FIC, Before and After, D/H, NC-17
Title: Before and After
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Summary: “I was thinking about your hair. God, I love your hair,” said Draco. He curled a bit of it around his finger-black on white, like piano keys-and tugged, soft-so-softly, to get his attention. D/H. Bottom!Harry.
Genre: PWP, horror, angst
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter.
Warning: SQUICK ALERT! I won’t spoil the story by telling you what it is, but those with fragile constitutions should turn back now. This even gives me a bit of the creeps.
Draco ran his fingers through the thick, dark tangle of Harry’s hair, smiling the slightest bit at its lushness, its unpredictability. Harry’s hair was always such a mess; when was the last time he had combed it?
But then, when was the last time he had done much of anything, even?-it seemed like all he did anymore was lie around in bed.
He’d been so-different-lately. Since killing Voldemort, all those weeks ago.
He’d been so listless, so lost, and Draco wished he knew what to do about it, but he didn’t. He just…didn’t. He was putting him back together as best as he could.
“I thought about you today, you know,” he said, kissing Harry lightly-so unimaginably lightly-on his cheek. Harry didn’t much seem to care.
“I couldn’t help it,” he said. “It haunted me for hours.”
He ran the knuckles of his hand down the span of Harry’s throat, to the sensitive skin in the hollow at its base, and Harry waited.
The silence stretched out and out, inappropriately: filled with things that could have been said-should have been said, they were expected-and weren’t.
“Well, don’t you want to know what I was thinking?” asked Draco finally; trying to keep the terseness out of his tone, and failing.
It was best not to get mad at Harry when he was like this, Draco knew. It wasn’t Harry’s fault that Voldemort had-
Well, Harry didn’t want to act this way, anyway. He wasn’t responsible for it. He was still unwell, still recovering, and Draco would have to be patient with him for however long that took. He had to. He couldn’t risk losing Harry over some stupid argument-not now, not with him so fragile.
But it was getting so hard just to put up with him-with his apathy; the spiteful petulance of his silence; his single-minded stupor-without fighting, without lashing out. The calm they lived in was palpable in its tension; it was pressing down around them unbearably, it was too much, and either it would have to break, or they would.
Draco almost missed the red-faced, hotuglyvicious rows they used to have before-before this. Before all of this. They used to have that outlet, and now they don’t.
Things were different, now; he couldn’t undo that. Harry had changed, and he had not. He would have to re-learn Harry if he wanted to fix him, to keep him.
An empty chasm was building, building between them, and Draco didn’t know how to cross it without falling in, without losing himself in the attempt. But he was trying. He really was trying-more than he had ever tried for anything, he was trying.
“I was thinking about your lips,” said Draco, kissing him deep and wet and promising; his hand on the smooth skin of Harry’s jaw.
Harry’s mouth opened automatically, accepting Draco’s tongue.
“I was thinking about the perfect way your hands fit into mine,” he said, intertwining their fingers and nipping at Harry’s bottom lip. “It’s like we were made for one another. Like we were made for this. Don’t you like that?”
Harry didn’t look like he cared one way or the other, but Draco was busy running his hand along the naked stretch of Harry’s thigh, and didn’t notice-or, at least, didn’t let on if he had.
“I was thinking about your hair. God, I love your hair,” said Draco. He curled a bit of it around his finger-black on white, like piano keys-and tugged, soft-so-softly, to get his attention.
“Are you listening, Harry?” he said. “I was thinking about how beautiful you are. About that breathy way you say my name-I haven’t heard you say it that way in so long, Harry. I know you remember how.”
He kissed him, kissed him.
“I was thinking about your skin. About how soft it is. How thin and pale it is around your wrists. I was thinking about the way you used to like to smile at me-you know the way I mean-” kiss “-and your eyelashes-” kiss “-and even that great ruddy scar of yours-” kiss “-and I was thinking about very how much I want to fuck you, Harry.” Kiss and kiss, don’t stop.
He smiled, and his hands were spreading Harry’s legs apart.
Once, this would have made Harry blush. It would have made him shiver: just a little, really-it was almost unnoticeable-but it would have been there, and Draco would have felt it, and known he was the cause.
Once, this would have thrilled Harry. Now it doesn’t.
Draco stopped smiling.
“I’m going to make you come for me,” said Draco. “Do you hear me? I’ll have you screaming for more.”
Then Draco’s hand was slick-slippery with the lubricant they kept beside the bed, and his finger was working its way inside Harry’s body, but even that was not enough to get Harry to do much more than shift a little under his hands.
“You want me-I know you want me,” said Draco, a second finger joining the first: the both of them scissoring, curling, stretching Harry out just enough so that-
After Draco removed his fingers from inside of Harry’s body, he pressed the head of his cock firmly against Harry’s entrance, easing it in just-barely past the small, pink ring of resistance.
“You’re gorgeous,” he said, and, holding onto either side of Harry’s hips, pulled Harry’s waist sharply back into the forward motion of his body, filling Harry up all at once.
Harry’s mouth was gaping open hideously, but he didn’t make a sound.
The only noise in that room then was the slap of skin-on-skin, and blond hair sandpapering a scarred forehead, and the slurp of unsatisfying kisses; hot breaths, and the nearly-inaudible squish of hands squeezing flesh hard enough to leave a bruise.
Draco was thrusting, and Harry was looking sightlessly beyond Draco’s shoulder, at the ceiling. His eyes were blank and green and inscrutable: great big discs staring out from his lovely face, the inky fan of his eyelashes almost running into the fringe from his bangs, and Draco didn’t know what to make of him. He never did; not anymore, anyway.
Draco took Harry’s length in his hand and pumped it up-and-down, his thumb gliding across the top of Harry’s balls; across a vein at the bottom of his shaft; across the small slit at the head of his cock.
Harry stayed soft in his grip, and didn’t move-always silent, now, when he used to shake the walls-and Draco gave up in disgust.
If Harry insisted on being used, then he would use him.
Let him pretend that he didn’t want this. Let him revel in the thought that he suffered with every touch.
Let him.
Let him.
Let him.
Let him.
“Talk to me, talk to me, you prick! Say something, God-damn it, please,” said Draco, kissing at his cheeks and chin and mouth: wanting to provoke something-anything-but Harry would not respond.
“Fuck, how do you do this to me? Why do you do this to me, Harry? I can’t stand having things stay like this between us-what’s wrong, Harry? God, Harry, what’s wrong? Answer me!”
But Harry was not listening-or, if he was, he would not talk-and Draco bit brutally at the cool white skin of Harry’s shoulder as he came, but Harry did not flinch.
“I love you,” said Draco. “I love you, did you know that? I know I never told you before, but I love you more than anything. Please don’t do this to me. Please don’t shut me out like this.”
But Harry was quiet, quiet-his corpse was ever-so quiet and still.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Summary: “I was thinking about your hair. God, I love your hair,” said Draco. He curled a bit of it around his finger-black on white, like piano keys-and tugged, soft-so-softly, to get his attention. D/H. Bottom!Harry.
Genre: PWP, horror, angst
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter.
Warning: SQUICK ALERT! I won’t spoil the story by telling you what it is, but those with fragile constitutions should turn back now. This even gives me a bit of the creeps.
Draco ran his fingers through the thick, dark tangle of Harry’s hair, smiling the slightest bit at its lushness, its unpredictability. Harry’s hair was always such a mess; when was the last time he had combed it?
But then, when was the last time he had done much of anything, even?-it seemed like all he did anymore was lie around in bed.
He’d been so-different-lately. Since killing Voldemort, all those weeks ago.
He’d been so listless, so lost, and Draco wished he knew what to do about it, but he didn’t. He just…didn’t. He was putting him back together as best as he could.
“I thought about you today, you know,” he said, kissing Harry lightly-so unimaginably lightly-on his cheek. Harry didn’t much seem to care.
“I couldn’t help it,” he said. “It haunted me for hours.”
He ran the knuckles of his hand down the span of Harry’s throat, to the sensitive skin in the hollow at its base, and Harry waited.
The silence stretched out and out, inappropriately: filled with things that could have been said-should have been said, they were expected-and weren’t.
“Well, don’t you want to know what I was thinking?” asked Draco finally; trying to keep the terseness out of his tone, and failing.
It was best not to get mad at Harry when he was like this, Draco knew. It wasn’t Harry’s fault that Voldemort had-
Well, Harry didn’t want to act this way, anyway. He wasn’t responsible for it. He was still unwell, still recovering, and Draco would have to be patient with him for however long that took. He had to. He couldn’t risk losing Harry over some stupid argument-not now, not with him so fragile.
But it was getting so hard just to put up with him-with his apathy; the spiteful petulance of his silence; his single-minded stupor-without fighting, without lashing out. The calm they lived in was palpable in its tension; it was pressing down around them unbearably, it was too much, and either it would have to break, or they would.
Draco almost missed the red-faced, hotuglyvicious rows they used to have before-before this. Before all of this. They used to have that outlet, and now they don’t.
Things were different, now; he couldn’t undo that. Harry had changed, and he had not. He would have to re-learn Harry if he wanted to fix him, to keep him.
An empty chasm was building, building between them, and Draco didn’t know how to cross it without falling in, without losing himself in the attempt. But he was trying. He really was trying-more than he had ever tried for anything, he was trying.
“I was thinking about your lips,” said Draco, kissing him deep and wet and promising; his hand on the smooth skin of Harry’s jaw.
Harry’s mouth opened automatically, accepting Draco’s tongue.
“I was thinking about the perfect way your hands fit into mine,” he said, intertwining their fingers and nipping at Harry’s bottom lip. “It’s like we were made for one another. Like we were made for this. Don’t you like that?”
Harry didn’t look like he cared one way or the other, but Draco was busy running his hand along the naked stretch of Harry’s thigh, and didn’t notice-or, at least, didn’t let on if he had.
“I was thinking about your hair. God, I love your hair,” said Draco. He curled a bit of it around his finger-black on white, like piano keys-and tugged, soft-so-softly, to get his attention.
“Are you listening, Harry?” he said. “I was thinking about how beautiful you are. About that breathy way you say my name-I haven’t heard you say it that way in so long, Harry. I know you remember how.”
He kissed him, kissed him.
“I was thinking about your skin. About how soft it is. How thin and pale it is around your wrists. I was thinking about the way you used to like to smile at me-you know the way I mean-” kiss “-and your eyelashes-” kiss “-and even that great ruddy scar of yours-” kiss “-and I was thinking about very how much I want to fuck you, Harry.” Kiss and kiss, don’t stop.
He smiled, and his hands were spreading Harry’s legs apart.
Once, this would have made Harry blush. It would have made him shiver: just a little, really-it was almost unnoticeable-but it would have been there, and Draco would have felt it, and known he was the cause.
Once, this would have thrilled Harry. Now it doesn’t.
Draco stopped smiling.
“I’m going to make you come for me,” said Draco. “Do you hear me? I’ll have you screaming for more.”
Then Draco’s hand was slick-slippery with the lubricant they kept beside the bed, and his finger was working its way inside Harry’s body, but even that was not enough to get Harry to do much more than shift a little under his hands.
“You want me-I know you want me,” said Draco, a second finger joining the first: the both of them scissoring, curling, stretching Harry out just enough so that-
After Draco removed his fingers from inside of Harry’s body, he pressed the head of his cock firmly against Harry’s entrance, easing it in just-barely past the small, pink ring of resistance.
“You’re gorgeous,” he said, and, holding onto either side of Harry’s hips, pulled Harry’s waist sharply back into the forward motion of his body, filling Harry up all at once.
Harry’s mouth was gaping open hideously, but he didn’t make a sound.
The only noise in that room then was the slap of skin-on-skin, and blond hair sandpapering a scarred forehead, and the slurp of unsatisfying kisses; hot breaths, and the nearly-inaudible squish of hands squeezing flesh hard enough to leave a bruise.
Draco was thrusting, and Harry was looking sightlessly beyond Draco’s shoulder, at the ceiling. His eyes were blank and green and inscrutable: great big discs staring out from his lovely face, the inky fan of his eyelashes almost running into the fringe from his bangs, and Draco didn’t know what to make of him. He never did; not anymore, anyway.
Draco took Harry’s length in his hand and pumped it up-and-down, his thumb gliding across the top of Harry’s balls; across a vein at the bottom of his shaft; across the small slit at the head of his cock.
Harry stayed soft in his grip, and didn’t move-always silent, now, when he used to shake the walls-and Draco gave up in disgust.
If Harry insisted on being used, then he would use him.
Let him pretend that he didn’t want this. Let him revel in the thought that he suffered with every touch.
Let him.
Let him.
Let him.
Let him.
“Talk to me, talk to me, you prick! Say something, God-damn it, please,” said Draco, kissing at his cheeks and chin and mouth: wanting to provoke something-anything-but Harry would not respond.
“Fuck, how do you do this to me? Why do you do this to me, Harry? I can’t stand having things stay like this between us-what’s wrong, Harry? God, Harry, what’s wrong? Answer me!”
But Harry was not listening-or, if he was, he would not talk-and Draco bit brutally at the cool white skin of Harry’s shoulder as he came, but Harry did not flinch.
“I love you,” said Draco. “I love you, did you know that? I know I never told you before, but I love you more than anything. Please don’t do this to me. Please don’t shut me out like this.”
But Harry was quiet, quiet-his corpse was ever-so quiet and still.