So there's the new fic :)
Title: Those One Loves
Summary: Those you love can hurt you in the most painful way. And yet, sometimes revenge isn't all that sweet, and you are left unsatisfied, hollow and wanting something you are too scared to name. Could it be that you are simply not ready to move on and leave the person, who has caused your suffering, in the past?
Disclaimer: The guys are lawfully wedded to JKR, and that's why they prefer playing with me :) The used quotations belong to their respective owners, I only adore (and thus use) them
Rating and pairing: Harry/Draco, NC-17, you've probably figured that out by now
Author's notes: Beware of POV changes. Thanks to stellahargrove, who did a greater job with the beta-ing than ever. Go tell her good luck on her journey and envy her for the fabulous exam results! All the remaining mistakes are mine, of course, because I'm so obstinate at times... Criticism is appreciated, as are breathless comments :p
Those One Loves
~*~
Part One: Exposure
My very being is on fire; waves of passion crashing over me, trying to break me. I feel his fingers around the base of my cock, keeping me from coming.
A heavy shudder courses through me, my muscles clenching. The digits in me are moving slowly, intensely, masterfully; they know just what to do to drive me insane. But then, he's always known how to play me like a cither and how to elicit precisely the responses he wants.
My whole body is trembling when I finally surrender.
"Please," I utter; a sound akin to a sob as I almost choke on the word, something breaking in me. "Please."
His smile is unbearably haughty and knowing, and I close my eyes, sorrow mingling with all the emotions rocking me. With one last stroke over my prostate his fingers leave me and his cock slides in instead with a single fluid motion.
The thrusts are deep and strong, and almost gentle, the rhythm steady and torturous. I arch into him, attempting to make him move faster.
"Say it again," he commands silkily, and I try to defy him. But I fail - as always lately - and when he bites at my earlobe, stilling completely, I give up.
"Please," I cry; my voice broken and raspy. "Please, please, please."
That's what he wants to hear, an unquestionable evidence of his power over me. And then he's fucking me until I think he'll split me in two.
"Draco," I whisper when I come, pleasure drowning all else. "Draco."
The word is rolling off my tongue sweetly, now being the only time he'll let me utter it; far too gone to notice or just feeling too good to care. Probably the latter, as he never lets go, even in his pleasure; at least not with me.
He slides off me and curls to the side; his back to me, his breathing erratic. Few minutes after that, he gets up and leaves silently.
I remain there, in the middle of the rumpled bed, the sweat on my skin slowly drying, making me feel cold; so cold. So alone.
Much later I pull the sheets over me and try to fall asleep, even though I know the efforts will be futile.
I remember the way he just appeared one day with Dumbledore at my threshold and simply never left. A hard man, he is; cold and untouchable, thinking only of himself. How he bargained his neutrality, I don't know, but the fact remains that somehow he landed at my house.
And somehow we reached this situation; me begging him. It all started after a terrible verbal duel; in fact, a notch hotter, and it would have turned into a real, physical one. We were two people, who had too much energy between them to bear, and were forced to live together. So, instead of killing each other, we fucked.
I fucked him. He fucked me. We called a truce.
We don't have that truce anymore. Because the balance changed; gradually, without me noticing, but it changed.
And the reason was that for the first time since we knew each other, he won, won so unmistakably that now I'm the one begging. Somewhere along the way, I buggered him and he managed to keep himself without difficulty, but he buggered me and I couldn't keep him outside. The bastard wormed his way in me.
The sex started feeling hollow. No kissing, I suddenly noticed; no first name basis, no holding afterwards or even normal talking for a change.
When I tried to do something about the stale status quo he saw the alteration, too, and started using me against me.
~*~
"It's Christmas tomorrow," I smile.
"So what?" he absent-mindedly asks, turning a page in the book he's reading.
"Let's decorate the house, that's what."
"Tomorrow," he still doesn't look up.
"There won't be time tomorrow," I feel my holiday spirit falter. "Come on."
"Okay, Potter," he sighs pointedly, making sure to highlight his displeasure. "Just let me get my wand."
"You don't need the wand. Let's do it the Muggle way."
"Yeah, right."
~*~
"Tomorrow," I say when he tries for unfathomable reasons to persuade me to do the Christmas decoration.
"There won't be time tomorrow," he answers, and when I look up at him, I see the light in his eyes go weaker.
In the end I agree to help him, however grudgingly. Since when do I care whether his eyes sparkle or not? Or better still, since when do I notice his eyes?! He goes away, to start doing it 'the Muggle way' while I stubbornly insist on finding my wand.
"Malfoy," he shouts ten minutes later, as I start on the last sentence of my chapter. "Drag your arse down here."
"Shut up, Potter!" I answer just as loudly, but head for my bedroom anyway.
My wand is not there, surprisingly, so it must be downstairs. When I reach the landing, I see Potter, perched up on a ridiculous ladder down in the hall, trying to hang holly in the corners of the room.
"Potter, look at yourself," I sneer.
"Why don't you just come to help…" he turns to look at me, not noticing the way his ankle has a branch of the decoration twisted around it.
"Potter," I begin on say, but he simply turns more abruptly at that.
The holly upsets his balance and he falls on the floor, the ladder crashing atop him.
"Really, how can you be such a thumb-fingered jerk?" I laugh at that point, going down the stairs.
He doesn't answer me, however, and tiny bells start ringing in my head.
"Potter?"
He doesn't move even.
Oh. Sweet. Magic. I rush to him and it's obvious that he's breathing but when I slightly shake him, I feel dampness in his hair. On the wooden floor beneath him there's a small dark pool, slowly getting bigger.
"Fucking hell, Potter."
I run in the kitchen, where my wand lies on the table, the whole time only one thought playing an endless loop in my head. The brat's going to die on me. An unexpected lump forms in my throat.
I return and take him in my arms to Apparate us at St. Mungo's. His unconscious body is strangely light and what is even weirder is the way he's not moving, not fighting me, not even trembling.
I suppose that his condition morbidly reminds me of calm slumber.
~*~
When I return several hours later, tired, alone and uncharacteristically subdued, all I want to do is sleep. Potter is comparatively safe in the intensive ward, as far as someone can be safe with a concussion.
Weasel and Mudblood came crashing in at some point and, after I had been generous enough to inform them of what had happened, they had the gall to blame the accident on me.
Burying my head in the pillow, I try to relax and go to sleep. And if, for the first time in my life someone has been about to die before my eyes, in my hands, and that has made me a little shaky inside; well, I won't admit it even to myself.
~*~
Three weeks later I've exceeded my reading quota for the year and it's still mid-January. I've paced more than my fair share, and I've been outside Potter's house double the amount of time that is healthy for me.
The slight feeling of unease that keeps me tensed all the time is slowly getting more and more pronounced. The house is eerily quiet, a situation in which I've never seen it. No one is there to tease, to smirk at, to generally be with; no one to pour out tension at, to try to overpower, to succeed in dominating.
It’s an unsettling affair.
~*~
I wake up one night, sweaty and strangely lonely, flashbacks of disturbing dreams still haunting my vision and hearing. I get up and, as I would do often in the months since I moved to live here, pad to Potter's room. Only, now, when I open the door and sneak in the bed, there's no warm, waiting body to welcome me.
Shivering from the coldness of the sheets, I decide to remain here; at least that is not the customary place where my nightmares appear.
We used to do that all the time, Potter and I. After we started fucking, that is. It helps, we discovered, to find release and oblivion in the pleasures another body can give you. He began that tradition, in fact; one night, while I was sleeping, smart fingers took to slowly waking my body.
It's weird to be here alone, without him. I can't remember being in this room in the daylight, let alone anything else.
Gradually, I drift off.
Only to wake up again, in what seems to be an hour or so at most, heat and arousal coursing through me. I close my eyes and laugh weakly, rubbing the bridge of my nose. I can understand the hard-on; after all, I've spent two-thirds of my time here in Potter, the reaction has become normal somewhat.
What I can't get is the hollow feeling inside, the voice mixing in a cacophony into my head: my father's disappointed farewell, bits and pieces of talks with someone or another, Potter's breathy, hitched, ashamed begging that I sometimes tear away from him.
Second by second, the last image overtakes everything else; the most recent of those memories and by far the most confusing one. Surprisingly, the arousal is dampened, only to be replaced by elusive sadness.
And, having in mind that I have never seen a single hotter or more beautiful sight in my life, this gives me a right reason to be worried.
Or maybe, all in all, being alone for so long simply doesn't sit well on my psychological balance.
~*~
When I wake up in Potter's bed for the fourth time in ten days, I have to admit that there is something very wrong about the whole thing. An awful suspicion creeps into me.
Do I remember how many days he's been away?
[33] chimes a clear bell-like voice in my head.
Do I remember his perfume?
[Of course you do] the voice sounds mildly offended at the notion that I should ask.
Do I remember how good he felt around me?
[No, you don't remember him feeling good, he felt perfect. Open, spread out for you, begging] insists the voice and there's no denial.
Oh, bloody magic, the suspicion is right. And so is the voice. I am missing him.
No, that's not me. That's not me. I'm not missing him. I'm not! My inner Slytherin is horrified and I try to believe his indignant yelps. But the clear bell is just chuckling in amusement.
~*~
But two days after that, I meander through his room again, in the broad daylight this time, and everything seems so different that I stop to simply stare. I go around, tracing a finger over the edges of the furniture, feeling as if I have never been here before.
The colours look so changed now and I actually notice a desk in the corner. Curious, I move to inspect it. A paper-weight, a stack of parchment, a fluffy white quill…
I snort, remembering one just like that, one which he used to chew in Potions classes.
…a couple of codices and a book on healing finish the picture, along with a notebook.
I'm about to move on, get out because of the sudden wave of silliness that has overwhelmed me, when my attention fixates on the last item. A notebook?
I take it and sit on the bed. There's a simple inscription on the first page; HP. And as I slowly look through the diary - because a diary it is- I forget about being confused and start slipping into the mystery called Harry Potter.
Because, despite having been acquainted with him for more than ten years, I have never really gotten to know him.
So, I now have the chance to discover that he likes to write down all kinds of things that catch his eye; thoughts of great people, wizards and Muggle alike; his opinion about thousands of small things; short essays even.
… really, it's stupid, that separation between Good and Evil, when in fact everything is so grey, so hardly discernible. We prefer to think of ourselves as knights in shining armour, not seeing that at times we are as extreme in our actions as Voldemort is. Sometimes I try to see things from his point of view, just to make sure that…
So he does stop and think for himself just for a change. How very interesting, to discover that the Boy Who Lived does not rush that mindlessly into everything. I stumble across a few juicy bits afterwards, descriptions of places and people and acts, which, strangely and infuriatingly enough, pull unpleasantly at my gut.
I skip forward and smile when I find a lengthy diatribe on Dumbledore's gall to thrust me upon him. Snippets of our arguments follow, along with his commentary on them, and I snicker at the snider and harsher of the remarks; things that, while he usually doesn't say aloud, he obviously thinks in the privacy of his mind. It's so good to know that Gryffindors are not as perfectly boring as we'd all like to believe.
And the next thing that I see makes me laugh. Songs. I check the date just to ascertain that I'm not reading something written while he was fourteen. I'm not.
The lyrics are strange, I have no problem noticing immediately. Not written accidentally, not just whims of an intrigued mind. They are a gradation; a gradation of feelings, of doubt, of realisation, of resignation. They make me shiver:
25/09
…the true master paralyzes his opponent,
leaving him vulnerable to attack…
10/10
There's something inside me that pulls beneath the surface
Consuming/confusing
This lack of self-control I fear is never ending
Controlling/I can't seem
To find myself again
19/10
Find another place / to feed your greed -
While I find a place to rest
I want to be in another place
27/10
Then the rainstorm came, over me
And I felt my spirit break
I had lost all of my, belief you see
And realised my mistake
10/11
I don't want to be the one
Who battles always choose
16/11
You make me sick
I want you and I'm hating it
20/11
I'm lyin' here on the floor where you left me
I think I took too much
18/12
You don't remember me but I remember you
I lie awake and try so hard not to think of you
But who can decide what they dream?
And dream I do...
I look in the mirror and see your face
If I look deep enough
So many things inside that are just like you are taking over
The words make me stop breathing for a second. Where have I been all that time, I wonder. Almost two months. And I have noticed nothing at all. Love poetry. The lyrics are practically love poetry. I feel dirty for having read them and reflexively turn the page, as if to erase them from my mind.
And I see that there's only one entry left.
This last piece written is the longest yet, jotted down in harsh, angular, somehow pained script, and having in mind the strange lyrics from above, I have to read it.
One is dreadfully vulnerable to those one loves.
Isn't it funny, how those who should make you happy sometimes hurt you in the worst possible way? And what makes the pain ever deeper is that you not only can't do anything to defend yourself but just the opposite - you gladly offer them to twist the knife some more.
A feeling so surreal, so fragile and translucent. Love. Suddenly you wake up one morning and realise that somehow, in some way one person you've had around all your conscious life has become that Special Someone you need most. Without your knowledge, or consent, or intention, one outsider has wormed his way into your heart and has crossed what seems the point of no return. Has become a vital part of yourself. And you try to deny it, to evade it, to find a 'loophole', or just some way to escape. But you can't. Because he's inside you; there, under the skin, into your head and heart and blood. Into the soul somehow. And when you finally surrender, finally accept the truth that you are in love, you discover that the feeling which has been tormenting you mercilessly all that time is multiplified tenfold by that simple admission to yourself.
I'm in love.
And your heart feels so full, so impossibly full of life and pulse and hope… So wanting to give and in such need to receive.
Here's when the pain comes. Because, like a bolt from nowhere, you realise that the feeling doesn't necessarily come mutual. And where you would give anything, everything, for a loving touch, a warm look, a kiss, he only wants a way to relieve the tension, a cheap entertainment to help him pass the time.
And what exactly is the painful thing? Well, your heart simply refuses to believe that it's hopeless and that it won't get anything in return. So it continues to give; give and give and give, endlessly, readily. And although you do try to convince yourself that you shouldn't be doing this, that you should keep at least a miniature portion of your dignity, you continue to beg and offer and secretly hope.
And if he's ready to be bribed, you do bribe him; give him pieces of yourself in exchange for the simplest caress, the smallest grace. With every touch and look, with every little hope he gifts you, you gradually lose yourself, give up parts of your heart and soul that can never be replaced, bit by bit. And still willingly. And every breath you take brings you one more step into the pain. The constant, gnawing, burning pain that seems to be swallowing you; like a knife into the heart twisted time and again, like an ever present clench in your gut. Because in exchange for your innermost parts that you've given away as a present, you receive nothing; not even the tiniest crumb to sustain you.
And as the empty, hollow space in you gets bigger and bigger, you readily surrender more and more, kill your already withering essence softly, slowly and tenderly. Don't hesitate to fall on bloodied knees and offer tearful handfuls of yourself and beg, beg him to take them.
And as you are denied even the least personal favour - to call the soul you seek by its given name - you crumble down, an empty shell heaped on the floor under a cold gaze. A shell that used to be a living, real person. Yet, you get up, and through the pain, through the tears, scrape around to find one more piece, one more bit that would allow you to pay for one more moment of bittersweet torture.
Those you love.
Yes, they are dangerous, so dangerous, because they kill you. Kill you, using your own hands; kill you with every breath you take.
Those you love can leave you smiling, lifeless on the ground.
But do you give up? No, you are happy to do all this, happy to give yourself away. Because you hope that after you've disappeared, soulless and unloved, someday the person you've loved will stumble across the dusty pieces of yourself in the attic and will remember you. Perhaps.
I read it all in one breath, something urging me on. I look at the date, a month before the accident at Christmas.
There's nothing more written, just the evidence of many pages torn away staying sadly under my fingers. I'm starting to ache inside.
He has written that for me. And I know it with the same level of certainty that I know that I'm sitting on his bed right now. The lyrics. The essay. My mind is reeling.
"…where you would give anything…for…a kiss…he wants just…a cheap entertainment…"
We've kissed only once, a chaste, mainly mistaken kiss that I was the one to quit as soon as I caught myself. In so many ways a kiss is somehow much more intimate than sex. Physical pleasure can be a strong stimulus to do something. From that point of view you can look at sex like you look at games - just a way to spend good time. A kiss, on the other hand, is a joining of two people; not because your hormones have gone crazy or just because you have extra half an hour to spare. You kiss because you want to show someone how special they are, how needed, how close. How loved.
And it's scary, how you can have sex without giving yourself, and yet every time you kiss, you seem to leave a part of you behind.
He's wanted to kiss me, all this time.
Suddenly the little book seems to burn my hands, and I drop it and get out of the room, quickly.
But the words are already in me.
"…if he's ready to be bribed, you do bribe him…"
I remember vividly the first time when I really had him. Open and there and so close he could almost touch his release. And so could I. but I continued teasing, the next of our little games of control; drove him crazy. Do you want me, I asked, and he said Yes, his voice barely there. Tell me how much you want me, Potter. Beg me for it, I pressed, and he fought me - Merlin, he fought me - but, in the end, there's only so much a man can do, and I didn't allow him a way out.
Draco, he moaned; almost, almost… as I continued fucking him; so slowly that he nailed at my shoulder blades. It's 'Malfoy', Potter, I said, a cold tone despite the act and he squeezed his eyes shut, still trying to be strong.
Never again did he attempt to use my given name, except when coming; a sweet litany that I enjoyed too much to end. And even then I don't think he realised that he actually said it.
Beg me, Potter, I ordered again, and stilled completely, and he couldn't make it. Please, he conceded, and I thought that I'd never seen something as beautiful as he was at that moment; being fucked, and flushed, and broken. Mine. In such a small word. Please.
Or maybe, now I get to think, he's been too broken, and I haven't noticed.
Part Two: Protection
I am sitting in the kitchen, having breakfast when an attractive blonde suddenly pops into existence in front of me. Her white uniform bearing the insignia of St. Mungo's is a dead giveaway of the point of her visit.
"Good morning," I greet her when all she does for ten seconds is to stare around.
That seems to snap her back to reality, and she smiles.
"Oh, hi!"
With a sheepish expression she pulls a piece of parchment out of her pocket and reads it, the looks up at me again.
"This is the home of Harry Potter, is that correct?"
"Yes," I answer, getting a bit irritated.
"And you are?"
"Draco Malfoy. And what is your business here, may I ask?"
"M-malfoy?" she stutters and pales a bit. Only one 'm', thank you, I'm tempted to sneer but hold back when she continues. "I'm sorry Mr. Malfoy, but Mr. Potter insists on coming home alone today and I was sent to make sure that there'll be someone waiting for him here."
"I'll be here all day," I say, pleased by her reaction. "Good day."
She fumbles a bit with her wand before Disapparating.
And for the next few hours I'm overcome by the knowledge that after nearly two months, someone human will be around.
~*~
When Potter appears, it's around midday, and if I didn't expect someone coming, I wouldn't recognise him at all.
For the time he's been in the hospital, he must have lost half his weight because he looks like he's going to crumble to dust any second now. His hair is longer and spiking in every direction; the jet black colour making his paleness even more startling. His lips, which I remember lush and red, are barely pinker than the rest of his ghostly white face. Around his eyes there are wide, greenish-blue bruises, a gift from the heavy concussion. His emerald irises are the only alive thing on that face, and even they are feverish and unhealthily dilated.
I rush to him, a wave of strange feeling which I refuse to call protectiveness, washing over me. The moment my hands touch him, he starts sliding down. I keep him up, not a particularly hard task, and drag him to the sofa.
"Hell, Potter, you seem horribly intent on falling all over me lately."
He's just watching me, a dazed, fixed, unreadable expression in his eyes.
I wave a hand before him, and he snaps back into reality.
"Sorry to be a bother, Malfoy. I'll try to fall on the floor next time," he utters, voice quiet and trembling.
"Ha, ha, how very funny. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Why should it be?"
But his eyes are still feverish, if not more so, and sickly red spots appear on his cheeks.
"Don't give me that, Potter. Why did they let you out if you are not okay?"
"I am okay," he tries to get up but I push him back down with determination. "I made them," he continues weakly. "Should this be a problem, you can always leave."
But in his voice the venom is too forced and I think he's on the on the verge of panting. For the split second before he looks away, there's raw emotion in his irises that shockingly resembles fear.
"Now, I'm going to take you back to the hospital."
"No!" he all but jumps and I have to hold him down again, which as I already noticed is not hard at all. His efforts are like butterfly flutterings against my palms. And that, finally, manages to scare me terribly, much more than his looks. We used to be equally strong; tied, always.
"Are you going to tell me?"
He remains mute - so obstinate - and I want to stomp a foot.
"Fine then. I'll be right back," I snap and give him a hard glare. He closes his eyes, tiredly, and I soften. "Don't move, for Merlin's sake."
I take my wand out of the jeans' pocket and Apparate to St. Mungo's the reception is uncharacteristically quiet and I quickly head for the desk.
"Excuse me," I say and the nurse looks up from her writing.
"Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?"
"Harry Potter was released this morning. Who was the Mediwizard who treated him?"
She eyes me suspiciously.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I am not sure…"
My voice drops a notch and I flash a charming smile.
"I just need some advice on the post-traumatic period; Harry is such a stubborn patient."
"Harry?" she repeats, already listing through a notebook and I barely hold back from rolling my eyes. Honestly.
"Yes," I continue to smile nevertheless, "he's my friend."
I flash my teeth again and this time she smiles, too.
"Mediwizard Douton. His office is down the corridor from here," she shows me the way.
"Thank you."
I go down the appointed hallway to a neat white door bearing the inscription 'Dolorius Douton, First Star Mediwizard' and gently rap on the wooden surface. The answer is muffled but I enter anyway, only to see a middle-aged man bent over his desk.
"Good afternoon, sir," I sit on the chair meant for visitors, and he looks up, somewhat surprised.
"Mr. Malfoy?"
"Yes, my name is Malfoy," I say with an internal sigh, but ask anyway, "Should I know you?"
There's something in his eyes too sharp to be recognition, too painful to be caution. Well, what can I say? I've seen that look so many times, on the faces of so many people. My father tends to do memorable things with one's life. I am already well-aware that my enquiry will not be met with a favourable eye but the fool is lying alone, getting up to Merlin knows what, and I have to try.
"I am here to ask after Harry Potter's health," I start, attempting to sound mild and polite, yet he gets defensive immediately.
"I have no way of knowing…"
"Mediwizard Douton," I try again, already feeling tired, my fingers rising almost unconsciously to rub the bridge of my nose. "I will be the one to take care of Mr. Potter in the following weeks, so I need to have the details of his condition."
He actually sneers at that, an expression contrasting unpleasantly with his otherwise kind features.
"Really," and the sarcasm is surprisingly heavy. "But then, it was obvious by your frequent visits that the two of you are close."
He's contradicting himself here but somehow the words sting just the same.
"Shall we contact Albus Dumbledore by Floo then?" I ask, with this time audible sigh, thinking how hard it will be to do what I am attempting to do…whatever it is.
The man nods tightly and goes to the fireplace.
~*~
Twenty minutes later I am Apparating home, thinking about what I've gotten to know.
Apparently, the concussion has been a most serious one, life-endangering and so on. What I haven't been aware of is the fact that the fall has done something to Potter's magic.
Magic is a function of the brain. A complicated, tricky one, but just that - all of it is a matter of concentration, like reading, talking, moving.
And with such heavy traumas, there's the possibility to lose the ability to perform magic; exactly like there is the chance to remain blind, immobile and other, even less pleasant things. So people in the magical world are given special potions to make sure that their magic is intact. That is, however, not too good for one's physical power.
In short, Potter's fine, only weak and shaken. He shouldn't strain himself in any way in the first weeks; then gradually, over the following a couple of months, he should go back to being his full, normal self.
I'm quite satisfied. The single question that remains niggling in my mind is why, exactly, Dumbledore let him come home from the hospital alone or better still, why the headmaster will allow me to take care of him.
Why I want to take care of the brat in the first place is another taboo thing that part of my brain is eager to ask… but I forbid it.
I enter the kitchen where - surprise of all surprises - he is sleeping on the couch, in the very same position I left him in. Inside the privacy of my own mind I sneer - there's nothing more likely to get you strained that being a stupid, brave Gryffindor, who Apparates home alone when he shouldn't be doing any kind of magic at all.
~*~
I guess you may say that I became a tyrant over the next month - no reading, no writing, no magic, no moving around without my approval. But then, if he's too much of a child to take care of himself, that's not my problem. I'm not letting him remain handicapped because there's no one to exert the right level of control.
And also, on the still present question of why I'm doing all this… Is there a better perk than something to take me away from thinking about his journal?
~*~
I'm reading peacefully in my room one night when a scream pierces the silence. I startle and look up, and after weeks spent on my own, for a second, I'm sure I've imagined it.
I get up anyway, however, and go to Potter's room, where I find him in the bed; sweating, panting, trembling, a coiled body in the darkness. I light the candles with a flick of wrist and move to pour a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table.
"Bad dream?" I ask, not so much to find confirmation as to just make a real sound in the ringing silence. He just shivers.
I fetch him a fresh T-shirt, and he changes silently after I perform a cleansing charm on him. It's an awkward situation, I suddenly notice, and I feel I should perhaps leave. But when I turn, his voice stops me.
"Don't…don't go."
I shoot him a perplexed glance and he looks away, fingers clutching the duvet. I continue to stare until his face slowly flushes and he closes his eyes, swallowing.
"Sorry, Malfoy. It was stupid. Goodnight."
But the fingers remain so tensed that the knuckles are white.
"Draco," I correct him suddenly, giving even myself a surprise.
He turns so abruptly that his neck pops; his eyes deep and wide open, so painfully unguarded. I undress slowly and slip next to him under the covers. He's still watching me so closely that I can practically feel the weight of his question.
"Come on, Potter," I snap impatiently; irritated at myself, at him, at the world on the whole. "I'm pushing the limits of my kindness as it is."
"I thought you just said first name basis," he whispers, and along with everything else, in his voice there's familiar, teasing amusement.
But his lean, trembling form latches onto me far too quickly, and I wind my arms around him, more an instinct than a previously planned action, not having really expected such readiness and trust. And at than precise moment, as if to contradict me, words surface in my mind, his words. "…and where you would give anything, everything for a loving touch…"
As he gradually falls asleep, what was written so long ago won't leave my head. A strange feeling fills me, one I decidedly don't recognise. But then, how can I tell whether it's love or hate or lust or indifference when all my life I've been taught to suppress and ignore feelings?
~*~
I wake up in the morning in a twisted tangle of bodies and limbs; Potter moving against me.
I grow hard quickly and we grind; hip against hip, fingers digging in flesh. My hand finds his hair and I pull, bearing his throat for my lips. Licking, sucking, biting even, I taste his skin; salty and sweet and so his that I tingle inside.
I sneak my way to a nipple, take it in my mouth, and turn it into a hard nub. Gently holding it with my teeth, I flick the tip of my tongue over it, and he arches into me, panting.
My hand heads down, a path along his side, brushes his hip and thigh before tracing his cock. I finger it in an oh so familiar way, then tickle him teasingly.
And then…We are both widely awake.
My lips are still on his chest, my fingers around his erection, his hands in my hair and around me. We are going through the motions; a habit, too well-ingrained and pleasant to be forgotten easily.
I swallow; the dizziness of arousal forcing my eyes closed in an instant of painful heat. I feel the shiver that rocks his body and look up to see teeth imbedded into his bottom lip, his irises deep and hot.
I am well-aware that I should stop. There's hardly anything more taxing than sex, and he's not all so fit right now. But it's so hard; having already started, being already high.
I make to move away and his lids drop shut to obscure his gaze. But even before I succeed in retreating an inch, his mouth falls open; a bitten, red and swollen masterpiece of flesh highlighted by his white teeth, and a litany of begging words is spilt into the air. The voice is low, husky; the tensed sound of sexual desire. I feel something more as well, though; the slightest trace of shame, the silky-steely hue of blame, the choked nuance of hurt.
And at that moment, when pleas come unwanted and unprompted, quickly and with such practised submission, I feel hatred. With its novelty and power the emotion is startling. Novelty because I've never turned it to myself before; power because it's almost blinding me.
He didn't beg that easily before. He fought it - me - fiercely every single time with such vehement fire that when he finally, dazed by passion and sheer need, conceded, I was so thrilled, knowing that someone wanted me that badly. Now it's not like that. He seems broken, too broken, and the words are bitter and leave me hollow.
A sudden surge of something overtakes me, something warm and tight in my chest, and I slide up until my face is buried in his neck.
"Sh-h-h," I murmur, desire and strange craving making me wind my arms around his waist. "Be quiet." For the briefest of moments there's silence, stunned silence on his part before I continue, "Are you strong enough?"
After all, having pestered him for weeks to not strain himself doesn't sit so well with fucking him into the mattress.
His arms move, a tentative travel from his sides up to my neck.
"I don't know," he speaks back, and I'm sure that such an honest reply is the product of his surprise at my asking at all. But even as the sounds leave his mouth, his pelvis jerks unconsciously against me and his hold of my hair tightens.
I move slightly in response, the tension in my own groin urging me.
My hands start caressing his back, the skin impossibly smooth and soft. I find the hollow of his neck with my lips and taste the pulse point. Blood is vibrating against my touch, quick waves of life and warmth. He turns his head to the side and a tendon forms a ridge just next to the edge of my mouth… I lick it, bite it, mark it, and then slowly begin to slide downwards.
His nipples are already pebbled, sensitive brownish-pink nubs that I nibble. He squirms and my hands on his back push him to arch into my mouth.
He thrusts against my stomach and I mirror the action. Going back up, I align our erections together so that they brush for a magnificent second. He brings a hand up to his mouth and bites at the pliant flesh between thumb and forefinger, as the fist still in my locks pulls mercilessly.
I start making circles against his pelvis and heat continues to gather in my belly.
"Oh, God," a moan leaves his lips and his hips start twisting in snake-like motions of passion.
My hands find his still wet nipples and roll them, applying little pressure as I blow softly. This time the arc is all by himself and a groan fills the air.
Fingers move down to where our cocks are rubbing together, slightly slicked by precome. At the first touch I hiss and bite at his shoulder.
He thrusts again and I flicker first his slit, then my own, to wet my hand. We start grinding in earnest, bodies sliding up and down, skin against sweat damped skin.
My hand is crushed between us, but it hardly matters as I start twisting it, caressing every part of both our cocks.
Finally my other hand slips down to his bum and his legs open wider, cradling my hips. The cheeks are spread by the position, and I can't help the finger that ghosts over his entrance. In a few jerky trembles he tries to both push against me and against the digit, so I thrust harder and circle the pucker with my pad. The muscle ring quivers and relaxes slightly, and I start working the finger in, making him groan and whimper.
The hold on our cocks tightens and I am so close that it hurts, that I'm dizzy, that I'm blind. I feel his velveteen skin, and my hand on us; and it's so hard to keep wriggling my finger in him…
There's no lubrication, so I make it slow; just for the innuendo of it. By the time the first knuckle has wormed its way in, I sense the tale telling stiff arc of his back, his nails leave half-crescent marks on my shoulders and sure enough, shortly after he's spurting hot, sticky waves over me…
The sight of him, the feel and warmth of his come trigger me, and I bite at his shoulder tip ate the impossible urge to scream; surges of pulsating pleasure reducing me to a bundle of flashing nerve-endings.
~*~
When I recover brain and muscle function enough to move, an indefinite period of time later, his fingers are still clutching at me. With the first motion, however, they hastily leave my hair.
Well, that's the point where I'm supposed to turn away and exit, and I'm aware that this is expected.
Only, I feel like staying.
Now, to explain. I've always had a fairly strong will. Really, it doesn't matter if I was born that way or it is just a product of my upbringing; that is simply the fact. So, without any epic battles of mind - a thing that is quite popular with the Gryffindors, I gather - I can do what is best for me in a situation.
What's my point? Let's only say that post-coital cuddling clashes horribly with my Malfoy image, which, incidentally, I am quite fond of. And thus, I don't do the cuddling.
Even if I want to.
Yes, but this movement away, as if he's some well-trained dog, is another sign of his submission and willingness to let me win and that brings up my anger. I enjoyed his spirit, for Merlin's sake, the adrenaline of every moment, the way he opposed me. This scared, seemingly weak creature is not him.
So I decide to break the routine. Maybe it'll be the right thing, after all. I reach for the bedside table where his wand lies, rarely used. The cleaning spell feels strange from the unfamiliar focal device and something tingly travels up and down my spine.
As I turn to Potter again, he's staring at me, wide-eyed and motionless. Now that I think about it, this is the most intimate thing I've ever done, save for the sex…or maybe even including it. I've touched - used - his wand.
But I refuse to consider the matter right now and when my arms wrap around his middle and turn him to his side, he becomes reluctant to do the thinking as well.
~*~
I wake up again when the sun is already at its highest. A shiver overtakes me and I look for the duvet, only to find that Potter has wrapped all of it around his sleeping form curled in the middle of the bed.
What a kind way to throw someone out of your bed. But I smile at the sight he makes nevertheless, while I get up and dress slowly. My gaze falls on the notebook lying on the desk, untouched since the time I read it.
This, strangely, reminds me of my thoughts last night, after Potter fell asleep. His warm, pliant body was almost unknown in my arms; not fighting, not moving, not being defensive.
What is the kind of emotion that suddenly gave me this, I wonder. This… satisfaction from simple things like holding someone close, this warmth inside, this weirdness of the urges. It isn't bad on the whole, just curiously unfamiliar and thus a bit frightening. I can't name it, can't guess, and can’t ask him. But I can test, right? He knows what he feels and I see how he acts upon that feeling. What if I see how I react in a similar situation and, compared to his own actions, find a name for my … disease? And on the other hand, I want Potter back to himself. How can I achieve both?
I broke his personal space and he crumbled, yet I can't see if I'm not close enough to him…
I'm dwelling deeper and deeper in the problem when my eyes focus on the journal again. Personal space… Broke his personal space…
I grin triumphantly as I near the book and open it in a surge of determination. The expression turns almost manic as I bent and write a single sentence in the middle of the first empty page.
I haven't broken his personal space, or at least not the right kind. I've had his body, still seem to have it. But what will happen if he finds that I've been in his thoughts, too? I close the notebook and exit, smiling.
A plea, and at the same time a rampant show of aggressive self-assuredness. What will he do?
Tell me so that I understand.
~*~
For about two weeks there's nothing interesting happening whatsoever.
We don't talk more than before, don't spend too much time together, don't fuck.
Slowly but surely, he recovers, gaining weight and stamina, practising magic step by step. The day he manages to Apparate safely, without fainting afterwards, he's ecstatic, almost bouncing.
Reading in my usual chair in the library, I watch, smirking, as he - grinning like a loon - pops into existence and starts talking excitedly. I joke about his state, one of the few times my humour towards him is friendly.
"Oh, shut up, Draco," he answers and drops into the armchair opposite mine. "What are you reading?"
"Decameron. Have you read it?"
"No," he rolls his eyes, "It's simply lying around in my library."
"The library used to belong to the Blacks," I remark, not wanting to give up just yet.
"Oh, yes," he nods, mock seriousness barely accomplished. "It's a quite logical guess, having in mind your mother's deep fascination with Muggle literature."
"Touché," I cock my head to the side "And what do you think of it?"
"Well," he starts, a look of concentration knitting his brows. "It's definitely not…"
We talk until almost midnight, when we decide that maybe it's time for sleep. Upon reaching the landing, we have to part, each heading to his room.
"I suppose we'll see each other in the morning," he says, a bit awkward for the first time in a while.
"Yes," I turn and open my door. "Good night."
And the bed is surprisingly empty.
~*~
Two days later the so wanted denouement comes.
I'm reading in my room - honestly, when was my life reduced to reading all the time? - when the door crashes open and a heavy-breathing, dishevelled Potter, wand in one hand, well-known journal in the other, stands at the threshold.
I calmly close my book and leave it on the bedside table, my heart thumping strangely, quickly, and heavily in me, no matter that my face doesn't show it.
"Well?" I raise an eyebrow at him.
"Well?" he repeats, his voice going up sharply, and he steps in, slams the door and throws the notebook at me. It hits me squarely in the chest, taking my breath away for a second. "How could you?" he asks, this time evenly, but barely controlled.
"What did you expect?" I parry him arrogantly. "How old are you to keep a journal? How naïve?"
"This is personal and it's obvious!" he spits, his eyes on fire.
I feel the anticipation running through me, high at the sight of him as he used to be. I'll have what I want.
"So what?" I smirk and move to sit cross-legged; such a casual stance.
"You weren't to touch it, damn you!"
His fists clench but I continue to provoke him.
"And why exactly? I'm a Slytherin, Potter. Knowing people's weaknesses is in the job description."
He pounces at that and, taking hold of my wrists, throws me flat on my back. I lick my lips and smile, with effort unfurling my legs so that I'm relaxed under him.
"And you were so arrogant as to tell me that you've read it…" he hisses; a sound which I have to admit makes his voice a fully-fledged sexual weapon.
That's the hard part, though, the admittance, and I inhale before faking nonchalance. "I was interested in your reaction."
"Interested?!" his furious face is for a second mere inches away from mine. Then in a flash he pushes himself up and slaps me across the cheek.
Well, I think, while moving my jaw to make the stinging go away. That's unexpected.
"How dare you." A half-whisper, which, with its sheer hurt intensity, makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
A myriad of expressions crosses his face, his fingers digging painfully in my wrists.
"You are cruel," he manages eventually, even voice between clenched teeth.
"No, I'm not," I force a smile, although my breathing is getting quick and shallow, not only from his weight atop of me, but also from the electricity connecting us. "I'm curious."
His eyes darken and the fire in them dies. He gets up and pulls me with him so harshly that my teeth clatter. Even though his motions are a bit shaky and jerky, anger gives him enough power.
"You are curious?" he spits, while roughly taking off my clothes, and the quiver in his voice is more due to irrational rage than anything else.
His touch is not gentle, not by far; his nails scratching my skin, fabric grazing unpleasantly. Yet, despite this I feel the first stirrings of lust. Desire not so much for that kind of treatment, but for the emotion, the fire, the passion in him. I don't answer the rhetorical question, nor do I oppose his pushes and pulls. I stand there like some mute doll that he's undressing.
When he's ready, and the signs that I'm beginning to want him are clearly visible, he shoves me back on the bed. I bounce a couple of times off the surface, watching him. He fishes his wand out of his pocket and mutters something; a spell I don't hear but recognise easily enough when ropes tighten around my limbs and ankles.
His face is stony and I can so surely tell that he's practically shaking with fury, far past the screaming stage. I cannot remember a moment in my life when I've been more physically helpless. It's surprisingly unnerving, just that knowledge.
He climbs on the bed by my side and the look he sweeps over my exposed body is almost impressive with the level of derision reached.
"What kind of sick jerk are you?" he asks more himself than me, as his hands with clinical precision move over the marks of his hasty disposal of my clothes: thin reddish lines to show where his nails have travelled, a vivid pink blotch on my forearm that I'm positive will turn into a bruise, the sensitive area on my cheek that still stings from the contact with his palm.
I expect him to take hold of my jaw there, because it'll hurt with certainty, but he doesn't, and instead laces his fingers through my hair, using it to yank my head uncomfortably backwards and to the side.
"You want pain?" he demands as his grip reduces my scalp to screaming, throbbing ache. "Wrench of control?" he continues, as on reflex I try to move my head to stop him and fail. "Choiceless acceptance?" my mouth is open from the position I'm in, and he covers it with his, a kiss that is a distant echo of what that kind of caress is supposed to be; a bleak mockery.
His tongue invades with little gentleness or care. It is a punishment more than anything else and the touch is bordering on unpleasant, redeemed only by his own taste. At that moment I'm aware that, ironically, now that he finally has what he's wanted for so long, it's nothing like he's imagined it probably. A conqueror, he sweeps over the insides of my mouth, marking everything on his way in am almost contemptuous manner.
"Participate," he orders, biting harshly at my bottom lip, but I fail to comply immediately, still dazed by the unexpectedness of cold fury and brute power.
I can't really tell right now what I thought he'd do, but it certainly wasn't this.
I move my tongue when the pull in my hair becomes a bit short of unbearable, and he releases slightly. I can barely do anything against his thrusts; in and out, deep in my mouth. He licks the insides of my cheeks, the palate, twists around my tongue and it's possible that had this kiss been given under any other circumstances, it might have been extremely pleasurable. As it is, it's an insult.
In a while, I run out of oxygen and my lungs want me to breathe, but I can't; not when he's pressing so firmly against me. I try to pull away but his grasp is sure and my attempts prove futile.
That's the very first moment when I fully realise how truly vexed he is. And how dangerous. And how exposed I am.
And as I slowly begin to suffocate in that kiss, my vision starts to acquire dancing black and white dots, and I let myself in the hands of my sense of self-preservation, which orders me to return his caress immediately.
I suck at his tongue and start kissing him back, something that strikes my dazed brain as ridiculous - I should be fighting him and the restraints, shouldn't I? Just as wheezing colour explosions appear merrily behind my tightly squeezed lids and the thought how bad it could be to die kissing crosses my mind, he surfaces and breaks contact.
The first intake of air is downright painful, even more burning than the breathless torture before. But I'm gasping it in with big ragged gulps anyway, letting it make every part of my body aware in an entirely new way. His head is buried in my neck and I can feel the irregular pants that send rushed, ghost touches over my skin.
I'm sweaty, the coldness of the room raising goose bumps and hardening my nipples. One of his arms is wound around my waist, the fingers of the other cradling my neck.
I've just been through the best worst kiss in my life.
When he recovers, he moves a bit away and the fingers on my side slide up, tickling mercilessly, while his mouth moves down my right arm.
I try not to laugh at first, an embarrassing flaw that I've kept hidden for years, but he won't have that. When, finally, I giggle helplessly at the all to strong sensation and writhe in unsuccessful efforts to get away, his lips are on my waist, and he proceeds to lick, suck and nibble; as achingly gentle, as he was unforgivingly harsh before that. Soon he's tickling both my sides, mouth and hand working together to make me arch off the bed, breathless once more.
He moves up again after that, a small victory already hanging on his belt. Teeth and tongue turn my neck into a patchwork of wet paths and little bruises, and I have to bite my bottom lip to refrain from moaning. A hand finds my left nipple and starts toying with it, turning and tugging and even pinching just a bit. My earlobe is simultaneously nipped at, and I do emit a small sound this time.
He moves and finds the other hard nub with his tongue, swirling tiny circles, using teeth just to add an edge.
I'm left alone and panting on the bed as he crawls to the bedside table to retrieve a pot of lubricant he's quite familiar with. And that simple show of clear intention acts like a physical touch for me, making me yet harder.
The pleasant and at the same time a bit disappointing idea that he has forfeited the little revenge crosses my mind exactly when his ministrations continue downwards. Now lips are on my bellybutton, hands roaming all over my torso. He's always had such a smart mouth, doing the most incredible things to mark and arouse. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut when he worries just that place where my ribs form an edge, my most ticklish spot and he knows it. But he's kissing it; wet, open-mouthed touches that send crystalline signals to all parts of my body, and the tickling sensation simply highlights the experience, making me move into him and away simultaneously; a trembling arch.
And at that precise moment a hand reaches my erect cock. I whimper from the overflow of stimuli. His touch is light, almost ethereal, teasing but not satisfying. Dancing over the vein, circling the head, sliding across the slit, the tips of his fingers push me deeper into the heat of arousal. He rolls my balls in his hand, grazes the dark skin with nails, and tickles the sensitive place just beyond. I groan unconsciously as he begins massaging me there, soft skin against soft skin, delicious pressure.
His mouth climbs back up my chest and the sound I let out is sheer frustration. The fingers playing me spread my cheeks deftly and ghost over my entrance just as he sucks hard on the tight pebbles that my nipples have turned into. He presses the pad of a digit over the small dipping, feeling it quiver, a reflexive succession of clenches and releases.
The hand moves on afterwards, rubbing the small of my back. I whimper with need, already aching for satisfaction.
"You want to tell me something?" he breathes, his fingers returning to my cock to grant a brief, light stroke.
"Don't…" I start, but the pad of his thumb is making impossibly slow circles over my slit, an almost unsubstantial touch and yet the sole focus of my perception. I arch and shiver, and bite at my lips, feeling myself go tense, ready to come. My breath hitches, and I have to swallow before continuing the trembling sentence that inevitably closes a stupid trap over me. "Don't stop."
He stops immediately, of course, and my Slytherin mind should have predicted that, were it working properly. But the digit doesn't go away. "And the magic word?" he prompts, his voice perfection, pure lust.
When I hesitate, he begins to move away, and my heart stills in a second of unadulterated torture.
"Please," I barely whisper, the word like lemon with honey, both humiliation and liberation.
The limb slowly creeps back but then refuses to move anymore and I thrash in desperation as much as the ropes allow me. "I couldn't hear you," he hisses next to my ear and gives me the smallest flicker of friction.
"Please," I repeat loudly, and suddenly understand why he was always choking on the word, it seems to be trying to strangle you, to suck out your breath.
His hand leaves me, and I groan, sagging back on the bed, pulling at the restraints helplessly. But two slippery fingers walk over my hip, trace my thigh, my cock, then beyond, and find the entrance again. He pushes in, pressure and snake-like motion, and I grunt, moving into him.
He goes as deep as he can; not too fast, not too slow, pleasurable above all, torturous. The forefinger is twisting in me, almost convulsive little jerks, while the pad of the thumb is massaging the soft spot behind my balls. Motion out, then a thrust in; again and again, circles and brushes over my prostate.
"How does it feel to be begging, Malfoy? Does it sting?" the twitching finger leaves my opening, and with a friend returns to travel slowly and with pressure along the rim. Then the digits ease back in, and I shudder unwillingly, sliding on the blade of orgasm. He starts scissoring, and I can't help the litany of moans when teeth graze a taut tendon of my neck.
"Did my pleas sound good?" he demands, and when I don't answer, fingertips dig at my inner walls, causing impossibly bright jolts of sensation.
"Yes," I rasp out; short, shallow pants, trying unsuccessfully to satisfy my oxygen need. I feel like I'm drowning.
"How was it to break me, damn you? Was it easy? Was it boring?" he continues, and his voice is rough, his own erection pressed at my thigh.
I can't make out his words anymore, my foggy brain far too gone. A high, keening sound escapes me.
"Tell me with words," he breathes, and I beg him, pleas coming almost smoothly now.
"Open your eyes," he commands, biting at my shoulder, wriggling his fingers out.
I comply, seeing nothing but blinding light, yet when he starts moving three digits in, my lids fall shut against my will power. He stills.
I open my eyes once more, force them to remain that way, and try to stop the shivers overtaking me.
"Please," I whimper when he grazes my prostate, the initiative entirely mine this time.
"Please what?" he asks, his voice a tad more strained than before, and rubs against my hip so that I can feel him.
"Take…take me…God…let me…let me come," I barely talk, words a strange notion at the place where I am currently going under, my head spinning with sensation. "Please," the uttering is almost a scream and I'm so close that I can touch it.
"Do you want me?" he presses, and I close my eyes because I can't take the light anymore.
"Yes…"
Within three seconds he's off the bed and his word lash over me like whipping.
"You were curious?" he whispers, voice tight. "Now you'll see. You'll see what it is like to be ready and hot and begging, and to receive nothing. You'll see what it is like to feel hollow and alone in the middle of the heat."
With that he turns and leaves me, tied up and helpless, ready and spread open.
~*~
Those one loves can hurt you so bad that you bleed. Yet in the end, when everything is said and done, you realise that you want it all over again, just to have them next to you once more.
I close the journal and throw the quill on the desk, looking through the window; Draco hasn't talked to me since that night when I left him there unsatisfied. A part of me is happy. Really. It was some warped kind of much needed liberation. But most of me is begging for something unnamed from him again. I rub my temples and relax back in the chair, unable to find peace with myself.
The door clicks open, then closes, and a soft thud announces that someone has leaned on it. I don't turn. My breath is held in expectation, though, and everything in me stills for a second.
"Do you realise that we are even now?" he asks after a while, the undertones of his even voice screaming, “What do we do now? ” at me.
I get up and sit at the edge of the desk, facing him finally.
"We can always start again," I suggest, my eyes never leaving his, a connection, almost burning with its intensity.
"So what about right now?" he questions with an eyebrow so familiarly raised that I ache inside.
"Yes," I barely breathe, guilty and happy, afraid and ready, moving slowly towards him until there's nothing between us but layers of clothing. "They say there's no time like the present."
~*~
No, I won’t let you control my fate
While I’m holding the weight of the world on my conscience
No, I won’t just sit here and wait
While you're weighing options
You’re making a fool of me
No, you didn’t dare try to say that you don’t care
And solemnly swear not to follow me there
No, it ain’t like me to beg on my knees
Oh, please, oh, baby, please
That’s not how I’m doing things
No, I’m not upset
No, I’m not angry
I know love is love,
Love and sometimes it pains me
With or without you
I’ll always be with you
You’ll never forget me
I’m keeping you with me
No, I won’t let you take me to the end of my rope
While you burn it and torture my soul
No, no I’m not your puppet
And, no, no, no, I won’t let you go
~*~
The End
The lyrics used belong to, as follows: Linkin Park (Step up), Linkin Park (Crawling), Linkin Park (A Place For My Head), Seal (Love's Divine), Linkin Park (Breaking The Habit), Pink (You Make Sick), Pink (Just Like A Pill), Evanescence (Taking Over) and the final verse - Linkin Park (Chairman Hahn feat. Aceyalone - Wth You Remix). The essay is property of spark_of_chaos.
If you enjoyed this fic, you can also go read Spark Of Chaos' Other Fics
Summary: Those you love can hurt you in the most painful way. And yet, sometimes revenge isn't all that sweet, and you are left unsatisfied, hollow and wanting something you are too scared to name. Could it be that you are simply not ready to move on and leave the person, who has caused your suffering, in the past?
Disclaimer: The guys are lawfully wedded to JKR, and that's why they prefer playing with me :) The used quotations belong to their respective owners, I only adore (and thus use) them
Rating and pairing: Harry/Draco, NC-17, you've probably figured that out by now
Author's notes: Beware of POV changes. Thanks to stellahargrove, who did a greater job with the beta-ing than ever. Go tell her good luck on her journey and envy her for the fabulous exam results! All the remaining mistakes are mine, of course, because I'm so obstinate at times... Criticism is appreciated, as are breathless comments :p
Those One Loves
~*~
Part One: Exposure
My very being is on fire; waves of passion crashing over me, trying to break me. I feel his fingers around the base of my cock, keeping me from coming.
A heavy shudder courses through me, my muscles clenching. The digits in me are moving slowly, intensely, masterfully; they know just what to do to drive me insane. But then, he's always known how to play me like a cither and how to elicit precisely the responses he wants.
My whole body is trembling when I finally surrender.
"Please," I utter; a sound akin to a sob as I almost choke on the word, something breaking in me. "Please."
His smile is unbearably haughty and knowing, and I close my eyes, sorrow mingling with all the emotions rocking me. With one last stroke over my prostate his fingers leave me and his cock slides in instead with a single fluid motion.
The thrusts are deep and strong, and almost gentle, the rhythm steady and torturous. I arch into him, attempting to make him move faster.
"Say it again," he commands silkily, and I try to defy him. But I fail - as always lately - and when he bites at my earlobe, stilling completely, I give up.
"Please," I cry; my voice broken and raspy. "Please, please, please."
That's what he wants to hear, an unquestionable evidence of his power over me. And then he's fucking me until I think he'll split me in two.
"Draco," I whisper when I come, pleasure drowning all else. "Draco."
The word is rolling off my tongue sweetly, now being the only time he'll let me utter it; far too gone to notice or just feeling too good to care. Probably the latter, as he never lets go, even in his pleasure; at least not with me.
He slides off me and curls to the side; his back to me, his breathing erratic. Few minutes after that, he gets up and leaves silently.
I remain there, in the middle of the rumpled bed, the sweat on my skin slowly drying, making me feel cold; so cold. So alone.
Much later I pull the sheets over me and try to fall asleep, even though I know the efforts will be futile.
I remember the way he just appeared one day with Dumbledore at my threshold and simply never left. A hard man, he is; cold and untouchable, thinking only of himself. How he bargained his neutrality, I don't know, but the fact remains that somehow he landed at my house.
And somehow we reached this situation; me begging him. It all started after a terrible verbal duel; in fact, a notch hotter, and it would have turned into a real, physical one. We were two people, who had too much energy between them to bear, and were forced to live together. So, instead of killing each other, we fucked.
I fucked him. He fucked me. We called a truce.
We don't have that truce anymore. Because the balance changed; gradually, without me noticing, but it changed.
And the reason was that for the first time since we knew each other, he won, won so unmistakably that now I'm the one begging. Somewhere along the way, I buggered him and he managed to keep himself without difficulty, but he buggered me and I couldn't keep him outside. The bastard wormed his way in me.
The sex started feeling hollow. No kissing, I suddenly noticed; no first name basis, no holding afterwards or even normal talking for a change.
When I tried to do something about the stale status quo he saw the alteration, too, and started using me against me.
~*~
"It's Christmas tomorrow," I smile.
"So what?" he absent-mindedly asks, turning a page in the book he's reading.
"Let's decorate the house, that's what."
"Tomorrow," he still doesn't look up.
"There won't be time tomorrow," I feel my holiday spirit falter. "Come on."
"Okay, Potter," he sighs pointedly, making sure to highlight his displeasure. "Just let me get my wand."
"You don't need the wand. Let's do it the Muggle way."
"Yeah, right."
~*~
"Tomorrow," I say when he tries for unfathomable reasons to persuade me to do the Christmas decoration.
"There won't be time tomorrow," he answers, and when I look up at him, I see the light in his eyes go weaker.
In the end I agree to help him, however grudgingly. Since when do I care whether his eyes sparkle or not? Or better still, since when do I notice his eyes?! He goes away, to start doing it 'the Muggle way' while I stubbornly insist on finding my wand.
"Malfoy," he shouts ten minutes later, as I start on the last sentence of my chapter. "Drag your arse down here."
"Shut up, Potter!" I answer just as loudly, but head for my bedroom anyway.
My wand is not there, surprisingly, so it must be downstairs. When I reach the landing, I see Potter, perched up on a ridiculous ladder down in the hall, trying to hang holly in the corners of the room.
"Potter, look at yourself," I sneer.
"Why don't you just come to help…" he turns to look at me, not noticing the way his ankle has a branch of the decoration twisted around it.
"Potter," I begin on say, but he simply turns more abruptly at that.
The holly upsets his balance and he falls on the floor, the ladder crashing atop him.
"Really, how can you be such a thumb-fingered jerk?" I laugh at that point, going down the stairs.
He doesn't answer me, however, and tiny bells start ringing in my head.
"Potter?"
He doesn't move even.
Oh. Sweet. Magic. I rush to him and it's obvious that he's breathing but when I slightly shake him, I feel dampness in his hair. On the wooden floor beneath him there's a small dark pool, slowly getting bigger.
"Fucking hell, Potter."
I run in the kitchen, where my wand lies on the table, the whole time only one thought playing an endless loop in my head. The brat's going to die on me. An unexpected lump forms in my throat.
I return and take him in my arms to Apparate us at St. Mungo's. His unconscious body is strangely light and what is even weirder is the way he's not moving, not fighting me, not even trembling.
I suppose that his condition morbidly reminds me of calm slumber.
~*~
When I return several hours later, tired, alone and uncharacteristically subdued, all I want to do is sleep. Potter is comparatively safe in the intensive ward, as far as someone can be safe with a concussion.
Weasel and Mudblood came crashing in at some point and, after I had been generous enough to inform them of what had happened, they had the gall to blame the accident on me.
Burying my head in the pillow, I try to relax and go to sleep. And if, for the first time in my life someone has been about to die before my eyes, in my hands, and that has made me a little shaky inside; well, I won't admit it even to myself.
~*~
Three weeks later I've exceeded my reading quota for the year and it's still mid-January. I've paced more than my fair share, and I've been outside Potter's house double the amount of time that is healthy for me.
The slight feeling of unease that keeps me tensed all the time is slowly getting more and more pronounced. The house is eerily quiet, a situation in which I've never seen it. No one is there to tease, to smirk at, to generally be with; no one to pour out tension at, to try to overpower, to succeed in dominating.
It’s an unsettling affair.
~*~
I wake up one night, sweaty and strangely lonely, flashbacks of disturbing dreams still haunting my vision and hearing. I get up and, as I would do often in the months since I moved to live here, pad to Potter's room. Only, now, when I open the door and sneak in the bed, there's no warm, waiting body to welcome me.
Shivering from the coldness of the sheets, I decide to remain here; at least that is not the customary place where my nightmares appear.
We used to do that all the time, Potter and I. After we started fucking, that is. It helps, we discovered, to find release and oblivion in the pleasures another body can give you. He began that tradition, in fact; one night, while I was sleeping, smart fingers took to slowly waking my body.
It's weird to be here alone, without him. I can't remember being in this room in the daylight, let alone anything else.
Gradually, I drift off.
Only to wake up again, in what seems to be an hour or so at most, heat and arousal coursing through me. I close my eyes and laugh weakly, rubbing the bridge of my nose. I can understand the hard-on; after all, I've spent two-thirds of my time here in Potter, the reaction has become normal somewhat.
What I can't get is the hollow feeling inside, the voice mixing in a cacophony into my head: my father's disappointed farewell, bits and pieces of talks with someone or another, Potter's breathy, hitched, ashamed begging that I sometimes tear away from him.
Second by second, the last image overtakes everything else; the most recent of those memories and by far the most confusing one. Surprisingly, the arousal is dampened, only to be replaced by elusive sadness.
And, having in mind that I have never seen a single hotter or more beautiful sight in my life, this gives me a right reason to be worried.
Or maybe, all in all, being alone for so long simply doesn't sit well on my psychological balance.
~*~
When I wake up in Potter's bed for the fourth time in ten days, I have to admit that there is something very wrong about the whole thing. An awful suspicion creeps into me.
Do I remember how many days he's been away?
[33] chimes a clear bell-like voice in my head.
Do I remember his perfume?
[Of course you do] the voice sounds mildly offended at the notion that I should ask.
Do I remember how good he felt around me?
[No, you don't remember him feeling good, he felt perfect. Open, spread out for you, begging] insists the voice and there's no denial.
Oh, bloody magic, the suspicion is right. And so is the voice. I am missing him.
No, that's not me. That's not me. I'm not missing him. I'm not! My inner Slytherin is horrified and I try to believe his indignant yelps. But the clear bell is just chuckling in amusement.
~*~
But two days after that, I meander through his room again, in the broad daylight this time, and everything seems so different that I stop to simply stare. I go around, tracing a finger over the edges of the furniture, feeling as if I have never been here before.
The colours look so changed now and I actually notice a desk in the corner. Curious, I move to inspect it. A paper-weight, a stack of parchment, a fluffy white quill…
I snort, remembering one just like that, one which he used to chew in Potions classes.
…a couple of codices and a book on healing finish the picture, along with a notebook.
I'm about to move on, get out because of the sudden wave of silliness that has overwhelmed me, when my attention fixates on the last item. A notebook?
I take it and sit on the bed. There's a simple inscription on the first page; HP. And as I slowly look through the diary - because a diary it is- I forget about being confused and start slipping into the mystery called Harry Potter.
Because, despite having been acquainted with him for more than ten years, I have never really gotten to know him.
So, I now have the chance to discover that he likes to write down all kinds of things that catch his eye; thoughts of great people, wizards and Muggle alike; his opinion about thousands of small things; short essays even.
… really, it's stupid, that separation between Good and Evil, when in fact everything is so grey, so hardly discernible. We prefer to think of ourselves as knights in shining armour, not seeing that at times we are as extreme in our actions as Voldemort is. Sometimes I try to see things from his point of view, just to make sure that…
So he does stop and think for himself just for a change. How very interesting, to discover that the Boy Who Lived does not rush that mindlessly into everything. I stumble across a few juicy bits afterwards, descriptions of places and people and acts, which, strangely and infuriatingly enough, pull unpleasantly at my gut.
I skip forward and smile when I find a lengthy diatribe on Dumbledore's gall to thrust me upon him. Snippets of our arguments follow, along with his commentary on them, and I snicker at the snider and harsher of the remarks; things that, while he usually doesn't say aloud, he obviously thinks in the privacy of his mind. It's so good to know that Gryffindors are not as perfectly boring as we'd all like to believe.
And the next thing that I see makes me laugh. Songs. I check the date just to ascertain that I'm not reading something written while he was fourteen. I'm not.
The lyrics are strange, I have no problem noticing immediately. Not written accidentally, not just whims of an intrigued mind. They are a gradation; a gradation of feelings, of doubt, of realisation, of resignation. They make me shiver:
25/09
…the true master paralyzes his opponent,
leaving him vulnerable to attack…
10/10
There's something inside me that pulls beneath the surface
Consuming/confusing
This lack of self-control I fear is never ending
Controlling/I can't seem
To find myself again
19/10
Find another place / to feed your greed -
While I find a place to rest
I want to be in another place
27/10
Then the rainstorm came, over me
And I felt my spirit break
I had lost all of my, belief you see
And realised my mistake
10/11
I don't want to be the one
Who battles always choose
16/11
You make me sick
I want you and I'm hating it
20/11
I'm lyin' here on the floor where you left me
I think I took too much
18/12
You don't remember me but I remember you
I lie awake and try so hard not to think of you
But who can decide what they dream?
And dream I do...
I look in the mirror and see your face
If I look deep enough
So many things inside that are just like you are taking over
The words make me stop breathing for a second. Where have I been all that time, I wonder. Almost two months. And I have noticed nothing at all. Love poetry. The lyrics are practically love poetry. I feel dirty for having read them and reflexively turn the page, as if to erase them from my mind.
And I see that there's only one entry left.
This last piece written is the longest yet, jotted down in harsh, angular, somehow pained script, and having in mind the strange lyrics from above, I have to read it.
One is dreadfully vulnerable to those one loves.
Isn't it funny, how those who should make you happy sometimes hurt you in the worst possible way? And what makes the pain ever deeper is that you not only can't do anything to defend yourself but just the opposite - you gladly offer them to twist the knife some more.
A feeling so surreal, so fragile and translucent. Love. Suddenly you wake up one morning and realise that somehow, in some way one person you've had around all your conscious life has become that Special Someone you need most. Without your knowledge, or consent, or intention, one outsider has wormed his way into your heart and has crossed what seems the point of no return. Has become a vital part of yourself. And you try to deny it, to evade it, to find a 'loophole', or just some way to escape. But you can't. Because he's inside you; there, under the skin, into your head and heart and blood. Into the soul somehow. And when you finally surrender, finally accept the truth that you are in love, you discover that the feeling which has been tormenting you mercilessly all that time is multiplified tenfold by that simple admission to yourself.
I'm in love.
And your heart feels so full, so impossibly full of life and pulse and hope… So wanting to give and in such need to receive.
Here's when the pain comes. Because, like a bolt from nowhere, you realise that the feeling doesn't necessarily come mutual. And where you would give anything, everything, for a loving touch, a warm look, a kiss, he only wants a way to relieve the tension, a cheap entertainment to help him pass the time.
And what exactly is the painful thing? Well, your heart simply refuses to believe that it's hopeless and that it won't get anything in return. So it continues to give; give and give and give, endlessly, readily. And although you do try to convince yourself that you shouldn't be doing this, that you should keep at least a miniature portion of your dignity, you continue to beg and offer and secretly hope.
And if he's ready to be bribed, you do bribe him; give him pieces of yourself in exchange for the simplest caress, the smallest grace. With every touch and look, with every little hope he gifts you, you gradually lose yourself, give up parts of your heart and soul that can never be replaced, bit by bit. And still willingly. And every breath you take brings you one more step into the pain. The constant, gnawing, burning pain that seems to be swallowing you; like a knife into the heart twisted time and again, like an ever present clench in your gut. Because in exchange for your innermost parts that you've given away as a present, you receive nothing; not even the tiniest crumb to sustain you.
And as the empty, hollow space in you gets bigger and bigger, you readily surrender more and more, kill your already withering essence softly, slowly and tenderly. Don't hesitate to fall on bloodied knees and offer tearful handfuls of yourself and beg, beg him to take them.
And as you are denied even the least personal favour - to call the soul you seek by its given name - you crumble down, an empty shell heaped on the floor under a cold gaze. A shell that used to be a living, real person. Yet, you get up, and through the pain, through the tears, scrape around to find one more piece, one more bit that would allow you to pay for one more moment of bittersweet torture.
Those you love.
Yes, they are dangerous, so dangerous, because they kill you. Kill you, using your own hands; kill you with every breath you take.
Those you love can leave you smiling, lifeless on the ground.
But do you give up? No, you are happy to do all this, happy to give yourself away. Because you hope that after you've disappeared, soulless and unloved, someday the person you've loved will stumble across the dusty pieces of yourself in the attic and will remember you. Perhaps.
I read it all in one breath, something urging me on. I look at the date, a month before the accident at Christmas.
There's nothing more written, just the evidence of many pages torn away staying sadly under my fingers. I'm starting to ache inside.
He has written that for me. And I know it with the same level of certainty that I know that I'm sitting on his bed right now. The lyrics. The essay. My mind is reeling.
"…where you would give anything…for…a kiss…he wants just…a cheap entertainment…"
We've kissed only once, a chaste, mainly mistaken kiss that I was the one to quit as soon as I caught myself. In so many ways a kiss is somehow much more intimate than sex. Physical pleasure can be a strong stimulus to do something. From that point of view you can look at sex like you look at games - just a way to spend good time. A kiss, on the other hand, is a joining of two people; not because your hormones have gone crazy or just because you have extra half an hour to spare. You kiss because you want to show someone how special they are, how needed, how close. How loved.
And it's scary, how you can have sex without giving yourself, and yet every time you kiss, you seem to leave a part of you behind.
He's wanted to kiss me, all this time.
Suddenly the little book seems to burn my hands, and I drop it and get out of the room, quickly.
But the words are already in me.
"…if he's ready to be bribed, you do bribe him…"
I remember vividly the first time when I really had him. Open and there and so close he could almost touch his release. And so could I. but I continued teasing, the next of our little games of control; drove him crazy. Do you want me, I asked, and he said Yes, his voice barely there. Tell me how much you want me, Potter. Beg me for it, I pressed, and he fought me - Merlin, he fought me - but, in the end, there's only so much a man can do, and I didn't allow him a way out.
Draco, he moaned; almost, almost… as I continued fucking him; so slowly that he nailed at my shoulder blades. It's 'Malfoy', Potter, I said, a cold tone despite the act and he squeezed his eyes shut, still trying to be strong.
Never again did he attempt to use my given name, except when coming; a sweet litany that I enjoyed too much to end. And even then I don't think he realised that he actually said it.
Beg me, Potter, I ordered again, and stilled completely, and he couldn't make it. Please, he conceded, and I thought that I'd never seen something as beautiful as he was at that moment; being fucked, and flushed, and broken. Mine. In such a small word. Please.
Or maybe, now I get to think, he's been too broken, and I haven't noticed.
Part Two: Protection
I am sitting in the kitchen, having breakfast when an attractive blonde suddenly pops into existence in front of me. Her white uniform bearing the insignia of St. Mungo's is a dead giveaway of the point of her visit.
"Good morning," I greet her when all she does for ten seconds is to stare around.
That seems to snap her back to reality, and she smiles.
"Oh, hi!"
With a sheepish expression she pulls a piece of parchment out of her pocket and reads it, the looks up at me again.
"This is the home of Harry Potter, is that correct?"
"Yes," I answer, getting a bit irritated.
"And you are?"
"Draco Malfoy. And what is your business here, may I ask?"
"M-malfoy?" she stutters and pales a bit. Only one 'm', thank you, I'm tempted to sneer but hold back when she continues. "I'm sorry Mr. Malfoy, but Mr. Potter insists on coming home alone today and I was sent to make sure that there'll be someone waiting for him here."
"I'll be here all day," I say, pleased by her reaction. "Good day."
She fumbles a bit with her wand before Disapparating.
And for the next few hours I'm overcome by the knowledge that after nearly two months, someone human will be around.
~*~
When Potter appears, it's around midday, and if I didn't expect someone coming, I wouldn't recognise him at all.
For the time he's been in the hospital, he must have lost half his weight because he looks like he's going to crumble to dust any second now. His hair is longer and spiking in every direction; the jet black colour making his paleness even more startling. His lips, which I remember lush and red, are barely pinker than the rest of his ghostly white face. Around his eyes there are wide, greenish-blue bruises, a gift from the heavy concussion. His emerald irises are the only alive thing on that face, and even they are feverish and unhealthily dilated.
I rush to him, a wave of strange feeling which I refuse to call protectiveness, washing over me. The moment my hands touch him, he starts sliding down. I keep him up, not a particularly hard task, and drag him to the sofa.
"Hell, Potter, you seem horribly intent on falling all over me lately."
He's just watching me, a dazed, fixed, unreadable expression in his eyes.
I wave a hand before him, and he snaps back into reality.
"Sorry to be a bother, Malfoy. I'll try to fall on the floor next time," he utters, voice quiet and trembling.
"Ha, ha, how very funny. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Why should it be?"
But his eyes are still feverish, if not more so, and sickly red spots appear on his cheeks.
"Don't give me that, Potter. Why did they let you out if you are not okay?"
"I am okay," he tries to get up but I push him back down with determination. "I made them," he continues weakly. "Should this be a problem, you can always leave."
But in his voice the venom is too forced and I think he's on the on the verge of panting. For the split second before he looks away, there's raw emotion in his irises that shockingly resembles fear.
"Now, I'm going to take you back to the hospital."
"No!" he all but jumps and I have to hold him down again, which as I already noticed is not hard at all. His efforts are like butterfly flutterings against my palms. And that, finally, manages to scare me terribly, much more than his looks. We used to be equally strong; tied, always.
"Are you going to tell me?"
He remains mute - so obstinate - and I want to stomp a foot.
"Fine then. I'll be right back," I snap and give him a hard glare. He closes his eyes, tiredly, and I soften. "Don't move, for Merlin's sake."
I take my wand out of the jeans' pocket and Apparate to St. Mungo's the reception is uncharacteristically quiet and I quickly head for the desk.
"Excuse me," I say and the nurse looks up from her writing.
"Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?"
"Harry Potter was released this morning. Who was the Mediwizard who treated him?"
She eyes me suspiciously.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I am not sure…"
My voice drops a notch and I flash a charming smile.
"I just need some advice on the post-traumatic period; Harry is such a stubborn patient."
"Harry?" she repeats, already listing through a notebook and I barely hold back from rolling my eyes. Honestly.
"Yes," I continue to smile nevertheless, "he's my friend."
I flash my teeth again and this time she smiles, too.
"Mediwizard Douton. His office is down the corridor from here," she shows me the way.
"Thank you."
I go down the appointed hallway to a neat white door bearing the inscription 'Dolorius Douton, First Star Mediwizard' and gently rap on the wooden surface. The answer is muffled but I enter anyway, only to see a middle-aged man bent over his desk.
"Good afternoon, sir," I sit on the chair meant for visitors, and he looks up, somewhat surprised.
"Mr. Malfoy?"
"Yes, my name is Malfoy," I say with an internal sigh, but ask anyway, "Should I know you?"
There's something in his eyes too sharp to be recognition, too painful to be caution. Well, what can I say? I've seen that look so many times, on the faces of so many people. My father tends to do memorable things with one's life. I am already well-aware that my enquiry will not be met with a favourable eye but the fool is lying alone, getting up to Merlin knows what, and I have to try.
"I am here to ask after Harry Potter's health," I start, attempting to sound mild and polite, yet he gets defensive immediately.
"I have no way of knowing…"
"Mediwizard Douton," I try again, already feeling tired, my fingers rising almost unconsciously to rub the bridge of my nose. "I will be the one to take care of Mr. Potter in the following weeks, so I need to have the details of his condition."
He actually sneers at that, an expression contrasting unpleasantly with his otherwise kind features.
"Really," and the sarcasm is surprisingly heavy. "But then, it was obvious by your frequent visits that the two of you are close."
He's contradicting himself here but somehow the words sting just the same.
"Shall we contact Albus Dumbledore by Floo then?" I ask, with this time audible sigh, thinking how hard it will be to do what I am attempting to do…whatever it is.
The man nods tightly and goes to the fireplace.
~*~
Twenty minutes later I am Apparating home, thinking about what I've gotten to know.
Apparently, the concussion has been a most serious one, life-endangering and so on. What I haven't been aware of is the fact that the fall has done something to Potter's magic.
Magic is a function of the brain. A complicated, tricky one, but just that - all of it is a matter of concentration, like reading, talking, moving.
And with such heavy traumas, there's the possibility to lose the ability to perform magic; exactly like there is the chance to remain blind, immobile and other, even less pleasant things. So people in the magical world are given special potions to make sure that their magic is intact. That is, however, not too good for one's physical power.
In short, Potter's fine, only weak and shaken. He shouldn't strain himself in any way in the first weeks; then gradually, over the following a couple of months, he should go back to being his full, normal self.
I'm quite satisfied. The single question that remains niggling in my mind is why, exactly, Dumbledore let him come home from the hospital alone or better still, why the headmaster will allow me to take care of him.
Why I want to take care of the brat in the first place is another taboo thing that part of my brain is eager to ask… but I forbid it.
I enter the kitchen where - surprise of all surprises - he is sleeping on the couch, in the very same position I left him in. Inside the privacy of my own mind I sneer - there's nothing more likely to get you strained that being a stupid, brave Gryffindor, who Apparates home alone when he shouldn't be doing any kind of magic at all.
~*~
I guess you may say that I became a tyrant over the next month - no reading, no writing, no magic, no moving around without my approval. But then, if he's too much of a child to take care of himself, that's not my problem. I'm not letting him remain handicapped because there's no one to exert the right level of control.
And also, on the still present question of why I'm doing all this… Is there a better perk than something to take me away from thinking about his journal?
~*~
I'm reading peacefully in my room one night when a scream pierces the silence. I startle and look up, and after weeks spent on my own, for a second, I'm sure I've imagined it.
I get up anyway, however, and go to Potter's room, where I find him in the bed; sweating, panting, trembling, a coiled body in the darkness. I light the candles with a flick of wrist and move to pour a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table.
"Bad dream?" I ask, not so much to find confirmation as to just make a real sound in the ringing silence. He just shivers.
I fetch him a fresh T-shirt, and he changes silently after I perform a cleansing charm on him. It's an awkward situation, I suddenly notice, and I feel I should perhaps leave. But when I turn, his voice stops me.
"Don't…don't go."
I shoot him a perplexed glance and he looks away, fingers clutching the duvet. I continue to stare until his face slowly flushes and he closes his eyes, swallowing.
"Sorry, Malfoy. It was stupid. Goodnight."
But the fingers remain so tensed that the knuckles are white.
"Draco," I correct him suddenly, giving even myself a surprise.
He turns so abruptly that his neck pops; his eyes deep and wide open, so painfully unguarded. I undress slowly and slip next to him under the covers. He's still watching me so closely that I can practically feel the weight of his question.
"Come on, Potter," I snap impatiently; irritated at myself, at him, at the world on the whole. "I'm pushing the limits of my kindness as it is."
"I thought you just said first name basis," he whispers, and along with everything else, in his voice there's familiar, teasing amusement.
But his lean, trembling form latches onto me far too quickly, and I wind my arms around him, more an instinct than a previously planned action, not having really expected such readiness and trust. And at than precise moment, as if to contradict me, words surface in my mind, his words. "…and where you would give anything, everything for a loving touch…"
As he gradually falls asleep, what was written so long ago won't leave my head. A strange feeling fills me, one I decidedly don't recognise. But then, how can I tell whether it's love or hate or lust or indifference when all my life I've been taught to suppress and ignore feelings?
~*~
I wake up in the morning in a twisted tangle of bodies and limbs; Potter moving against me.
I grow hard quickly and we grind; hip against hip, fingers digging in flesh. My hand finds his hair and I pull, bearing his throat for my lips. Licking, sucking, biting even, I taste his skin; salty and sweet and so his that I tingle inside.
I sneak my way to a nipple, take it in my mouth, and turn it into a hard nub. Gently holding it with my teeth, I flick the tip of my tongue over it, and he arches into me, panting.
My hand heads down, a path along his side, brushes his hip and thigh before tracing his cock. I finger it in an oh so familiar way, then tickle him teasingly.
And then…We are both widely awake.
My lips are still on his chest, my fingers around his erection, his hands in my hair and around me. We are going through the motions; a habit, too well-ingrained and pleasant to be forgotten easily.
I swallow; the dizziness of arousal forcing my eyes closed in an instant of painful heat. I feel the shiver that rocks his body and look up to see teeth imbedded into his bottom lip, his irises deep and hot.
I am well-aware that I should stop. There's hardly anything more taxing than sex, and he's not all so fit right now. But it's so hard; having already started, being already high.
I make to move away and his lids drop shut to obscure his gaze. But even before I succeed in retreating an inch, his mouth falls open; a bitten, red and swollen masterpiece of flesh highlighted by his white teeth, and a litany of begging words is spilt into the air. The voice is low, husky; the tensed sound of sexual desire. I feel something more as well, though; the slightest trace of shame, the silky-steely hue of blame, the choked nuance of hurt.
And at that moment, when pleas come unwanted and unprompted, quickly and with such practised submission, I feel hatred. With its novelty and power the emotion is startling. Novelty because I've never turned it to myself before; power because it's almost blinding me.
He didn't beg that easily before. He fought it - me - fiercely every single time with such vehement fire that when he finally, dazed by passion and sheer need, conceded, I was so thrilled, knowing that someone wanted me that badly. Now it's not like that. He seems broken, too broken, and the words are bitter and leave me hollow.
A sudden surge of something overtakes me, something warm and tight in my chest, and I slide up until my face is buried in his neck.
"Sh-h-h," I murmur, desire and strange craving making me wind my arms around his waist. "Be quiet." For the briefest of moments there's silence, stunned silence on his part before I continue, "Are you strong enough?"
After all, having pestered him for weeks to not strain himself doesn't sit so well with fucking him into the mattress.
His arms move, a tentative travel from his sides up to my neck.
"I don't know," he speaks back, and I'm sure that such an honest reply is the product of his surprise at my asking at all. But even as the sounds leave his mouth, his pelvis jerks unconsciously against me and his hold of my hair tightens.
I move slightly in response, the tension in my own groin urging me.
My hands start caressing his back, the skin impossibly smooth and soft. I find the hollow of his neck with my lips and taste the pulse point. Blood is vibrating against my touch, quick waves of life and warmth. He turns his head to the side and a tendon forms a ridge just next to the edge of my mouth… I lick it, bite it, mark it, and then slowly begin to slide downwards.
His nipples are already pebbled, sensitive brownish-pink nubs that I nibble. He squirms and my hands on his back push him to arch into my mouth.
He thrusts against my stomach and I mirror the action. Going back up, I align our erections together so that they brush for a magnificent second. He brings a hand up to his mouth and bites at the pliant flesh between thumb and forefinger, as the fist still in my locks pulls mercilessly.
I start making circles against his pelvis and heat continues to gather in my belly.
"Oh, God," a moan leaves his lips and his hips start twisting in snake-like motions of passion.
My hands find his still wet nipples and roll them, applying little pressure as I blow softly. This time the arc is all by himself and a groan fills the air.
Fingers move down to where our cocks are rubbing together, slightly slicked by precome. At the first touch I hiss and bite at his shoulder.
He thrusts again and I flicker first his slit, then my own, to wet my hand. We start grinding in earnest, bodies sliding up and down, skin against sweat damped skin.
My hand is crushed between us, but it hardly matters as I start twisting it, caressing every part of both our cocks.
Finally my other hand slips down to his bum and his legs open wider, cradling my hips. The cheeks are spread by the position, and I can't help the finger that ghosts over his entrance. In a few jerky trembles he tries to both push against me and against the digit, so I thrust harder and circle the pucker with my pad. The muscle ring quivers and relaxes slightly, and I start working the finger in, making him groan and whimper.
The hold on our cocks tightens and I am so close that it hurts, that I'm dizzy, that I'm blind. I feel his velveteen skin, and my hand on us; and it's so hard to keep wriggling my finger in him…
There's no lubrication, so I make it slow; just for the innuendo of it. By the time the first knuckle has wormed its way in, I sense the tale telling stiff arc of his back, his nails leave half-crescent marks on my shoulders and sure enough, shortly after he's spurting hot, sticky waves over me…
The sight of him, the feel and warmth of his come trigger me, and I bite at his shoulder tip ate the impossible urge to scream; surges of pulsating pleasure reducing me to a bundle of flashing nerve-endings.
~*~
When I recover brain and muscle function enough to move, an indefinite period of time later, his fingers are still clutching at me. With the first motion, however, they hastily leave my hair.
Well, that's the point where I'm supposed to turn away and exit, and I'm aware that this is expected.
Only, I feel like staying.
Now, to explain. I've always had a fairly strong will. Really, it doesn't matter if I was born that way or it is just a product of my upbringing; that is simply the fact. So, without any epic battles of mind - a thing that is quite popular with the Gryffindors, I gather - I can do what is best for me in a situation.
What's my point? Let's only say that post-coital cuddling clashes horribly with my Malfoy image, which, incidentally, I am quite fond of. And thus, I don't do the cuddling.
Even if I want to.
Yes, but this movement away, as if he's some well-trained dog, is another sign of his submission and willingness to let me win and that brings up my anger. I enjoyed his spirit, for Merlin's sake, the adrenaline of every moment, the way he opposed me. This scared, seemingly weak creature is not him.
So I decide to break the routine. Maybe it'll be the right thing, after all. I reach for the bedside table where his wand lies, rarely used. The cleaning spell feels strange from the unfamiliar focal device and something tingly travels up and down my spine.
As I turn to Potter again, he's staring at me, wide-eyed and motionless. Now that I think about it, this is the most intimate thing I've ever done, save for the sex…or maybe even including it. I've touched - used - his wand.
But I refuse to consider the matter right now and when my arms wrap around his middle and turn him to his side, he becomes reluctant to do the thinking as well.
~*~
I wake up again when the sun is already at its highest. A shiver overtakes me and I look for the duvet, only to find that Potter has wrapped all of it around his sleeping form curled in the middle of the bed.
What a kind way to throw someone out of your bed. But I smile at the sight he makes nevertheless, while I get up and dress slowly. My gaze falls on the notebook lying on the desk, untouched since the time I read it.
This, strangely, reminds me of my thoughts last night, after Potter fell asleep. His warm, pliant body was almost unknown in my arms; not fighting, not moving, not being defensive.
What is the kind of emotion that suddenly gave me this, I wonder. This… satisfaction from simple things like holding someone close, this warmth inside, this weirdness of the urges. It isn't bad on the whole, just curiously unfamiliar and thus a bit frightening. I can't name it, can't guess, and can’t ask him. But I can test, right? He knows what he feels and I see how he acts upon that feeling. What if I see how I react in a similar situation and, compared to his own actions, find a name for my … disease? And on the other hand, I want Potter back to himself. How can I achieve both?
I broke his personal space and he crumbled, yet I can't see if I'm not close enough to him…
I'm dwelling deeper and deeper in the problem when my eyes focus on the journal again. Personal space… Broke his personal space…
I grin triumphantly as I near the book and open it in a surge of determination. The expression turns almost manic as I bent and write a single sentence in the middle of the first empty page.
I haven't broken his personal space, or at least not the right kind. I've had his body, still seem to have it. But what will happen if he finds that I've been in his thoughts, too? I close the notebook and exit, smiling.
A plea, and at the same time a rampant show of aggressive self-assuredness. What will he do?
Tell me so that I understand.
~*~
For about two weeks there's nothing interesting happening whatsoever.
We don't talk more than before, don't spend too much time together, don't fuck.
Slowly but surely, he recovers, gaining weight and stamina, practising magic step by step. The day he manages to Apparate safely, without fainting afterwards, he's ecstatic, almost bouncing.
Reading in my usual chair in the library, I watch, smirking, as he - grinning like a loon - pops into existence and starts talking excitedly. I joke about his state, one of the few times my humour towards him is friendly.
"Oh, shut up, Draco," he answers and drops into the armchair opposite mine. "What are you reading?"
"Decameron. Have you read it?"
"No," he rolls his eyes, "It's simply lying around in my library."
"The library used to belong to the Blacks," I remark, not wanting to give up just yet.
"Oh, yes," he nods, mock seriousness barely accomplished. "It's a quite logical guess, having in mind your mother's deep fascination with Muggle literature."
"Touché," I cock my head to the side "And what do you think of it?"
"Well," he starts, a look of concentration knitting his brows. "It's definitely not…"
We talk until almost midnight, when we decide that maybe it's time for sleep. Upon reaching the landing, we have to part, each heading to his room.
"I suppose we'll see each other in the morning," he says, a bit awkward for the first time in a while.
"Yes," I turn and open my door. "Good night."
And the bed is surprisingly empty.
~*~
Two days later the so wanted denouement comes.
I'm reading in my room - honestly, when was my life reduced to reading all the time? - when the door crashes open and a heavy-breathing, dishevelled Potter, wand in one hand, well-known journal in the other, stands at the threshold.
I calmly close my book and leave it on the bedside table, my heart thumping strangely, quickly, and heavily in me, no matter that my face doesn't show it.
"Well?" I raise an eyebrow at him.
"Well?" he repeats, his voice going up sharply, and he steps in, slams the door and throws the notebook at me. It hits me squarely in the chest, taking my breath away for a second. "How could you?" he asks, this time evenly, but barely controlled.
"What did you expect?" I parry him arrogantly. "How old are you to keep a journal? How naïve?"
"This is personal and it's obvious!" he spits, his eyes on fire.
I feel the anticipation running through me, high at the sight of him as he used to be. I'll have what I want.
"So what?" I smirk and move to sit cross-legged; such a casual stance.
"You weren't to touch it, damn you!"
His fists clench but I continue to provoke him.
"And why exactly? I'm a Slytherin, Potter. Knowing people's weaknesses is in the job description."
He pounces at that and, taking hold of my wrists, throws me flat on my back. I lick my lips and smile, with effort unfurling my legs so that I'm relaxed under him.
"And you were so arrogant as to tell me that you've read it…" he hisses; a sound which I have to admit makes his voice a fully-fledged sexual weapon.
That's the hard part, though, the admittance, and I inhale before faking nonchalance. "I was interested in your reaction."
"Interested?!" his furious face is for a second mere inches away from mine. Then in a flash he pushes himself up and slaps me across the cheek.
Well, I think, while moving my jaw to make the stinging go away. That's unexpected.
"How dare you." A half-whisper, which, with its sheer hurt intensity, makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
A myriad of expressions crosses his face, his fingers digging painfully in my wrists.
"You are cruel," he manages eventually, even voice between clenched teeth.
"No, I'm not," I force a smile, although my breathing is getting quick and shallow, not only from his weight atop of me, but also from the electricity connecting us. "I'm curious."
His eyes darken and the fire in them dies. He gets up and pulls me with him so harshly that my teeth clatter. Even though his motions are a bit shaky and jerky, anger gives him enough power.
"You are curious?" he spits, while roughly taking off my clothes, and the quiver in his voice is more due to irrational rage than anything else.
His touch is not gentle, not by far; his nails scratching my skin, fabric grazing unpleasantly. Yet, despite this I feel the first stirrings of lust. Desire not so much for that kind of treatment, but for the emotion, the fire, the passion in him. I don't answer the rhetorical question, nor do I oppose his pushes and pulls. I stand there like some mute doll that he's undressing.
When he's ready, and the signs that I'm beginning to want him are clearly visible, he shoves me back on the bed. I bounce a couple of times off the surface, watching him. He fishes his wand out of his pocket and mutters something; a spell I don't hear but recognise easily enough when ropes tighten around my limbs and ankles.
His face is stony and I can so surely tell that he's practically shaking with fury, far past the screaming stage. I cannot remember a moment in my life when I've been more physically helpless. It's surprisingly unnerving, just that knowledge.
He climbs on the bed by my side and the look he sweeps over my exposed body is almost impressive with the level of derision reached.
"What kind of sick jerk are you?" he asks more himself than me, as his hands with clinical precision move over the marks of his hasty disposal of my clothes: thin reddish lines to show where his nails have travelled, a vivid pink blotch on my forearm that I'm positive will turn into a bruise, the sensitive area on my cheek that still stings from the contact with his palm.
I expect him to take hold of my jaw there, because it'll hurt with certainty, but he doesn't, and instead laces his fingers through my hair, using it to yank my head uncomfortably backwards and to the side.
"You want pain?" he demands as his grip reduces my scalp to screaming, throbbing ache. "Wrench of control?" he continues, as on reflex I try to move my head to stop him and fail. "Choiceless acceptance?" my mouth is open from the position I'm in, and he covers it with his, a kiss that is a distant echo of what that kind of caress is supposed to be; a bleak mockery.
His tongue invades with little gentleness or care. It is a punishment more than anything else and the touch is bordering on unpleasant, redeemed only by his own taste. At that moment I'm aware that, ironically, now that he finally has what he's wanted for so long, it's nothing like he's imagined it probably. A conqueror, he sweeps over the insides of my mouth, marking everything on his way in am almost contemptuous manner.
"Participate," he orders, biting harshly at my bottom lip, but I fail to comply immediately, still dazed by the unexpectedness of cold fury and brute power.
I can't really tell right now what I thought he'd do, but it certainly wasn't this.
I move my tongue when the pull in my hair becomes a bit short of unbearable, and he releases slightly. I can barely do anything against his thrusts; in and out, deep in my mouth. He licks the insides of my cheeks, the palate, twists around my tongue and it's possible that had this kiss been given under any other circumstances, it might have been extremely pleasurable. As it is, it's an insult.
In a while, I run out of oxygen and my lungs want me to breathe, but I can't; not when he's pressing so firmly against me. I try to pull away but his grasp is sure and my attempts prove futile.
That's the very first moment when I fully realise how truly vexed he is. And how dangerous. And how exposed I am.
And as I slowly begin to suffocate in that kiss, my vision starts to acquire dancing black and white dots, and I let myself in the hands of my sense of self-preservation, which orders me to return his caress immediately.
I suck at his tongue and start kissing him back, something that strikes my dazed brain as ridiculous - I should be fighting him and the restraints, shouldn't I? Just as wheezing colour explosions appear merrily behind my tightly squeezed lids and the thought how bad it could be to die kissing crosses my mind, he surfaces and breaks contact.
The first intake of air is downright painful, even more burning than the breathless torture before. But I'm gasping it in with big ragged gulps anyway, letting it make every part of my body aware in an entirely new way. His head is buried in my neck and I can feel the irregular pants that send rushed, ghost touches over my skin.
I'm sweaty, the coldness of the room raising goose bumps and hardening my nipples. One of his arms is wound around my waist, the fingers of the other cradling my neck.
I've just been through the best worst kiss in my life.
When he recovers, he moves a bit away and the fingers on my side slide up, tickling mercilessly, while his mouth moves down my right arm.
I try not to laugh at first, an embarrassing flaw that I've kept hidden for years, but he won't have that. When, finally, I giggle helplessly at the all to strong sensation and writhe in unsuccessful efforts to get away, his lips are on my waist, and he proceeds to lick, suck and nibble; as achingly gentle, as he was unforgivingly harsh before that. Soon he's tickling both my sides, mouth and hand working together to make me arch off the bed, breathless once more.
He moves up again after that, a small victory already hanging on his belt. Teeth and tongue turn my neck into a patchwork of wet paths and little bruises, and I have to bite my bottom lip to refrain from moaning. A hand finds my left nipple and starts toying with it, turning and tugging and even pinching just a bit. My earlobe is simultaneously nipped at, and I do emit a small sound this time.
He moves and finds the other hard nub with his tongue, swirling tiny circles, using teeth just to add an edge.
I'm left alone and panting on the bed as he crawls to the bedside table to retrieve a pot of lubricant he's quite familiar with. And that simple show of clear intention acts like a physical touch for me, making me yet harder.
The pleasant and at the same time a bit disappointing idea that he has forfeited the little revenge crosses my mind exactly when his ministrations continue downwards. Now lips are on my bellybutton, hands roaming all over my torso. He's always had such a smart mouth, doing the most incredible things to mark and arouse. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut when he worries just that place where my ribs form an edge, my most ticklish spot and he knows it. But he's kissing it; wet, open-mouthed touches that send crystalline signals to all parts of my body, and the tickling sensation simply highlights the experience, making me move into him and away simultaneously; a trembling arch.
And at that precise moment a hand reaches my erect cock. I whimper from the overflow of stimuli. His touch is light, almost ethereal, teasing but not satisfying. Dancing over the vein, circling the head, sliding across the slit, the tips of his fingers push me deeper into the heat of arousal. He rolls my balls in his hand, grazes the dark skin with nails, and tickles the sensitive place just beyond. I groan unconsciously as he begins massaging me there, soft skin against soft skin, delicious pressure.
His mouth climbs back up my chest and the sound I let out is sheer frustration. The fingers playing me spread my cheeks deftly and ghost over my entrance just as he sucks hard on the tight pebbles that my nipples have turned into. He presses the pad of a digit over the small dipping, feeling it quiver, a reflexive succession of clenches and releases.
The hand moves on afterwards, rubbing the small of my back. I whimper with need, already aching for satisfaction.
"You want to tell me something?" he breathes, his fingers returning to my cock to grant a brief, light stroke.
"Don't…" I start, but the pad of his thumb is making impossibly slow circles over my slit, an almost unsubstantial touch and yet the sole focus of my perception. I arch and shiver, and bite at my lips, feeling myself go tense, ready to come. My breath hitches, and I have to swallow before continuing the trembling sentence that inevitably closes a stupid trap over me. "Don't stop."
He stops immediately, of course, and my Slytherin mind should have predicted that, were it working properly. But the digit doesn't go away. "And the magic word?" he prompts, his voice perfection, pure lust.
When I hesitate, he begins to move away, and my heart stills in a second of unadulterated torture.
"Please," I barely whisper, the word like lemon with honey, both humiliation and liberation.
The limb slowly creeps back but then refuses to move anymore and I thrash in desperation as much as the ropes allow me. "I couldn't hear you," he hisses next to my ear and gives me the smallest flicker of friction.
"Please," I repeat loudly, and suddenly understand why he was always choking on the word, it seems to be trying to strangle you, to suck out your breath.
His hand leaves me, and I groan, sagging back on the bed, pulling at the restraints helplessly. But two slippery fingers walk over my hip, trace my thigh, my cock, then beyond, and find the entrance again. He pushes in, pressure and snake-like motion, and I grunt, moving into him.
He goes as deep as he can; not too fast, not too slow, pleasurable above all, torturous. The forefinger is twisting in me, almost convulsive little jerks, while the pad of the thumb is massaging the soft spot behind my balls. Motion out, then a thrust in; again and again, circles and brushes over my prostate.
"How does it feel to be begging, Malfoy? Does it sting?" the twitching finger leaves my opening, and with a friend returns to travel slowly and with pressure along the rim. Then the digits ease back in, and I shudder unwillingly, sliding on the blade of orgasm. He starts scissoring, and I can't help the litany of moans when teeth graze a taut tendon of my neck.
"Did my pleas sound good?" he demands, and when I don't answer, fingertips dig at my inner walls, causing impossibly bright jolts of sensation.
"Yes," I rasp out; short, shallow pants, trying unsuccessfully to satisfy my oxygen need. I feel like I'm drowning.
"How was it to break me, damn you? Was it easy? Was it boring?" he continues, and his voice is rough, his own erection pressed at my thigh.
I can't make out his words anymore, my foggy brain far too gone. A high, keening sound escapes me.
"Tell me with words," he breathes, and I beg him, pleas coming almost smoothly now.
"Open your eyes," he commands, biting at my shoulder, wriggling his fingers out.
I comply, seeing nothing but blinding light, yet when he starts moving three digits in, my lids fall shut against my will power. He stills.
I open my eyes once more, force them to remain that way, and try to stop the shivers overtaking me.
"Please," I whimper when he grazes my prostate, the initiative entirely mine this time.
"Please what?" he asks, his voice a tad more strained than before, and rubs against my hip so that I can feel him.
"Take…take me…God…let me…let me come," I barely talk, words a strange notion at the place where I am currently going under, my head spinning with sensation. "Please," the uttering is almost a scream and I'm so close that I can touch it.
"Do you want me?" he presses, and I close my eyes because I can't take the light anymore.
"Yes…"
Within three seconds he's off the bed and his word lash over me like whipping.
"You were curious?" he whispers, voice tight. "Now you'll see. You'll see what it is like to be ready and hot and begging, and to receive nothing. You'll see what it is like to feel hollow and alone in the middle of the heat."
With that he turns and leaves me, tied up and helpless, ready and spread open.
~*~
Those one loves can hurt you so bad that you bleed. Yet in the end, when everything is said and done, you realise that you want it all over again, just to have them next to you once more.
I close the journal and throw the quill on the desk, looking through the window; Draco hasn't talked to me since that night when I left him there unsatisfied. A part of me is happy. Really. It was some warped kind of much needed liberation. But most of me is begging for something unnamed from him again. I rub my temples and relax back in the chair, unable to find peace with myself.
The door clicks open, then closes, and a soft thud announces that someone has leaned on it. I don't turn. My breath is held in expectation, though, and everything in me stills for a second.
"Do you realise that we are even now?" he asks after a while, the undertones of his even voice screaming, “What do we do now? ” at me.
I get up and sit at the edge of the desk, facing him finally.
"We can always start again," I suggest, my eyes never leaving his, a connection, almost burning with its intensity.
"So what about right now?" he questions with an eyebrow so familiarly raised that I ache inside.
"Yes," I barely breathe, guilty and happy, afraid and ready, moving slowly towards him until there's nothing between us but layers of clothing. "They say there's no time like the present."
~*~
No, I won’t let you control my fate
While I’m holding the weight of the world on my conscience
No, I won’t just sit here and wait
While you're weighing options
You’re making a fool of me
No, you didn’t dare try to say that you don’t care
And solemnly swear not to follow me there
No, it ain’t like me to beg on my knees
Oh, please, oh, baby, please
That’s not how I’m doing things
No, I’m not upset
No, I’m not angry
I know love is love,
Love and sometimes it pains me
With or without you
I’ll always be with you
You’ll never forget me
I’m keeping you with me
No, I won’t let you take me to the end of my rope
While you burn it and torture my soul
No, no I’m not your puppet
And, no, no, no, I won’t let you go
~*~
The End
The lyrics used belong to, as follows: Linkin Park (Step up), Linkin Park (Crawling), Linkin Park (A Place For My Head), Seal (Love's Divine), Linkin Park (Breaking The Habit), Pink (You Make Sick), Pink (Just Like A Pill), Evanescence (Taking Over) and the final verse - Linkin Park (Chairman Hahn feat. Aceyalone - Wth You Remix). The essay is property of spark_of_chaos.
If you enjoyed this fic, you can also go read Spark Of Chaos' Other Fics