FIC: "Can't Stop (Try My Lies)" for meri_oddities
Recipient: meri_oddities
Author/Artist: noeon
Title: Can't Stop (Try My Lies)
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Draco Malfoy/Gregory Goyle
Word Count: ~5,500
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *potions abuse*.
Summary: After the War, it's a dangerous juggling act for Greg Goyle to hold a self-destructive Draco back from the brink of disaster whilst keeping his attraction to him in check.
Author's Notes: Dear meri, I hope you enjoy this. I put in one of your favourite characters and it wound up a bit angsty :) Many, many thanks to my amazing beta Femme and a billion kisses to bethbethbeth for bearing with my repeat tardiness and surprising injuries! The title is from the Elbow song, 'Can't Stop.'
He's taking potions again. I can tell. He's gathering surreptitious phials from Knockturn: Gaudia, Soothe-draught, Lethe Water, all substances that aren't quite banned because they've always been traded covertly and are brewed only upon request and recommendations from other customers.
I follow him one day to the potions shop. I can tell by the smirk of the counter help and his slow, shuffling movements the moment Draco opens the door and enters the shop that this is a regular occurrence. He already knows exactly what Draco is looking for. The length of time it takes him to gather everything and bundle it in a tidy but bulky parcel is startling.
***
We've finished dinner at Pansy's, something indifferent but rich prepared by the one, aged house elf she has left. At least pudding was good. Draco's grey eyes, normally darting and keen, are softer and a little less focused, almost dull even. His speech isn't slurred exactly, but his drawl is pronounced and it's not quite Draco, without the biting sharpness and cruel wit. It's the speech of a dead thing, perfectly normal and yet utterly abnormal for him.
His hairline is darkened with sweat. His long fingers shake a little when he raises the large balloon glass of red wine to his lips. Pansy frowns at him across the table, her own glass poised halfway to her blood red lips. I cough and drop my napkin onto the floor to divert attention. Draco sets the wineglass down and gives me a cool, vacant look. He's not there at all. Perhaps that's what he likes best about taking those dusty, illicit phials of brown and cobalt and grey glass with their numbing, poisoning, deadening contents. I don't know.
***
I've found the phials piled in his rooms near Hyde Park - quite by accident as I was using the lavatory after a long night of pubs and smoke-filled lounges. Draco was already half-passed out on the chaise in the front room - long, pale, ennervated. He hadn't bothered to take off his cloak and was sprawled awkwardly with an ebon sleeve draped over his face and his white blond hair spattered across the velvet of the chaise like paint.
There was a pile of small glass phials hidden under the folded towels in the cupboard. I hadn't meant to pry but the elf had forgotten to put linens out.
I wonder if his mother knows. I can't imagine she does, although she's got worries of her own these days, what with Mr Malfoy in Azkatraz and his most recent petition for parole denied. Mrs Malfoy'd taken to her bed after the hearing, and that was over a fortnight ago.
Draco's been shaking more since then too, and I think he's probably taking more potions these days. It's getting harder and harder to hide the effects. His hands jitter frequently and his mood shifts wildly from euphoric to blank to devastatingly clear to bitterly, quietly despondent.
***
We move to the front room. Pansy takes a seat in her favourite velvet armchair, like a throne, and starts talking about a trip to the Continent and the owl from Blaise inviting us to visit.
Escape. It's nice to think about; we're not allowed to leave the cage. The Wizengamot has tracers on all of us. Our apparitions, our spells, our Floo traffic: all monitored. And we're not allowed Portkeys, not without special permission. We had a horrible time with Vince's funeral, getting everyone to the graveyard.
The Crabbe burial grounds are in the Wolds, near Flambrough Head, tucked away miles outside of the old village that's all but uninhabited save for a few elderly residents, the publican, the vicar, and a caretaker for the church. We were all banned from Apparating at the time and there was no Floo access except in the decrepit pub. Mother had been horrified by the filth, but she hadn't said anything at the time. No one wanted to upset the Crabbes more.
We trudged five miles in the driving rain, even the witches, with Vince's mother's sobbing the entire way there. And back. It was grim business, but everyone who could came. Draco was there with Mrs Malfoy, in pre-War Impervius cloaks from Fitts and Jenkins. The Parkinsons all came, Pansy and her older brothers, and Millie with her parents and little Archie.
So it's nice to think of visiting Blaise, in Amalfi or Biarritz, or wherever he is now. Mrs Zabini has villas scattered across the coasts of several nations. Ocean and warmth and sun, perhaps sand and the salt of the sea. It was a hot summer this year, but the autumn is cold and the days are marching irrevocably into darkness.
***
The rest of the world is celebrating still, rejoicing even: the Wizarding World is saved and goodness has triumphed. We're all relieved to be free of the shadow too, but we don't say it. It would be indecent to celebrate the thwarting of the measures we supported, some of us openly, many more in secret. And in case we get too tempted by the general air of exhilaration, we've got our parents to think of.
Things aren't exactly easy with the property 'evaluations' (they'll never say confiscations, but they amount to as much in many cases) and special 'cost-sharing' measures (we pay for our own trial and Auror work: the Ministry effectively charges us to be investigated), much less the imprisonments.
Almost everyone has one parent in prison. Marcus Flint has both. Pansy was lucky - Mr Parkinson struck some sort of deal with the Wizengamot because of his specialised knowledge of Death Eater accounting and he's stayed out of Azkaban. They're not invited to other people's houses much, but I'm sure people will forget soon. They're looking for scapegoats right now.
Harry Potter made sure that Narcissa and Draco were not incarcerated. He and his friends have saved several Hogwarts students and other suspected collaborators at trials. I think it's Potter's sense of justice. I don't know whether it's better to be spared. Some days, I even wish I'd gone with Vince, but that's not the right way to think when other people have it so much worse. It leads to no good, and besides, I've got Draco to worry about.
***
Draco's over the shakes and sullenness of the beginning of the bottle I'm now certain he took in the loo during starters. He's being charming and voluble and speaking prettily. Pansy smiles at him as he intones something clever and wicked about Blaise and how we might obtain our travel permits. She laughs throatily and he smirks across the table at her and smoothes his long blond forelock with fingers that are almost steady.
His hands flutter as he launches into an account of some encounter he's made today. His eyes are bird quick and I can see the rapid pulse in the hollow of his throat, swelling beneath the softness of his skin. And I look, I do.
'Don't you agree, Greg?' Pansy asks, and I jerk my eyes away from Draco and his lovely throat. I feel as though I might be blushing, but usually no one can tell. Pansy frowns thoughtfully.
'I missed the question,' I say. I look away and the back to Pans. But she's not looking at me anymore and neither is Draco. They've moved on: they're both laughing and talking about something new and it's almost, almost for a moment, like before. Millicent gives me a knowing glance before looking to the two performers at the table. My hidden pash on Draco was the worst kept secret in the Dungeon, worse kept even than the fact that Zabini was shagging Goldstein before he left or that Pansy likes it up the arse.
Pansy looks beautiful in garnet robes, French cut by the looks of them, most likely taken from her mother's closet without permission. The wine flows liberally; I drink and listen. Draco sparkles for the rest of the evening. He and Pansy are still talking when Millie and I leave for our respective homes.
***
Two days later Pansy Firecalls me in tears. Something awful's happened with the Malfoy accounts in France and Draco's disappeared.
'I need you, Greg.' Her thin, bony hands clutch my arm after I come through to comfort her. 'You have to find out what he's doing and keep him safe.'
'How can I find out what he's doing when I don't know where he is?' I try to extricate my arm from her grasp, but she's determined to hold on. Her face is drawn and her eyes are moist.
'Ask Potter. He'll know. '
She's right. The only person more protective than Pans of Draco is Harry Potter. It's an odd sort of honour code between enemies, but from what I understand, Potter is godfather to Draco's infant cousin, so perhaps it's a family thing as well.
'And Greg.' Pansy chews on her lip as she regards me, finally relinquishing her hold. I'm sure I'll have bruises to show for it; she's vicious is our Pans.
'Yes?'
'Be careful.' She waves her hand and I cross back to my dusty rooms, head full of thoughts but empty of actual ideas.
***
I can't imagine the best tack is to beard the Gryffindor in his office, but in the end, I do just that for lack of other plans. I Floo into the Ministry and state my business at reception. After a bit of waiting, I'm ushered into a small room where I wait more.
After what feels like more than one hour and less than three, Potter appears at the door of the room, looking every inch the promising young Auror in training. He takes one look at me and motions for me to follow him. We enter a small room with two chairs and a table.
Potter closes the door and turns. 'Goyle,' he says, stretching out his hand.
I take it, not bothering to think why he wouldn't have done this in public. It's easier this way.
'It's Draco,' I say. 'Do you know where he is?'
Potter frowns and runs his hand through his hair.
'Yes.'
I start to ask and stop. Potter's looking away and the look on his face is cold and foreboding somehow.
'Knockturn,' he says finally. 'In the Showpin Suites.'
The hotel and its house of ill-repute is well-known and well-frequented. Many a scandal in the Prophet has started with a tip leading to number thirteen Knockturn.
I suppose my look of horror must tell Potter everything.
'I have to...'
We both know I have to go after him. It is worse than I feared.
'Here,' Potter says, 'I can let you use a private Floo. Untraceable.'
I nod in gratitude, thoughts slowly turning in my head. About whether it's too late. About what he could be doing. About whether I can stop him.
***
I Floo to the Rosy Fingers, a pub around the corner from Knockturn off the back end and not as conspicuous for someone like me. I get a few suspicious glances, but most of the patrons are too in their cups at eleven in the morning to care about a solitary stranger. I think the barkeep recognises me, but I step quickly through the tables and out into the street before he can say anything.
The Suites are so grim, I'm afraid to go in, and I faced horrible things in the War. I stare at the '13' hanging in the doorway and contemplate what lie I could possibly tell Pansy or myself to make it seem that I did my best. But I think of Draco and I force myself to ring the small bell. A house elf opens a door encrusted with black paint and ushers me up a stairs to a small lobby. The smell of smoke - and worse - hangs thick in the still air.
I greet the withered wizard behind the desk. 'I'm here to see the guest in suite twenty-eight.'
I catch a glimpse of old keys behind him; they hang on non-sequentially numbered hooks: '41,' '7,' '28'. Potter'd told me the numbers change when the guests leave.
'We don't have anyone in there,' he says.
I blink at him. He blinks at me.
After a moment, I realise I'm supposed to pay him. I hand him five Galleons. He takes it but doesn't say anything. I hand him five more.
'Oh, the posh blond.' He leers.
My heart beats rapidly. I scowl, trying to cover my nervousness. 'Yes.'
He grins at me familiarly in a way that makes it clear that we both know what the primary business of this establishment is. I'm nauseated and unsettled. I have a sudden, traitorous thought. Surely Draco wouldn't...
'If the young gentlewizard will follow me,' the clerk says, taking the long, flat key from the hook numbered twenty-eight and motioning me to a door that appears in the wall.
The steep wooden stairs creak as we climb them. I walk up behind the clerk, who's surprisingly agile. I struggle to keep up with his pace and am winded when we reach the landing. The ceilings are lower here and a gloom clings to the walls. Small sconces are lit, providing light where no natural light falls. He scuttles down the corridor, leading me to a room at the far end.
At the scarred, dark green door, he stops and raps with bony knuckles.
'Visitor, sir,' he says with a smarmy look at me. 'A gentleman.'
'Go the fuck away,' Draco's voice snarls from behind the locked door. 'I said no visitors.'
My heart skips. Good. He's lucid.
The aged clerk looks back to me and I step forward.
'It's me,' I say simply, leaning into the wood of the door, my shoulder brushing the frame.
I hear scrabbling at the lock and step back just in time not to fall through the open door. Draco's thin face appears in the space between door and frame. His eyes scan me briefly and then he pulls me inside by my cloak. I resist long enough to pull out another five Galleons for the clerk, but they fall to the floor before I can place them in his hand. I hear him curse and bend down as the door slams shut.
Draco shoves me into the middle of the room and stares at me, breathing heavy, hair tousled. He looks a bit wild, although in better shape than I'd expected. I say nothing and look around the premises.
The interior of the room is not much better than the hall: worn burgundy coverlet on the double bed, scarred chair and a small mud-brown table, all lit by ancient globe lamps of the sort my grandmother favoured. The heavy curtains block out almost all of the outside light, causing a strange murkiness that could be any time of day, and no time, simultaneously.
Draco smooths his hair back. 'Why are you here?'
I pause for a moment, weighing my options. The good thing about being thought slow is that people can't tell when you're actually pondering the best tack.
The room smells of disinfectant and has the odd, false freshness of cleaning spells. Draco doesn't seem to have brought much with him, so he must have left the Manor in a hurry. The room's tidy enough for someone who's been there for several days.
In the end, I shrug. 'Dunno. Nice room,' I say, at a loss for anything else to say. 'Are you practicing to be a vampire?'
'Don't try to be clever, Greg. It doesn't suit you.' He's dressed all in black, black shirt and black trousers. He's still fairly well groomed under the circumstances, although I think he's slipping a bit. There's actually a wrinkle above the cuff of his shirt.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. 'All right.'
Draco settles into the one available chair. I stand under his scrutiny.
'Leave me here to die, Greg.' He waves an idle hand, encompassing the whole sad affair of the rented lodging.
I frown at him, long enough that he laughs.
'Get out of here and leave me to my melodrama.' His hand settles on the arm of the chair.
'But I don't want you to die,' I say slowly. 'There's been enough death.'
He flinches at this and I keep talking, hoping that I've reached a nerve unaffected by whatever he's been on these past few days.
'Pans is worried sick and I can't even imagine what your mother must feel.' I'm not wringing my hands, but I understand the urge.
He turns his face to me and his grey eyes are pure pain, liquid and open for a moment. He's breathtakingly beautiful like this. Then the moment is past and his face contorts with chagrin as he turns cold, his features hardened into a mask surprisingly like his father's.
'It would be best for all concerned, I think.' He isn't really looking at me, but talks instead to the wall or the curtain that hangs near the chair.
I start to protest and he cuts me off. 'Rest assured. I only plan to tempt Fate a little. I've no stomach for death either.'
I could go. I want to really. I've no idea how to stop this, or even what I'm stopping. I probably shouldn't have come, but I can't not try either. It's a dilemma, and I'm useless with them.
He fiddles with a cheap greyish quill on the table next to him. I've the distinct feeling he's going to get more serious with the dismissal in a moment.
'What'll it take to stop you?' I ask.
He smirks and eyes me up and down. 'More than you have, I wager.'
I resist the strong urge to roll my eyes. He's such an imperious little shit. 'No, really.'
He shrugs. 'Forget it. Forget I said anything.' His mouth and fist tighten for a moment, as though he's holding himself back, keeping in words and gestures that might betray him.
In the end, I always have to ask. I can't play these endlessly clever, empty games without knowing what, exactly, we're talking about. I know he's toying with me, but I never feel like we're playing the real game. I never quite know what's at stake.
'What do you need, Draco?' I step closer to him, as close as I dare. His wand is in its holster, but I don't think he'll turn it on me. Yet. I do know that I'm annoying him something fierce - the small lines are coming out around his mouth.
And suddenly he's Draco again. The stiff posture of his body collapses and he folds in on himself. He sinks into the chair, arms crossed over his chest, chin down. If I didn't know better, I'd say his lower lip was trembling.
It's awkward. I never know what to do with emotion. We've been through so much but I haven't a clue what to do if he cries. I look away, memorising the strange brown lattice patterns on the wall.
'I'm not leaving,' I say.
Draco explodes like a wild thing, jumping out of the chair at me. I start to put my hands up to defend myself, to step back. He throws me up against the wall. As my head cracks back against the cheap plaster, I wonder if it's the potions that give him this strength or the force of his desperation. Although he's muscularly lean, I outweigh him by a good two or three stone, and he's been wasting away physically in the past weeks.
'Don't push me, Greg,' he snarls. 'Don't fucking push me. You have no idea what it's like in here.'
Dazed, I don't point out the obvious irony that he's just pushed me instead. I don't think it would go over well at the moment.
He pounds on his chest with a clenched fist, making a dull, thumping sound against the bone. 'No. Bloody. Idea.'
He's caught between fury and self-annihilation and I've no idea how to catch him if he falls, or what he'll do to me in the process. I think of Care of Magical Creatures to calm myself. I was always good with wounded crups at home; it's hard to hate an animal for being in pain and it's easier to figure out what to do to help. I try to remind myself that people are just animals, although I like most animals better.
I don't look at him directly. 'Maybe I don't know,' I say, finding my voice. 'But I still want to help.'
His arm is pinning my throat and his face looks blank. He leans in to me with a sinister emptiness in his eyes. I think he's trying to scare me now, but I can see the pallor of fear under his fierceness. His mouth is swollen. He bites into his lower lip as I stare, his face inches from mine.
Draco's mouth twists in a cruel parody of a smile. 'Do you want this, Greg?' He twists a strong hand in the front of my robes and licks his lip, eyes fierce and bright. 'Is this what you want?'
Adrenalin is coursing through my veins and I'm struggling to get my breath back. I daren't move though. My fight or flight reflex is rapidly becoming my fuck or flight reflex. I've never wanted him so much.
I close my eyes. His lips are so close to my face. I smell something like strawberries mixed with wine, but a bit too chemical. His skin is cold against mine. My face is so hot - in fact, my whole body feels flushed. I cannot move. I'm against the wall and Draco is pinning me. I'm sure he thinks he's won now, that I'll run away with my tail between my legs like a terrified puppy.
His strawberry-scented breath spirals over my jaw. I've unconsciously averted my face to try to escape this moment, though there's nowhere to go. My back is literally against the wall.
'Yes,' I say, opening my eyes and staring full into his. 'Yes, I do.'
His face registers a quick tremor of surprise before I grab the back of his neck and haul him into a brutal kiss, his body sprawling against mine. Our teeth clank together. He gasps and opens his mouth. I suck at the corner of his lips, hand tangled in his long hair, then coax him with gentleness, lips searching, barely breathing. I slide my tongue into his mouth. I taste sweat and saliva and something murky sweet. I can feel his lips working, his tongue sliding against mine. Belatedly I realise that he is kissing me back.
He pushes away from me and gapes. We're both breathless and wide eyed. His mouth is red from kisses and his face is flushed. 'You're a ponce?' he asks with a tone of incredulity.
I shrug, trying not to laugh. 'Did you really think you were having all the fun?'
His eyes flick across my face. 'Who?'
Now I laugh. I've just kissed him, we're at probably the most notorious address in the wizarding world, and he wants details.
I shrug again. 'Not anyone you'd care about.'
I'm lying. He'd bloody well care that I shagged Flint before he left Hogwarts. Not to mention Nott and Blaise. Together.
His eyes narrow. I can tell he'll pursue this, but I do hope it will be later. I raise my hand slowly to push the hair out of my eyes. I don't flirt well; I just go for what I want. Either it works or it doesn't, but I've been successful enough. I've had no trouble pulling: people seem to like strong, slow, well-endowed types, and I don't mind being used for what's there.
Still, this is Draco.
He sizes me up. I lower my hand and look at him impassively.
'Why not?' It's his turn to shrug.
'I can tie you down if it makes you feel better,' I say. I try not to be hurt by his cavalier manner but it does sting, somewhere.
His laughter echoes off of the murky walls. 'Kinky, Greg. I like it.'
Grey eyes locked on mine, his hands reach to the buttons of his shirt. He starts at the collar and works down, too slowly for my taste. The dark fabric parts to reveal the sculpted ivory relief of his chest, scarred but beautiful.
I try to keep my mouth closed as his pink nipples emerge. Draco is lovely and he knows it. He pulls the tails of the shirt out of his trousers and walks the few paces to the burgundy covered bed.
Pausing at the edge, he casts a look over his shoulder. 'Coming?'
I nod, my mouth suddenly dry. This is the stuff of every wank fantasy I've had since first year and I don't know what to do now that I'm in it. I'm suddenly nervous, wondering if anything could live up to what I've had in my head for so many years, if I'll ruin everything by giving in to the chance to make it real.
Draco drops his shirt casually on the floor and climbs onto the bed. I follow him. He rolls onto his back, slouching on his elbows. He's thin, too thin, and yet the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. I stand at the bedside for a moment, watching him. He tilts his head back and shows his throat. I lie down next to him. Our legs hang off the bed as if we were still kids. We're getting older now, filling out. I've always been big, but the work at my parents home without elves has made me stronger. Draco's jaw is less delicate now, more masculine, and his arms are muscled and defined.
He reaches for the clasp of my robes and undoes it. I don't know why I left them on, but my mind is not keeping pace with events right now. With a quick look to my face, he starts unbuttoning my shirt. I stop him.
He draws his brows together. I hold his hands and lean to kiss him. He tilts his head back again and I kiss his throat, scraping the skin with my teeth when he seems to like it rougher. He gasps when I sink my teeth into his flesh. I keep my attention on his skin and try not to think. I lick a salty trail down the soft skin of his throat down to his collarbone. He lies back and my mouth travels lower. I mouth at his nipples, swirling my tongue and my thumb in circles across them. He's almost totally still with the sensations, barely moving as I climb over him. I push his arm up so I can lick his armpit and he groans, but doesn't move. We've changed roles from before; he's entirely passive now as I move over him, letting me move him.
I raise myself to my knees and extricate myself from my robes, shrugging them to the floor. He looks at me with eyelids half-sunken. I finishing unbuttoning my shirt and drop it after my robes.
In for a penny, in for a pound. I lie on top of him, my knee nudging his long legs apart. He rides my thigh as I hold him with a hand in his hair and make a mess of his neck with bruises and kisses. His nails scratch my shoulders as he clings to me. Our breath fills the twilit space, panting and humid.
I bruise his lips further as my hand works at the buttons of his fly, brushing against him to make him moan. I can feel the hard ridge under my hand like a promise. I finally undo the last button and he shifts under me, rolling out of his soft wool trousers. I shove him up the bed and he scrabbles for purchase, placing his back against the tall dark headboard. I lower my face to his crotch, taking in the smell and the warmth of him, mouth travelling across the soft cotton fabric of his pants to touch and suck and breathe warmly across him. He twists his hips and is silent, teeth sunk into his lip and eyes squeezed shut.
'Turn over,' I say and I hardly recognise my voice, it's so throaty and raw.
He focuses on me, wide pupilled and rosy flushed now. He obeys me.
I have no idea of tempo here, but I know I have to be in charge and I can't afford to think twice or I'll lose his concentration. 'Lube?' I ask.
'In the drawer.'
I finger the cap of the clear and much more innocuous phial, though perhaps the most dangerous of all. For me at least. With drops of lubricant across my fingers, I reach to touch him and he sighs, suddenly relaxing against me. I try not to be too rough, but I can't be delicate.
When I'm inside him, even with my fingers, it's nothing short of miraculous - the tight heat, the openness of his body. He's breathing in soft, short huffs. I move, he moves, and then I find a rhythm, finally, that makes him roll his hips and thrust his arse back against my knuckles, impaling himself. I could make him come like this with a few tugs to his cock. I think about it.
'More, Greg. Now.'
I withdraw my fingers and open my fly with a few quick tugs and a muffled curse. I'm as hard as a rock, fit to pound nails into wood. He's on his elbows, pushing back to me. I hold his bony hip, looking at the marvel of his lush buttocks and pliant posture.
It's too much to comprehend fully, the long, knobby curve of his spine, the lines of his ribs, the hard musculature of his shoulders. I dip my thumb and swirl, guiding myself to his body, then breaching it in a slow thrust, achingly slow, incrementally.
He gasps. I think I'm larger than he expected. I don't know. I wait. I'm used to this.
His chest heaves as he accommodates me and I hold myself rigid, trying not to hurt him, trying not to move as hard as I want to.
'All right.'
I know he's bluffing and I go very slowly. He's gasping for breath but quiet. I don't trust him to tell me when it's okay, so I use my own best guesses, moving in stages but letting him adjust. It takes long minutes and much more lubricant, but I finally sheath myself in him.
I look down to where our bodies join. I could die happily just from this, although I want so much more.
I pull back experimentally.
'Fuck me.'
I push back in hard and he shivers. Too hard.
His nails clench the sheets and thighs are shaking.
'Shhh,' I say, stroking his back. 'Shhhh.'
He relaxes and I move more slowly, taking time to slide and try and wait and try again. He braces himself on his forearms and spreads his thighs more.
When I feel him opening around me, more and more easily, I curl a hand around his hip and move my other hand in circles across his lower back.
'Merlin. Fuck. Yes.'
He's reached the point where the pain converts into its opposite and he's suddenly hungry for more.
I do fuck him then and I'm merciless. I fuck him into the bed until he's grabbing the headboard and pushing back to keep from hitting his head. I don't care. The thin bed bounces and tosses beneath us. I keep pushing forward in sharp, determined strokes. This is familiar. This I know how to do, the deep animal part of myself that doesn't have to think to do it. I pull him back against me and I feel my eyelids trembling as he clenches around me. He's so tight, I wonder whether he's done this as much as I'd thought but I can't dwell on that or I'll explode too early.
I reach around to pull him but he bats my hand away and does it himself.
He mutters curses and howls as I step up the pace. The floor is shaking now and I'm almost thankful for how wretched this place is that we can fuck here like this.
He peaks with a sharp, hovering cry, his whole body moving in shudders and then tensing as he paints the covers with his release.
Sweat is dripping into my eyes and my neck is cold with it. My thighs are burning. My knees hurt. And I could care less. I find my own pleasure waiting, hard and sudden, a few more thrusts, the bounce of his lovely body, and then I'm fisting myself over him, watching my spunk hit the curve of his back and the globes of his arse.
We collapse into the godawful, scratchy coverlet.
'This changes nothing, you realise,' he says in a low tone, his head turned away from me.
'Mmmm,' I say.
'Get under the covers. I'll want more in a minute.'
I smile, heart filling with dread and hope and terror and love all at once, like a mix of colored phials from the dusty storefront a few doors down.
'Very well,' I say. And I join him under the plain white sheet, pulling his body to curve against mine, warming him and just for now, just for this moment, keeping him from the dark.
Try my lies for size
You might swallow them
While I fantasise
Try my lies for size
Hold this shaking frame
Pull this back together
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Author/Artist: noeon
Title: Can't Stop (Try My Lies)
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Draco Malfoy/Gregory Goyle
Word Count: ~5,500
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *potions abuse*.
Summary: After the War, it's a dangerous juggling act for Greg Goyle to hold a self-destructive Draco back from the brink of disaster whilst keeping his attraction to him in check.
Author's Notes: Dear meri, I hope you enjoy this. I put in one of your favourite characters and it wound up a bit angsty :) Many, many thanks to my amazing beta Femme and a billion kisses to bethbethbeth for bearing with my repeat tardiness and surprising injuries! The title is from the Elbow song, 'Can't Stop.'
He's taking potions again. I can tell. He's gathering surreptitious phials from Knockturn: Gaudia, Soothe-draught, Lethe Water, all substances that aren't quite banned because they've always been traded covertly and are brewed only upon request and recommendations from other customers.
I follow him one day to the potions shop. I can tell by the smirk of the counter help and his slow, shuffling movements the moment Draco opens the door and enters the shop that this is a regular occurrence. He already knows exactly what Draco is looking for. The length of time it takes him to gather everything and bundle it in a tidy but bulky parcel is startling.
***
We've finished dinner at Pansy's, something indifferent but rich prepared by the one, aged house elf she has left. At least pudding was good. Draco's grey eyes, normally darting and keen, are softer and a little less focused, almost dull even. His speech isn't slurred exactly, but his drawl is pronounced and it's not quite Draco, without the biting sharpness and cruel wit. It's the speech of a dead thing, perfectly normal and yet utterly abnormal for him.
His hairline is darkened with sweat. His long fingers shake a little when he raises the large balloon glass of red wine to his lips. Pansy frowns at him across the table, her own glass poised halfway to her blood red lips. I cough and drop my napkin onto the floor to divert attention. Draco sets the wineglass down and gives me a cool, vacant look. He's not there at all. Perhaps that's what he likes best about taking those dusty, illicit phials of brown and cobalt and grey glass with their numbing, poisoning, deadening contents. I don't know.
***
I've found the phials piled in his rooms near Hyde Park - quite by accident as I was using the lavatory after a long night of pubs and smoke-filled lounges. Draco was already half-passed out on the chaise in the front room - long, pale, ennervated. He hadn't bothered to take off his cloak and was sprawled awkwardly with an ebon sleeve draped over his face and his white blond hair spattered across the velvet of the chaise like paint.
There was a pile of small glass phials hidden under the folded towels in the cupboard. I hadn't meant to pry but the elf had forgotten to put linens out.
I wonder if his mother knows. I can't imagine she does, although she's got worries of her own these days, what with Mr Malfoy in Azkatraz and his most recent petition for parole denied. Mrs Malfoy'd taken to her bed after the hearing, and that was over a fortnight ago.
Draco's been shaking more since then too, and I think he's probably taking more potions these days. It's getting harder and harder to hide the effects. His hands jitter frequently and his mood shifts wildly from euphoric to blank to devastatingly clear to bitterly, quietly despondent.
***
We move to the front room. Pansy takes a seat in her favourite velvet armchair, like a throne, and starts talking about a trip to the Continent and the owl from Blaise inviting us to visit.
Escape. It's nice to think about; we're not allowed to leave the cage. The Wizengamot has tracers on all of us. Our apparitions, our spells, our Floo traffic: all monitored. And we're not allowed Portkeys, not without special permission. We had a horrible time with Vince's funeral, getting everyone to the graveyard.
The Crabbe burial grounds are in the Wolds, near Flambrough Head, tucked away miles outside of the old village that's all but uninhabited save for a few elderly residents, the publican, the vicar, and a caretaker for the church. We were all banned from Apparating at the time and there was no Floo access except in the decrepit pub. Mother had been horrified by the filth, but she hadn't said anything at the time. No one wanted to upset the Crabbes more.
We trudged five miles in the driving rain, even the witches, with Vince's mother's sobbing the entire way there. And back. It was grim business, but everyone who could came. Draco was there with Mrs Malfoy, in pre-War Impervius cloaks from Fitts and Jenkins. The Parkinsons all came, Pansy and her older brothers, and Millie with her parents and little Archie.
So it's nice to think of visiting Blaise, in Amalfi or Biarritz, or wherever he is now. Mrs Zabini has villas scattered across the coasts of several nations. Ocean and warmth and sun, perhaps sand and the salt of the sea. It was a hot summer this year, but the autumn is cold and the days are marching irrevocably into darkness.
***
The rest of the world is celebrating still, rejoicing even: the Wizarding World is saved and goodness has triumphed. We're all relieved to be free of the shadow too, but we don't say it. It would be indecent to celebrate the thwarting of the measures we supported, some of us openly, many more in secret. And in case we get too tempted by the general air of exhilaration, we've got our parents to think of.
Things aren't exactly easy with the property 'evaluations' (they'll never say confiscations, but they amount to as much in many cases) and special 'cost-sharing' measures (we pay for our own trial and Auror work: the Ministry effectively charges us to be investigated), much less the imprisonments.
Almost everyone has one parent in prison. Marcus Flint has both. Pansy was lucky - Mr Parkinson struck some sort of deal with the Wizengamot because of his specialised knowledge of Death Eater accounting and he's stayed out of Azkaban. They're not invited to other people's houses much, but I'm sure people will forget soon. They're looking for scapegoats right now.
Harry Potter made sure that Narcissa and Draco were not incarcerated. He and his friends have saved several Hogwarts students and other suspected collaborators at trials. I think it's Potter's sense of justice. I don't know whether it's better to be spared. Some days, I even wish I'd gone with Vince, but that's not the right way to think when other people have it so much worse. It leads to no good, and besides, I've got Draco to worry about.
***
Draco's over the shakes and sullenness of the beginning of the bottle I'm now certain he took in the loo during starters. He's being charming and voluble and speaking prettily. Pansy smiles at him as he intones something clever and wicked about Blaise and how we might obtain our travel permits. She laughs throatily and he smirks across the table at her and smoothes his long blond forelock with fingers that are almost steady.
His hands flutter as he launches into an account of some encounter he's made today. His eyes are bird quick and I can see the rapid pulse in the hollow of his throat, swelling beneath the softness of his skin. And I look, I do.
'Don't you agree, Greg?' Pansy asks, and I jerk my eyes away from Draco and his lovely throat. I feel as though I might be blushing, but usually no one can tell. Pansy frowns thoughtfully.
'I missed the question,' I say. I look away and the back to Pans. But she's not looking at me anymore and neither is Draco. They've moved on: they're both laughing and talking about something new and it's almost, almost for a moment, like before. Millicent gives me a knowing glance before looking to the two performers at the table. My hidden pash on Draco was the worst kept secret in the Dungeon, worse kept even than the fact that Zabini was shagging Goldstein before he left or that Pansy likes it up the arse.
Pansy looks beautiful in garnet robes, French cut by the looks of them, most likely taken from her mother's closet without permission. The wine flows liberally; I drink and listen. Draco sparkles for the rest of the evening. He and Pansy are still talking when Millie and I leave for our respective homes.
***
Two days later Pansy Firecalls me in tears. Something awful's happened with the Malfoy accounts in France and Draco's disappeared.
'I need you, Greg.' Her thin, bony hands clutch my arm after I come through to comfort her. 'You have to find out what he's doing and keep him safe.'
'How can I find out what he's doing when I don't know where he is?' I try to extricate my arm from her grasp, but she's determined to hold on. Her face is drawn and her eyes are moist.
'Ask Potter. He'll know. '
She's right. The only person more protective than Pans of Draco is Harry Potter. It's an odd sort of honour code between enemies, but from what I understand, Potter is godfather to Draco's infant cousin, so perhaps it's a family thing as well.
'And Greg.' Pansy chews on her lip as she regards me, finally relinquishing her hold. I'm sure I'll have bruises to show for it; she's vicious is our Pans.
'Yes?'
'Be careful.' She waves her hand and I cross back to my dusty rooms, head full of thoughts but empty of actual ideas.
***
I can't imagine the best tack is to beard the Gryffindor in his office, but in the end, I do just that for lack of other plans. I Floo into the Ministry and state my business at reception. After a bit of waiting, I'm ushered into a small room where I wait more.
After what feels like more than one hour and less than three, Potter appears at the door of the room, looking every inch the promising young Auror in training. He takes one look at me and motions for me to follow him. We enter a small room with two chairs and a table.
Potter closes the door and turns. 'Goyle,' he says, stretching out his hand.
I take it, not bothering to think why he wouldn't have done this in public. It's easier this way.
'It's Draco,' I say. 'Do you know where he is?'
Potter frowns and runs his hand through his hair.
'Yes.'
I start to ask and stop. Potter's looking away and the look on his face is cold and foreboding somehow.
'Knockturn,' he says finally. 'In the Showpin Suites.'
The hotel and its house of ill-repute is well-known and well-frequented. Many a scandal in the Prophet has started with a tip leading to number thirteen Knockturn.
I suppose my look of horror must tell Potter everything.
'I have to...'
We both know I have to go after him. It is worse than I feared.
'Here,' Potter says, 'I can let you use a private Floo. Untraceable.'
I nod in gratitude, thoughts slowly turning in my head. About whether it's too late. About what he could be doing. About whether I can stop him.
***
I Floo to the Rosy Fingers, a pub around the corner from Knockturn off the back end and not as conspicuous for someone like me. I get a few suspicious glances, but most of the patrons are too in their cups at eleven in the morning to care about a solitary stranger. I think the barkeep recognises me, but I step quickly through the tables and out into the street before he can say anything.
The Suites are so grim, I'm afraid to go in, and I faced horrible things in the War. I stare at the '13' hanging in the doorway and contemplate what lie I could possibly tell Pansy or myself to make it seem that I did my best. But I think of Draco and I force myself to ring the small bell. A house elf opens a door encrusted with black paint and ushers me up a stairs to a small lobby. The smell of smoke - and worse - hangs thick in the still air.
I greet the withered wizard behind the desk. 'I'm here to see the guest in suite twenty-eight.'
I catch a glimpse of old keys behind him; they hang on non-sequentially numbered hooks: '41,' '7,' '28'. Potter'd told me the numbers change when the guests leave.
'We don't have anyone in there,' he says.
I blink at him. He blinks at me.
After a moment, I realise I'm supposed to pay him. I hand him five Galleons. He takes it but doesn't say anything. I hand him five more.
'Oh, the posh blond.' He leers.
My heart beats rapidly. I scowl, trying to cover my nervousness. 'Yes.'
He grins at me familiarly in a way that makes it clear that we both know what the primary business of this establishment is. I'm nauseated and unsettled. I have a sudden, traitorous thought. Surely Draco wouldn't...
'If the young gentlewizard will follow me,' the clerk says, taking the long, flat key from the hook numbered twenty-eight and motioning me to a door that appears in the wall.
The steep wooden stairs creak as we climb them. I walk up behind the clerk, who's surprisingly agile. I struggle to keep up with his pace and am winded when we reach the landing. The ceilings are lower here and a gloom clings to the walls. Small sconces are lit, providing light where no natural light falls. He scuttles down the corridor, leading me to a room at the far end.
At the scarred, dark green door, he stops and raps with bony knuckles.
'Visitor, sir,' he says with a smarmy look at me. 'A gentleman.'
'Go the fuck away,' Draco's voice snarls from behind the locked door. 'I said no visitors.'
My heart skips. Good. He's lucid.
The aged clerk looks back to me and I step forward.
'It's me,' I say simply, leaning into the wood of the door, my shoulder brushing the frame.
I hear scrabbling at the lock and step back just in time not to fall through the open door. Draco's thin face appears in the space between door and frame. His eyes scan me briefly and then he pulls me inside by my cloak. I resist long enough to pull out another five Galleons for the clerk, but they fall to the floor before I can place them in his hand. I hear him curse and bend down as the door slams shut.
Draco shoves me into the middle of the room and stares at me, breathing heavy, hair tousled. He looks a bit wild, although in better shape than I'd expected. I say nothing and look around the premises.
The interior of the room is not much better than the hall: worn burgundy coverlet on the double bed, scarred chair and a small mud-brown table, all lit by ancient globe lamps of the sort my grandmother favoured. The heavy curtains block out almost all of the outside light, causing a strange murkiness that could be any time of day, and no time, simultaneously.
Draco smooths his hair back. 'Why are you here?'
I pause for a moment, weighing my options. The good thing about being thought slow is that people can't tell when you're actually pondering the best tack.
The room smells of disinfectant and has the odd, false freshness of cleaning spells. Draco doesn't seem to have brought much with him, so he must have left the Manor in a hurry. The room's tidy enough for someone who's been there for several days.
In the end, I shrug. 'Dunno. Nice room,' I say, at a loss for anything else to say. 'Are you practicing to be a vampire?'
'Don't try to be clever, Greg. It doesn't suit you.' He's dressed all in black, black shirt and black trousers. He's still fairly well groomed under the circumstances, although I think he's slipping a bit. There's actually a wrinkle above the cuff of his shirt.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. 'All right.'
Draco settles into the one available chair. I stand under his scrutiny.
'Leave me here to die, Greg.' He waves an idle hand, encompassing the whole sad affair of the rented lodging.
I frown at him, long enough that he laughs.
'Get out of here and leave me to my melodrama.' His hand settles on the arm of the chair.
'But I don't want you to die,' I say slowly. 'There's been enough death.'
He flinches at this and I keep talking, hoping that I've reached a nerve unaffected by whatever he's been on these past few days.
'Pans is worried sick and I can't even imagine what your mother must feel.' I'm not wringing my hands, but I understand the urge.
He turns his face to me and his grey eyes are pure pain, liquid and open for a moment. He's breathtakingly beautiful like this. Then the moment is past and his face contorts with chagrin as he turns cold, his features hardened into a mask surprisingly like his father's.
'It would be best for all concerned, I think.' He isn't really looking at me, but talks instead to the wall or the curtain that hangs near the chair.
I start to protest and he cuts me off. 'Rest assured. I only plan to tempt Fate a little. I've no stomach for death either.'
I could go. I want to really. I've no idea how to stop this, or even what I'm stopping. I probably shouldn't have come, but I can't not try either. It's a dilemma, and I'm useless with them.
He fiddles with a cheap greyish quill on the table next to him. I've the distinct feeling he's going to get more serious with the dismissal in a moment.
'What'll it take to stop you?' I ask.
He smirks and eyes me up and down. 'More than you have, I wager.'
I resist the strong urge to roll my eyes. He's such an imperious little shit. 'No, really.'
He shrugs. 'Forget it. Forget I said anything.' His mouth and fist tighten for a moment, as though he's holding himself back, keeping in words and gestures that might betray him.
In the end, I always have to ask. I can't play these endlessly clever, empty games without knowing what, exactly, we're talking about. I know he's toying with me, but I never feel like we're playing the real game. I never quite know what's at stake.
'What do you need, Draco?' I step closer to him, as close as I dare. His wand is in its holster, but I don't think he'll turn it on me. Yet. I do know that I'm annoying him something fierce - the small lines are coming out around his mouth.
And suddenly he's Draco again. The stiff posture of his body collapses and he folds in on himself. He sinks into the chair, arms crossed over his chest, chin down. If I didn't know better, I'd say his lower lip was trembling.
It's awkward. I never know what to do with emotion. We've been through so much but I haven't a clue what to do if he cries. I look away, memorising the strange brown lattice patterns on the wall.
'I'm not leaving,' I say.
Draco explodes like a wild thing, jumping out of the chair at me. I start to put my hands up to defend myself, to step back. He throws me up against the wall. As my head cracks back against the cheap plaster, I wonder if it's the potions that give him this strength or the force of his desperation. Although he's muscularly lean, I outweigh him by a good two or three stone, and he's been wasting away physically in the past weeks.
'Don't push me, Greg,' he snarls. 'Don't fucking push me. You have no idea what it's like in here.'
Dazed, I don't point out the obvious irony that he's just pushed me instead. I don't think it would go over well at the moment.
He pounds on his chest with a clenched fist, making a dull, thumping sound against the bone. 'No. Bloody. Idea.'
He's caught between fury and self-annihilation and I've no idea how to catch him if he falls, or what he'll do to me in the process. I think of Care of Magical Creatures to calm myself. I was always good with wounded crups at home; it's hard to hate an animal for being in pain and it's easier to figure out what to do to help. I try to remind myself that people are just animals, although I like most animals better.
I don't look at him directly. 'Maybe I don't know,' I say, finding my voice. 'But I still want to help.'
His arm is pinning my throat and his face looks blank. He leans in to me with a sinister emptiness in his eyes. I think he's trying to scare me now, but I can see the pallor of fear under his fierceness. His mouth is swollen. He bites into his lower lip as I stare, his face inches from mine.
Draco's mouth twists in a cruel parody of a smile. 'Do you want this, Greg?' He twists a strong hand in the front of my robes and licks his lip, eyes fierce and bright. 'Is this what you want?'
Adrenalin is coursing through my veins and I'm struggling to get my breath back. I daren't move though. My fight or flight reflex is rapidly becoming my fuck or flight reflex. I've never wanted him so much.
I close my eyes. His lips are so close to my face. I smell something like strawberries mixed with wine, but a bit too chemical. His skin is cold against mine. My face is so hot - in fact, my whole body feels flushed. I cannot move. I'm against the wall and Draco is pinning me. I'm sure he thinks he's won now, that I'll run away with my tail between my legs like a terrified puppy.
His strawberry-scented breath spirals over my jaw. I've unconsciously averted my face to try to escape this moment, though there's nowhere to go. My back is literally against the wall.
'Yes,' I say, opening my eyes and staring full into his. 'Yes, I do.'
His face registers a quick tremor of surprise before I grab the back of his neck and haul him into a brutal kiss, his body sprawling against mine. Our teeth clank together. He gasps and opens his mouth. I suck at the corner of his lips, hand tangled in his long hair, then coax him with gentleness, lips searching, barely breathing. I slide my tongue into his mouth. I taste sweat and saliva and something murky sweet. I can feel his lips working, his tongue sliding against mine. Belatedly I realise that he is kissing me back.
He pushes away from me and gapes. We're both breathless and wide eyed. His mouth is red from kisses and his face is flushed. 'You're a ponce?' he asks with a tone of incredulity.
I shrug, trying not to laugh. 'Did you really think you were having all the fun?'
His eyes flick across my face. 'Who?'
Now I laugh. I've just kissed him, we're at probably the most notorious address in the wizarding world, and he wants details.
I shrug again. 'Not anyone you'd care about.'
I'm lying. He'd bloody well care that I shagged Flint before he left Hogwarts. Not to mention Nott and Blaise. Together.
His eyes narrow. I can tell he'll pursue this, but I do hope it will be later. I raise my hand slowly to push the hair out of my eyes. I don't flirt well; I just go for what I want. Either it works or it doesn't, but I've been successful enough. I've had no trouble pulling: people seem to like strong, slow, well-endowed types, and I don't mind being used for what's there.
Still, this is Draco.
He sizes me up. I lower my hand and look at him impassively.
'Why not?' It's his turn to shrug.
'I can tie you down if it makes you feel better,' I say. I try not to be hurt by his cavalier manner but it does sting, somewhere.
His laughter echoes off of the murky walls. 'Kinky, Greg. I like it.'
Grey eyes locked on mine, his hands reach to the buttons of his shirt. He starts at the collar and works down, too slowly for my taste. The dark fabric parts to reveal the sculpted ivory relief of his chest, scarred but beautiful.
I try to keep my mouth closed as his pink nipples emerge. Draco is lovely and he knows it. He pulls the tails of the shirt out of his trousers and walks the few paces to the burgundy covered bed.
Pausing at the edge, he casts a look over his shoulder. 'Coming?'
I nod, my mouth suddenly dry. This is the stuff of every wank fantasy I've had since first year and I don't know what to do now that I'm in it. I'm suddenly nervous, wondering if anything could live up to what I've had in my head for so many years, if I'll ruin everything by giving in to the chance to make it real.
Draco drops his shirt casually on the floor and climbs onto the bed. I follow him. He rolls onto his back, slouching on his elbows. He's thin, too thin, and yet the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. I stand at the bedside for a moment, watching him. He tilts his head back and shows his throat. I lie down next to him. Our legs hang off the bed as if we were still kids. We're getting older now, filling out. I've always been big, but the work at my parents home without elves has made me stronger. Draco's jaw is less delicate now, more masculine, and his arms are muscled and defined.
He reaches for the clasp of my robes and undoes it. I don't know why I left them on, but my mind is not keeping pace with events right now. With a quick look to my face, he starts unbuttoning my shirt. I stop him.
He draws his brows together. I hold his hands and lean to kiss him. He tilts his head back again and I kiss his throat, scraping the skin with my teeth when he seems to like it rougher. He gasps when I sink my teeth into his flesh. I keep my attention on his skin and try not to think. I lick a salty trail down the soft skin of his throat down to his collarbone. He lies back and my mouth travels lower. I mouth at his nipples, swirling my tongue and my thumb in circles across them. He's almost totally still with the sensations, barely moving as I climb over him. I push his arm up so I can lick his armpit and he groans, but doesn't move. We've changed roles from before; he's entirely passive now as I move over him, letting me move him.
I raise myself to my knees and extricate myself from my robes, shrugging them to the floor. He looks at me with eyelids half-sunken. I finishing unbuttoning my shirt and drop it after my robes.
In for a penny, in for a pound. I lie on top of him, my knee nudging his long legs apart. He rides my thigh as I hold him with a hand in his hair and make a mess of his neck with bruises and kisses. His nails scratch my shoulders as he clings to me. Our breath fills the twilit space, panting and humid.
I bruise his lips further as my hand works at the buttons of his fly, brushing against him to make him moan. I can feel the hard ridge under my hand like a promise. I finally undo the last button and he shifts under me, rolling out of his soft wool trousers. I shove him up the bed and he scrabbles for purchase, placing his back against the tall dark headboard. I lower my face to his crotch, taking in the smell and the warmth of him, mouth travelling across the soft cotton fabric of his pants to touch and suck and breathe warmly across him. He twists his hips and is silent, teeth sunk into his lip and eyes squeezed shut.
'Turn over,' I say and I hardly recognise my voice, it's so throaty and raw.
He focuses on me, wide pupilled and rosy flushed now. He obeys me.
I have no idea of tempo here, but I know I have to be in charge and I can't afford to think twice or I'll lose his concentration. 'Lube?' I ask.
'In the drawer.'
I finger the cap of the clear and much more innocuous phial, though perhaps the most dangerous of all. For me at least. With drops of lubricant across my fingers, I reach to touch him and he sighs, suddenly relaxing against me. I try not to be too rough, but I can't be delicate.
When I'm inside him, even with my fingers, it's nothing short of miraculous - the tight heat, the openness of his body. He's breathing in soft, short huffs. I move, he moves, and then I find a rhythm, finally, that makes him roll his hips and thrust his arse back against my knuckles, impaling himself. I could make him come like this with a few tugs to his cock. I think about it.
'More, Greg. Now.'
I withdraw my fingers and open my fly with a few quick tugs and a muffled curse. I'm as hard as a rock, fit to pound nails into wood. He's on his elbows, pushing back to me. I hold his bony hip, looking at the marvel of his lush buttocks and pliant posture.
It's too much to comprehend fully, the long, knobby curve of his spine, the lines of his ribs, the hard musculature of his shoulders. I dip my thumb and swirl, guiding myself to his body, then breaching it in a slow thrust, achingly slow, incrementally.
He gasps. I think I'm larger than he expected. I don't know. I wait. I'm used to this.
His chest heaves as he accommodates me and I hold myself rigid, trying not to hurt him, trying not to move as hard as I want to.
'All right.'
I know he's bluffing and I go very slowly. He's gasping for breath but quiet. I don't trust him to tell me when it's okay, so I use my own best guesses, moving in stages but letting him adjust. It takes long minutes and much more lubricant, but I finally sheath myself in him.
I look down to where our bodies join. I could die happily just from this, although I want so much more.
I pull back experimentally.
'Fuck me.'
I push back in hard and he shivers. Too hard.
His nails clench the sheets and thighs are shaking.
'Shhh,' I say, stroking his back. 'Shhhh.'
He relaxes and I move more slowly, taking time to slide and try and wait and try again. He braces himself on his forearms and spreads his thighs more.
When I feel him opening around me, more and more easily, I curl a hand around his hip and move my other hand in circles across his lower back.
'Merlin. Fuck. Yes.'
He's reached the point where the pain converts into its opposite and he's suddenly hungry for more.
I do fuck him then and I'm merciless. I fuck him into the bed until he's grabbing the headboard and pushing back to keep from hitting his head. I don't care. The thin bed bounces and tosses beneath us. I keep pushing forward in sharp, determined strokes. This is familiar. This I know how to do, the deep animal part of myself that doesn't have to think to do it. I pull him back against me and I feel my eyelids trembling as he clenches around me. He's so tight, I wonder whether he's done this as much as I'd thought but I can't dwell on that or I'll explode too early.
I reach around to pull him but he bats my hand away and does it himself.
He mutters curses and howls as I step up the pace. The floor is shaking now and I'm almost thankful for how wretched this place is that we can fuck here like this.
He peaks with a sharp, hovering cry, his whole body moving in shudders and then tensing as he paints the covers with his release.
Sweat is dripping into my eyes and my neck is cold with it. My thighs are burning. My knees hurt. And I could care less. I find my own pleasure waiting, hard and sudden, a few more thrusts, the bounce of his lovely body, and then I'm fisting myself over him, watching my spunk hit the curve of his back and the globes of his arse.
We collapse into the godawful, scratchy coverlet.
'This changes nothing, you realise,' he says in a low tone, his head turned away from me.
'Mmmm,' I say.
'Get under the covers. I'll want more in a minute.'
I smile, heart filling with dread and hope and terror and love all at once, like a mix of colored phials from the dusty storefront a few doors down.
'Very well,' I say. And I join him under the plain white sheet, pulling his body to curve against mine, warming him and just for now, just for this moment, keeping him from the dark.
Try my lies for size
You might swallow them
While I fantasise
Try my lies for size
Hold this shaking frame
Pull this back together
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