[fic] you look so fine; H/D, Veela!Draco, crack!Horror!smut! - 2/2
title: you look so fine
Part: 2/2
WARNINGS: mild gore, graphic sex, very very NC-17
Summary: Draco is a Veela and Harry is his mate. Crack Horror, by yours truly.
Notes: curiouslyfic prompted: Wings, Veela, H/D, smut, Crackfic/horror ficlet. For her, and for the ladies in chatzy who didn't know how crack horror worked. I wrote this very quickly, so it's not as carefully crafted as some of my other writing. Don't think about it too much, and please enjoy.
And a million thanks to beautiful curiouslyfic for the amazing services. Beta, and otherwise. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH GAHD.
<< Previously <<
--
Potter immerses himself in books, searching for a possible solution.
"I really don't think Care of Magical Creatures is going to help us much this time around," Draco remarks. "Neither is your will your beloved, trusty Hogwarts: A History."
Potter is no Granger, that's for sure. Hell, he's no Draco, even. He doesn't have a mind for books, despite the nerdy appearance with the glasses and hair-care regimen (or lack thereof). He huffs and he sighs, and wrinkles his brow and his nose, he squints his eyes and ruffles his own hair when he's exceedingly frustrated, all of which are decidedly not at all endearing.
He's trying, at least, but since when was simply trying enough?
Sometimes Draco helpfully mocks him or makes a comment, but more and more of the time he feels too sick to say anything.
Most of the time Potter is very focused on concentrating, but more and more of the time he takes one look at Draco and has to pack up his books and leave the tent.
--
The hunger is worse than the stabbing pain. The sort of hunger that makes his stomach ache and stretch and makes him feel like he could swallow the moon. The sort of hunger that makes every part of his body tingle and ache and burn, burn bright and hot with need, fire-bright, fever-bright, bright like an exploding star, with the need to fuck.
"A supernova is simply a fancy term for a dying star," he mumbles, and hisses when there's a cool touch of wet cloth on his forehead.
"You're delirious," observes Potter, keeping himself at arm's length despite his need to mother-hen him and wet his face.
"I'm bloody starving, is what," he says, turning large, darkened eyes to Potter. He swallows, just once, and licks his dry lips.
Potter yelps, suddenly, as he's upended the pail of cold water into his lap. He scrambles to his feet, the large, dark wet spot spreading out over his trousers. "I ...I need to go get...a thing."
"Either leave or get rid of me. You have no other choice," Draco manages, again. He pauses, and thinks of a book he saw once. Set in America in the Dark Ages. "This tent ain't big enough for the both of us," he drawls, and laughs at himself, and the laugh is immediately cut off by the sharp stabbing pain. "Fuck."
At that first sign of pain, Potter is by his side, dripping wet crotch and all. Dumb berk. "What hurts?"
"Everything," Draco hisses through his teeth. The you moron part of it is implied. There's the pain again, twin hot knives slicking through him as if his flesh were butter, and he tries again. "My back."
"Itches," he complains.
Someone should really tell Potter that if you're actively trying not to have sex with a person then the last thing you ought to be doing is climbing on top of said person, rucking up the back of his shirt, putting your hands all over him. Your hands probably shouldn't feel so good, too, rubbing, soothing, cool from the water you've been dipping them in but warming up very quickly, so good that they make a person buck and moan underneath you--
Potter gasps, suddenly, and it's not a sexy kind of gasp. More like seeing the Acromantula in the Forbidden Forest type of gasp. Or Argus Filch in women's lingerie - that type of gasp.
"What is it?" Draco mumbles, already curled up into himself.
"Well...have you ever seen the movie Alien?"
"What's a movie?"
"Right, of course." A pause, a swallow. "Well...it's like...there's something inside you...under your skin...trying to get out..."
Despite Potter's awful description he can feel it, the skin stretching tight, the feeling of something, living, shifting, twisting underneath. Something pushing against him, pressing up underneath flesh and skin, maybe something made of bone, the way it is unyielding and hard against fragile flesh. He shudders, hard.
Potter's hand rubs between his shoulder blades and he presses back against it, encouraging the touch.
"Shh, shh," Potter soothes. "It's all right. You're all right."
Potter's a bloody Skrewt-screwing, fewmet-eating, freybug-fucking liar.
...but Draco will let it slide, this time.
--
He sits there curled up and literally sick with longing for him, with wanting for him, with yearning for him. Not just to have him or taste him or to fuck him, but to know him, to consume him. To lick the inside of his skull, and to have him be there the morning after so he can do it all over again.
To his comfort, at least Potter now has to sleep outside the tent.
He hopes the mosquitoes get him.
--
"Don't touch me," Draco warns him. "We both know how this ends, and bloodily is an understatement." It ends, of course, with him waking up next to the devoured remains; bones and bloody bits, a green eyeball like a grape, broken glasses and some messy black hair stuck in his teeth, and thinking, 'I can't believe I ate the whole thing!'
"Shhh," Potter shushes him. He ghosts a hand over his skin, hovering, just an inch above his clothes. It hovers over his arm and Draco can feel the warmth radiating from it, can feel the goosebumps forming and his skin prickle with the feeling.
"I'm sorry," Potter whispers hoarsely, "but I need this."
He can feel his breath, warm and moist, on his own lips. "Just one moment. Just let me have this," he pants. And his mouth is so close. So achingly close that Draco can feel and taste and kiss his breath but not those saintly lips. Not his mouth. That wonderful private needy dirty part of him.
"Let me have this." And Draco nods. Draco would have agreed to anything at this point, would have killed a man, would have chased the moon, would have torn off all his clothes and danced naked in the centre of Hogsmeade - anything.
And Potter, still not touching with his body, not touching with his hand - saving, murdering, forgiving, damning hand - slowly notches their mouths together. Chaste, gentle, and perfect.
When they say a kiss is stolen they must mean this. A kiss taken from him, lips stolen from him because they are no longer his the moment their mouths meet. A kiss ripped from him, everything he wants and nothing he wants, too much and not nearly enough. His breath, snatched completely out of his lungs in that one meeting, where his whole body is left empty, hollow, wanting.
And he's never so much loved the thief.
A kiss like this is surely an accident. Draco can't blame Potter, for the way their mouths fit so perfectly together, for the softness of it, the strange tenderness of it when his whole body hums with the need to tear a human being apart. To disassemble it and explore its insides.
The way Potter kisses him, it's the way that they kiss in romance novels and in fairytales, the way people kiss against sunset-drenched backdrops and under velvety moonlight; soft and gentle and almost achingly innocent. It makes a strange feeling well up in his chest. A choking, sick feeling; a sharp pain and he can't breathe. As if his lungs suddenly shrivelled up, as if they'd forgotten what they were meant to do.
It has to be pity. Draco pities him. Potter was supposed to be one of the good ones, after all. He was never meant to want this, any of this, and at the heart of it, he really didn't want him, as he said. How could he?
Draco supposes that he really can't help it, and he can't help that Potter can't help it, and he's not sure who he's supposed to blame, here, but someone really ought to take responsibility for this mess.
"I'm sorry," Potter murmurs against his mouth, hands balled into a fists at his side, clenching. Draco can feel the heat roll off of his body in intoxicating waves. "All these days and I haven't found anything. I've been completely distracted from my mission and I've nothing to show for it. I need to find that bastard and it’s just like before, with them, that was my fault and now I’m doing the same thing to you. You're just getting sicker and sicker, it’s killing you, and I’m the one to blame. It's all because...because..."
He stops himself abruptly, cutting off the stream of madman babble, and pulls himself back with a visible jerk. The breeze that wafts in the empty space between them is so sharp and so bitter it might as well have been the Arctic wind.
"Tonight," Potter says, much more clearly now, clarity in his voice and clarity in his mind; voice filled with that familiar, stupid Potter resolve. "Tonight, at sunset, I'll let you go, and you can Apparate to the nearest town and...do...whatever it is that you need to do."
"I'll come back," Draco says, quietly.
Potter laughs then, a sound so sardonic and bitter it is far more Malfoy-ian than Potteresque. "Shut up, Malfoy. I've three-quarters of a mind to just keep you here and damn the consequences."
"You've only three-quarters of a mind," Draco points out.
"Exactly," says Potter, wryly. "So shut up, Malfoy."
And then he kisses him again, that soft way with just their mouths touching, painfully not enough, body angled carefully away, so close that he can smell him, can feel that heat of him, can hear the pounding of his heart, and yet not close enough to touch - so horrible and frustrating that a few scant inches between them might as well be an endless chasm. Fingers drift, ever so lightly, carefully down the bare skin of one arm and Draco shivers and wants to scream, pushes closer for more contact, arches desperately for it, but all he can get is the touch of lips, soft and wet and almost-shy, moving gently against his own.
Draco actually finds it quite easy to shut up for quite some time.
---
The setting sun touches the tops of the trees and spills out red over the horizon. Even inside the tent, everything seems touched by that orange light, the half-open flap inviting the red to spill in.
Potter's hand is on his wand, and despite the fact that he's treading that murky river between life and death, Draco finds it within himself to quip, "Rather...not the...interpretation I meant, Potter."
Simply because one is dying is no excuse not to be pithy, after all.
He's been hovering for a while, watching Draco writhe with all the practised sadism of a member of the Spanish Inquisition. Were the situation reversed, Draco would have at least had a robust, resounding laugh and a classic line, something maybe like, "No, Mr. Potter, I expect you to die." Then again, Potter always did lack that sort of flair for the dramatic.
It makes him a poor action hero and would make him an even worse villain.
Potter throws Draco's wand back at him; it lands on the ground without even a thud. "When I undo these chains... I'm going to leave the tent. I'm going to go...somewhere. When I come back, you better be...no, you will be gone. Otherwise I can't be held responsible for anything that may happen."
Neither of them could be held responsible, really. Draco can only nod.
Potter raises his wand and pauses again. The sun has already disappeared behind the trees and twilight settles in around them. Draco coughs and shudders, the pain stabbing through him again. He's so weak he wouldn't be able to fight off a wounded baby Nargle with a bad case of colic.
There's a shadow half on Potter's face and he swallows. His green eyes might be glistening, but then he blinks and Draco sees that it's just a trick of the light.
"Malfoy..." Potter says, softly, and then, even more quietly, "Malfoy, I..."
So of course it's right here, right now, at this crucial moment, that Antonin Dolohov comes crashing through the tent.
Funny how something as simple as a known murderer and Death Eater charging like a bull into one's tent, limbs flailing and screaming nonsense, can really ruin the moment.
He looks desperate and bewildered, strangely comical with bits of leaves and twigs and mud tangled in his hair. His clothes are smeared with dirt. His eyes are wild, looking around but not seeing, pupils large and dilated. His nostrils flare and he pants, mouth open and salivating.
Not to mention the obvious, likely painful erection, bulging nauseatingly in his pants.
"You!" he rasps, the word thick and heavy on tongue so dry that every tastebud is a visible white dot. "I've been looking for you for days...for months...for my whole life..."
He crumples to the floor with a low moan, a pathetic creature of a man, crawling on hands and knees over to where Draco is chained and incapacitated.
In a moment, Potter is between them, wand straight out and at the ready, but Dolohov seems not to even notice him, his intent on one thing, and one thing only. "Hello, local varied and sundry wildlife," Potter says, and then, without skipping a beat, "Petrificus Totalus!"
"Hullo, Death Eater ex machina," Draco adds.
Potter walks up to Dolohov's prone, frozen body, eyes still wide and focused completely on Draco, saliva dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. He delivers a swift kick in the gut that Dolohov can't move away from, and venomous as a cobra, he spits on his face. Draco has to admire him for this; it's downright Slytherin, is what it is. "All this time....all this bloody time I've been looking for you, you son of a bitch, tracking you, following you, who knew all I had to do was leave out some bait for your dick---" He punctuates the last vulgarity with another kick, this time to the doubly-petrified body part, with such force that it makes even Draco wince, and he eats human flesh.
"That one's for Hermione, you bastard," Potter declares, panting. "And this one's for Ron."
Tears pour down Dolohov's face and Potter raises his foot again, bringing it down with crushing force as the sound of breaking bone and the wet sound of blood crunch out into the air.
Normally Draco loves that sound, now he hates it for the exact same reason - it makes him hungry. The smell of blood is like the warm aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls filling the air of a bakery, and saliva floods his tongue.
Suddenly Potter is striding over to him with that same sense of deadly purpose and intent.
This is the part that Draco can predict; Potter will take Dolohov with him back to the Order, his mission declared accomplished, and Draco will leave and find a bite to eat, and even if he Apparates back here later, even if he decides to do it, there will be no trace of Potter nor tent, not even a single strand of uncontrollable black hair. If they meet again it will likely be on the battlefield, or perhaps when Potter comes after Father.
Potter just stands there, however, after freeing him. He doesn't make any attempt to move, just stands there and stares at him like some stupid sod.
"Well?" Draco asks, irritably. "What the hell are you waiting for?"
"You're right," Potter says. "What the hell am I waiting for, indeed."
And then Potter's mouth is on his, hot, open, wet, the comforting solid weight of his body on top of him, and Draco moans, absolutely shameless, as he's pushed back down onto the ground. With his arms finally free he can wind them around Potter's neck, pulling their bodies close, flush together, finally, contact at last, and he can feel the heat of him burning through his clothes.
He should stop him. Really he should. It's literally a matter of life and death, but if Potter's chosen this as his preferred form of suicide, Draco's far too far gone to say or do anything, and the tongue that's trying to lick the back of his throat isn't helping much, either.
With a groan that vibrates from somewhere within his chest, he opens his mouth for him, head tilted back, entire body arching for it, wanting it so badly that even this isn't a relief at all. If anything, it makes it worse, finally getting to taste him, to feel him, the touch and pressure and pleasure of him. The sound Potter makes when he can finally tangle his fingers into that awful nest of hair and pull him closer, keep him from pulling away. Oh God, Merlin, that sound. It’s like a jolt of lightning straight to his dick.
There's no other word for it than hunger. Pure and sharp and painful. Potter kisses him like a man bloody starving for it, hands roaming his body and grabbing at him, squeezing him, as if he can't get enough, as if he were the one intent on doing the devouring, rather than the other way around.
It isn't until Draco arches back, catching a glimpse of the Petrified Dolohov out of the corner of his eye, that he suddenly understands.
Dolohov's frozen with his eyes wide open, gaze focused on the two of them, his face dripping tears and mucus, blood and saliva.
It’s bloody disgusting, is what it is.
"Harry Potter, I think I fucking love you," Draco says, thickly, breath fast and laughing, almost delirious with the ruthless brutality of the idea, and then his mouth is caught up again and he can't speak.
Two bird-like monstrosities with one stone, as the saying goes.
Desperation makes quick work of clothes. There's a tearing sound as Potter struggles to get his own robes off, and once that line is crossed, there's absolute no consideration for his own, of course. Designer robes are designer rags in mere seconds. Draco can't care, when the feel of bare hot skin against his own is worth more than all the finest couture in the world, and he especially can't care when Potter is kissing his neck like that, tongue lathing over his skin, teeth scraping, biting down hard enough to leave a mark.
A low, keening sound pushes forth from his throat at that flash of pain, clutching Harry tight to himself, feeling him, the tension in muscles flexing underneath his skin. Potter is trembling just from this, just from kissing and being able to kiss him, to feel him, to touch him. It turns him on too much for him to even feel smug about it, and for a Malfoy, that’s saying something. Besides, the more Harry touches him the more he shivers, too, the desire writhing deep in the pit of his belly like a vat of eels, the way his skin flushes hot, then cold, then hot again.
Simultaneously fumbling at each other's pants, wriggling desperately in a hurried attempt to get them off. It’s almost a contest, to see who can get the other one naked the fastest, and if they weren’t so gagging for it they’d both laugh, maybe, competitive in even this. He's never known this sort of urgency before, never ached for it so profoundly. Sex used to be such a casual affair, oftentimes purely a business affair. But maybe this is what people feel like when they look at him, maybe this is what makes them frantic.
Wanting someone. Needing someone.
If he could have taken it slow, maybe he'd stop and think that Potter was...beautiful, really, like this. Panting and flushed and needy for him, the head of his cock painting slick trails on the flat, smooth plane of Draco's stomach. The way he looms over him, holds him so tight, that surge of pure raw power from someone like him. Maybe he'd tell him that he's never wanted someone like this before, and he doesn't know how he's lived so long without knowing that this, this is what real desire tastes like.
But he can't speak. He can only make those keening, needy, sounds, and when Harry reaches down between them and wraps his hand around his erection, harder than steel and begging for it, straining up to meet that touch, all he can do is gasp as his nerve endings all sizzle simultaneously and his brain has to try and remember how to function.
"Draco..." Harry pants into his ear, kissing it as he strokes him, a fumbling, inexperienced touch that's somehow better than the most skilled lover in all the world. Just the sound of his name on his tongue makes a shiver run up his spine, suddenly so intimate, that he feels weak.
There's a magic in names, after all. The way that saying a name can summon a thing, sometimes saying the true name can rob a magical being of its power; the dominion of names, the properties of ownership.
Of course, that could all just be bollocks, for all Draco knows; it's hard to care when someone's rubbing their thumb over the head of your dick, already wet and slippery with precum.
"So long..." Potter breathes. "Wanted...for so long..."
Just in that simple little phrase, it sounds more than just this past weeks out here in the woods. It sounds like more than months, maybe even years, maybe even forever.
"Shut up, Potter," he breathes, and turns his face so he can capture his mouth in a searing kiss of his own.
He spreads his legs for him, in shameless, whorish display. It’s worth it for that sudden catch in Potter’s throat, the way he groans, just looking at him, and has to stop everything and bite his lip, one hand clenching on Draco’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise.
The look of utter disbelief is just too much. Reaching up, Draco takes his glasses and slips them off, tossing them aside atop the discarded clothes. "Yes, Virginia, we are going to be doing that," he teases, as he cants his hips up, rubbing himself against Potter’s palm, slick with his own fluids.
"I’ve never..." Potter mumbles, face flushed and not just from arousal. Draco is about to smirk at him, say something along the lines of "I might have guessed" but then Potter's hand twists on his prick, it squeezes, and Potter presses their bodies together and rocks against him a little, enough to make his body shift as if he were already inside of him, and all thoughts flit away like opening a box of rogue golden Snitches. Draco gasps, shivering hard.
"But I want to," Potter says, nuzzling his ear and then the side of his face. He suckles, wet and hot, against the pulse in Draco's throat. "Dear God, I want to."
"It's...pretty straightforward, actually," Draco manages when his brain magically remembers how to speak English. He takes Potter's wrist in one hand and draws his hand to his lips. Opening his mouth, Draco takes two of his fingers in, into the heat and wetness of his mouth, feeling the way Potter's eyes burn into him when he does, hearing that first choke when he begins to suck.
He laves his hand with his tongue, coating it generously with his saliva, leaving it wet and dripping and slick. Potter hisses through his teeth when he licks between his fingers, but especially when he sucks on them, letting them thrust in and out of his mouth until they’re glistening and dripping with his spit.
"Put them in me," he directs him, and the lustful look that clouds Potter's face says that he doesn't need to be told twice. The first press against him, down there, is so gentle, so tentative it's almost teasing, as if Potter's not sure whether it'll fit. It fits, of course, it always does, and just one finger slides in easily, actually, as Potter lets out a hiss that's like steam at the feeling of heat around him.
His body trembles and spasms. Potter is inside of him; even if it’s just his finger, it’s touching him inside, that most intimate place and he’s panting, in spite of himself, even if one finger is not much to write home about.
Potter smirks and Draco is about to tell him he’s going to have to charge royalties for using his trademark expression until Potter pushes forward with some force so that the palm of his hand smacks up against his ass, enough to give his body a jolt and cutting witticisms are reduced to little mumbles.
"Goddamn," Potter says, eyes torn between watching his face and flickering down to watch what he’s doing to him.
Just one finger slides in and out, that strange sort of rubbing inside that just makes him ache more, makes him make those little encouraging noises at the strange sort of friction in and out.
"Bloody hell," Potter mutters, "Merlin, you look so good..."
"I'd rather...hoped...I wouldn't look bad," Draco tells him, shifting his hips.
When it's two fingers, Potter seems to have gained even more confidence. They worm inside of him, turning and turning, like opening up a space that was never there before, like opening him up, the muscles stretching in response to that feeling. Draco doesn’t understand it at all; he’s certainly no virgin, in fact, sex is his trade. But when those fingers fuck him - because that is what they’re doing - it’s like he’s never felt it before, this sort of being taken, and his legs twitch and his hips push up, cock insistent for touch.
"Does that feel good?" Potter asks, green eyes completely focused on his face, and Draco’s never felt so naked and vulnerable.
"Mm hmm," Draco nods, eyes closed, even though good isn't even the word for it at all. He has to close his eyes or else he’ll see the way Potter is looking at him and he might just come on the spot. Even just the feel of Potter watching him is making his guts clench up tight and his hips push back onto that invasive touch. Every part of him is aching for it, he wants it, wants it so bad and even this isn’t enough, transformed into a wanton creature of pure sex and sensation.
"Don't worry about...hurting me. Because...because..." His breath hitches as Potter's fingers scissor inside of him, and he begins to twist them around again, achingly slow.
"Because you were made for this," Harry answers for him, his voice gone low and rough, and although that wasn't the right answer at all, it makes Draco's whole body clench and his toes curl, and all he can do is nod, completely speechless.
"Please," he finally says, precious pride thrown to the wind. No one's ever made him beg before - not mean it, at least. He pushes himself back onto those exploring, twisting fingers, and arches up so that he can swipe his tongue against Harry's throat, tasting the salt of his skin and almost-tasting the blood that rushes through underneath. "Please. Harry."
With a curse the fingers are withdrawn, and Potter's spitting into his own palm, he's slicking it over himself, his dick glistening with the mixture of his saliva and Draco's and the wet liquid slick of his own precum.
In the next moment there’s something pressed against him, hard and rounded at the tip, and he feels the saliva pool on his tongue.
"Draco..." Harry breathes again, and then he pushes in.
There’s tightness, there’s pain, there’s that strange feeling of a body being taken over but above all that there is this overwhelming wave of relief, crashing over his body, the resounding cheer of fuck yes from every single cell of his being, and--
The relief is like rapture.
His body shakes with sheer ecstasy at the feeling of penetration; his insides invaded and filled, the pain of every inch pushing in an absolute bliss. "It’s good, it’s good," he murmurs, echoes it, babbles, incoherent and lost until he doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. His eyes roll back in his head, fluttering closed again with the heavenly sensations. His breath comes quick, short and fast, yearning for it for so long he doesn't even know what to do with this perfect feeling now that he has it, only wishing that it could last forever, and wanting more, more, so much more.
Potter, of course, was never a man of many words; always more one for action. He trembles, he pants, he doesn’t speak, but his fingers are bruising on Draco’s hips, skin already gleaming with a sheen of sweat. With a groan he pulls out, almost all the way, and then with a single God! - somewhere between a curse and a prayer - he plunges his cock back inside of him, hard, so their bodies meet with a fleshy, satisfying smack that Draco can feel reverberate all the way up to the back of his throat, and he cries out a single strangled note.
There’s a bite of pain in that sort of force, but it only makes it better. Brighter, sharper, more intense. Potter’s trying, slow and steady rocking at first, trying not to hurt him, but it’s not long
before instinct kicks in, and the pace picks up. Potter panting, pushing into him, and every shift rubs against his insides, sending those susurrations of sensation up and through the core of his body, rolling outwards in sweet waves.
Draco moans, openly, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed over, so overwhelmed with sensation the world around him is only a hum in his ears. The blood throbbing, pounding in his veins. The blood pulsing in his cock, swaying between them, untouched, whimpering every time Harry brushes against it, simply not enough stimulation and feeling that wild, feverish heat flood his body as if someone had drained him of all his blood and siphoned in molten magma into his veins.
He rolls his hips against him, sluttish and unashamed. Knees raised, tilting himself into it, legs linking around his hips, every motion of his body trying to notch them closer, forever closer. Trying to get more of this, the feeling of Harry’s cock filling him up, taking him over.
He lays himself out, stretching his arms above his head like a sacrifice, offering himself up in controlled submission.
It’s good, so good, so bloody fucking good, this dirty hot delicious feeling of being reamed, the hard, steady, needy thrusts that make his whole body jolt and the way Potter looks completely gone, lost to the feeling, the way Potter’s breath is hot in his ear and he growls and clutches at him, the both of them trying to get closer and closer, as if he’s trying to drill himself deep inside Draco’s body and die there.
A human would be bleeding. The roughness of it, the ferocity of it, the inadequacy of the lubrication, the lovely thick size of Potter’s dick, slamming into him with such violence borne of long frustration. Draco’s body is no longer that human fragility, however, it’s something more than that, he is a wild thing, a creature of sex and bloodlust. Lust and violence, after all, are the bread and butter of his species. The bread and wine. The body and the blood. His insides ooze out their own fluids in addition to the trace amounts of blood, making the slide of it slick and easy, and whatever pain there is only spices his pleasure.
It's so good and yet it's not enough. There’s something strange happening inside of him, the feeling of something shifting underneath his skin. His belly is clenched tight and his dick is throbbing and as good as it is, there’s a building frustration and a strange sort of pain from where his back is constantly rubbing against the ground, as if it’s being rubbed raw. He whines; he snarls with the irritation of it, and of course it’s stupid Potter’s fault, he just doesn’t know what he’s doing, he only knows how to thrust, and thrust and thrust and mmm --
Good as that is, it’s not going to get him off.
And the idea that he might not get off from this makes him want to howl.
"Let me...let me get on top of you..." he pants out, pushing himself up so that he can nip at Potter’s throat with sharp white teeth. He sucks at the pulse of his throat, hard, hard enough to leave a mark, and then one hand scratches with blunt nails down Potter’s back. "Please."
After all, you want a thing done right, you have to get a Malfoy to do it.
“You want to... fuck, oh my God -- yes..." is all the coherency Potter can manage before he nods, frantic - followed by a brief tangle of limbs as he tries to stay inside of him and roll over at the same time. It fails, of course, the change of position dislodging him, and Potter cries out with the loss of him.
Draco could say that he manages to stay controlled, even with the sudden loss, that emptiness inside of him, but it would be an awful lie. He whimpers with the feeling, pathetic and wanting, suffering without the feeling of Harry’s cock inside of him.
Harry grabs his hips possessively, just as he positions himself, and before he can even lower himself he’s slammed back onto it, with such force that both of them scream.
Draco gasps like a man drowning, skewered and feeling split in half, but it’s perfect; that stiff, thick hardness inside of him nudging his prostate. His dick twitches, dripping precum onto Harry’s flat stomach.
"I’m going to either die or fucking kill you if you don’t move that sweet arse of yours, Malfoy," Harry pants from beneath him, holding onto his hips and rocking up in a such a teasing way that Draco really thinks he’s going to go mad.
"Don’t...die," Draco breathes, managing these two words, and two words only, each little syllable a miracle with the way Potter is gripping him and nudging that horrible, wonderful place inside of him.
Then he places both palms on Harry’s muscled chest, using him for leverage as he first begins to rock, then fuck himself back onto that stiff, eager dick.
It’s different this way, at once more in control and more vulnerable, the way he can control the direction and the angle of the thrusts, the way it seems so much deeper like this, gravity pulling his whole body down into it, the way that Potter’s hands firm on his hips tug him down onto it. Lewd and libertine, salacious and slutty, as he rides Potter’s cock, every little rock, every thrust jabbing against that sweet sensitive bundle of nerves inside, body pierced with spikes of sensation like St. Sebastian shot full of arrows.
Potter’s eyes on him, watching his every move, every flinch and twitch, every shudder and shiver, every whimper and moan, that just adds to to the heat sweeping over his body. The way Potter groans into it, rumbling deep into his throat, the way he has to bite his lip so hard that he bruises and breaks the skin.
Draco leans over him then, palms pressed against his chest, and kisses him - mouth wet and suckling, tongue lathing over his bottom lip to draw out the blood, each drop of ruby-red like a sun-ripened berry, bursting on his tongue.
Potter pushes his tongue into his mouth, filling it up the way he’s filling up his body, clutching at him as if he were holding him together, as if the moment he let go of him, Draco would simply shatter.
He feels like that, shattering, or at least on the edge of it, all that need, that desire, boiling in the pit of his belly. He pulls back only enough, only as far as Potter will let him go, to feel himself impaled all the way up into his stomach, into his chest cavity. Thigh muscles strain as he lifts his whole body up and then drops back down onto Potter’s dick, feeling every inch of it sliding up inside of it, the satisfying thud of it smacking up inside of him.
There’s a dirty prickle at the back of his neck as he feels another set of eyes watching him like this, fucking himself on Potter’s dick over and over again, dark eyes of full of dark, dirty lusts. It makes him feel filthy, debauched and spoiled. It makes him ravenous, for sex and for flesh.
He whines, then, hand slipping down between them to wrap around his own erection, pulsing and flushed nearly red with need, feeling the wet slick of his own precum dribbling down the shaft.
“Oh my God,” Potter groans at the sight, and he’s invoked the deity so many times Draco almost wants to quip that he’s glad Potter’s chosen Malfoyism as his new personal religion. Of course that’s far too many words for a person who can barely manage a single one, a number that is drastically reduced when Potter pushes his hand out of the way so that he can replace it with his own.
Draco is no spokesman for eloquence when all he can say is “mm, mm, yes,” and the occasional “oh, oh, oh,” whimpering and whining as he thrusts up into the blessedly firm grip of Potter’s hand around him and drops down onto the aching, thick hardness of Potter inside of him, hitting that perfect spot.
Sensation shoots through him like a thunderbolt, from the pit of his belly up through his whole body, his whole back pulsing in time with it. His shoulder blades burn and ache underneath his skin, as if the bone itself were white-hot metal, skin so scorching hot that it felt as if his sweat were sizzling up into steam.
Low, needy sounds, formed deep in his throat, bubbling out through parted lips as Potter shoves into him, over and over again, hips pistoning, every thrust a stab of pure pleasure deep into the core of his body; as he fucks himself onto it and into it, Potter’s hand warm and slick around him, faster and faster, moving together, moving as one.
It’s too much, too much stimulation, he’s wanted it for too long and too much need inside of him threatening to swallow him up. Potter’s hand around him gives him a final harsh tug, just as he slams back down so hard that he feels his teeth rattle in the back of his head.
He arches back, body strained and muscles drawn tight, head tossed back, hair falling across his eyes, the pale platinum of it turned a dark gold with sweat. When he comes he shrieks, spinning the sound out from the depths of his body. He spills hot white spurts of seed all over Potter’s hand, squelching out between his fingers, dripping messily between them. He continues to scream as his whole body flashes with bright pain and even brighter pleasure, muscles clenching tight around Potter’s dick, hands holding him tightly in place as one, two forced thrusts later Potter chokes, gasps, “Draco!” and he’s coming deep inside of him, and he can feel the warm wetness of it, coating his insides.
The power of names; say it three times and you summon a thing, or you rob it of its power; call it three times and it serves you - name it, and claim it, and tame it.
Or perhaps it does nothing at all; Draco wouldn’t know.
All he knows is that he’s still screaming when a wet, ripping sound fills the air as the thing inside of him finally tears through his skin.
Things, rather - twin blades of pain sprouting out from his shoulder blades, at once torment and relief as his whole body trembles, skin giving away to two large structures that reach out like limbs, made of flesh and bone. Panting, face wet with tears and sweat, Draco stretches and arches, flexing his wings at last.
It would be freak-out material if he weren’t bloody starving, and really - not like it hasn’t happened before.
Veela puberty, after all, is hell.
Draco’s face twists, beautiful human features blurring and for a moment appearing sharp and birdlike before transforming back again. Like an optical illusion; simultaneously the beauty and the hag, the rabbit and the duck. He pushes himself off of Potter, snarling. His hunger is so sharp, so intense, that it feels like he’s housing a black hole in the pit of his belly, and just the smell of Harry’s body, his fluids, his blood, makes him drool.
His wings trail behind him as he crawls over the ground, feathers wet and bedraggled, glued down with blood and a thin film of clear slime like afterbirth. A whole-body shiver spatters drops of blood and fluid all around him in a sort of disgusting shower, bathing the still-supine, still-still body of one Antonin Dolohov.
It can only be an improvement, really. Although soon enough, it won’t matter much anymore.
Dolohov’s dark eyes seem to flicker, watching him, foolish enough to seem grateful even now, when Draco hovers over him dripping blood and fluids, semen and blood trickling out between his thighs, like some sort of demented, debauched angel - the kind that makes a mess all over one’s tent.
Of course, trust Dolohov to be just this sick.
There is a moment when Draco looks at him coolly, allows him just this one moment to look his Death straight in the eye. An opportune moment for a witty one-liner, perhaps something along the lines of, ‘Revenge is a dish best served with borscht and vodka.’ However, lacking both these appetising accoutrements and too hungry to care, he plays up the whole avenging angel angle and goes for a much more chilling, “I am the punishment of Fate....If you had not committed great sins, Fate would not have sent a punishment like me upon you.”
Because honestly, if one suddenly finds oneself in possession of a bloody thing like giant wings, it is one’s duty to the world to work them as much as possible.
“Thus concludes the theatre portion of our dinner-theatre programme this evening,” Draco declares. “We do hope that you have enjoyed yourself, as it is now time for dinner...”
There is more than one way to kill a man, as they say, just as there is more than one way to skin a man. More often than not, Draco goes for the throat - a quick, easy kill, a quick death with minimal thrashing and screaming. So messy, so loud, when they thrash and scream. However, this is not just any man, this is a black-hearted sadist, cold-blooded killer, a tormentor of souls - a mutilator, a rapist, a manic murderer; that very special scum of the earth that lives and thrives on the pain and suffering of others. A man who has been responsible for the specific suffering of those close to someone he knows, quite intimately, and the sum of all these mortal sins makes a very, very bad man indeed.
Pushing open the robes barely hanging on the dishevelled body, pushing up the shirt to expose his abdomen, Draco opens his mouth wide and sinks his teeth into the skin and muscle. There’s an incredible vibration that hums through the whole body beneath him, like the minute vibration of molecules that hold together the universe, but the body lies still, pliant, alive yet frozen still.
Hands hook into claws, claws morphing into talons, needle-sharp, and wherever he touches he draws bright little trickling rivers of blood.
There’s nothing like that first bite, the way the flesh is soft and yielding, tender and sumptuous. Warm, delicious blood floods his mouth, and there’s a strangled cry from a throat with paralysed vocal chords, that should not be capable of producing any sound at all. He feels the gently possessive touch of fingers stroking his damp hair. He swallows the chunk of flesh he’s torn out and it slides silkily down his throat and he smiles. He smiles against the little bite-sized hole he’s made, marked with his teeth and pooling with blood, he smiles as he makes quick work of the man’s trousers, shredding and tearing the fabric to ribbons.
The fingers keep on stroking, stroking, even as the gurgling sounds of suffocated screams fill the air. Draco smiles and buries his face into all that warm, living flesh, and he begins his long-awaited feast with his first course: cock au vin.
---
Draco stretches out next to the mess of blood-soaked rags and splintered bone that used to be something by the name of Dolo-something. His normally flat stomach is now softly distended as a result of his gluttony, and he’s somewhere between purring with contentment and groaning with the pains of excess as he lays his head back in Harry’s lap. Purely to demand physical comfort, of course, not for any sort of sentimental reason, and he grabs Potter’s hands so that he can guide them to his temples to prove his point. Potter must learn his proper place, after all - it simply won’t do to give commoners the wrong idea. They might get uppity.
“I blame Mother,” Draco declares, eyes closing as those magic fingers begin massaging. “When you’re small, the rule is to always finish your meal, because there are children being starved in Hufflepuff. However, as soon as you get old enough, the proper thing to do is to leave half of it un-eaten. It makes not a lick of sense. She sends mixed messages; it’s a wonder I don’t have an eating disorder.”
“I’m a monster,” Potter replies quietly, which is such a non sequitur that Draco opens his eyes to look at his upside-down face. The fact that his fingers have stilled is not exactly acceptable, either.
“Don’t tell me you regret it now, Potter. I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but, much like my virginity, this is one bell that simply can’t be un-rung. Not even bulimia could save him now - good luck attempting to resurrect a chewed-up, half-digested pile of pink, mushy gunk.”
“You don’t understand,” Potter says, hands dropping away. He glances over at the pile of gore that was once an ex-convict and is now an ex-man, and he doesn’t even shudder, although he does avert his eyes.
Softly, he begins, “I...” He takes a deep breath, and the words come out in a rush of air. “I don’t regret it. Any of it.
“....That’s the problem.”
Pushing himself up, Draco twists around so that he can grab Potter’s shoulder and force him to look at him, eye to eye as equals, face close enough to kiss. “Potter, listen to me. He was a bad man. An evil man - a man of utmost villainy, if you want to call it that.”
He squeezes his shoulder hard at first, hard enough to feel the curve of bone underneath the muscle, clenching, bruising for a moment, but then his grip slowly relaxes. His hand begins to rub instead, warm and comforting, as his voice drops to a hush. “You did what you had to, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It’s in our nature,” he continues, in soft, dulcet tones. “It runs in our blood, you and I. We do what we must do, in order to survive.”
Potter is silent for a long moment, his body trembling just once when Draco reaches up to tuck an errant lock of black hair behind his ear. Predictably, it refuses to stay in place. Potter’s body language is tight, every muscle stiff, holding himself still, and he bites his bruised lip when Draco touches his cheek.
“Harry, Harry, Harry.”
Name it, and claim it, and tame it.
Harry’s body slumps as he sighs, all of him relaxing, unfurling. Slowly he nods, and a hand reaches up to close his fingers around the hand on his cheek, squeezing it hard enough to turn the fingers white for a moment, making them tingle when the grip relaxes, as the blood rushes back in.
"There are a lot of bad men out there," Harry finally says, and he does not let go of Draco’s hand.
"Absolutely," Draco smoothly agrees. Carefully, deliberately, he pulls him in for a kiss, slow and sweet and stolen, with the luscious tang of blood still lingering on his tongue.
-end-
“Men have forgotten this truth,” said the fox. “But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”
-- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
title: Garbage - You Look So Fine
“I am the punishment of God...If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you.”
--Genghis Khan
Part: 2/2
WARNINGS: mild gore, graphic sex, very very NC-17
Summary: Draco is a Veela and Harry is his mate. Crack Horror, by yours truly.
Notes: curiouslyfic prompted: Wings, Veela, H/D, smut, Crackfic/horror ficlet. For her, and for the ladies in chatzy who didn't know how crack horror worked. I wrote this very quickly, so it's not as carefully crafted as some of my other writing. Don't think about it too much, and please enjoy.
And a million thanks to beautiful curiouslyfic for the amazing services. Beta, and otherwise. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH GAHD.
<< Previously <<
--
Potter immerses himself in books, searching for a possible solution.
"I really don't think Care of Magical Creatures is going to help us much this time around," Draco remarks. "Neither is your will your beloved, trusty Hogwarts: A History."
Potter is no Granger, that's for sure. Hell, he's no Draco, even. He doesn't have a mind for books, despite the nerdy appearance with the glasses and hair-care regimen (or lack thereof). He huffs and he sighs, and wrinkles his brow and his nose, he squints his eyes and ruffles his own hair when he's exceedingly frustrated, all of which are decidedly not at all endearing.
He's trying, at least, but since when was simply trying enough?
Sometimes Draco helpfully mocks him or makes a comment, but more and more of the time he feels too sick to say anything.
Most of the time Potter is very focused on concentrating, but more and more of the time he takes one look at Draco and has to pack up his books and leave the tent.
--
The hunger is worse than the stabbing pain. The sort of hunger that makes his stomach ache and stretch and makes him feel like he could swallow the moon. The sort of hunger that makes every part of his body tingle and ache and burn, burn bright and hot with need, fire-bright, fever-bright, bright like an exploding star, with the need to fuck.
"A supernova is simply a fancy term for a dying star," he mumbles, and hisses when there's a cool touch of wet cloth on his forehead.
"You're delirious," observes Potter, keeping himself at arm's length despite his need to mother-hen him and wet his face.
"I'm bloody starving, is what," he says, turning large, darkened eyes to Potter. He swallows, just once, and licks his dry lips.
Potter yelps, suddenly, as he's upended the pail of cold water into his lap. He scrambles to his feet, the large, dark wet spot spreading out over his trousers. "I ...I need to go get...a thing."
"Either leave or get rid of me. You have no other choice," Draco manages, again. He pauses, and thinks of a book he saw once. Set in America in the Dark Ages. "This tent ain't big enough for the both of us," he drawls, and laughs at himself, and the laugh is immediately cut off by the sharp stabbing pain. "Fuck."
At that first sign of pain, Potter is by his side, dripping wet crotch and all. Dumb berk. "What hurts?"
"Everything," Draco hisses through his teeth. The you moron part of it is implied. There's the pain again, twin hot knives slicking through him as if his flesh were butter, and he tries again. "My back."
"Itches," he complains.
Someone should really tell Potter that if you're actively trying not to have sex with a person then the last thing you ought to be doing is climbing on top of said person, rucking up the back of his shirt, putting your hands all over him. Your hands probably shouldn't feel so good, too, rubbing, soothing, cool from the water you've been dipping them in but warming up very quickly, so good that they make a person buck and moan underneath you--
Potter gasps, suddenly, and it's not a sexy kind of gasp. More like seeing the Acromantula in the Forbidden Forest type of gasp. Or Argus Filch in women's lingerie - that type of gasp.
"What is it?" Draco mumbles, already curled up into himself.
"Well...have you ever seen the movie Alien?"
"What's a movie?"
"Right, of course." A pause, a swallow. "Well...it's like...there's something inside you...under your skin...trying to get out..."
Despite Potter's awful description he can feel it, the skin stretching tight, the feeling of something, living, shifting, twisting underneath. Something pushing against him, pressing up underneath flesh and skin, maybe something made of bone, the way it is unyielding and hard against fragile flesh. He shudders, hard.
Potter's hand rubs between his shoulder blades and he presses back against it, encouraging the touch.
"Shh, shh," Potter soothes. "It's all right. You're all right."
Potter's a bloody Skrewt-screwing, fewmet-eating, freybug-fucking liar.
...but Draco will let it slide, this time.
--
He sits there curled up and literally sick with longing for him, with wanting for him, with yearning for him. Not just to have him or taste him or to fuck him, but to know him, to consume him. To lick the inside of his skull, and to have him be there the morning after so he can do it all over again.
To his comfort, at least Potter now has to sleep outside the tent.
He hopes the mosquitoes get him.
--
"Don't touch me," Draco warns him. "We both know how this ends, and bloodily is an understatement." It ends, of course, with him waking up next to the devoured remains; bones and bloody bits, a green eyeball like a grape, broken glasses and some messy black hair stuck in his teeth, and thinking, 'I can't believe I ate the whole thing!'
"Shhh," Potter shushes him. He ghosts a hand over his skin, hovering, just an inch above his clothes. It hovers over his arm and Draco can feel the warmth radiating from it, can feel the goosebumps forming and his skin prickle with the feeling.
"I'm sorry," Potter whispers hoarsely, "but I need this."
He can feel his breath, warm and moist, on his own lips. "Just one moment. Just let me have this," he pants. And his mouth is so close. So achingly close that Draco can feel and taste and kiss his breath but not those saintly lips. Not his mouth. That wonderful private needy dirty part of him.
"Let me have this." And Draco nods. Draco would have agreed to anything at this point, would have killed a man, would have chased the moon, would have torn off all his clothes and danced naked in the centre of Hogsmeade - anything.
And Potter, still not touching with his body, not touching with his hand - saving, murdering, forgiving, damning hand - slowly notches their mouths together. Chaste, gentle, and perfect.
When they say a kiss is stolen they must mean this. A kiss taken from him, lips stolen from him because they are no longer his the moment their mouths meet. A kiss ripped from him, everything he wants and nothing he wants, too much and not nearly enough. His breath, snatched completely out of his lungs in that one meeting, where his whole body is left empty, hollow, wanting.
And he's never so much loved the thief.
A kiss like this is surely an accident. Draco can't blame Potter, for the way their mouths fit so perfectly together, for the softness of it, the strange tenderness of it when his whole body hums with the need to tear a human being apart. To disassemble it and explore its insides.
The way Potter kisses him, it's the way that they kiss in romance novels and in fairytales, the way people kiss against sunset-drenched backdrops and under velvety moonlight; soft and gentle and almost achingly innocent. It makes a strange feeling well up in his chest. A choking, sick feeling; a sharp pain and he can't breathe. As if his lungs suddenly shrivelled up, as if they'd forgotten what they were meant to do.
It has to be pity. Draco pities him. Potter was supposed to be one of the good ones, after all. He was never meant to want this, any of this, and at the heart of it, he really didn't want him, as he said. How could he?
Draco supposes that he really can't help it, and he can't help that Potter can't help it, and he's not sure who he's supposed to blame, here, but someone really ought to take responsibility for this mess.
"I'm sorry," Potter murmurs against his mouth, hands balled into a fists at his side, clenching. Draco can feel the heat roll off of his body in intoxicating waves. "All these days and I haven't found anything. I've been completely distracted from my mission and I've nothing to show for it. I need to find that bastard and it’s just like before, with them, that was my fault and now I’m doing the same thing to you. You're just getting sicker and sicker, it’s killing you, and I’m the one to blame. It's all because...because..."
He stops himself abruptly, cutting off the stream of madman babble, and pulls himself back with a visible jerk. The breeze that wafts in the empty space between them is so sharp and so bitter it might as well have been the Arctic wind.
"Tonight," Potter says, much more clearly now, clarity in his voice and clarity in his mind; voice filled with that familiar, stupid Potter resolve. "Tonight, at sunset, I'll let you go, and you can Apparate to the nearest town and...do...whatever it is that you need to do."
"I'll come back," Draco says, quietly.
Potter laughs then, a sound so sardonic and bitter it is far more Malfoy-ian than Potteresque. "Shut up, Malfoy. I've three-quarters of a mind to just keep you here and damn the consequences."
"You've only three-quarters of a mind," Draco points out.
"Exactly," says Potter, wryly. "So shut up, Malfoy."
And then he kisses him again, that soft way with just their mouths touching, painfully not enough, body angled carefully away, so close that he can smell him, can feel that heat of him, can hear the pounding of his heart, and yet not close enough to touch - so horrible and frustrating that a few scant inches between them might as well be an endless chasm. Fingers drift, ever so lightly, carefully down the bare skin of one arm and Draco shivers and wants to scream, pushes closer for more contact, arches desperately for it, but all he can get is the touch of lips, soft and wet and almost-shy, moving gently against his own.
Draco actually finds it quite easy to shut up for quite some time.
---
The setting sun touches the tops of the trees and spills out red over the horizon. Even inside the tent, everything seems touched by that orange light, the half-open flap inviting the red to spill in.
Potter's hand is on his wand, and despite the fact that he's treading that murky river between life and death, Draco finds it within himself to quip, "Rather...not the...interpretation I meant, Potter."
Simply because one is dying is no excuse not to be pithy, after all.
He's been hovering for a while, watching Draco writhe with all the practised sadism of a member of the Spanish Inquisition. Were the situation reversed, Draco would have at least had a robust, resounding laugh and a classic line, something maybe like, "No, Mr. Potter, I expect you to die." Then again, Potter always did lack that sort of flair for the dramatic.
It makes him a poor action hero and would make him an even worse villain.
Potter throws Draco's wand back at him; it lands on the ground without even a thud. "When I undo these chains... I'm going to leave the tent. I'm going to go...somewhere. When I come back, you better be...no, you will be gone. Otherwise I can't be held responsible for anything that may happen."
Neither of them could be held responsible, really. Draco can only nod.
Potter raises his wand and pauses again. The sun has already disappeared behind the trees and twilight settles in around them. Draco coughs and shudders, the pain stabbing through him again. He's so weak he wouldn't be able to fight off a wounded baby Nargle with a bad case of colic.
There's a shadow half on Potter's face and he swallows. His green eyes might be glistening, but then he blinks and Draco sees that it's just a trick of the light.
"Malfoy..." Potter says, softly, and then, even more quietly, "Malfoy, I..."
So of course it's right here, right now, at this crucial moment, that Antonin Dolohov comes crashing through the tent.
Funny how something as simple as a known murderer and Death Eater charging like a bull into one's tent, limbs flailing and screaming nonsense, can really ruin the moment.
He looks desperate and bewildered, strangely comical with bits of leaves and twigs and mud tangled in his hair. His clothes are smeared with dirt. His eyes are wild, looking around but not seeing, pupils large and dilated. His nostrils flare and he pants, mouth open and salivating.
Not to mention the obvious, likely painful erection, bulging nauseatingly in his pants.
"You!" he rasps, the word thick and heavy on tongue so dry that every tastebud is a visible white dot. "I've been looking for you for days...for months...for my whole life..."
He crumples to the floor with a low moan, a pathetic creature of a man, crawling on hands and knees over to where Draco is chained and incapacitated.
In a moment, Potter is between them, wand straight out and at the ready, but Dolohov seems not to even notice him, his intent on one thing, and one thing only. "Hello, local varied and sundry wildlife," Potter says, and then, without skipping a beat, "Petrificus Totalus!"
"Hullo, Death Eater ex machina," Draco adds.
Potter walks up to Dolohov's prone, frozen body, eyes still wide and focused completely on Draco, saliva dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. He delivers a swift kick in the gut that Dolohov can't move away from, and venomous as a cobra, he spits on his face. Draco has to admire him for this; it's downright Slytherin, is what it is. "All this time....all this bloody time I've been looking for you, you son of a bitch, tracking you, following you, who knew all I had to do was leave out some bait for your dick---" He punctuates the last vulgarity with another kick, this time to the doubly-petrified body part, with such force that it makes even Draco wince, and he eats human flesh.
"That one's for Hermione, you bastard," Potter declares, panting. "And this one's for Ron."
Tears pour down Dolohov's face and Potter raises his foot again, bringing it down with crushing force as the sound of breaking bone and the wet sound of blood crunch out into the air.
Normally Draco loves that sound, now he hates it for the exact same reason - it makes him hungry. The smell of blood is like the warm aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls filling the air of a bakery, and saliva floods his tongue.
Suddenly Potter is striding over to him with that same sense of deadly purpose and intent.
This is the part that Draco can predict; Potter will take Dolohov with him back to the Order, his mission declared accomplished, and Draco will leave and find a bite to eat, and even if he Apparates back here later, even if he decides to do it, there will be no trace of Potter nor tent, not even a single strand of uncontrollable black hair. If they meet again it will likely be on the battlefield, or perhaps when Potter comes after Father.
Potter just stands there, however, after freeing him. He doesn't make any attempt to move, just stands there and stares at him like some stupid sod.
"Well?" Draco asks, irritably. "What the hell are you waiting for?"
"You're right," Potter says. "What the hell am I waiting for, indeed."
And then Potter's mouth is on his, hot, open, wet, the comforting solid weight of his body on top of him, and Draco moans, absolutely shameless, as he's pushed back down onto the ground. With his arms finally free he can wind them around Potter's neck, pulling their bodies close, flush together, finally, contact at last, and he can feel the heat of him burning through his clothes.
He should stop him. Really he should. It's literally a matter of life and death, but if Potter's chosen this as his preferred form of suicide, Draco's far too far gone to say or do anything, and the tongue that's trying to lick the back of his throat isn't helping much, either.
With a groan that vibrates from somewhere within his chest, he opens his mouth for him, head tilted back, entire body arching for it, wanting it so badly that even this isn't a relief at all. If anything, it makes it worse, finally getting to taste him, to feel him, the touch and pressure and pleasure of him. The sound Potter makes when he can finally tangle his fingers into that awful nest of hair and pull him closer, keep him from pulling away. Oh God, Merlin, that sound. It’s like a jolt of lightning straight to his dick.
There's no other word for it than hunger. Pure and sharp and painful. Potter kisses him like a man bloody starving for it, hands roaming his body and grabbing at him, squeezing him, as if he can't get enough, as if he were the one intent on doing the devouring, rather than the other way around.
It isn't until Draco arches back, catching a glimpse of the Petrified Dolohov out of the corner of his eye, that he suddenly understands.
Dolohov's frozen with his eyes wide open, gaze focused on the two of them, his face dripping tears and mucus, blood and saliva.
It’s bloody disgusting, is what it is.
"Harry Potter, I think I fucking love you," Draco says, thickly, breath fast and laughing, almost delirious with the ruthless brutality of the idea, and then his mouth is caught up again and he can't speak.
Two bird-like monstrosities with one stone, as the saying goes.
Desperation makes quick work of clothes. There's a tearing sound as Potter struggles to get his own robes off, and once that line is crossed, there's absolute no consideration for his own, of course. Designer robes are designer rags in mere seconds. Draco can't care, when the feel of bare hot skin against his own is worth more than all the finest couture in the world, and he especially can't care when Potter is kissing his neck like that, tongue lathing over his skin, teeth scraping, biting down hard enough to leave a mark.
A low, keening sound pushes forth from his throat at that flash of pain, clutching Harry tight to himself, feeling him, the tension in muscles flexing underneath his skin. Potter is trembling just from this, just from kissing and being able to kiss him, to feel him, to touch him. It turns him on too much for him to even feel smug about it, and for a Malfoy, that’s saying something. Besides, the more Harry touches him the more he shivers, too, the desire writhing deep in the pit of his belly like a vat of eels, the way his skin flushes hot, then cold, then hot again.
Simultaneously fumbling at each other's pants, wriggling desperately in a hurried attempt to get them off. It’s almost a contest, to see who can get the other one naked the fastest, and if they weren’t so gagging for it they’d both laugh, maybe, competitive in even this. He's never known this sort of urgency before, never ached for it so profoundly. Sex used to be such a casual affair, oftentimes purely a business affair. But maybe this is what people feel like when they look at him, maybe this is what makes them frantic.
Wanting someone. Needing someone.
If he could have taken it slow, maybe he'd stop and think that Potter was...beautiful, really, like this. Panting and flushed and needy for him, the head of his cock painting slick trails on the flat, smooth plane of Draco's stomach. The way he looms over him, holds him so tight, that surge of pure raw power from someone like him. Maybe he'd tell him that he's never wanted someone like this before, and he doesn't know how he's lived so long without knowing that this, this is what real desire tastes like.
But he can't speak. He can only make those keening, needy, sounds, and when Harry reaches down between them and wraps his hand around his erection, harder than steel and begging for it, straining up to meet that touch, all he can do is gasp as his nerve endings all sizzle simultaneously and his brain has to try and remember how to function.
"Draco..." Harry pants into his ear, kissing it as he strokes him, a fumbling, inexperienced touch that's somehow better than the most skilled lover in all the world. Just the sound of his name on his tongue makes a shiver run up his spine, suddenly so intimate, that he feels weak.
There's a magic in names, after all. The way that saying a name can summon a thing, sometimes saying the true name can rob a magical being of its power; the dominion of names, the properties of ownership.
Of course, that could all just be bollocks, for all Draco knows; it's hard to care when someone's rubbing their thumb over the head of your dick, already wet and slippery with precum.
"So long..." Potter breathes. "Wanted...for so long..."
Just in that simple little phrase, it sounds more than just this past weeks out here in the woods. It sounds like more than months, maybe even years, maybe even forever.
"Shut up, Potter," he breathes, and turns his face so he can capture his mouth in a searing kiss of his own.
He spreads his legs for him, in shameless, whorish display. It’s worth it for that sudden catch in Potter’s throat, the way he groans, just looking at him, and has to stop everything and bite his lip, one hand clenching on Draco’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise.
The look of utter disbelief is just too much. Reaching up, Draco takes his glasses and slips them off, tossing them aside atop the discarded clothes. "Yes, Virginia, we are going to be doing that," he teases, as he cants his hips up, rubbing himself against Potter’s palm, slick with his own fluids.
"I’ve never..." Potter mumbles, face flushed and not just from arousal. Draco is about to smirk at him, say something along the lines of "I might have guessed" but then Potter's hand twists on his prick, it squeezes, and Potter presses their bodies together and rocks against him a little, enough to make his body shift as if he were already inside of him, and all thoughts flit away like opening a box of rogue golden Snitches. Draco gasps, shivering hard.
"But I want to," Potter says, nuzzling his ear and then the side of his face. He suckles, wet and hot, against the pulse in Draco's throat. "Dear God, I want to."
"It's...pretty straightforward, actually," Draco manages when his brain magically remembers how to speak English. He takes Potter's wrist in one hand and draws his hand to his lips. Opening his mouth, Draco takes two of his fingers in, into the heat and wetness of his mouth, feeling the way Potter's eyes burn into him when he does, hearing that first choke when he begins to suck.
He laves his hand with his tongue, coating it generously with his saliva, leaving it wet and dripping and slick. Potter hisses through his teeth when he licks between his fingers, but especially when he sucks on them, letting them thrust in and out of his mouth until they’re glistening and dripping with his spit.
"Put them in me," he directs him, and the lustful look that clouds Potter's face says that he doesn't need to be told twice. The first press against him, down there, is so gentle, so tentative it's almost teasing, as if Potter's not sure whether it'll fit. It fits, of course, it always does, and just one finger slides in easily, actually, as Potter lets out a hiss that's like steam at the feeling of heat around him.
His body trembles and spasms. Potter is inside of him; even if it’s just his finger, it’s touching him inside, that most intimate place and he’s panting, in spite of himself, even if one finger is not much to write home about.
Potter smirks and Draco is about to tell him he’s going to have to charge royalties for using his trademark expression until Potter pushes forward with some force so that the palm of his hand smacks up against his ass, enough to give his body a jolt and cutting witticisms are reduced to little mumbles.
"Goddamn," Potter says, eyes torn between watching his face and flickering down to watch what he’s doing to him.
Just one finger slides in and out, that strange sort of rubbing inside that just makes him ache more, makes him make those little encouraging noises at the strange sort of friction in and out.
"Bloody hell," Potter mutters, "Merlin, you look so good..."
"I'd rather...hoped...I wouldn't look bad," Draco tells him, shifting his hips.
When it's two fingers, Potter seems to have gained even more confidence. They worm inside of him, turning and turning, like opening up a space that was never there before, like opening him up, the muscles stretching in response to that feeling. Draco doesn’t understand it at all; he’s certainly no virgin, in fact, sex is his trade. But when those fingers fuck him - because that is what they’re doing - it’s like he’s never felt it before, this sort of being taken, and his legs twitch and his hips push up, cock insistent for touch.
"Does that feel good?" Potter asks, green eyes completely focused on his face, and Draco’s never felt so naked and vulnerable.
"Mm hmm," Draco nods, eyes closed, even though good isn't even the word for it at all. He has to close his eyes or else he’ll see the way Potter is looking at him and he might just come on the spot. Even just the feel of Potter watching him is making his guts clench up tight and his hips push back onto that invasive touch. Every part of him is aching for it, he wants it, wants it so bad and even this isn’t enough, transformed into a wanton creature of pure sex and sensation.
"Don't worry about...hurting me. Because...because..." His breath hitches as Potter's fingers scissor inside of him, and he begins to twist them around again, achingly slow.
"Because you were made for this," Harry answers for him, his voice gone low and rough, and although that wasn't the right answer at all, it makes Draco's whole body clench and his toes curl, and all he can do is nod, completely speechless.
"Please," he finally says, precious pride thrown to the wind. No one's ever made him beg before - not mean it, at least. He pushes himself back onto those exploring, twisting fingers, and arches up so that he can swipe his tongue against Harry's throat, tasting the salt of his skin and almost-tasting the blood that rushes through underneath. "Please. Harry."
With a curse the fingers are withdrawn, and Potter's spitting into his own palm, he's slicking it over himself, his dick glistening with the mixture of his saliva and Draco's and the wet liquid slick of his own precum.
In the next moment there’s something pressed against him, hard and rounded at the tip, and he feels the saliva pool on his tongue.
"Draco..." Harry breathes again, and then he pushes in.
There’s tightness, there’s pain, there’s that strange feeling of a body being taken over but above all that there is this overwhelming wave of relief, crashing over his body, the resounding cheer of fuck yes from every single cell of his being, and--
The relief is like rapture.
His body shakes with sheer ecstasy at the feeling of penetration; his insides invaded and filled, the pain of every inch pushing in an absolute bliss. "It’s good, it’s good," he murmurs, echoes it, babbles, incoherent and lost until he doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. His eyes roll back in his head, fluttering closed again with the heavenly sensations. His breath comes quick, short and fast, yearning for it for so long he doesn't even know what to do with this perfect feeling now that he has it, only wishing that it could last forever, and wanting more, more, so much more.
Potter, of course, was never a man of many words; always more one for action. He trembles, he pants, he doesn’t speak, but his fingers are bruising on Draco’s hips, skin already gleaming with a sheen of sweat. With a groan he pulls out, almost all the way, and then with a single God! - somewhere between a curse and a prayer - he plunges his cock back inside of him, hard, so their bodies meet with a fleshy, satisfying smack that Draco can feel reverberate all the way up to the back of his throat, and he cries out a single strangled note.
There’s a bite of pain in that sort of force, but it only makes it better. Brighter, sharper, more intense. Potter’s trying, slow and steady rocking at first, trying not to hurt him, but it’s not long
before instinct kicks in, and the pace picks up. Potter panting, pushing into him, and every shift rubs against his insides, sending those susurrations of sensation up and through the core of his body, rolling outwards in sweet waves.
Draco moans, openly, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed over, so overwhelmed with sensation the world around him is only a hum in his ears. The blood throbbing, pounding in his veins. The blood pulsing in his cock, swaying between them, untouched, whimpering every time Harry brushes against it, simply not enough stimulation and feeling that wild, feverish heat flood his body as if someone had drained him of all his blood and siphoned in molten magma into his veins.
He rolls his hips against him, sluttish and unashamed. Knees raised, tilting himself into it, legs linking around his hips, every motion of his body trying to notch them closer, forever closer. Trying to get more of this, the feeling of Harry’s cock filling him up, taking him over.
He lays himself out, stretching his arms above his head like a sacrifice, offering himself up in controlled submission.
It’s good, so good, so bloody fucking good, this dirty hot delicious feeling of being reamed, the hard, steady, needy thrusts that make his whole body jolt and the way Potter looks completely gone, lost to the feeling, the way Potter’s breath is hot in his ear and he growls and clutches at him, the both of them trying to get closer and closer, as if he’s trying to drill himself deep inside Draco’s body and die there.
A human would be bleeding. The roughness of it, the ferocity of it, the inadequacy of the lubrication, the lovely thick size of Potter’s dick, slamming into him with such violence borne of long frustration. Draco’s body is no longer that human fragility, however, it’s something more than that, he is a wild thing, a creature of sex and bloodlust. Lust and violence, after all, are the bread and butter of his species. The bread and wine. The body and the blood. His insides ooze out their own fluids in addition to the trace amounts of blood, making the slide of it slick and easy, and whatever pain there is only spices his pleasure.
It's so good and yet it's not enough. There’s something strange happening inside of him, the feeling of something shifting underneath his skin. His belly is clenched tight and his dick is throbbing and as good as it is, there’s a building frustration and a strange sort of pain from where his back is constantly rubbing against the ground, as if it’s being rubbed raw. He whines; he snarls with the irritation of it, and of course it’s stupid Potter’s fault, he just doesn’t know what he’s doing, he only knows how to thrust, and thrust and thrust and mmm --
Good as that is, it’s not going to get him off.
And the idea that he might not get off from this makes him want to howl.
"Let me...let me get on top of you..." he pants out, pushing himself up so that he can nip at Potter’s throat with sharp white teeth. He sucks at the pulse of his throat, hard, hard enough to leave a mark, and then one hand scratches with blunt nails down Potter’s back. "Please."
After all, you want a thing done right, you have to get a Malfoy to do it.
“You want to... fuck, oh my God -- yes..." is all the coherency Potter can manage before he nods, frantic - followed by a brief tangle of limbs as he tries to stay inside of him and roll over at the same time. It fails, of course, the change of position dislodging him, and Potter cries out with the loss of him.
Draco could say that he manages to stay controlled, even with the sudden loss, that emptiness inside of him, but it would be an awful lie. He whimpers with the feeling, pathetic and wanting, suffering without the feeling of Harry’s cock inside of him.
Harry grabs his hips possessively, just as he positions himself, and before he can even lower himself he’s slammed back onto it, with such force that both of them scream.
Draco gasps like a man drowning, skewered and feeling split in half, but it’s perfect; that stiff, thick hardness inside of him nudging his prostate. His dick twitches, dripping precum onto Harry’s flat stomach.
"I’m going to either die or fucking kill you if you don’t move that sweet arse of yours, Malfoy," Harry pants from beneath him, holding onto his hips and rocking up in a such a teasing way that Draco really thinks he’s going to go mad.
"Don’t...die," Draco breathes, managing these two words, and two words only, each little syllable a miracle with the way Potter is gripping him and nudging that horrible, wonderful place inside of him.
Then he places both palms on Harry’s muscled chest, using him for leverage as he first begins to rock, then fuck himself back onto that stiff, eager dick.
It’s different this way, at once more in control and more vulnerable, the way he can control the direction and the angle of the thrusts, the way it seems so much deeper like this, gravity pulling his whole body down into it, the way that Potter’s hands firm on his hips tug him down onto it. Lewd and libertine, salacious and slutty, as he rides Potter’s cock, every little rock, every thrust jabbing against that sweet sensitive bundle of nerves inside, body pierced with spikes of sensation like St. Sebastian shot full of arrows.
Potter’s eyes on him, watching his every move, every flinch and twitch, every shudder and shiver, every whimper and moan, that just adds to to the heat sweeping over his body. The way Potter groans into it, rumbling deep into his throat, the way he has to bite his lip so hard that he bruises and breaks the skin.
Draco leans over him then, palms pressed against his chest, and kisses him - mouth wet and suckling, tongue lathing over his bottom lip to draw out the blood, each drop of ruby-red like a sun-ripened berry, bursting on his tongue.
Potter pushes his tongue into his mouth, filling it up the way he’s filling up his body, clutching at him as if he were holding him together, as if the moment he let go of him, Draco would simply shatter.
He feels like that, shattering, or at least on the edge of it, all that need, that desire, boiling in the pit of his belly. He pulls back only enough, only as far as Potter will let him go, to feel himself impaled all the way up into his stomach, into his chest cavity. Thigh muscles strain as he lifts his whole body up and then drops back down onto Potter’s dick, feeling every inch of it sliding up inside of it, the satisfying thud of it smacking up inside of him.
There’s a dirty prickle at the back of his neck as he feels another set of eyes watching him like this, fucking himself on Potter’s dick over and over again, dark eyes of full of dark, dirty lusts. It makes him feel filthy, debauched and spoiled. It makes him ravenous, for sex and for flesh.
He whines, then, hand slipping down between them to wrap around his own erection, pulsing and flushed nearly red with need, feeling the wet slick of his own precum dribbling down the shaft.
“Oh my God,” Potter groans at the sight, and he’s invoked the deity so many times Draco almost wants to quip that he’s glad Potter’s chosen Malfoyism as his new personal religion. Of course that’s far too many words for a person who can barely manage a single one, a number that is drastically reduced when Potter pushes his hand out of the way so that he can replace it with his own.
Draco is no spokesman for eloquence when all he can say is “mm, mm, yes,” and the occasional “oh, oh, oh,” whimpering and whining as he thrusts up into the blessedly firm grip of Potter’s hand around him and drops down onto the aching, thick hardness of Potter inside of him, hitting that perfect spot.
Sensation shoots through him like a thunderbolt, from the pit of his belly up through his whole body, his whole back pulsing in time with it. His shoulder blades burn and ache underneath his skin, as if the bone itself were white-hot metal, skin so scorching hot that it felt as if his sweat were sizzling up into steam.
Low, needy sounds, formed deep in his throat, bubbling out through parted lips as Potter shoves into him, over and over again, hips pistoning, every thrust a stab of pure pleasure deep into the core of his body; as he fucks himself onto it and into it, Potter’s hand warm and slick around him, faster and faster, moving together, moving as one.
It’s too much, too much stimulation, he’s wanted it for too long and too much need inside of him threatening to swallow him up. Potter’s hand around him gives him a final harsh tug, just as he slams back down so hard that he feels his teeth rattle in the back of his head.
He arches back, body strained and muscles drawn tight, head tossed back, hair falling across his eyes, the pale platinum of it turned a dark gold with sweat. When he comes he shrieks, spinning the sound out from the depths of his body. He spills hot white spurts of seed all over Potter’s hand, squelching out between his fingers, dripping messily between them. He continues to scream as his whole body flashes with bright pain and even brighter pleasure, muscles clenching tight around Potter’s dick, hands holding him tightly in place as one, two forced thrusts later Potter chokes, gasps, “Draco!” and he’s coming deep inside of him, and he can feel the warm wetness of it, coating his insides.
The power of names; say it three times and you summon a thing, or you rob it of its power; call it three times and it serves you - name it, and claim it, and tame it.
Or perhaps it does nothing at all; Draco wouldn’t know.
All he knows is that he’s still screaming when a wet, ripping sound fills the air as the thing inside of him finally tears through his skin.
Things, rather - twin blades of pain sprouting out from his shoulder blades, at once torment and relief as his whole body trembles, skin giving away to two large structures that reach out like limbs, made of flesh and bone. Panting, face wet with tears and sweat, Draco stretches and arches, flexing his wings at last.
It would be freak-out material if he weren’t bloody starving, and really - not like it hasn’t happened before.
Veela puberty, after all, is hell.
Draco’s face twists, beautiful human features blurring and for a moment appearing sharp and birdlike before transforming back again. Like an optical illusion; simultaneously the beauty and the hag, the rabbit and the duck. He pushes himself off of Potter, snarling. His hunger is so sharp, so intense, that it feels like he’s housing a black hole in the pit of his belly, and just the smell of Harry’s body, his fluids, his blood, makes him drool.
His wings trail behind him as he crawls over the ground, feathers wet and bedraggled, glued down with blood and a thin film of clear slime like afterbirth. A whole-body shiver spatters drops of blood and fluid all around him in a sort of disgusting shower, bathing the still-supine, still-still body of one Antonin Dolohov.
It can only be an improvement, really. Although soon enough, it won’t matter much anymore.
Dolohov’s dark eyes seem to flicker, watching him, foolish enough to seem grateful even now, when Draco hovers over him dripping blood and fluids, semen and blood trickling out between his thighs, like some sort of demented, debauched angel - the kind that makes a mess all over one’s tent.
Of course, trust Dolohov to be just this sick.
There is a moment when Draco looks at him coolly, allows him just this one moment to look his Death straight in the eye. An opportune moment for a witty one-liner, perhaps something along the lines of, ‘Revenge is a dish best served with borscht and vodka.’ However, lacking both these appetising accoutrements and too hungry to care, he plays up the whole avenging angel angle and goes for a much more chilling, “I am the punishment of Fate....If you had not committed great sins, Fate would not have sent a punishment like me upon you.”
Because honestly, if one suddenly finds oneself in possession of a bloody thing like giant wings, it is one’s duty to the world to work them as much as possible.
“Thus concludes the theatre portion of our dinner-theatre programme this evening,” Draco declares. “We do hope that you have enjoyed yourself, as it is now time for dinner...”
There is more than one way to kill a man, as they say, just as there is more than one way to skin a man. More often than not, Draco goes for the throat - a quick, easy kill, a quick death with minimal thrashing and screaming. So messy, so loud, when they thrash and scream. However, this is not just any man, this is a black-hearted sadist, cold-blooded killer, a tormentor of souls - a mutilator, a rapist, a manic murderer; that very special scum of the earth that lives and thrives on the pain and suffering of others. A man who has been responsible for the specific suffering of those close to someone he knows, quite intimately, and the sum of all these mortal sins makes a very, very bad man indeed.
Pushing open the robes barely hanging on the dishevelled body, pushing up the shirt to expose his abdomen, Draco opens his mouth wide and sinks his teeth into the skin and muscle. There’s an incredible vibration that hums through the whole body beneath him, like the minute vibration of molecules that hold together the universe, but the body lies still, pliant, alive yet frozen still.
Hands hook into claws, claws morphing into talons, needle-sharp, and wherever he touches he draws bright little trickling rivers of blood.
There’s nothing like that first bite, the way the flesh is soft and yielding, tender and sumptuous. Warm, delicious blood floods his mouth, and there’s a strangled cry from a throat with paralysed vocal chords, that should not be capable of producing any sound at all. He feels the gently possessive touch of fingers stroking his damp hair. He swallows the chunk of flesh he’s torn out and it slides silkily down his throat and he smiles. He smiles against the little bite-sized hole he’s made, marked with his teeth and pooling with blood, he smiles as he makes quick work of the man’s trousers, shredding and tearing the fabric to ribbons.
The fingers keep on stroking, stroking, even as the gurgling sounds of suffocated screams fill the air. Draco smiles and buries his face into all that warm, living flesh, and he begins his long-awaited feast with his first course: cock au vin.
---
Draco stretches out next to the mess of blood-soaked rags and splintered bone that used to be something by the name of Dolo-something. His normally flat stomach is now softly distended as a result of his gluttony, and he’s somewhere between purring with contentment and groaning with the pains of excess as he lays his head back in Harry’s lap. Purely to demand physical comfort, of course, not for any sort of sentimental reason, and he grabs Potter’s hands so that he can guide them to his temples to prove his point. Potter must learn his proper place, after all - it simply won’t do to give commoners the wrong idea. They might get uppity.
“I blame Mother,” Draco declares, eyes closing as those magic fingers begin massaging. “When you’re small, the rule is to always finish your meal, because there are children being starved in Hufflepuff. However, as soon as you get old enough, the proper thing to do is to leave half of it un-eaten. It makes not a lick of sense. She sends mixed messages; it’s a wonder I don’t have an eating disorder.”
“I’m a monster,” Potter replies quietly, which is such a non sequitur that Draco opens his eyes to look at his upside-down face. The fact that his fingers have stilled is not exactly acceptable, either.
“Don’t tell me you regret it now, Potter. I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but, much like my virginity, this is one bell that simply can’t be un-rung. Not even bulimia could save him now - good luck attempting to resurrect a chewed-up, half-digested pile of pink, mushy gunk.”
“You don’t understand,” Potter says, hands dropping away. He glances over at the pile of gore that was once an ex-convict and is now an ex-man, and he doesn’t even shudder, although he does avert his eyes.
Softly, he begins, “I...” He takes a deep breath, and the words come out in a rush of air. “I don’t regret it. Any of it.
“....That’s the problem.”
Pushing himself up, Draco twists around so that he can grab Potter’s shoulder and force him to look at him, eye to eye as equals, face close enough to kiss. “Potter, listen to me. He was a bad man. An evil man - a man of utmost villainy, if you want to call it that.”
He squeezes his shoulder hard at first, hard enough to feel the curve of bone underneath the muscle, clenching, bruising for a moment, but then his grip slowly relaxes. His hand begins to rub instead, warm and comforting, as his voice drops to a hush. “You did what you had to, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It’s in our nature,” he continues, in soft, dulcet tones. “It runs in our blood, you and I. We do what we must do, in order to survive.”
Potter is silent for a long moment, his body trembling just once when Draco reaches up to tuck an errant lock of black hair behind his ear. Predictably, it refuses to stay in place. Potter’s body language is tight, every muscle stiff, holding himself still, and he bites his bruised lip when Draco touches his cheek.
“Harry, Harry, Harry.”
Name it, and claim it, and tame it.
Harry’s body slumps as he sighs, all of him relaxing, unfurling. Slowly he nods, and a hand reaches up to close his fingers around the hand on his cheek, squeezing it hard enough to turn the fingers white for a moment, making them tingle when the grip relaxes, as the blood rushes back in.
"There are a lot of bad men out there," Harry finally says, and he does not let go of Draco’s hand.
"Absolutely," Draco smoothly agrees. Carefully, deliberately, he pulls him in for a kiss, slow and sweet and stolen, with the luscious tang of blood still lingering on his tongue.
-end-
“Men have forgotten this truth,” said the fox. “But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”
-- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
title: Garbage - You Look So Fine
“I am the punishment of God...If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you.”
--Genghis Khan