Fic: An Act of Heroism. Harry/Neville, NC-17
Title: An Act of Heroism
Pairing: Harry/Neville
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM and those very sensitive to dub-con might consider this such, although I think that would be stretching it.
Word Count: ~1700
Notes: For son_of_darkness who I also had beta-read this ;) Never let it be said that I don't let him earn his keep! All remaining errors are naturally my own.
Neville watches while Harry storms furiously back and forth the seventh floor corridor and then yanks open the door as soon as it appears.
He follows Harry cautiously, not sure what he'll find on the other side. He can almost feel his jaw dropping when he enters. It is an arsenal.
Whips, crops, paddles and canes line the walls of the room, which is much smaller than Neville has ever seen it before. A large wooden frame is in the corner, manacles hanging from opposite corners of it. Chains, collars, ropes, hoods and several items Neville doesn't recognise line the floor in neat piles. A sofa sits in the corner.
Neville quickly, regretfully tears his eyes from these foreign looking items to seek out his companion. Harry is standing in the middle of the room and he still has that wild look about his face. The frantic desperation that had lined it when he had begged Neville to come with him. To join him in the room of requirement for a minute.
"I... I guess we're not here..." Neville hesitates. This is one situation where it would be fucking embarrassing to take a wrong guess. He starts again. "Why are we here, Harry?"
"I... Fuck." Harry is almost snarling, his fists are clenching and unclenching, his eyes wide. "Isn't it bloody obvious why we're here?"
Neville is on the verge of becoming very afraid, but somehow he isn't. If there is anything he knows about Harry, then it's that he wouldn't ask other people to allow him to hurt them. Especially not now.
"Spell it out for me, Harry." He glances up at Harry's face. "Please."
"I..." Harry takes up storming again. "I want... I want you to... FUCK!" He whips around, staring at Neville with a mix of frustration and agony, begging him to understand something that he apparently cannot convey with words.
But he does. He does manage to convey his meaning. Ever the hero, he manages to break down whatever is holding him back, can say the impossible.
"I want you to hurt me." Said through gritted teeth, his eyes fixed on Neville's right collarbone. "You're the only... I want to bleed, Neville." He raises his eyes. "I need you to hurt me."
Neville cannot move. He knew this was what Harry wanted. Knew it the minute the door was jerked open. But, "I don't... I don't know how, Harry."
Never before has Neville felt quite this incompetent, this helpless. For Neville is nothing like the rubber-clad women in Seamus' magazines that wield the whips with a haughty expression on their faces. Neville has never even done more than kiss Luna Lovegood under the Quidditch stadium. How is he supposed to manage this?
But Harry doesn't seem to care about that. Harry seems beyond caring about anything.
"For fuck's sake, Neville! Just..." He looks mad. Beautiful. Desperate. "Skin is easy to break. If I don't move and you have all this at your disposal - you can hurt me. I don't - fuck - I don't care how. Rip me apart with your fingernails... I just..." His voice seems close to breaking, and Neville cannot stand to see Harry in this much agony, he never could.
"Okay, Harry. Okay. I'll... try."
And Harry lets out a sob of relief, and starts ripping off his clothes, starts shedding his layers until he is standing bare in front of Neville who has never been this frightened in his life.
"Where do you want me?"
"I... I don't know. Where do you want to..." Neville bites his lip. "The frame, I think." He hopes that's the right word for the giant wooden thing in the corner, but Harry doesn't correct him. "It might be easier if you don't have to stay still on your own accord."
And Harry only nods once and walks obediently over to the frame, lifting his hands to the leather cuffs at the top, spreading his legs to reach the ones at the bottom.
Neville's hands shake when they reach to fasten the manacles, a jolt of electricity hitting him every time his finger's brush Harry's skin.
Once Harry's limbs have been secured, Neville takes a step back. He looks at Harry's slender form, his pale skin, the sparse hair on his legs and upper arms. He takes deep breaths, while he looks, telling himself that this is real. That this time - this time he can't fuck up. That this is Harry and it's him he asked to do this. And if this is what Harry needs right now - then it isn't Neville's place to deny him anything.
He walks to the wall, carefully eyeing the long row of weapons. His eye linger on a sturdy looking flogger with a wooden handle. The tails seem made of leather. They feel soft under his fingers. That might be a good one to begin with? That couldn't be too bad, would it?
His whole body is tingling, as he stands behind Harry and slowly raises the flogger. Harry jerks at the first touch, but obviously more from surprise than pain. The ends of the tails seem to be caressing his skin as they fly past it, and Neville almost likes that - but that's not what he's supposed to be doing. So he raises the flogger again and swings it hard at Harry's round bottom, all thought of propriety thankfully gone. And Harry cries out, and a mark blooms on his bum. And Neville is suddenly flooded with a feeling he has never found before, and he swings the flogger again, harder, and hits the other cheek. And he slaps Harry again and again with the slim leather laces of the flogger, that no longer seem soft or friendly. And Harry cries and Harry sweats, and Harry sobs, and Neville doesn't stop, doesn't drop the flogger until Harry's knees give and he is suspended by his arms on the large wooden frame, limp and defeated.
Fuck. Something is rushing through Neville's veins - something that almost tastes like happiness, but the sight of Harry like that manages to put a little damper on his high. Thankfully, Neville thinks, as he hesitatingly walks to Harry's side, almost afraid to impose on such a personal moment, even though it is his fault.
His fault.
It always is, isn't it? And now, now Harry's crying, and it's his fault.
He reaches out, touches Harry's hair like he has so often dreamt of doing, and almost withdraws his hand in shock when Harry leans into the touch, his eyes closed, his face child-like and vulnerable.
Thankful.
Relaxed.
"I... Let me help you down, Harry." He reaches to unlock the fetters.
"I want more." Harry's voice is hoarse. "Please, Neville..."
"I'll... I'll give you more, Harry. I promise. Just... Just not here. Let's move to the sofa, okay?"
"Okay."
Neville thinks that he might have to support Harry over to the sofa, but as soon as he's untied the other boy, he walks over to the sofa by himself, draping himself over its arm.
He mutters something. Neville thinks it might've been "please" but he's not sure.
He has chosen the long, black cane from the wall.
It makes a very different sound from the flogger, Neville thinks. Both when it's rushing through the air and when it lands on Harry's abused skin, momentarily creating white lines on the red, tender flesh.
Harry's cries are louder this time.
For the first time in his life, Neville knows what it feels like to be drowning. His heart is racing, his brow is sweating and he knows that his eyes are shining. He is alive.
And Neville doesn't know the etiquette, he doesn't know if he's supposed to do this or if it's somehow off boundaries but he's hard and Harry's arse is hot and spread out in front of him. So Neville throws the cane to the floor, spits on his fingers and roughly thrusts them into Harry's arsehole. Harry's skin is warm and damp with sweat and Neville's fingers slide almost - but not quite - easily into him. And Neville smiles in spite of himself. A cruel, triumphant smile, that only widens at Harry's whimper. But Harry's not fighting him, he might even be thrusting back against Neville's fingers.
But it isn't enough, having Harry clench around his fingers, not nearly enough, and Neville is quick to replace them with his dick. And it's warmer and tighter than Neville had ever imagined. And it's wonderful - even though it doesn't resemble any of Neville's previous fantasies of having sex with Harry, not remotely. But it's better, so much better, because Harry is whimpering, maybe even crying, and at this moment he's Neville's. Harry Potter has entrusted Neville Longbottom with his body and his wellbeing, And as they rock against each other, Neville likes to think that they are both revelling in this trust, in this madness, in this mad spiral of hurt and of comfort. And he twists his hand in Harry's hair and yanks his head back and then Neville is coming. He is coming inside Harry Potter. Harry Potter who is moaning and frotting against the arm of the sofa, his neck curving upwards, his back arching. And as the last shivers of orgasm shake Neville's body, he feels everything come into focus, and he can suddenly see Harry's abused skin for the first time, and he can see Harry coming with a pained cry - but most of all can he feel Harry clench around him.
And quite suddenly, Neville is struck by the beauty and unfairness of it all.
Tears prickle at his eyes when he slowly removes himself from Harry's body.
They stand there, silent for a long minute, not looking at each other.
Then Harry walks stiffly over to his clothes and dresses slowly, carefully. There is blood on his inner thigh. He doesn't look up when he says in a low, measured voice, "thank you, Neville."
And somehow the use of his name fills Neville with the reassurance that it was really all right, it was really what Harry needed. And Harry walks to the door, his head held high, his stride sure. He has once more become the proud hero - and Neville is left there, the cane lying at his feet, wondering if he's supposed to feel like this, and yet not knowing how he's feeling.
Tomorrow is Dumbledore's funeral.
Pairing: Harry/Neville
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM and those very sensitive to dub-con might consider this such, although I think that would be stretching it.
Word Count: ~1700
Notes: For son_of_darkness who I also had beta-read this ;) Never let it be said that I don't let him earn his keep! All remaining errors are naturally my own.
Neville watches while Harry storms furiously back and forth the seventh floor corridor and then yanks open the door as soon as it appears.
He follows Harry cautiously, not sure what he'll find on the other side. He can almost feel his jaw dropping when he enters. It is an arsenal.
Whips, crops, paddles and canes line the walls of the room, which is much smaller than Neville has ever seen it before. A large wooden frame is in the corner, manacles hanging from opposite corners of it. Chains, collars, ropes, hoods and several items Neville doesn't recognise line the floor in neat piles. A sofa sits in the corner.
Neville quickly, regretfully tears his eyes from these foreign looking items to seek out his companion. Harry is standing in the middle of the room and he still has that wild look about his face. The frantic desperation that had lined it when he had begged Neville to come with him. To join him in the room of requirement for a minute.
"I... I guess we're not here..." Neville hesitates. This is one situation where it would be fucking embarrassing to take a wrong guess. He starts again. "Why are we here, Harry?"
"I... Fuck." Harry is almost snarling, his fists are clenching and unclenching, his eyes wide. "Isn't it bloody obvious why we're here?"
Neville is on the verge of becoming very afraid, but somehow he isn't. If there is anything he knows about Harry, then it's that he wouldn't ask other people to allow him to hurt them. Especially not now.
"Spell it out for me, Harry." He glances up at Harry's face. "Please."
"I..." Harry takes up storming again. "I want... I want you to... FUCK!" He whips around, staring at Neville with a mix of frustration and agony, begging him to understand something that he apparently cannot convey with words.
But he does. He does manage to convey his meaning. Ever the hero, he manages to break down whatever is holding him back, can say the impossible.
"I want you to hurt me." Said through gritted teeth, his eyes fixed on Neville's right collarbone. "You're the only... I want to bleed, Neville." He raises his eyes. "I need you to hurt me."
Neville cannot move. He knew this was what Harry wanted. Knew it the minute the door was jerked open. But, "I don't... I don't know how, Harry."
Never before has Neville felt quite this incompetent, this helpless. For Neville is nothing like the rubber-clad women in Seamus' magazines that wield the whips with a haughty expression on their faces. Neville has never even done more than kiss Luna Lovegood under the Quidditch stadium. How is he supposed to manage this?
But Harry doesn't seem to care about that. Harry seems beyond caring about anything.
"For fuck's sake, Neville! Just..." He looks mad. Beautiful. Desperate. "Skin is easy to break. If I don't move and you have all this at your disposal - you can hurt me. I don't - fuck - I don't care how. Rip me apart with your fingernails... I just..." His voice seems close to breaking, and Neville cannot stand to see Harry in this much agony, he never could.
"Okay, Harry. Okay. I'll... try."
And Harry lets out a sob of relief, and starts ripping off his clothes, starts shedding his layers until he is standing bare in front of Neville who has never been this frightened in his life.
"Where do you want me?"
"I... I don't know. Where do you want to..." Neville bites his lip. "The frame, I think." He hopes that's the right word for the giant wooden thing in the corner, but Harry doesn't correct him. "It might be easier if you don't have to stay still on your own accord."
And Harry only nods once and walks obediently over to the frame, lifting his hands to the leather cuffs at the top, spreading his legs to reach the ones at the bottom.
Neville's hands shake when they reach to fasten the manacles, a jolt of electricity hitting him every time his finger's brush Harry's skin.
Once Harry's limbs have been secured, Neville takes a step back. He looks at Harry's slender form, his pale skin, the sparse hair on his legs and upper arms. He takes deep breaths, while he looks, telling himself that this is real. That this time - this time he can't fuck up. That this is Harry and it's him he asked to do this. And if this is what Harry needs right now - then it isn't Neville's place to deny him anything.
He walks to the wall, carefully eyeing the long row of weapons. His eye linger on a sturdy looking flogger with a wooden handle. The tails seem made of leather. They feel soft under his fingers. That might be a good one to begin with? That couldn't be too bad, would it?
His whole body is tingling, as he stands behind Harry and slowly raises the flogger. Harry jerks at the first touch, but obviously more from surprise than pain. The ends of the tails seem to be caressing his skin as they fly past it, and Neville almost likes that - but that's not what he's supposed to be doing. So he raises the flogger again and swings it hard at Harry's round bottom, all thought of propriety thankfully gone. And Harry cries out, and a mark blooms on his bum. And Neville is suddenly flooded with a feeling he has never found before, and he swings the flogger again, harder, and hits the other cheek. And he slaps Harry again and again with the slim leather laces of the flogger, that no longer seem soft or friendly. And Harry cries and Harry sweats, and Harry sobs, and Neville doesn't stop, doesn't drop the flogger until Harry's knees give and he is suspended by his arms on the large wooden frame, limp and defeated.
Fuck. Something is rushing through Neville's veins - something that almost tastes like happiness, but the sight of Harry like that manages to put a little damper on his high. Thankfully, Neville thinks, as he hesitatingly walks to Harry's side, almost afraid to impose on such a personal moment, even though it is his fault.
His fault.
It always is, isn't it? And now, now Harry's crying, and it's his fault.
He reaches out, touches Harry's hair like he has so often dreamt of doing, and almost withdraws his hand in shock when Harry leans into the touch, his eyes closed, his face child-like and vulnerable.
Thankful.
Relaxed.
"I... Let me help you down, Harry." He reaches to unlock the fetters.
"I want more." Harry's voice is hoarse. "Please, Neville..."
"I'll... I'll give you more, Harry. I promise. Just... Just not here. Let's move to the sofa, okay?"
"Okay."
Neville thinks that he might have to support Harry over to the sofa, but as soon as he's untied the other boy, he walks over to the sofa by himself, draping himself over its arm.
He mutters something. Neville thinks it might've been "please" but he's not sure.
He has chosen the long, black cane from the wall.
It makes a very different sound from the flogger, Neville thinks. Both when it's rushing through the air and when it lands on Harry's abused skin, momentarily creating white lines on the red, tender flesh.
Harry's cries are louder this time.
For the first time in his life, Neville knows what it feels like to be drowning. His heart is racing, his brow is sweating and he knows that his eyes are shining. He is alive.
And Neville doesn't know the etiquette, he doesn't know if he's supposed to do this or if it's somehow off boundaries but he's hard and Harry's arse is hot and spread out in front of him. So Neville throws the cane to the floor, spits on his fingers and roughly thrusts them into Harry's arsehole. Harry's skin is warm and damp with sweat and Neville's fingers slide almost - but not quite - easily into him. And Neville smiles in spite of himself. A cruel, triumphant smile, that only widens at Harry's whimper. But Harry's not fighting him, he might even be thrusting back against Neville's fingers.
But it isn't enough, having Harry clench around his fingers, not nearly enough, and Neville is quick to replace them with his dick. And it's warmer and tighter than Neville had ever imagined. And it's wonderful - even though it doesn't resemble any of Neville's previous fantasies of having sex with Harry, not remotely. But it's better, so much better, because Harry is whimpering, maybe even crying, and at this moment he's Neville's. Harry Potter has entrusted Neville Longbottom with his body and his wellbeing, And as they rock against each other, Neville likes to think that they are both revelling in this trust, in this madness, in this mad spiral of hurt and of comfort. And he twists his hand in Harry's hair and yanks his head back and then Neville is coming. He is coming inside Harry Potter. Harry Potter who is moaning and frotting against the arm of the sofa, his neck curving upwards, his back arching. And as the last shivers of orgasm shake Neville's body, he feels everything come into focus, and he can suddenly see Harry's abused skin for the first time, and he can see Harry coming with a pained cry - but most of all can he feel Harry clench around him.
And quite suddenly, Neville is struck by the beauty and unfairness of it all.
Tears prickle at his eyes when he slowly removes himself from Harry's body.
They stand there, silent for a long minute, not looking at each other.
Then Harry walks stiffly over to his clothes and dresses slowly, carefully. There is blood on his inner thigh. He doesn't look up when he says in a low, measured voice, "thank you, Neville."
And somehow the use of his name fills Neville with the reassurance that it was really all right, it was really what Harry needed. And Harry walks to the door, his head held high, his stride sure. He has once more become the proud hero - and Neville is left there, the cane lying at his feet, wondering if he's supposed to feel like this, and yet not knowing how he's feeling.
Tomorrow is Dumbledore's funeral.