Match Made By Magic
WizardsGirl's prompt(s) : Harry Potter/Harry Dresden, HP/HD, smut (continued from Awkward Meeting)
Harry takes a stuttering breath, surprised, and Dresden looks from his blasting staff to Harry as if he's just figured out that he's done something he isn't supposed to have. Dresden magic tingles along Harry's skin, along his spine, like fingers, probing and pinching to find a way in. It isn't pleasant, but – for now – it is not unpleasant.
"Oh." It's all Dresden says, but it's enough – more then enough, to show he's realized this is his doing, Harry takes another breath, forcing himself to keep calm. If he moves away, the magic – wild, dancing, spinning about them – will react. He doesn't know in what way, and that is the most dangerous thing of all about a wizard meeting another wizards magic. Some go lifetimes without ever making this sort of mistake, but some – like Dresden – seem to be a puppet to magic's will. Instead of the will that commands magic.
"Easy." A warning: it isn't easy, this wizard barely deserves the word wizard, and his magic is a wild and willful thing. Harry hisses under his breath, trying while thinking of it - to get his own magic under his own control and command. It's like trying to use the wrong hand while writing, his magic half paying him, but it isn't all his magic mixing into him. It isn't all his own magic he's commanding. Dresden's standing very still, not even trying to control his magic. He's still, as if he hopes that by pretending he's not there, his magic will go away. Harry really wishes magic was that simple. It presses at Harry's control, begging to play.
Play, to a wizard's magic, means either fuck or fight, and Harry doesn't want to do either with a stranger.
"Control yourself." Harry begs, because Harry can't control his own magic (without a wand) and Dresden's at the same time, Dresden having his staff in hand should at least try. Even if he does something it's better then doing nothing. Dresden uses his grip on Harry's hand to pull him in closer. He looks fevered, cheeks pink panting for his breath as if this is a race to be won or lost. He drops his staff, deliberately, smirking. Now there is no hope for a way to control this situation. Harry can't help but tense, wondering if this is a trap.
"Don't take this the wrong way, okay? – but I don't really want to." Dresden nuzzles at his neck and the soft hairs there, Harry digs his nails into flesh, a warning to stop – or else. Else what, Harry closes his eyes so he won't see coming. Doesn't know or care. Dresden's breath on his neck is hot and soothing against his chill skin, his dread and fear; though magic tingles like that breath is a fan to flame.
It melts him, all in one breath, one touch of lips to skin soft and over sensitive: Harry groans, something like a giving in, and something like a giving up.
Magic, like a forest fire, roars up triumphant, binding and melting, it's like dying and giving chance to a new life: here, now, his. Dresden sinks to his knees, pulling Harry atop him, fingers seeking anywhere that's covered by robes. Arms, shoulders, his chest, his waist, all know Dresden's touch, recognizing it as if it's his magic.
The other hand, the one they shook with, fingers flex and relax with the flow of magic. Entangled, tough sensitive, touch starved. A wizard's hands, where they manipulate magic from themselves into a object to give shape to their will with words, is rarely touched, except in meetings, and never with a wizard's staff or wand in hand.
Dresden gives voice to a cry of triumph, finding what he sought, shoving robes away – which magic snatches away. Not just the robes, but every stitch of cloth.
Harry moans, skin on skin, burning and wanting and needing. Dresden's lips on his burn with magic, swallowing his cries, but filling him up, with tongue - following his – their - magic into him. An urgent hand (the other hand tightens in a grip about his, not letting go for anything – not even this) on his hip sets the pace, as they rock together, needing this, skin slick between them, riding the edge of magic and instinct to where it takes them.
One cries out for the other, and the other answers: or they cry out together, unable to tell one of them from the other.
Bonded, Harry knows as soon as he shakes away the daze of lust and magic. Melted and mated, their magical cores pound in an echo of a shared heartbeat.