THE H/D KINKMEME
This is an ANONYMOUS kink meme. Feel free to fill kinks un-anonymously, but generally, this is anon.
- kink means kink! Let's keep the ratings at R and above. ;D
- IP logging is off, anon is on.
- ONE request per comment.
- for simplicity's sake, put a summary of your request in the title field (request: threesome, bondage, delayed gratification would ( Read more... )
- kink means kink! Let's keep the ratings at R and above. ;D
- IP logging is off, anon is on.
- ONE request per comment.
- for simplicity's sake, put a summary of your request in the title field (request: threesome, bondage, delayed gratification would ( Read more... )
It was just an accident really, it didn't mean anything. He was just so excited, breathing strangely as Draco pulled him in, catching him when he stumbled a little. Arms hard around his waist, pointed tongue sly and confident like the hand of a thief, sliding effortlessly into his mouth. Effortlessly breaking him open. He remembers making a sound, wet and muffled against Draco's warming lips, and he remembers the wind, just chill enough to nip, just a little, against his cheek. Crisp clatter of leaves on the cobblestones. He doesn't remember what happened after Draco reached into his hair. With his gloved hand.
Or maybe he does remember, but only in the way a ship remembers the sea, remembers a storm. Echo of salty chaos, heave of wave. Hips rising like a tide, a desperate cling, some mad sound. Draco had pulled back, startled. The black fabric of his trousers hadn't hidden anything, seep of gleam shining loudly as a shout. He'd come when the gloved fingers happened to brush the back of his neck.
But it was just an accident, didn't mean anything. Doesn't mean he's. A bloody pervert.
*
Hermione's hallowe'en feast is everything you'd expect of a soiree with her at the helm: Well-planned, comprehensive, correct in every way. It's a venerable replica of the holidays of their youth, every manner of sweet and comestible spilling colorfully across tables, everyone warmed in the soft caress of candled gourds and easy laughter. No costumes this year - although George has of course defied the trend and ambles through the gathering dressed as a striped kneazle, occasionally orating in his best Shakespearean twang, "Tabby or not tabby! That is the question."
It's with a fond groan on that note that Harry's slipped into the little hall off the kitchen to fetch their coats and. Gloves. It's so quiet in the little alcove, the party seems so far away, and surely it wouldn't hurt if he just. Slides Draco's gloves out of the pocket where they're neatly stowed.
The flare of heat in his belly shocks him and he feels disoriented and. Ashamed. But what he mostly feels is the gloves, sleek and black, and it makes him remember so clearly how they look on Draco's hands, how they felt against his neck that day last October. And the remembering makes him hard. He groans, shifts. Does he have time? Should he? He shouldn't. He absolutely shouldn't raise the gloves to his nose, to his lips, shouldn't slide his other hand against his trousers. Shouldn't close his eyes and imagine Draco trailing gloved hands over his neck, down his chest, sliding them further and further and-
It's a sound only a Malfoy could make, really. Nothing so plebian as a cough, nothing so cliché as an ahem.
The answering sound is one only Harry could make, perhaps, some falling-down blurt of Um and a cough and a bleat, all complemented nicely by a wave of red racing from his neck to his tumult of hair.
Draco doesn't look shocked though, and it's dark enough to make him certain he's not been caught. Easy enough to cover the still aching and prominent evidence behind the shield of his own coat as he bustles forward, pressing an awkward kiss to Draco's serene cheek, pressing the elegant cloak and gloves into his hands with a burbled extemporaneous tale of mixed up outerwear and stubbing his toe in the dim light of the nook.
Nodding slowly, Draco slides into his coat, looks pointedly at the gloves for a moment. "Won't be needing these, I think. Unusually warm this evening." Still looking evenly at Harry, he tucks them firmly out of sight into his pocket. "Shall we?"
*
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The walk home is tense, he thinks, or maybe it's all in his head. He's bollocks at reading Draco sometimes, and in this case he can't see clearly around the edges of his own anxiety. He is sure Draco didn't catch him. Not this time, and not last week, either - that first time he'd worn them this season, when he'd shown up unexpectedly at the Ministry to take Harry to lunch.
The long minute when he'd done nothing but stare at the black hands, a small sound getting away from him before he could bite it back when Draco ran his gloved fingers slowly down his lapel as he inquired casually about Harry's current case. His secret is safe. Everything's going to be fine. In fact, it's oh. Apparently going to be brilliant. The quiet whoosh of the wards sealing behind them's still audible as Draco presses him suddenly against the heavy door.
"Close your eyes," so he does, sinking back against the wood with a sigh of anticipation, but it's a short bliss, only a split second before they fly open again, white discs of panic in the dim gaslight.
Precisely the amount of time it takes the gloved fingertip to trace a soft line across his bottom lip.
Someone would call it staring but it doesn't feel like staring. It feels like his eyes are frozen and maybe they've been seized by whatever spell's hurled his heart against his sternum and filled his ears with buzzing. When had he put them on? Why is he. Oh god, why is he
"Did you think I hadn't noticed, Harry?"
More like a purr than a sentence and he tries to swallow, tries but can't. Draco's eyes are shot onyx in the shadowed foyer, and he levels them as he leans closer. Too close. He can feel the lightly humid wash on his skin, the smirk in the tone so palpable it's almost a physical caress. "You never did give me enough credit for being... observant." The leather-clad thumb drags lightly over the peak of his cheekbone and he can't breathe. Wants to breathe, wants to say no, don't, but can't. Can't breathe and can't stand this and can't say no.
Tries to, opens his mouth anyway, and that's a mistake. A terrible mistake because now the cool black index finger is slipping across the wet threshold of lip. Nudging into his mouth. Teasing the edge. Makes him. Gasp. Spin, inside, stomach lopsided and falling. "You know you want to," he breathes, tiny suggestive lift of eyebrow the dirtiest thing he's ever seen. "Go on, then."
And he does want to, he wants to more than anything he's ever wanted in his life so he does. Closes his mouth around two of the gloved fingers and sucks. Nervously for a moment, then slowly, discovering the taste, the texture. Not slowly for long, because just like that he's laving and sucking greedily, and when he moans desperately around them, Draco falls against him, press of hard prick radiating heat through the wool, gust of gasp jostling the hair over his scar.
Can't breathe and can't stand this and not sure he'll be able to stand, now, because now Draco's moving, sliding out of his mouth, sliding out of his coat, soft rustle on the floor and now his suit jacket too. Now he's just. Razor crisp blaze of white shirt and the. Gloves. He needs to swallow, needs to remember how to swallow because now he's sliding his hands. Oh. Into Harry's buttons and he needs faster, needs more because he's going so slowly. And then he isn't. Sliding his gloved hands against his burning skin. Please.
The leather feels like a gorgeous scream against the skin of his waist as Draco grabs, tows him. Thieftongue stealing his air as he clambers them chaotically up Grimmauld's ancient stairs, earning a grumbled complaint from more than one dozing portrait. He finds his strength when they hit the landing, grabs back at Draco, tries to drag him to the floor, needs- needs now. Gets a growl and a surprisingly strong resisting grip in return. Feels the wetness bloom against the inside of his trousers in response. Anything, anything to make the ache stop; he'll say it if he has to. Draco please. Please- fuck me. He blushes in the dappled light, doesn't have time to be embarrassed before Draco's answering him. With his hands.
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Doesn't know if he can stand the feel of them moving, cool and smooth, across his abdomen, dipping into the little curves of muscle, doesn't know if he can stand the sight of them, black and shining, against his bare skin, knows he couldn't possibly stand both at once, so he looks. Feels and sees, can't. Stand it, shudders, a tremor so deep that he watches it reverberate in the gliding gloved fingers, makes an even louder sound. This time Draco doesn't smirk, a black flare opening his pupils as he sucks in a hard bit of air. The wet red lips don't close, and the gliding hand doesn't stop, and when it slides under his waistband, they both make a sound.
Doesn't know what he thought it would be like, all the times he'd imagined it, but he couldn't have guessed it would be like this, making him fall away, making everything warm and weighted in his body rush to the base of his spine, lift it off the floor. He twists, lifts, shoves, makes a terrible sound in the darkness behind his eyelids as the echo of the zip reaches his ears, makes a more terrible sound when Draco's hand brushes- fuck and it doesn't help, the other shining smooth cool hand landing on his hip, pressing down, it only makes it worse, makes it so good and he's going to, he's. Going to come. Now. Oh god.
All over the black leather.
And why he'd never thought about that part he has no idea but no god, he doesn't want it to be over already, so he stutters Please and he means please stop please wait please don't let it be over, but Draco's got it all wrong, he must have thought he meant Please drag my trousers off, Please stroke me, slowly, slickly, from ankles back up the inside of trembling thighs, Please slide the cool, smooth gloved hands over my cock, because that's what Draco's doing.
Feels himself shaking, harder than he ever has. Wants to look, has to see. Mouth open, watches. Shaking, watches. As Draco slides gloved hands over his red cock, his tightening bollocks. Thrusts up helplessly into the touch, something too close to screaming now hitching its way out of his throat with each slide of his bare flesh into the smooth leather embrace. Please and Yes and he's going to and then he isn't, because Draco's. Gripping him. Merlin, he's gripping him hard at the base of his prick, the gloved hand squeezing back the torrent and they both snort a breath, his own exhaling into a moan, Draco's into words.
The accio hisses like a curse. The oil slithers like a blessing. Warm and wet into the cleft of his arse, and god oh. Draco's going to fuck him, he's going to sink those gloved hands into the flesh of his hips and press his cock inside him. He's going to say Open your eyes, Harry, he's going to say Watch me, watch as I-
then why is he. Oh. He's. Sliding his fingers and. It takes him. Away, over, something, he doesn't know what, just knows that the slick gloved fingertip is sliding in small, slow circles around his hole, knows what comes next and knows he needs it more than air. He can feel the thick muscle of his thigh tighten painfully where it's lifted in the other gloved hand, wants to spread himself wider, wants Draco to open his thighs wider and then he is. Nudging at his shaking legs, opening him, gripping his-
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Stops suddenly. He feels dizzy and sick and better than he ever has in his life and never wants to stop feeling this way and Draco should not stop please god should not stop and he needs to say all that. "Ngh." Swallows, trying to inhale at the same time, so it comes out as a slightly choking, slightly coughing sputter.
Sees now why Draco stopped, catches a look at himself in the hall mirror across from the tangled inferno of them. His face white as chalk, spattered with fierce red, drenched. Nothing recognizable in his eyes. Please. More like a prayer than a sentence, and his eyes slip shut, hips press up toward the gloved hands.
"Open your eyes, Harry. Watch me, watch as I-"
And then he is. Pressing the slick black finger inside him. And he does open his eyes, he does watch. Watches in awe as Draco slowly moves the gloved hand, starts mewling and doesn't stop. Adds in broken words when Draco adds another finger. He thinks they're words, but maybe they're not, and it doesn't matter because Draco's sliding, sliding oiled black leather glove fingers in and out of him, faster now, deeper now, harder- yes, he did say it, it was a word, cracked like glass, but he'd managed to say it and he's saying it again Harder. Yes. Harder. The texture of the gloves so different from Draco's fingers, from his cock, and he feels the fabric with every thrust, sees it with every flick he manages to keep his eyes open, watching the black hands, stark contrast against his white flesh, one driving furiously into his arse, the other a tight ring at the base of his cock and he's going to Draco and when he opens him with three relentless fingers stretching him, hitting his prostate with every hard slide, he can't breathe or speak and finally Draco lets go, draws one slow upstroke as he buries the other gloved fingers deep and Oh god.
All over the black leather.
Longer than he ever has, contracting on after the salty pulses are spent, after the garbled shouts ebb back to exhausted groans, after the twitch of red flesh is more pain than pleasure. Doesn't open his eyes when he feels the sticky glide of the spattered glove against his lip. Opens his mouth instead, licks, wants to lick it clean, but Draco hisses, takes it back.
"Watch me Harry. Open your eyes."
And he does. Watches Draco settle between his legs, the press of bony knee against the soft inside of his thigh so arousing it startles him. Watches come-slick glove curl around Draco's cock, taut and painful looking where it juts from his trousers, the head leaking against the white shirttail. Watches Draco's eyes fall closed as he strokes himself slowly with the wet black fist, watches the drop of sweat slide from the pale fringe onto cheekbone, onto jaw, watches as slowly turns into hard, turns into fast, watches his lip tremble as he comes, spilling onto the ruined leather, dripping down onto Harry's cock, a tiny flick of wet settling in his navel.
*
Their breathing is a hectic song in the quiet air and it's only when Draco's clothed body falls on top of him that he realizes it's chilly in the hall. In the sudden silence, he's nervous, however little sense that makes, and turns his lips towards the warm wet line of Draco's neck, plants a hesitant kiss above the rumpled collar. Thinks hard for a moment what he can say, how he can explain about the gloves and then suddenly he doesn't have to worry or think or explain.
As Draco shifts to rise, to drag them off to cleaning spells and a warm bed, he smiles against the bare skin of his shoulder before murmuring languidly. You owe me a new pair of gloves, you kinky sod.
~
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I wish I'd requested this. I wish I had time right now to tell you how very much I adore it. Just know that I do. Very much.
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And. ♥ You, dear, to me.
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I am speechless and stunned and gaping and OH MY GOD. This was absolutely utterly perfect. ♥ I really liked Harry's broken sentences; a delightful insight to this turned on mind and Draco, Draco was perfect.
Cannot stop flailing. You did the kink every justice possible (can you even say that?). Thank you so much for filling this. ♥
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