Fic: And Longing, Longing, Longing-- (H/D, R)
Ahhh I wrote another angst!ficlet. Y'know, my usual, I really can't help it sometimes.
Oh man, oh man. What do I even say. *facepalm* Oh right, H/D. A little porny.
Disclaimer: I'm sorry Ms. Rowling, I really am.
Author's Note: Thanks to Amalin for the read-through. And sorry that my Harry is a bastard. Again.
And Longing, Longing, Longing--
In between breaths, in another world, he watched him.
Not admitting a lost second here, a tangled breath there, a spike of feeling where there should have been none. These things are forgettable.
Some time after they no longer saw each other, the memory of his face became a cipher: even though he saw it in every other day's paper, it's become gossip rather than front-page news. He can still remember him as he was; before the slight wrinkle around his mouth, before the sensible glasses, before the child in his arms, before his own face started to go.
They only did it once, twice, three times.
Did they really do it? Or was it a dream?
They only did it in the showers, on the cold hard ground in the Forbidden Forest, in the owlery, on the Tower while the moon was out and the wind blew cold and prickly sweet.
With his glasses off, his eyes shining cat-green, his mouth half parted, he'd been a different person. This person didn't have a name; he was male, and that was bad enough-- more than bad enough-- unbearable to consider-- but he didn't have a name. Small mercies, as this person's cock dug into his hip, his breath stuttering against his collarbone, his fingers digging hard into his thigh. Thrusting between them, leaving warm wet trails and chafing his skin, grunting gasping sighing coming-- coming-- coming--
As the years pass, history became a lot more immutable, a lot more stable and properly skewed in favor of priggish Gryffindor ideals. Slytherins may sweep things discreetly under the rug, but the Gryffindors ran roughshod over the truth, ignoring everything in the way of how it 'should' be. As the years pass, he starts to question his own recollections. Impossible. Improbable. Rather laughable. Of course it never happened.
It never happened, except when they meet in the dark with no Lumos in even a whisper, his footsteps muffled as if the night itself were gagging him, dragging out his breath. Or maybe it's the other's mouth on him, dry and hot like a furnace, nipping biting tearing, hand pressing down against his throat as he's shoved rough against a wall, followed quickly by hands pulling at his trousers, pinching at him, prodding at him.
He gasps, "Upstairs--"
A hand slaps immediately over his mouth, and his eyes roll back because that's the extent of actual thought he's capable of, and then he's lifted and carried and thrown onto a creaky bed, too soft and too large and that's all he notices, because that's when there's a jerk and a pull and his balls hang free between his legs, hole clenching and unclenching and he hopes someone's thought of lube because he certainly isn't going to--
And he wakes up alone, head fuzzy and a weird taste in his mouth he washes out with water and toothpaste and hard black coffee, so that when he goes home and slips into bed before noon, taking care not to wake her, he can wake up again. He breathes in her perfume, flowery-- or is it citrusy?-- and snuggles closer against her back, exhaling.
He pictures the other's bed, the other's wife, and his arms go around his own, until he's holding her around the middle like a teddy-bear, making her mutter in her sleep and sigh.
The sun is too bright against his eyelids, and his arse still throbs, tiny pulses of weird pleasure-pain that keep him up for a few minutes longer. He won't cry, and he certainly won't think about it once he wakes up.
"You have to say no, Draco," his mum told him once. "You have to know your limits. Be realistic, dear."
'I can't always protect you,' she meant.
"I know what I can do," he'd said to her. And he did. He knew exactly what he was capable of.
No one could make his decisions for him, not about what mattered to him.
"You have to say no, Draco," his lover told him, much later. 'I don't have the guts to stop myself,' he meant.
There's another world where he'd react as he wants to: where he'd get up, talk back, hex him or punch him or kick him in the shins, cut him into little pieces or look at him with perfect razor-sharp disdain, like he doesn't care in the slightest and it's just a fuck, isn't it? There's a world where he says, 'except cocks don't lie, and besides, isn't this a mutually agreeable sort of deal?', smirking. There had been a problem, and all they did was find a solution. And he's smirking like he's on top of the world, he's got it all handled, he's got it under control.
In this world, Draco is silent and still, and he doesn't say the wrong thing. He's careful, now.
For real this time.
They don't say good-bye anymore.
They don't say anything anymore.
He doesn't kiss him as they fuck anymore, but he makes wild, desperate noises like he's in pain, and when he comes he groans like he's going to die a drawn-out shuddering leaking spurting death. He bites down on his shoulder a little too hard every time, to the point where it'd show quite badly without a healing charm.
Afterwards, he holds him from behind just like this, when he seems to have blacked out again but hasn't. He holds him gently, nose in his shoulder, mouth against his neck, his arms tight around him, and then he lets go, and the bed sags and springs back, empty.
"I'm sorry," he says, then. "If you said no, I'd stop. You have to say no, Draco."
He freezes, shivers when a hand touches his shoulder briefly. He knows it must have been noticeable, but he's realistic. He knows he won't push it.
The door's already shut when he whispers to the hollow room. "Who's the coward this time, Potter."
He hugs the pillow, but it's too late. He's awake now.
Oh man, oh man. What do I even say. *facepalm* Oh right, H/D. A little porny.
Disclaimer: I'm sorry Ms. Rowling, I really am.
Author's Note: Thanks to Amalin for the read-through. And sorry that my Harry is a bastard. Again.
And Longing, Longing, Longing--
In between breaths, in another world, he watched him.
Not admitting a lost second here, a tangled breath there, a spike of feeling where there should have been none. These things are forgettable.
Some time after they no longer saw each other, the memory of his face became a cipher: even though he saw it in every other day's paper, it's become gossip rather than front-page news. He can still remember him as he was; before the slight wrinkle around his mouth, before the sensible glasses, before the child in his arms, before his own face started to go.
They only did it once, twice, three times.
Did they really do it? Or was it a dream?
They only did it in the showers, on the cold hard ground in the Forbidden Forest, in the owlery, on the Tower while the moon was out and the wind blew cold and prickly sweet.
With his glasses off, his eyes shining cat-green, his mouth half parted, he'd been a different person. This person didn't have a name; he was male, and that was bad enough-- more than bad enough-- unbearable to consider-- but he didn't have a name. Small mercies, as this person's cock dug into his hip, his breath stuttering against his collarbone, his fingers digging hard into his thigh. Thrusting between them, leaving warm wet trails and chafing his skin, grunting gasping sighing coming-- coming-- coming--
As the years pass, history became a lot more immutable, a lot more stable and properly skewed in favor of priggish Gryffindor ideals. Slytherins may sweep things discreetly under the rug, but the Gryffindors ran roughshod over the truth, ignoring everything in the way of how it 'should' be. As the years pass, he starts to question his own recollections. Impossible. Improbable. Rather laughable. Of course it never happened.
It never happened, except when they meet in the dark with no Lumos in even a whisper, his footsteps muffled as if the night itself were gagging him, dragging out his breath. Or maybe it's the other's mouth on him, dry and hot like a furnace, nipping biting tearing, hand pressing down against his throat as he's shoved rough against a wall, followed quickly by hands pulling at his trousers, pinching at him, prodding at him.
He gasps, "Upstairs--"
A hand slaps immediately over his mouth, and his eyes roll back because that's the extent of actual thought he's capable of, and then he's lifted and carried and thrown onto a creaky bed, too soft and too large and that's all he notices, because that's when there's a jerk and a pull and his balls hang free between his legs, hole clenching and unclenching and he hopes someone's thought of lube because he certainly isn't going to--
And he wakes up alone, head fuzzy and a weird taste in his mouth he washes out with water and toothpaste and hard black coffee, so that when he goes home and slips into bed before noon, taking care not to wake her, he can wake up again. He breathes in her perfume, flowery-- or is it citrusy?-- and snuggles closer against her back, exhaling.
He pictures the other's bed, the other's wife, and his arms go around his own, until he's holding her around the middle like a teddy-bear, making her mutter in her sleep and sigh.
The sun is too bright against his eyelids, and his arse still throbs, tiny pulses of weird pleasure-pain that keep him up for a few minutes longer. He won't cry, and he certainly won't think about it once he wakes up.
"You have to say no, Draco," his mum told him once. "You have to know your limits. Be realistic, dear."
'I can't always protect you,' she meant.
"I know what I can do," he'd said to her. And he did. He knew exactly what he was capable of.
No one could make his decisions for him, not about what mattered to him.
"You have to say no, Draco," his lover told him, much later. 'I don't have the guts to stop myself,' he meant.
There's another world where he'd react as he wants to: where he'd get up, talk back, hex him or punch him or kick him in the shins, cut him into little pieces or look at him with perfect razor-sharp disdain, like he doesn't care in the slightest and it's just a fuck, isn't it? There's a world where he says, 'except cocks don't lie, and besides, isn't this a mutually agreeable sort of deal?', smirking. There had been a problem, and all they did was find a solution. And he's smirking like he's on top of the world, he's got it all handled, he's got it under control.
In this world, Draco is silent and still, and he doesn't say the wrong thing. He's careful, now.
For real this time.
They don't say good-bye anymore.
They don't say anything anymore.
He doesn't kiss him as they fuck anymore, but he makes wild, desperate noises like he's in pain, and when he comes he groans like he's going to die a drawn-out shuddering leaking spurting death. He bites down on his shoulder a little too hard every time, to the point where it'd show quite badly without a healing charm.
Afterwards, he holds him from behind just like this, when he seems to have blacked out again but hasn't. He holds him gently, nose in his shoulder, mouth against his neck, his arms tight around him, and then he lets go, and the bed sags and springs back, empty.
"I'm sorry," he says, then. "If you said no, I'd stop. You have to say no, Draco."
He freezes, shivers when a hand touches his shoulder briefly. He knows it must have been noticeable, but he's realistic. He knows he won't push it.
The door's already shut when he whispers to the hollow room. "Who's the coward this time, Potter."
He hugs the pillow, but it's too late. He's awake now.