his arms and back, he grits his teeth to keep from begging. It is cruel, heated, and you like it.
***
Your eyes are closed; this time, you wonder if you dare open them. His lips press fluttering kisses against the lump in your throat, his hands pin your own, clenched and defeated, down; he parallels your body chest to stomach, waist to thigh, in an odd tangle of limbs clashing disjointedly.
It is quiet, unhurried and reluctant to end, drawing out the final tremors of your sighs until its echoes are all that’s left in your mind. Your fingers run through his hair; he rediscovers what makes you shiver.
But it is too late; in the morning you are gone.