For Huey; with hugs & XO's.
Author: tigersilver
Word Count: 619
Rating: NC-17
For phoenixacid*. Just because...
HD 'A Moment'
"Harry." Lips trail down his cheek, across his ear. "Harry, my dear, sweet love. You don't know, do you?"
Harry was meant to be sleeping. When he slept at all—and it was rare—it was in a nearly comatose state. Now, he had to struggle to keep his eyelids shuttered; force his lashes not to quiver.
"You don't know," Draco repeats, and Harry doesn't.
"So long…" and the lips mouthing his earlobe quirk into a smile, ruefully—Harry feels the flavour of them in motion. He loves it, not that he'd say. "And so much. Fool."
He nearly jerks at that; a full body flinch of betrayal—but he does not. He'd much practice in remaining still, in waiting. In being a true Slytherin (and he'd always known it was in him, deep in) and not revealing himself unduly. 'Take no chances,' or so it ran, that old saw, anathema to Gryffindors. 'Weight your risks.' 'Be careful.'
Harry, seething within, wonders if Draco Malfoy recalled that lesson; if he'd any idea his shag mate played a deep game.
"It's not fair, what you do to me—not right, Harry. And it's worse that I let you…" Draco sighs—a breath, a puff of air stirring the tendrils of dark hair at Harry's temple only. His touch is featherweight and dreamy. "I let you. I'm the fool. Your fool."
But he doesn't sound too unhappy over it. It's amusement, wry and sweet, that tenderizes the whispery words, the gentle grasp of fingertips as they wander across Harry's chest, his neck, his scalp. It's as though Draco's been waiting—perhaps for ages—for this moment, when Harry's asleep and unknowing and he can say what he wills. As if it's a relief of sorts.
"Only yours."
And Harry basks in it. Feels a bit guilty: he should say it in return; he should. Certainly he feels it, rising within him, a warm tide of honey-flavoured feeling that bubbles away, filling him. But he's not yet at the point of it spilling over…not quite ready to take that blind step. Draco can lead the way, as he's led the way to shared beds and coffee-tinged snogs in the mornings. To gentle acts of neatening Harry up before meetings; to glancing kisses in the tea room and ankles twined below the tables.
He's affectionate, more so than Harry ever expected. It's…it's all Harry could ever wish for, that. Not that he'd known he needed it (like air, like water) nor wanted it (craved and clamoured) nor that he'd die defending it (this cocooning, this care, this passion)—nowadays.
"Harry…" Draco's lips are dry—too much kissing, maybe? As if there is such a thing—and Harry can feel the drag of a chewed-on scrap of skin, flapping. "Harry."
The slight scratch feels good. Everything feels good. And then Draco inhales sharply and Harry feels the thrust of hip bones, digging into his spread thighs. The whisper morphs to a growl in an unsteady heartbeat. It's a throb in Harry's gut and glut of acid 'want me, just want me—want me so much you'd kill for me!'
Harry gets what he wants; Draco's always giving it over. Always, always and it's the luxury Harry never knew before.
"Wanna to fuck you, Potter—shove my cock up your arse so far you scream. Wake up, Potter. Wake up!"
Harry does—or acts it out, rather—grinning. Like a boy; like a fool. Draco's fool. Blinks, twitches and bites his way into the sloppy nippy Draco-kiss that follows—and the moment Transfigures.
…The next moment that follows (inevitably) is just as brilliant as the last. And it's all good. All good.