Title: Chimera Incubus
Author: Dala
Rating: R (a little sex, mild scene of bondage)
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy. If the slash isn't your cup of tea, go try a cappuchino
Archive: If you want it, ask me, I'm easy
Feedback: Love it. Live it. Need it.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of this fanfic belong to J.K. Rowling and Co, I'm making no profits from this, etc.
Acknowledgement: of Elizabeth, whose info on incubi formed the basis for "Eizla Hebt"'s book. Thank you!
~~~~~~~~
For a long time I thought I had gone mad.
I let the dreams go on for weeks with this thought. Some small part of me had finally cracked and that was why this was happening. I'd wake up hard and trembling and aching and say to myself: well Harry, best not tell anyone else about this, they'll lock you up for sure. I'd run my hands across my belly, along my collarbone, trying to imagine that they were not *his* hands. Trying to make the image go away. And when that didn't work, I'd surrender to the fantasy, quietly jerking off with the knowledge that I wanted his cultured fingers on my body, his rough lips on my skin, his voice demanding my screams. As long as I believed it to be insanity, it was okay to slip into the illusion. My secret, shameful chimera . . .
Understand that it wasn't sexual feelings for another male that made my face burn when I awoke, though such an thing was new to me. It was the way I felt under his power, that he was in control and I was his puppet -- but I *wanted* to be that puppet. I wanted to dance on the gossamer threads he'd woven, to obey, to please, to give in. His status in my head was Evil as surely as Voldemort, and the fact that I was willingly submitting to his demands seemed proof that I was crazy. I could never think these thoughts in the light, I told myself in the darkness. And for the most part, I didn't.
After awhile, I started to question myself. A Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson in incubi and succubi helped. After all, nothing else in my personality had been affected by my supposed insanity. Both Ron and Hermione said that I seemed perfectly normal when I asked them if I'd been acting funny (though they looked at me as though I really might be crazy). Why should any mental disorder affect my dreams and nothing else?
So I did some extra research on incubi, thinking that perhaps one could take the form of Malfoy for its own twisted amusement. According to the textbook, the incubus is a male devil or evil spirit that visits women in bed. The succubi is a female equivalent. My dreams involved a male; *I* was a male. What on earth did that mean? I looked for any documented cases of mixed-up sexes, but found none. Still I persisted in my opinion that I was being visited by an incubus. It was much easier to accept than insanity, after all.
My research intensified. Eizla Hebt, a contemporary expert on nocturnal predators in the magic world, became my favorite companion. She wrote of Muggle legends rooted in truth:
"I have seen the Leannan Sidhe of Ireland be referred to as a succubi, though I believe most authorities consider her a fairy. She creates a recurring theme in ancient folklore and Arthurian legend as the beautiful enchantress who captures and leads pure knights astray." Well, that didn't really apply to me.
"The Leannan Sidhe also is featured in other stories as a muse for poets. Those influenced by her are said to have lived brilliant, but short and doom-ridden lives."
Never been much of a poet, aside from some clumsy rhyming verses about Cho Chang a few years ago.
"The Glaistig was part women and part goat. She wore a long green dress to cover her hooves, and captivated mortal men. After she had used them, she later fed on their blood like a vampire."
These were all so . . . unpleasant. I hated enjoying what my demon did to me, but nevertheless, enjoy it I did. The facts simply didn't add up. After endless logical circles, I came to the conclusion that I was not being visited by an incubus. It was a very quiet day in the library; nearly everyone was on a Hogsmeade trip. I'd complained of a headache brought on by a spell in Charms and stayed home.
So. I was right back where I'd started. Crazy? Gay? Sexually frustrated? Psychotic? All of the above?
I dropped my head onto the open A Historical Analysis of the Incubus: Legend and Fact Defined. The world of the library tilted, vertical lines of shelves becoming horizontal. Black script waited calmly at the corner of my eye. I caught the word "faithful" and suddenly sat up. I don't know why it attracted my attention, but I read the passage with new eyes.
"In some stories, they were taken as lovers by mortals. They would remain faithful unless you:
a. revealed the association
b. reproached them
c. touched them with iron"
I stared at these words until my eyes began to lose focus and I was forced to blink. Taken as lovers by mortals.
Mortals.
Taken as lovers.
Lovers.
Taken.
Part of me wanted to take him. The real him.
But mostly I wanted to *be* taken.
As luck would have it, he had stopped going into Hogsmeade last year and was no doubt in his empty bedchamber at that very moment.
Wearing the invisibility cloak, I waited outside the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons. It was a half-hour before a fat, cruel-looking first year came by with his pockets stuffed with kitchen sweets. I slipped in behind him, undetected.
I remembered the way to the seventh-year room, though it had been for second-years last time I'd been inside it. I entered without knocking, pulling the cloak away from my body.
He was perched on the back of a wooden chair, his feet planted firmly on the seat. It was facing the door as though he'd expected me, and he did not look surprised.
He had gotten very good at hiding things in the last couple of years, however easy-to-read he'd been when we first met.
I closed the door and leaned against it, toes curling inside my shoes. "I--"
And I stopped. No words in any language could possibly say what I needed him to know.
He cocked his head like a bird, which was an odd image, because usually he is a snake. Coiled inside his own self, watching, ready to strike, to penetrate his victim's flesh with venomous fangs.
*I* was the bird, eyes darting around the room, hands jerking nervously, the air around me crackling with energy. Prepared to spring from my branch at the attack of the serpent, but unlike a bird, I had no wings to escape. This, in my addled dim brain of the moment, seemed vital enough to make me catch my breath. There was a iron door-knocker in the shape of a goblin's head on the wall, for no apparent purpose, and this too seemed important.
Back to serpentine, he dropped into a crouch on the chair before jumping lightly to the ground and straightening up. I clenched my robe in my hands to stop their shaking, but to my surprise, they were already still.
Putting a hand on either side of me, shoulder-height, he leaned close until I could make out the tiny imperfections on his left front tooth, which had clearly been broken at some point and then restored.
"What," he said, voice pale like his skin and silken like his hair, "do you want?"
I closed my eyes, over-conscious of the warmth of his breath. "Something . . ." My voice cracked and I paused. "Something that I'm not supposed to want."
He shoved away from me then, looking somewhat satisfied. "I noticed."
"How?"
"You haven't been sleeping well lately, have you?" he asked without a trace of concern in his monotone.
My palms were chilled with an unnaturally cold sweat. "No."
Turning away from me, he said, "I can see it. And I can feel it." He dug in his pockets and drew out a cigarette, lighting it from the candle on the wall by the door. When he inhaled, I imagined I could see the gray smoke entering his lungs, cradling him in its toxins. And when he exhaled, long and soft, I did too.
Still looking at the wall, he said, "Strip."
I obeyed. I'd already decided that I had no choice.
When I was naked he came to me with a thin scarlet rope in his hands and I realized that I knew what the door-knocker was for. Before I would allow my hands to be bound, I pushed his arms to the side and began clumsily to undress him. He laughed, sounding genuinely amused, and fended me off, pulling his robe over his head. A thin black t-shirt followed it to the floor. His body was wiry and slim, not really attractive in the traditional way. But the sight of his bare flesh made my breath come out in a hungry sigh. He left his black trousers on and tied the rope around one wrist first, then to the other. The cord was smooth, fitting around me like a bracelet instead of a chafing bondage instrument.
As though he'd heard my thoughts, he explained, "Wouldn't want to damage your hands. You have such fine bones."
I followed him to the door-knocker, the cord clasped lightly in his fingers. He tied it to the ring and I thought I could feel the cold of the metal shock down into my body, and I began to shiver.
Cigarette still between his lips, he took a long drag and flicked ash onto the stone floor. His eyes regarded me with curiosity. I relaxed, my arms hanging from their fastenings, my head against the wall. Everything in the room was connected in colors. The dominant gray of his eyes, the floor, the lighting, the ashes, our skin. The red of the cord, the candle, the glowing embers of his cigarette. The green of the bedclothes, the painted door, my own eyes.
He leaned forward and kissed me. It wasn't domineering or demanding, it was merely searching. I gave up my uncomfortable sense of being probed by his tongue, instead choosing to respond to it. I wanted desperately to press my unclothed body against his, but he wasn't close enough, and I didn't dare close the gap between us. God, I was so hard -- if he would just move his hand down, a little, please Draco . . .
I whispered it and he smiled, dragging his nails lightly across my chest, stroking my nipples. "What, Potter?"
I could feel my skin reddening from his touch. "Touch me," I gasped.
"Like this?" He took my erection in his hand, rough strokes making my hips buck against him. Biting my lip to keep from crying out -- or maybe just crying -- I said nothing.
His lips were behind my ear, where my jaw began. His mouth was warm and soft and I wanted it circling me, enveloping me, taking me into a place I'd never dared want to go.
One hand still pumping my cock, he drew his head back, took the other hand with the cigarette held delicately between its thin fingers, and pressed the butt to the skin just below my ribs.
I screamed then, though not loudly. There was nothing erotic about the pain.
He dropped to his knees and flattened his mouth against the burn, wonderfully cool, soothing it away from its angry red. Never doubt the healing powers of human saliva. I closed my eyes in a haze of confusion and dull pain and renewed craving while the motions of his mouth massaged the wound he'd inflicted upon me . . . the wound I had as much as asked for. My flesh was hypersensitive from the sting and as his tongue laved it, an astounding wave of pleasure shoved me back against the wall. Pleasure from pain. Pain from want of pleasure.
Abruptly he stood up, untied the crimson cord with vicious jerks, and shoved me onto his bed. My hands were still tied when he dropped down on top of me, but I didn't notice. I was lit from within, and if it was hellfire, I no longer cared. All I knew was the imminent satiation of a thirst I had ignored for too long. If it came with pain and humiliation, so be it.
There *was* pain, pain that made me clutch him tighter rather than push him away. He was not patient; he wasn't gentle or sweet or sympathetic. I feared that it was not in his nature to be any of those things. And I feared the notion that I responded to his true self.
The fact that it was done face-to-face surprised me. I'd imagined that he would take me from behind, maybe up against the wall with my hands still tied to the ring. Yet he looked into my face the whole time he bore down on me, his brows knit in grim focus. And I came. While something inside me wept in defeat and capitulation, I came with a ringing yell that seemed to surprise him.
When it was over he held himself above me, a foot or more of empty air hanging between our faces. "You're mine, Potter," he ground out between clenched teeth. It was a promise and a threat all in one.
"Yes." I could no more deny it than I could deny my own name.
Before I left I touched the iron door-knocker. It was still cold.
~~~~~~~~
Author: Dala
Rating: R (a little sex, mild scene of bondage)
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy. If the slash isn't your cup of tea, go try a cappuchino
Archive: If you want it, ask me, I'm easy
Feedback: Love it. Live it. Need it.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of this fanfic belong to J.K. Rowling and Co, I'm making no profits from this, etc.
Acknowledgement: of Elizabeth, whose info on incubi formed the basis for "Eizla Hebt"'s book. Thank you!
~~~~~~~~
For a long time I thought I had gone mad.
I let the dreams go on for weeks with this thought. Some small part of me had finally cracked and that was why this was happening. I'd wake up hard and trembling and aching and say to myself: well Harry, best not tell anyone else about this, they'll lock you up for sure. I'd run my hands across my belly, along my collarbone, trying to imagine that they were not *his* hands. Trying to make the image go away. And when that didn't work, I'd surrender to the fantasy, quietly jerking off with the knowledge that I wanted his cultured fingers on my body, his rough lips on my skin, his voice demanding my screams. As long as I believed it to be insanity, it was okay to slip into the illusion. My secret, shameful chimera . . .
Understand that it wasn't sexual feelings for another male that made my face burn when I awoke, though such an thing was new to me. It was the way I felt under his power, that he was in control and I was his puppet -- but I *wanted* to be that puppet. I wanted to dance on the gossamer threads he'd woven, to obey, to please, to give in. His status in my head was Evil as surely as Voldemort, and the fact that I was willingly submitting to his demands seemed proof that I was crazy. I could never think these thoughts in the light, I told myself in the darkness. And for the most part, I didn't.
After awhile, I started to question myself. A Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson in incubi and succubi helped. After all, nothing else in my personality had been affected by my supposed insanity. Both Ron and Hermione said that I seemed perfectly normal when I asked them if I'd been acting funny (though they looked at me as though I really might be crazy). Why should any mental disorder affect my dreams and nothing else?
So I did some extra research on incubi, thinking that perhaps one could take the form of Malfoy for its own twisted amusement. According to the textbook, the incubus is a male devil or evil spirit that visits women in bed. The succubi is a female equivalent. My dreams involved a male; *I* was a male. What on earth did that mean? I looked for any documented cases of mixed-up sexes, but found none. Still I persisted in my opinion that I was being visited by an incubus. It was much easier to accept than insanity, after all.
My research intensified. Eizla Hebt, a contemporary expert on nocturnal predators in the magic world, became my favorite companion. She wrote of Muggle legends rooted in truth:
"I have seen the Leannan Sidhe of Ireland be referred to as a succubi, though I believe most authorities consider her a fairy. She creates a recurring theme in ancient folklore and Arthurian legend as the beautiful enchantress who captures and leads pure knights astray." Well, that didn't really apply to me.
"The Leannan Sidhe also is featured in other stories as a muse for poets. Those influenced by her are said to have lived brilliant, but short and doom-ridden lives."
Never been much of a poet, aside from some clumsy rhyming verses about Cho Chang a few years ago.
"The Glaistig was part women and part goat. She wore a long green dress to cover her hooves, and captivated mortal men. After she had used them, she later fed on their blood like a vampire."
These were all so . . . unpleasant. I hated enjoying what my demon did to me, but nevertheless, enjoy it I did. The facts simply didn't add up. After endless logical circles, I came to the conclusion that I was not being visited by an incubus. It was a very quiet day in the library; nearly everyone was on a Hogsmeade trip. I'd complained of a headache brought on by a spell in Charms and stayed home.
So. I was right back where I'd started. Crazy? Gay? Sexually frustrated? Psychotic? All of the above?
I dropped my head onto the open A Historical Analysis of the Incubus: Legend and Fact Defined. The world of the library tilted, vertical lines of shelves becoming horizontal. Black script waited calmly at the corner of my eye. I caught the word "faithful" and suddenly sat up. I don't know why it attracted my attention, but I read the passage with new eyes.
"In some stories, they were taken as lovers by mortals. They would remain faithful unless you:
a. revealed the association
b. reproached them
c. touched them with iron"
I stared at these words until my eyes began to lose focus and I was forced to blink. Taken as lovers by mortals.
Mortals.
Taken as lovers.
Lovers.
Taken.
Part of me wanted to take him. The real him.
But mostly I wanted to *be* taken.
As luck would have it, he had stopped going into Hogsmeade last year and was no doubt in his empty bedchamber at that very moment.
Wearing the invisibility cloak, I waited outside the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons. It was a half-hour before a fat, cruel-looking first year came by with his pockets stuffed with kitchen sweets. I slipped in behind him, undetected.
I remembered the way to the seventh-year room, though it had been for second-years last time I'd been inside it. I entered without knocking, pulling the cloak away from my body.
He was perched on the back of a wooden chair, his feet planted firmly on the seat. It was facing the door as though he'd expected me, and he did not look surprised.
He had gotten very good at hiding things in the last couple of years, however easy-to-read he'd been when we first met.
I closed the door and leaned against it, toes curling inside my shoes. "I--"
And I stopped. No words in any language could possibly say what I needed him to know.
He cocked his head like a bird, which was an odd image, because usually he is a snake. Coiled inside his own self, watching, ready to strike, to penetrate his victim's flesh with venomous fangs.
*I* was the bird, eyes darting around the room, hands jerking nervously, the air around me crackling with energy. Prepared to spring from my branch at the attack of the serpent, but unlike a bird, I had no wings to escape. This, in my addled dim brain of the moment, seemed vital enough to make me catch my breath. There was a iron door-knocker in the shape of a goblin's head on the wall, for no apparent purpose, and this too seemed important.
Back to serpentine, he dropped into a crouch on the chair before jumping lightly to the ground and straightening up. I clenched my robe in my hands to stop their shaking, but to my surprise, they were already still.
Putting a hand on either side of me, shoulder-height, he leaned close until I could make out the tiny imperfections on his left front tooth, which had clearly been broken at some point and then restored.
"What," he said, voice pale like his skin and silken like his hair, "do you want?"
I closed my eyes, over-conscious of the warmth of his breath. "Something . . ." My voice cracked and I paused. "Something that I'm not supposed to want."
He shoved away from me then, looking somewhat satisfied. "I noticed."
"How?"
"You haven't been sleeping well lately, have you?" he asked without a trace of concern in his monotone.
My palms were chilled with an unnaturally cold sweat. "No."
Turning away from me, he said, "I can see it. And I can feel it." He dug in his pockets and drew out a cigarette, lighting it from the candle on the wall by the door. When he inhaled, I imagined I could see the gray smoke entering his lungs, cradling him in its toxins. And when he exhaled, long and soft, I did too.
Still looking at the wall, he said, "Strip."
I obeyed. I'd already decided that I had no choice.
When I was naked he came to me with a thin scarlet rope in his hands and I realized that I knew what the door-knocker was for. Before I would allow my hands to be bound, I pushed his arms to the side and began clumsily to undress him. He laughed, sounding genuinely amused, and fended me off, pulling his robe over his head. A thin black t-shirt followed it to the floor. His body was wiry and slim, not really attractive in the traditional way. But the sight of his bare flesh made my breath come out in a hungry sigh. He left his black trousers on and tied the rope around one wrist first, then to the other. The cord was smooth, fitting around me like a bracelet instead of a chafing bondage instrument.
As though he'd heard my thoughts, he explained, "Wouldn't want to damage your hands. You have such fine bones."
I followed him to the door-knocker, the cord clasped lightly in his fingers. He tied it to the ring and I thought I could feel the cold of the metal shock down into my body, and I began to shiver.
Cigarette still between his lips, he took a long drag and flicked ash onto the stone floor. His eyes regarded me with curiosity. I relaxed, my arms hanging from their fastenings, my head against the wall. Everything in the room was connected in colors. The dominant gray of his eyes, the floor, the lighting, the ashes, our skin. The red of the cord, the candle, the glowing embers of his cigarette. The green of the bedclothes, the painted door, my own eyes.
He leaned forward and kissed me. It wasn't domineering or demanding, it was merely searching. I gave up my uncomfortable sense of being probed by his tongue, instead choosing to respond to it. I wanted desperately to press my unclothed body against his, but he wasn't close enough, and I didn't dare close the gap between us. God, I was so hard -- if he would just move his hand down, a little, please Draco . . .
I whispered it and he smiled, dragging his nails lightly across my chest, stroking my nipples. "What, Potter?"
I could feel my skin reddening from his touch. "Touch me," I gasped.
"Like this?" He took my erection in his hand, rough strokes making my hips buck against him. Biting my lip to keep from crying out -- or maybe just crying -- I said nothing.
His lips were behind my ear, where my jaw began. His mouth was warm and soft and I wanted it circling me, enveloping me, taking me into a place I'd never dared want to go.
One hand still pumping my cock, he drew his head back, took the other hand with the cigarette held delicately between its thin fingers, and pressed the butt to the skin just below my ribs.
I screamed then, though not loudly. There was nothing erotic about the pain.
He dropped to his knees and flattened his mouth against the burn, wonderfully cool, soothing it away from its angry red. Never doubt the healing powers of human saliva. I closed my eyes in a haze of confusion and dull pain and renewed craving while the motions of his mouth massaged the wound he'd inflicted upon me . . . the wound I had as much as asked for. My flesh was hypersensitive from the sting and as his tongue laved it, an astounding wave of pleasure shoved me back against the wall. Pleasure from pain. Pain from want of pleasure.
Abruptly he stood up, untied the crimson cord with vicious jerks, and shoved me onto his bed. My hands were still tied when he dropped down on top of me, but I didn't notice. I was lit from within, and if it was hellfire, I no longer cared. All I knew was the imminent satiation of a thirst I had ignored for too long. If it came with pain and humiliation, so be it.
There *was* pain, pain that made me clutch him tighter rather than push him away. He was not patient; he wasn't gentle or sweet or sympathetic. I feared that it was not in his nature to be any of those things. And I feared the notion that I responded to his true self.
The fact that it was done face-to-face surprised me. I'd imagined that he would take me from behind, maybe up against the wall with my hands still tied to the ring. Yet he looked into my face the whole time he bore down on me, his brows knit in grim focus. And I came. While something inside me wept in defeat and capitulation, I came with a ringing yell that seemed to surprise him.
When it was over he held himself above me, a foot or more of empty air hanging between our faces. "You're mine, Potter," he ground out between clenched teeth. It was a promise and a threat all in one.
"Yes." I could no more deny it than I could deny my own name.
Before I left I touched the iron door-knocker. It was still cold.
~~~~~~~~