Harry/Faith comment porn for marksykins: Nameless
I'm blaming marksykins and fox1013.
Nameless | HP/BtVS | Harry/Faith | Adult | 865 words
Nameless
The girl moves with a catlike grace Harry can’t help but notice. Hell, everyone in the place has noticed, and they all want to get close, but there’s something about her that warns most of them off. Not Harry, though, not tonight.
He’s won the war, but lost the peace, and he’s going to lose himself now, in this Muggle club, full of young, hot bodies smelling of sweat and liquor and sex. There are no politicians here, no old men arguing pointlessly over the bodies of the young and the dead.
He squares his shoulders and pushes through the crowd, feeling vaguely predatory himself.
Her head comes up and she catches his eye, blood red lips curving into a wicked grin, razor sharp at the edges.
They don’t talk. They don’t need to. He can see the shadows of his guilt and pain and death reflected in her dark, dark eyes.
She turns, grinds her arse against his groin, her hands snaking up to stroke his neck, his jaw, his hair. The crowd parts around them but Harry barely notices, caught up in the timeless rhythm of their hips, his hands sliding down over her thighs, the leather soft and warm against his fingers. He bends his head, lips gliding along the sweat-slick skin of her neck before nipping at her earlobe, enjoying her slight shiver of pleasure.
"Let’s go," she says, and he’s startled for a moment by her accent, but he lets her lead him through black curtains that send a shiver of fear down his spine, and into a back room.
The walls are red velvet, pulsing with bass even though the music is muted here. The couch is stained and disreputable, black leather held together with duct tape. He doesn’t care, doesn’t want to think of how many other people have been here like this, been here with her, even.
She pushes him down onto the couch and settles in his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. Her mouth is hot and sweet, and he can taste lipstick and whisky on her tongue. Her kisses are fierce, devouring, and he answers with heat of his own, a desperate clash of teeth and tongues, fuel to the fire kindling in his blood. Her breasts are firm and heavy in his hands, her skin smooth and supple when he pulls the tank top over her head and unhooks her bra to take one peaked nipple into his mouth.
She arches into his mouth, moaning, her fingers tight against his skull, almost painful. He moves a hand down to her waist, unlacing the leather trousers she wears like armor, clever fingers seeking the moist heat of her cunt.
She moans again when he finds it, shifts back on his lap a bit.
"Wait," she says hoarsely, "let me--"
"Yeah," he breathes as she shoves the clinging trousers down just far enough to give him access, then goes to work on his flies, her hands warm and rough. They don’t waste time on preliminaries, and she sinks down onto him, sheathing him in snug velvet heat.
His hands tighten on her hips as she rides him, her mouth leaving trails of lipstick and saliva on his face and neck, her grip on his shoulders painfully tight, his glasses fogged by the heat of their breath, their metal frame the only cool thing against his skin.
She grabs his hand and presses it to her clit, her voice a whisky burn in his ear. "Come on, fuck me like you mean it."
He surges up against her, pure need now, teeth sharp against her neck, her lower lip. He feels her clench around him, her body shuddering to release in his arms, and he comes with the copper tang of her blood on his tongue, the world dissolving into white-hot pleasure, her mad laughter soaring above the pounding in his ears.
She slumps against him, resting her forehead against his, so that when he finally opens his eyes, she’s the only thing he sees.
Their ragged breathing is loud over the distant thump of music, and now that it’s done, he doesn’t know what to say.
"All right?" he finally asks, and he can feel her withdraw.
"Five by five," she replies, pulling away.
"Let me--" he pulls out his wand, cleans them both up with a spell before tucking himself away, still slightly mesmerized by the dark hair of her cunt, the pale skin of her thighs before she laces up her trousers.
She’s twitchy now, nervous in a way she wasn’t before, and it makes him nervous too. He’s debating whether or not to obliviate her when she says, "Well, it’s been fun," and disappears through the curtains. He’s still weighed down by blissful post-orgasm lethargy, so it takes him a moment or two to follow, and by then she’s pushed her way through the crowd and out, and Harry doesn’t have the energy or desire to follow, or even to care.
Tomorrow, he’ll go back to being Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World. Tonight, he’s just a nameless fuck in a nameless Muggle club, and he finds that oddly comforting.
end
***
Feedback, as always, is adored.
God, is there anyone Faith doesn't work with? *g*
And I don't have a Faith or a Harry icon in rotation atm, which sucks.
Now back to Rusty and Danny. Er, work. I mean work.
Nameless | HP/BtVS | Harry/Faith | Adult | 865 words
Nameless
The girl moves with a catlike grace Harry can’t help but notice. Hell, everyone in the place has noticed, and they all want to get close, but there’s something about her that warns most of them off. Not Harry, though, not tonight.
He’s won the war, but lost the peace, and he’s going to lose himself now, in this Muggle club, full of young, hot bodies smelling of sweat and liquor and sex. There are no politicians here, no old men arguing pointlessly over the bodies of the young and the dead.
He squares his shoulders and pushes through the crowd, feeling vaguely predatory himself.
Her head comes up and she catches his eye, blood red lips curving into a wicked grin, razor sharp at the edges.
They don’t talk. They don’t need to. He can see the shadows of his guilt and pain and death reflected in her dark, dark eyes.
She turns, grinds her arse against his groin, her hands snaking up to stroke his neck, his jaw, his hair. The crowd parts around them but Harry barely notices, caught up in the timeless rhythm of their hips, his hands sliding down over her thighs, the leather soft and warm against his fingers. He bends his head, lips gliding along the sweat-slick skin of her neck before nipping at her earlobe, enjoying her slight shiver of pleasure.
"Let’s go," she says, and he’s startled for a moment by her accent, but he lets her lead him through black curtains that send a shiver of fear down his spine, and into a back room.
The walls are red velvet, pulsing with bass even though the music is muted here. The couch is stained and disreputable, black leather held together with duct tape. He doesn’t care, doesn’t want to think of how many other people have been here like this, been here with her, even.
She pushes him down onto the couch and settles in his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. Her mouth is hot and sweet, and he can taste lipstick and whisky on her tongue. Her kisses are fierce, devouring, and he answers with heat of his own, a desperate clash of teeth and tongues, fuel to the fire kindling in his blood. Her breasts are firm and heavy in his hands, her skin smooth and supple when he pulls the tank top over her head and unhooks her bra to take one peaked nipple into his mouth.
She arches into his mouth, moaning, her fingers tight against his skull, almost painful. He moves a hand down to her waist, unlacing the leather trousers she wears like armor, clever fingers seeking the moist heat of her cunt.
She moans again when he finds it, shifts back on his lap a bit.
"Wait," she says hoarsely, "let me--"
"Yeah," he breathes as she shoves the clinging trousers down just far enough to give him access, then goes to work on his flies, her hands warm and rough. They don’t waste time on preliminaries, and she sinks down onto him, sheathing him in snug velvet heat.
His hands tighten on her hips as she rides him, her mouth leaving trails of lipstick and saliva on his face and neck, her grip on his shoulders painfully tight, his glasses fogged by the heat of their breath, their metal frame the only cool thing against his skin.
She grabs his hand and presses it to her clit, her voice a whisky burn in his ear. "Come on, fuck me like you mean it."
He surges up against her, pure need now, teeth sharp against her neck, her lower lip. He feels her clench around him, her body shuddering to release in his arms, and he comes with the copper tang of her blood on his tongue, the world dissolving into white-hot pleasure, her mad laughter soaring above the pounding in his ears.
She slumps against him, resting her forehead against his, so that when he finally opens his eyes, she’s the only thing he sees.
Their ragged breathing is loud over the distant thump of music, and now that it’s done, he doesn’t know what to say.
"All right?" he finally asks, and he can feel her withdraw.
"Five by five," she replies, pulling away.
"Let me--" he pulls out his wand, cleans them both up with a spell before tucking himself away, still slightly mesmerized by the dark hair of her cunt, the pale skin of her thighs before she laces up her trousers.
She’s twitchy now, nervous in a way she wasn’t before, and it makes him nervous too. He’s debating whether or not to obliviate her when she says, "Well, it’s been fun," and disappears through the curtains. He’s still weighed down by blissful post-orgasm lethargy, so it takes him a moment or two to follow, and by then she’s pushed her way through the crowd and out, and Harry doesn’t have the energy or desire to follow, or even to care.
Tomorrow, he’ll go back to being Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World. Tonight, he’s just a nameless fuck in a nameless Muggle club, and he finds that oddly comforting.
end
***
Feedback, as always, is adored.
God, is there anyone Faith doesn't work with? *g*
And I don't have a Faith or a Harry icon in rotation atm, which sucks.
Now back to Rusty and Danny. Er, work. I mean work.