(no subject)
Title: The Importance of Accepting Boundaries
Author/Artist: devils_fantasy
Rating: R
Warnings/Kinks/Squicks/Fetish: endytophilia
Disclaimer: Sex.
A/N: NOT SNACO! Be happy.
Endytophilia - Refers to preferring a sex partner to be clothed rather than naked during sex.
He relaxed back into the other boy’s hold, wondrously aroused and seamlessly content to be dry-humping like a fourth-year behind Hagrid’s stables. That hot, sharp-toothed mouth fastened to the vulnerable curve behind his ear and suckled, raising red welts that he would only just remember to spell away in the morning. He slid his arms from holding his torso down to frame his hips, and then curled his hands behind him to tuck under the thick woolen robe and over the light wool of trousers, cupping the other’s firm arse and stroking, over and over, against the slightly rough surface. His hands heated with the motion as the mouth at his neck moved down to clamp, lips hard over teeth, over the muscle webbing his neck to his shoulder. He turned around, damp skin flashing cold into the crisp air, and pulled the other’s ass forward until the bowls of their hips met and clashed, hipbones and cocks flickering over another and retreating, finally settling into a puzzle-piece stance that left them joined so closely that he could feel the ridges the edge of the other boy’s boxers made across his upper thighs. His hands moved restlessly over the other’s back, reveling in the tight, blocky feel of the starched shirt and the contrasting smoothness of muscled flesh underneath. He slid his hands further up and curled his fingers into the other’s collar from behind, cold against hot flesh. The boy shuddered against him and sighed, and he claimed the expelled breath with expert tongue.
“Tonight?” The word pressed past his teeth and snaked down his spine. He had put this off before, and his reservations still held, but he had promised.
“Tonight.” And he devoured, pressing the other against the rough wooden wall, head cupped in protective hand but his other hand traced a thousand blazing trails over torso and arms, feeling the creases of cloth against skin and the odd barely-catching texture of fine cotton stirring his fingers and tongue to greater measures.
“Now?” This was a plea, choked out around the arousal that lay thick in the other’s stomach and mouth. He sighed with resignation.
“Now.”
They continued their battle of bodies in the shadow of every tree they passed on the interminable trek back up the hill, and separated with a regretful sigh into the lonely cold as first Draco Malfoy, and then Harry Potter, crept into the Great Hall. Once past the eyes of the students, Draco tried to tell Harry where to find the Slytherin Common Room, but Harry only smirked and pushed him towards the stairs. Draco continued towards his rooms while Harry snaked off towards some unknown task.
Past the guardian wall, Draco slumped into the sanctity of his private rooms. He summoned his private stores of tea and put the water on to boil himself, if only to give him something to do with his hands. Too soon the curls of steam were scented with bergamot and milk earned him the precise shade of caramel he most enjoyed, and he had nothing more to do but ponder the passing of time and let his hands heat around the heavy porcelain of the oversized cup, souvenir of his mother’s most recent trip to America. For all of his consideration, when the stone creaked to warn him that his outermost wards were being broached, he had no idea of what to do. He spoke the spell to let the intruder pass, and Harry stumbled, red-cheeked, into the room.
“Sorry; had a terrible time getting away from McGonagall. The old cat wanted to hand over her detentions again, if you can believe it! But anyway,” his hands went to the collar of his shirt, crisp button-down, as if to loosen his tie. When he moved, however, to the second button, Draco called out.
“Please, don’t.” He blushed, but said no more, focused once again on his tea.
“I was just getting the bag out.” Harry spoke softly, and Draco looked up. “I nicked a bit of a snack from the kitchens, but Hermione still pesters me for bothering the House Elves overmuch, so I’ve taken to hiding the goodies whenever I might be seen.” Indeed, he took what looked, at first, to be a leather food wallet from the inside of his shirt. When he broached it, however, it expanded rapidly into a full wicker basket. A loaf of bread, two types of cheese, and a wrapped package of meats were offset by a thermos of soup, pears, and…
“Pumpkin juice?” Draco asked incredulously. Harry was rather renowned for overdoing his alcohol.
Harry blushed from the tips of his ears to the hollow at the base of his throat. “I’m trying to cut back. Drinking seemed fine when I had a world to save, but now that that’s done…” He trailed off, but Draco caught his eyes and smiled broadly.
“Good.”
They fell to with little restraint, acting more the youths of their past than the allegedly staid professors they had become. Soon the food became a scattering of crumbs, and Draco watched with a new kind of hunger as Harry lipped a slice of pear from his knife.
When even the knife was set aside, and they began to taste again of each other, Draco rose and brought Harry with him, and pushed him gently towards the doorway that had once led to the student rooms. The dormitory now housed a maze of storerooms and potions laboratories, as well as warded saferooms for spoils of war deemed too precious for the Ministry or Gringotts to even know about. The large room set aside for seventh year boys, however, with its view just above the surface of the lake, was now Draco’s bedchamber.
Draco maneuvered Harry towards the bed, stilling the other’s questing hands with his own grip and intent caresses. He slid his fingers up, into the back of Harry’s shirt, and pushed him with his hips back onto the bed. His hands trapped between the scarred satin of Harry’s back and the soft, worn weave of his clothes, Draco began to explore the stubbled juncture of neck and jaw with his tongue, tracing lines up and over the contours of his flesh, until their lips met and their hips jolted together. Harry, question in his moan, pulled at the buttons of Draco’s shirt, and took silence for acquiescence as he undid each in turn. When Draco’s shirt flapped open over the two of them and he pulled away, hands still underneath Harry, for appraisal, Harry dove to capture a pebbled nipple in his mouth. He moved his hands over Draco’s form as if he were an artist, seeking to sculpt clay, but had found the natural shape too perfect for improvement.
When he slid his hands over Draco’s back and then over his shoulders, dragging at the cloth of his shirt and hinting that he wished the garment removed, Draco gave in with no little trepidation. But when Harry’s hands flew to buttons, it was those on Draco’s fly that received the treatment. He considered Draco’s legs with the same reverence given his torso, and when he finally, exactingly, lowered Draco’s boxers over his aching cock, he bowed and proceeded to twist and turn the blond man, fingers and tongue flying to pleasure points across his body, his own pleasure centered in the other’s.
Draco’s fingers caught and released, caught and released, in the many-textured folds of Harry’s clothing. He had thrown off his cloak but remained fully clad as he played Draco’s body, but when he finally pushed back and began to scrabble at his own clothing, Draco felt more resigned than anything else. He sank back onto the bed and closed his eyes, concentrating on the long, loose feeling of his body.
The harsh rasp of a zip brought him back aware, though, followed as it was by fingers against his stomach. He turned and his eyes widened, captured by the rosy cock rising proud from Harry’s fist, boxers pulled back to cover the rough edges of his fly, body still covered by that wondrous cloth. Harry looked at him, understanding amusement and hesitant questions flickering across his too-expressive face, but his face seamed into a smile as Draco flung himself at him, straddling him and stealing his smile with his kisses.
When they moved together, Draco clasped desperately at the smooth cloth, feeling the rasp and glide, so different than the sweaty slick flanks of the Dark Lord’s heaving minions. Harry moaned under the tight grasp of Draco’s ass around him, the fingers tracing, through that all-important barrier, his too-tender, too-vivid scars.
When they moved together, they fell apart.
When they moved together, they were healed.
When they moved together, they were understood.