Author: tigersilver
Paring: H/D
Rating: R
Word Count: 800
Summary: I wrote one today for Sherlock/John; it's only right and proper to allow for a taste of Harry/Draco as well. And this is naught but impressions, and hence the title. For alafaye!
He's a very sensual man, Harry Potter. Draco hadn't known, but he knew now.
Pleasant surprise and that was understating it. Brilliant surprise, and he'd thought he was jaded, but he was not. He was not.
There's this warm length of neck to bury his nose into, this cheekbone curving down and that floppy errant curl. Harry smells good; he tastes better, he's what Draco's tongue's been craving, all this time…all this time. Salt, and scent, and an uprising of heat, all natural, from skin, au natural, and they cannot not but hurry to come closer together. It is not conceivable, how close they can come.
He's dreamt of this, and Harry must've have, as well, for he's eager.
Harry, Harry. He's eager, and this is long and pale and cool and warm and smooth, and it's all over him, lean and blunt-cutting, all that skinned-down weight pressing him down into the bedclothes, and the bedclothes? They feel warm as any womb and as comfortable; he sinks in and in, in and down. Skin at ease, mind at rest, body maddened: such a stranger sensation, and then stranger yet to find his self here, to discover himself so entangled, and so glad to be.
Taste, it lies on the tongue like an AllSweet, or perhaps a frog, melting, oozing into his gums and soft palette, consuming his senses with taste, only taste. It's not chocolate, it's man—primal Man. He's not swapped spit (in the parlance) with a man before, it's never entered his ken he could do, with impunity, but it is, now—it's fact, and there's sweetness in the act of it, inherent sugar…and Harry cannot ever get quite enough. Well…this one, this one in particular. This one.
He reaches, and so does his partner, and they entwine, from shin bones and bared feet to calves, lean and long, to hips, gently dancing, to chests, nipples flattened from tension-torqued pressure, and their mouths mate, and grow accustomed to one another. It's the taste, and perhaps it's victory and perhaps it's history and perhaps it is simply—only—ah!
Glimmering visions of skin soaked by moonlight obscure; gleams of dark from eyes reading cues, from eyes desperately searching, assessing, then finding, (and that's victory) and it's the exact same and they match up. They match up, exactly, excepting the difference in size longways, laying down flat, Harry's feet ending at Draco's ankle bones, Draco's nape exposed to fleet fingertips as he's bending his head down But that makes no difference. Mattresses are forgiving, the dark is forgiving, and all is forgiving: there's just them, now.
"I wanted…" Draco mutters, and it's a sigh and Harry meets it with one of his own. The sounds eaten up by open mouths, angled hard right. Draco squeezes a hand over Harry's upper arm, so sharp-set it smarts down to the bone. Harry doesn't mind in the slightest.
"I know," and it's earnest and sincere, and goes a long way toward healing, and it's a balm burnt up aromatic in the simmering heat they've built up between them—this long, slow burn. Long and sweet and slow, and hissing hot to the touch. Draco winces; it's a bit too much at times, and then again—not enough. He bites down, and the ridge of collarbone poking up is almost his undoing—or maybe it's the ridge of cock he's thinking of, the same one as is imprinted into his inner thigh. Right where the tenderest of skin meets pubes, wiry, and then there's Harry, and Harry's dick just there, and a resultant scramble of Draco's brain cells.
He doesn't mind it, not a whit. Gloms upon Harry all the more, and seeks to merge them, there in the dark, the dappled dark.
Harry grabs at it, both handed, all this sensation, and rolls right in, straight into the dark, which smells so fine and lights up all his blind senses, diamond-bright as the shifting of white hair across whiter pillowcases; white teeth bared in a grin. He loves the grin; he smiles back at it, heart whole. It's all about who it is beneath him and nothing about what wasn't there before. Nothing. And he's replete and they've not met the main course yet, but that's all right—that's all right.
"Ready?" Draco whispers, and the fingers sunk into him are the fuse lit to a rocket—and yes! Yes, Harry's ready, and has been for ages.
"Please." Harry doesn't mind that he moans it; moaning is all to the good, in this bed. "Oh…please."
"All right, then. Let's go." (And that translates in common Draco-speak to 'I love you' and maybe also 'I'll die if I don't have you, this moment', but it's all a wash anyway, there in the moonlight, and the words don't matter—it's only the feeling, that's all.)