D/H comment pr0n
So, in my last post, dirtykitchensex triggered some sort of latent comment-pr0n impulse, which has brought you the following drabble. #facepalm# ^__~
Untitled drabble, D/H, NC-17
Malfoy looks at him like he’s looking in him, like he’s cracked him open and gone inside and he’s sneering at what he sees, and Harry hates that, Harry hates him, Harry knows he has no right to send those grey eyes swimming inside his head, it isn’t fair, it isn’t right, he doesn’t like it-he-
Malfoy looks at him like he despises him-not The Boy Who Lived, not the hero, but him-and Harry needs that, craves that uncomplicated hate, that clean repugnance; his fingers itch for it-spasm and clutch at what he can’t have-and he wants to hold it inside himself, have it balance him out, but he can’t, he just can’t; his fingers are not the same pushing into his rear and making him yowl, howl-buck and shimmy and sob a scream-because he wants them to be Malfoy’s fingers, he wants Malfoy’s cock, he wants the other boy’s unforgiving thrusts, too inconsiderate, too insistent, too everything.
He wants Malfoy to push into him without apology or restraint, filling him up with his throbbing prick and his semen and his seething rage like Harry needs to be filled up; his snarling face will meet Harry’s mewling grimace, and Harry will punch him in the mouth and watch the blood well up around his fist, and Malfoy will hurt him for it, throw his weight into his next punishing thrust, and Harry will grab at his ruffled blond hair and come all over their chests, and Malfoy will call him a mess, a whore, and his bruised mouth will be puffy around the words, and Harry will feel the other boy’s cum trickling out of his arse with his own orgasm cool and sticky on his chest, and he will hate himself for it, hate Malfoy, but it will still be better than straddling his hand; and Malfoy will see it all.
Untitled drabble, D/H, NC-17
Malfoy looks at him like he’s looking in him, like he’s cracked him open and gone inside and he’s sneering at what he sees, and Harry hates that, Harry hates him, Harry knows he has no right to send those grey eyes swimming inside his head, it isn’t fair, it isn’t right, he doesn’t like it-he-
Malfoy looks at him like he despises him-not The Boy Who Lived, not the hero, but him-and Harry needs that, craves that uncomplicated hate, that clean repugnance; his fingers itch for it-spasm and clutch at what he can’t have-and he wants to hold it inside himself, have it balance him out, but he can’t, he just can’t; his fingers are not the same pushing into his rear and making him yowl, howl-buck and shimmy and sob a scream-because he wants them to be Malfoy’s fingers, he wants Malfoy’s cock, he wants the other boy’s unforgiving thrusts, too inconsiderate, too insistent, too everything.
He wants Malfoy to push into him without apology or restraint, filling him up with his throbbing prick and his semen and his seething rage like Harry needs to be filled up; his snarling face will meet Harry’s mewling grimace, and Harry will punch him in the mouth and watch the blood well up around his fist, and Malfoy will hurt him for it, throw his weight into his next punishing thrust, and Harry will grab at his ruffled blond hair and come all over their chests, and Malfoy will call him a mess, a whore, and his bruised mouth will be puffy around the words, and Harry will feel the other boy’s cum trickling out of his arse with his own orgasm cool and sticky on his chest, and he will hate himself for it, hate Malfoy, but it will still be better than straddling his hand; and Malfoy will see it all.