Handle Me With Care
Don't leave me, he thinks with a terrifying bout of urgency as his partner rises from the place in bed beside him. His body is turned away, feigning sleep to consciously take solace in the comfort of another. The creaking spring-box and slight brush of an elbow against the sensitive skin of his back clue his nearing solitude. He bites his lip to keep himself from crying desperately in protest. Cloth pulls over damp skin along with an aggravated groan. He listens intently to the footsteps heading in the opposite direction of the bed. Bones snap back into order with an audible stretch as nails scrape over salt-filmed skin.
Draco's always been a keen listener.
Too bad he was never a man of words.
A door screeches at the hinges. The light sound signals the bathroom door and not the exit. He releases the breath he hadn't consciously held- smiling despite himself in the knowledge that he is not yet alone. Realizing after one blissful and rare moment of happiness that he's smiling because the man he loves hasn't left yet, Draco immediately frowns and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling.
Again, he shuts his senses to all but hearing and listens to the sound of water tapping against the glass of his shower door. He hears the discreet humming of some unknown tune amidst the splashing of collected pools. Crickets sound quietly behind the screen of an open window. Draco cracks one eye open to assess the time. Darkness still blankets the sky and the crickets seem to intensify in volume as the true time is added to his scene.
Damn whistle, he groans inwardly. The piping had a tendency to develop a high frequency if the water's temperature reached a certain point.
Harry always used scalding water. Draco knows this from countless showers together. Even now, he is more than welcomed to join the Chosen One behind the metaphorical curtain for an early morning fuck. A shag doesn't provide the correct terminology. That word is far too gentle for what the pair perform. Whatever they make is brutal and painful- shameful and terrifyingly brilliant in its intensity.
His legs almost throw themselves off of the edge, but the water ceases to dripping and the chorus of crickets is clearer. The humming is clearer.
Draco's eyes snap shut. He attempts to slow his heaving chest and quiet his heart, which sounds all too loud for his own ears. The Slytherin is convinced that Harry will hear his wakefulness.
Door hinges creek again and the temperature of the room rises with the steam emitting from the bathroom. His own shampoo can be smelled as it wafts with the draft about the air. Something about smelling his own product on Harry makes his bottom half stir with unrequited excitement. In fear of remaining eerily still, he tries awkwardly to turn himself in some sort of natural manner.
"How long have you been awake this time, Malfoy?" Harry questions with a bit of humor behind his discovery.
If he had trouble silencing the chaotic thumping of his heart a moment ago, that situation was long forgotten since his heart stopped beating all together. What was the use in hiding it. Harry knew, and he hardly ever backed away if he were more than certain of his accuracy.
"About two hours," Draco responds without the stutter he was normally assured. Still, he keeps his eyes firmly shut, listening to those damn crickets- wondering idly if Harry can hear them as well or if he is simply running short on sanity.
"Ah, an hour short of last week," the Savior observes flippantly. Before Draco can wonder, Harry continues. "You have this habit of purring while you sleep. I always know when you're awake. The room is so quiet, aside from those bloody crickets of course."
How could Draco have known the sounds he made whilst sleeping? It's not as if he'd ever procured the chance to watch and listen to himself. Fortunately, he wasn't hearing the crickets on his own.
A small victory.
"Can't you sleep?"
"No," he answers simply. He can't sleep. He hasn't been able to sleep in years. The heavily darkened circles decorating the pits beneath his eyes tell that story well. He doesn't like to dream. He doesn't like to hope. He doesn't like to fear.
And that's all sleep can do. Provide hope or fear.
In truth, he preferred the fear. At least fear made waking bearable.
Draco finally opens his eyes and rises slowly to his elbows to view Harry's bent over form. Even in the horrid lighting of the cloud-coated night surrounding his room, the Slytherin can clearly map out the shifting contours of Harry's back. He can see from memory the ripples of taught muscle cascading over strong bones and tensing with last night's labors still evident. Draco's gaze falls lower still to the dip at the base of Harry's spine- a prelude to the perfection that was the Gryffindor's firm arse, currently hidden beneath a terry cloth towel. The offensive bit of cloth only serving as a teasing outline to one of Draco's most favorite sights.
Harry stands straight, his glasses dawned after locating them on the floor. The pair really should be more careful with the spectacles. How could he possibly admire the blond if he were blind? He saunters over to the bed while Draco scopes the hard and chiseled chest created by years of brute physical labor and Auror training. The shadows within the dips of abdominals show all too forcefully against the lightlessness of the moment. Perhaps Draco creates his vision from part memory, part reality, and part psychosis. Whether a sham of reality or no, this is what Draco sees crawling over top of him. Deep emerald eyes, darkening to a terrifying black with the slimmest ring of mesmerizing green to enhance the image. These eyes are feral, primal, needy and lustful. The blond knows this look well. He knows he has become the prey- an all too willing prey, but prey nonetheless.
His predator knows of Draco's compliancy. The smirk gracing his lips is both challenging and menacing. It's a threat and promise.
And so fucking sexy that it hurts.
A dark pink tongue unconsciously licks a kiss-swollen upper lip and Draco follows that sensual path up, over, down and back into Harry's very talented mouth. If the option were provided, the Slytherin would opt to worship that mouth for the rest of his natural born life and some time afterwards. He would propose the creation of a religion dedicated solely to Harry's mouth, however, not another person could join.
If decidedly controlled by Draco, he would be the lone person knowledgeable of Harry's supreme talents.
But, that was a dream the blond would rather forget.
Harry straddles Draco's lap and is careful to only allow his thighs to rest comfortably against the outsides of the Slytherin's legs- their hardening lengths never touching. Draco can't tolerate the excessive teasing combined with that tongue's lapping and that damn eyebrow cocking upwards in contest.
"Why can't you sleep?" the raven-haired man wonders aloud, trailing a rather precise finger from the hollow at the base of Draco's neck to the light dusting of hair beneath the blond's navel and upwards again. The Slytherin barely holds onto his last shred of dignity as his hands shake in his crumbling will power.
Because, if I sleep, I'll wake up. And when I wake up, you'll be another dream.
Draco wants so hopelessly to admit his incorrigible need for Harry. Useless, he feels, because the sentiment can never be returned.
Instead, the blond shrugs and feels his Adam's apple bob noticeably with the heavy swallow generated by Harry's light tickle.
"Well, I don't have to be at training for another two hours. Any suggestions other than sleeping for future plans?" Again with that bloodyfuckinggorgious grin.
Draco scarcely convinces himself not to recommend cuddling and pillow talk. Fortunately, his mouth is too occupied to form the words and a moan fills his vocal cords in their stead. That destructively incredible tongue is trying to consume the Slytherin's being through his mouth and Draco is finding no reason to begrudge the muscle its wish.
The hand on his chest is almost as ferocious as the mouth attached to the very same body. It palms expertly over Draco's swollen member that's creating an easily observable tenting in the feather filled comforter of the Slytherin's bed. Harry is tearing pathetic noises from the man beneath him and Draco cannot formulate any rational thoughts of concern. The sounds seem to rouse the Savior onward to harderfasterharderfuck.
Soon, the pair press together intimately, lower halves rutting fiercely to attain completion after the cover no longer exists between them. Sweat drips and pools in the divots of Draco's chest- some of the salty perspiration from Harry, some from himself. Another idea he finds utterly appealing. A combination of anything by his and the man above's creation sets his arousal aflame.
"S-stop," Draco whimpers, feeling his release become imminent. "Ins-side me, Potter. Now."
Harry readily complies, attempting to turn Draco over onto his stomach. The blond remains on his back, refusing to press his face into the pillows again.
"I want to look at you," he whispers. His voice hardly shakes, although the nerves are bubbling to almost full capacity. There's always a bit more room for unadulterated humiliation in rejection and he waits patiently for it.
However, it doesn't come. Harry simply nods and slips two fingers into his mouth, sucking and licking the digits before aligning them with Draco's abused and already prepared bottom. Pressing inside, the initial tightening begins and loosens almost instantly. The blond craves this. Like a drug, he can't fathom a life without this feeling of fullness. He fails to suppress the sense of emptiness- no matter how weak it portrays his character. Finally, the hero aligns himself at Draco's entrance and pushes forward with a bone crunching force.
The movements are harsh and on the verge of painful as Harry can perfectly combine hitting the blond's prostate with bruising and scratching his contorted legs and hips. The raven-haired hero breaks Draco nearly in two with deadly accurate thrusts and unforgiving grazes from beaten, calloused hands and nails. The tight grip to his left bone achingly jutting from his hip keeps Draco leveled. The pressured pain maintains a constant reminder of reality and heartbreak.
He's so close, so fantastically close to those stars that he meets Harry frantically and sloppily- wishing he wasn't so twisted over himself to take hold of his leaking member.
Suddenly, though, Harry slows to a nearly agonizing pace. His plunge becomes shallow and irregular- a circling motion within the blond. His legs are lowered, and the Gryffindor places a discarded pillow gingerly behind his rear end for a different, more comfortable angle. Draco's never experienced this sort of sex. This gentle motion coupled with small chaste kisses to his sweat-covered forehead. Careful nips to his pointed chin and hot, wet swipes of that remarkable tongue against his hypersensitive neck.
Chills run over Draco's skin and his hair stands to full height. He doesn't know he's sightless until he hears a small whined hiss from the man before him. His eyes crack open to see Harry so very close. Their breaths mingle- almost entirely shared. His eyes are filled with something so foreign to Draco that he cannot decipher their meaning. His lips are parted and his forehead is crinkled in concentration beneath the dripping bangs plastered to drenched skin. Unconsciously, Draco reaches forward and brushes that hair from Harry's face. As his legendary scar is revealed, the Slytherin leans upwards and glides his own tongue over the lightening bolt- a jolt of electricity passing through his entirely desensitized body. Draco arches into the Boy Who Lived, pushing himself into a sitting position atop Harry. The raven Savior follows each movement, supporting the blond on his lap while Draco's arms encircle his neck and their foreheads touch.
Controlling the speed and flow creates a heavy rush of power and butterflies in the Slytherin's stomach. Harry pulls him impossibly closer as Draco rides temperately. Without the slapping of raw, neglected skin and shrieks of panic, the blond can still hear the blasted crickets. But, most notably, Draco can almost recognize a hushed whispering of his name like some sort of forbidden prayer falling from Harry's lips. His given name. He crushes his lips over the trembling ones of his counter to stifle the undignified moangroan-pleasedon'tleaveme. Draco's orgasm rips his insides apart- retracting each and every muscle with an explosive bout of immense pleasure.
"Draco," Harry cries after tearing his trapped mouth away from the blond's insistent tongue. His own release shakes both men. Draco rests his head in the crook between Harry's neck and shoulder, breathing in the alluring scent that has always been so unique and tantalizing. The raven-haired man lays Draco down gently, removing his softening member slowly and coming to relax beside the panting blonde. His arm drapes over a sullied stomach- taking no mind to the mess as he presses a feather-light kiss to Draco's cheek.
Draco can't look at Harry. His eyes are collecting pools of tears and he bites the inside of his cheek for a distraction.
"Could it have been that bad?"
The Slytherin laughs solemnly, turning his face to Harry- the motion allowing unwanted tears to fall one at a time from Draco's reddened eyes. "Not at all," he smiles sadly. "It was brilliant."
"Then, why are you crying?" It's difficult to believe that there may be some sort of actual concern behind the question, but Draco cannot help himself from hoping.
Now, tell him now.
"I love you, Harry," he sighs through the knots in his tensing abdomen. "We can't do this anymore. I-." Draco needs the meetings to stop. He can't keep wanting for something that could never be real. He hates himself a bit more each day for participating in the charade. "It hurts, Harry. It hurts so much to watch you leave, or wake up without you there."
The silence is deafening and icy. Even the crickets still their chirps. Expecting dismissal, Draco faces away from Harry, causing the hand on his stomach to slip away. His body convulses with the effort to control his sobbing. His bed shifts and he is well aware of Harry's current position. The man needn't look to know the hero is sitting at the edge- face towards the door.
"What if I didn't want to leave," the man thinks aloud. Draco doesn't dare make a sound in return. He doesn't dare to breathe in the moment he isn't sure will kill him, but it may come all too close. "What if I wanted to stay just as badly as you seem to want me to? What if I came here tonight to break with you because I couldn't stand skulking off like some unpaid whore again?"
Draco juts from his position and wipes the moisture from his cheeks.
"Are you fucking with me?"
It's Harry's turn to laugh- the sound hollow. "Sadly, no."
"So, you're saying…" What?
"I think," the Gryffindor mumbles, cocking his head to the side to glance at Draco through heavy lashes. "I think I might want a bit more than this. That I might love you."
Without much time to consider himself, Draco tackles Harry onto the floor and cries with a kind of giddiness only experienced by the severely mentally disturbed. The raven-haired man brings Draco's mouth to his own in a tender kiss, promising all that words cannot.
"Please, don't leave me," the Slytherin can finally speak, looking dreadfully frightened as his eyes shift from Harry to the door.
The hero pinned to the floor smiles and brushes the back of his left fingertips over Draco's jaw.
"You're beautiful, Draco," the man says quietly- touching his lips once more to the blond's. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."
Draco drags the pair back into bed, performing a quick cleaning charm and settling atop of Harry's chest. The Savior's hand strokes drying, blond hair in a small caress, prompting Draco to actually purr in response- as the bloody right bastard said he would- and tighten his grasp on Harry's side.
The Slytherin drifts steadily, feeling the ghost of a kiss dropped to the top of his head.
"Sweet dreams, Love."
Author's Note:
"A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved."
Kurt Vonnegut.
Thank-you for reading, Dearest.