Fic: H/D Was It Something I Said?
Jun. 10th, 2010 05:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nursedarryTitle: Was It Something I Said?
Prompt: from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perpetualmarble - Hot and heavy parseltongue action. Draco has a kink he had no idea about until he hears Harry speak in parseltongue, and Harry finds out! I would LOVE a dash of bondage (as in let's-tie-Draco-up-and-taunt-him-until-he-combusts!)
Rating/Word Count: R/2167
Author's Notes: What’s not to love about this prompt? I’m sorry — the boys wanted to be slow and smexy rather than fast and rough, but they got there in the end. Thanks todelphipsmith and cassie_black12 for keeping me from throwing a hissy fit. Written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
serpentinelion's Summer Kink Fest, 2010.
The fall had probably not looked that bad to the spectators, but to the players who’d taken a tumble on more than one occasion, it looked as bad as it turned out to be. Draco now languished in the hospital wing while the Skelegrow went to work on his broken collarbone and fractured ankle. The medicine had been revolting; he almost felt sorry for Potter for having been forced to drink twice as much in second year (as Madam Pomfrey had disclosed upon Draco’s declaration of disgust and refusal to finish his dose). And, as the school nurse reminded him, he at least was conscious to enjoy his visitors and their gifts of food and attention. Potter’s friends had had to sit at his bedside, speaking in low voices, as their comatose hero lay motionless and unheeding of the murmured sympathies and treacle tart.
Now, a week into the Christmas holiday, with Draco’s parents apologetically but happily visiting with relations on the Continent, Draco almost wished Potter were awake. He had already skimmed and discarded the books his parents had left him and was now desperate for company. If Potter woke up, they might even be able to continue the fight they’d been in the middle of when the Bludger had taken them both off their broomsticks.
Draco sighed and turned to look at the boy in the next bed. The unopened Christmas presents had been stashed away and the uneaten mince pies removed, leaving just the bedside lamp, an empty glass, and a jug of water on the table between their beds. And Potter’s glasses, which lay next to the jug, within easy reach should their owner need them.
Draco turned back to look at the last of his Christmas books, A History of Slytherin House. The large serpent on the cover reminded him of the snake Potter had spoken to during their now-infamous second year duel. How Draco had come away from that unscathed was still a mystery. Oh, he’d been in no danger of physical harm — Professor Snape wouldn’t have allowed that — but lucky for Draco, Finch-Fletchley had drawn everyone’s attention and he’d been able to escape into the crowd with no one noticing how aroused he’d become when Potter began speaking to the snake. Draco had been relatively new to wanking then, but the orgasm he’d had that night — safely hidden behind the drapes around his bed, shuttered together with not one, but two privacy spells, conjuring up the memory of those hissed words — was the best Draco had ever had until then. And he’d had none better since.
Such a profound influence was the experience that not long afterwards Draco finally admitted that the odd feelings he’d had for his Head of House might have indeed been a crush, if even Potter could make him feel that way. He had wondered why he’d felt nothing for the pretty girls at school, yet watching Marcus showering in the Quidditch locker room had made him blush. Draco had tested this theory three years later with Blaise, the next morning promising his reflection he’d never question his intuition again.
A good wank would help him sleep now, he decided, wondering if Madam Pomfrey would interrupt him with another visit to Potter’s side. She was less worried for Draco since he’d become his normal sneering self shortly after his admission.
“Potter,” he whispered to the supine figure in the bed beside him. “I want you to talk snake.” Unsurprisingly, Potter didn’t comply with the request. He just lay there. Unmoving. The realisation of the situation hit Draco then. There was a chance that Potter might never recover from the fall. He might remain comatose forever or even die without ever regaining consciousness. Madam Pomfrey had said as much to the Headmistress earlier (she’d thought Draco was asleep). A part of Draco thought that was just impossible: Potter couldn’t die. He had a destiny; he had important things to do, like killing Dark Lords and having a bunch of kids with another gormless Gryffindor. Or maybe he'd follow in the footsteps of his pseudo-godfather-wolf and become the next DADA instructor.
Surely, Harry Potter would never die from a simple bump on the head sustained during a Quidditch match. It was Madam Pomfrey’s opinion that there was nothing broken, no permanent damage that she could see, but she had told the headmaster that sometimes magic did funny things when a witch or wizard was unconscious too long. The school was to call in a specialist from St Mungo's if there was no improvement by the New Year.
“Don’t die, Potter,” Draco said softly into the darkness. “Who here would be so easy to wind up? Who could I taunt like I can taunt you, eh? You make it so easy, but I would miss it. Who would follow me around like you do? Who would I love to hate as much as I pretend to hate you?” This last was said without thinking, and his own words gave Draco pause. No, he didn’t hate Potter. What he felt now, after all the years of constant contact, was...different from hate. He couldn’t immediately identify the feeling but he knew he couldn’t let Potter go. Not now.
Draco tried to imagine a world without Potter. Certainly the Dark Lord would benefit, but would Draco? For five years, his days had been full of Potter-watching, waiting for the best time to insult or irritate him so as to have the greatest effect and provide the best possible return of attention. With Potter gone, who would provide him with a source for that? There’d be no match for him at Quidditch. There would be no one to sneer at through meals and classes. There’d be no chance of hearing the sound of Parseltongue -- unless he heard the Dark Lord speak it, but Draco hoped never to have that experience.
If Potter should die, I would have very little to do at the school besides go to class, he thought. There was no one he really fancied, so he kept telling himself. Aside from his one experience with Blaise in fifth year, Draco had not been with anyone sexually, so much of his time taken up by sport, school, and Potter.
What did that mean? Draco let his mind wander...to Quidditch, where he would either be playing against Potter, or watching him play, or looking for him in the stands, making sure Potter saw him catch the Snitch... Potions, where Draco would taunt Potter and the Weasel about their deplorable skills, where he’d flaunt his proficiency, never bested, except perhaps by Granger... Potter. Always he came back to Potter.
“Potter,” Draco turned back to the other boy. “Please, talk to me in snake.” Draco let his hand drift down his torso under his sheet where it came to rest on his hardening cock. The image of Potter lying there, full of dormant potential, that glorious language ready to ooze from his lips, if he’d only just wake up, was almost too much to bear after what seemed a lifetime of action.
Draco sighed. “Potter....” He felt strange now, thinking of Potter hissing to him, not threateningly, but with promises of more — in between the hissing — of Potter’s mouth on Draco’s sensitive lips, his chest, his cock.
Draco was instantly hard, visions of them lying together flitting across his mind’s eye, tasting each other on their tongues, burying their fingers in each other’s hair, hands and mouths wrapped around each other’s flesh… This time gentle, though, savouring, not frantic — not like scratching an itch, as sex with Blaise had been.
Having unlimited time to examine Potter so closely was a stolen treat. Potter was...sensual innocence, Draco decided — masterful in tone, yet chaste in body. Draco wondered if that’s what attracted him. Underneath their hostility and the vitriolic exchanges, there was a gravitation toward one another, like magnets, grabbing hold, coming together, completing the other.
“Gods, I want you…” Draco moaned and then came.
His shoulder ached from the movement on his injured collarbone. He ignored the pain, riding the waves of pleasure until they subsided. Behind his eyelids, he saw what he wanted — Potter, vibrant, his weight heavy upon Draco’s frame, his voice hissing liquid silk in Draco’s ear.
Draco looked across to the unconscious figure. So that was what it was, the ever-present feeling had a name now, but not one he’d dare speak. “Potter,” he panted. “What would I do without you?”
He fell asleep to the sound of Potter’s even breathing.
*
SSSsssssssssthhhhhhssaaaaaa, Draco....
Someone had said his name. He’d been having the most delicious dream, of warm lips against his ear, a hand holding his, when someone had said his name.
SSSSsssssstttthhhssssssthsssaaaa... The hand in his closed gently but firmly, and for one panicked moment, Draco thought he was being constricted by some sort of serpent. He blinked, almost certain he was dreaming. He squeezed his hand experimentally and the warm lips moved against his ear again. “SSSsssssssssaaaaaththhhhhsssssis this what you wanted?”
Draco’s eyes flew open as he felt another hand slide inside his pyjamas. How had it been under his blanket without him noticing? “Potter?” he squeaked, as the hand found flesh.
“Move over,” said the voice in the darkness. Potter’s voice.
Draco, mindful of his injuries, but startled beyond belief by this turn of events, shifted across the narrow bed to allow the other boy to lie next to him. The hand in his shifted to grab his wrist, as the other hand began slowly — achingly slowly — to stroke him.
“Potter, when did you—?” Draco began. Grey eyes searched out green ones in the darkness, seeing nothing but a messy head of dark hair as it bent toward him.
“Sssshhhhhh...” whispered Potter into Draco’s ear. Draco felt those lips against his throat now, and the hand on his cock sped up its rhythm. Draco arched his back and spread his legs, and Potter settled between them, covering half of Draco’s body in the process. Effectively trapped, Draco nearly came right then and there. Through sheer willpower, he forced himself to hold off, part of him sure he was still dreaming. He squirmed, which just made Potter tighten his grip on both wrist and cock.
“Ttthhhaaassssstttthhhhh....” Potter said, punctuating the sibilant phrase with a kiss to Draco’s unbroken clavicle.
“Gods...” Draco moaned into the mouth that covered his a moment later. He rocked backwards and forwards as his tongue twined around the one that pushed past his teeth. His free hand found its way to the body above and he grasped a handful of Potter’s pyjama-clad bum.
Now it was Potter’s turn to moan — and that was Draco’s undoing. He shook Potter’s hand from his wrist, and as he reached down to squeeze Potter’s arse with both hands, Draco’s cock spurted semen all over Potter’s fist.
“Ssssssssoo goooood.” The words, in English, were drawn out, long and low. Draco lost himself in the bliss of fulfilment.
When Draco became aware of himself again, he felt warm stickiness inside his flannel pyjamas and a hard cock rubbing along his thigh. He unconsciously raised his knee slightly, giving Potter more purchase. Having let go of Draco’s cock, Potter’s other hand now pressed into the mattress, raising himself up over the other boy. This image, had he not just come, would have had Draco well over the edge again.
Draco slid his hands into Potter’s pyjamas, sinking his fingers into flesh. He looked up just in time to see green eyes boring into his as Potter panted into his face. Then they squeezed closed as Potter’s knees gripped Draco’s leg.
A dark head fell into the crook of Draco’s uninjured shoulder and Potter’s weight pressed in on him. But it was only for a moment; Potter pulled away, leaving Draco to stretch out his leg, now covered in rapidly cooling semen.
Potter kissed him again, quickly, almost shyly, lifted himself off Draco, and climbed back into his own bed. He turned onto his side and looked at Draco with veiled eyes.
They stayed this way for a long time.
“What were you saying?” Draco finally asked him quietly, as if speaking too loudly might send Potter back to unconsciousness.
“Hmmm...” said Potter with a satisfied smile on his face. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
Draco looked over his shoulder to see if Madam Pomfrey was anywhere nearby. She usually left them to rest overnight, but once the nurse discovered Harry had recovered, there’d be few opportunities for this kind of thing until they were out of the Hospital Wing.
Draco sat up and perched on the side of his bed before getting up and hobbling the two steps it took to reach Potter’s bed. He unceremoniously pulled the blanket back and slid beneath it, feeling Potter shift sideways, then mould himself against Draco’s body. Draco nuzzled Potter’s neck, his mouth working up to an ear. He breathed into it. “Keep talking.”
The End
The sequel is Pillow Talk.
Prompt: from
perpetualmarble - Hot and heavy parseltongue action. Draco has a kink he had no idea about until he hears Harry speak in parseltongue, and Harry finds out! I would LOVE a dash of bondage (as in let's-tie-Draco-up-and-taunt-him-until-he-combusts!)Rating/Word Count: R/2167
Author's Notes: What’s not to love about this prompt? I’m sorry — the boys wanted to be slow and smexy rather than fast and rough, but they got there in the end. Thanks to
delphipsmith and cassie_black12 for keeping me from throwing a hissy fit. Written for serpentinelion's Summer Kink Fest, 2010.The fall had probably not looked that bad to the spectators, but to the players who’d taken a tumble on more than one occasion, it looked as bad as it turned out to be. Draco now languished in the hospital wing while the Skelegrow went to work on his broken collarbone and fractured ankle. The medicine had been revolting; he almost felt sorry for Potter for having been forced to drink twice as much in second year (as Madam Pomfrey had disclosed upon Draco’s declaration of disgust and refusal to finish his dose). And, as the school nurse reminded him, he at least was conscious to enjoy his visitors and their gifts of food and attention. Potter’s friends had had to sit at his bedside, speaking in low voices, as their comatose hero lay motionless and unheeding of the murmured sympathies and treacle tart.
Now, a week into the Christmas holiday, with Draco’s parents apologetically but happily visiting with relations on the Continent, Draco almost wished Potter were awake. He had already skimmed and discarded the books his parents had left him and was now desperate for company. If Potter woke up, they might even be able to continue the fight they’d been in the middle of when the Bludger had taken them both off their broomsticks.
Draco sighed and turned to look at the boy in the next bed. The unopened Christmas presents had been stashed away and the uneaten mince pies removed, leaving just the bedside lamp, an empty glass, and a jug of water on the table between their beds. And Potter’s glasses, which lay next to the jug, within easy reach should their owner need them.
Draco turned back to look at the last of his Christmas books, A History of Slytherin House. The large serpent on the cover reminded him of the snake Potter had spoken to during their now-infamous second year duel. How Draco had come away from that unscathed was still a mystery. Oh, he’d been in no danger of physical harm — Professor Snape wouldn’t have allowed that — but lucky for Draco, Finch-Fletchley had drawn everyone’s attention and he’d been able to escape into the crowd with no one noticing how aroused he’d become when Potter began speaking to the snake. Draco had been relatively new to wanking then, but the orgasm he’d had that night — safely hidden behind the drapes around his bed, shuttered together with not one, but two privacy spells, conjuring up the memory of those hissed words — was the best Draco had ever had until then. And he’d had none better since.
Such a profound influence was the experience that not long afterwards Draco finally admitted that the odd feelings he’d had for his Head of House might have indeed been a crush, if even Potter could make him feel that way. He had wondered why he’d felt nothing for the pretty girls at school, yet watching Marcus showering in the Quidditch locker room had made him blush. Draco had tested this theory three years later with Blaise, the next morning promising his reflection he’d never question his intuition again.
A good wank would help him sleep now, he decided, wondering if Madam Pomfrey would interrupt him with another visit to Potter’s side. She was less worried for Draco since he’d become his normal sneering self shortly after his admission.
“Potter,” he whispered to the supine figure in the bed beside him. “I want you to talk snake.” Unsurprisingly, Potter didn’t comply with the request. He just lay there. Unmoving. The realisation of the situation hit Draco then. There was a chance that Potter might never recover from the fall. He might remain comatose forever or even die without ever regaining consciousness. Madam Pomfrey had said as much to the Headmistress earlier (she’d thought Draco was asleep). A part of Draco thought that was just impossible: Potter couldn’t die. He had a destiny; he had important things to do, like killing Dark Lords and having a bunch of kids with another gormless Gryffindor. Or maybe he'd follow in the footsteps of his pseudo-godfather-wolf and become the next DADA instructor.
Surely, Harry Potter would never die from a simple bump on the head sustained during a Quidditch match. It was Madam Pomfrey’s opinion that there was nothing broken, no permanent damage that she could see, but she had told the headmaster that sometimes magic did funny things when a witch or wizard was unconscious too long. The school was to call in a specialist from St Mungo's if there was no improvement by the New Year.
“Don’t die, Potter,” Draco said softly into the darkness. “Who here would be so easy to wind up? Who could I taunt like I can taunt you, eh? You make it so easy, but I would miss it. Who would follow me around like you do? Who would I love to hate as much as I pretend to hate you?” This last was said without thinking, and his own words gave Draco pause. No, he didn’t hate Potter. What he felt now, after all the years of constant contact, was...different from hate. He couldn’t immediately identify the feeling but he knew he couldn’t let Potter go. Not now.
Draco tried to imagine a world without Potter. Certainly the Dark Lord would benefit, but would Draco? For five years, his days had been full of Potter-watching, waiting for the best time to insult or irritate him so as to have the greatest effect and provide the best possible return of attention. With Potter gone, who would provide him with a source for that? There’d be no match for him at Quidditch. There would be no one to sneer at through meals and classes. There’d be no chance of hearing the sound of Parseltongue -- unless he heard the Dark Lord speak it, but Draco hoped never to have that experience.
If Potter should die, I would have very little to do at the school besides go to class, he thought. There was no one he really fancied, so he kept telling himself. Aside from his one experience with Blaise in fifth year, Draco had not been with anyone sexually, so much of his time taken up by sport, school, and Potter.
What did that mean? Draco let his mind wander...to Quidditch, where he would either be playing against Potter, or watching him play, or looking for him in the stands, making sure Potter saw him catch the Snitch... Potions, where Draco would taunt Potter and the Weasel about their deplorable skills, where he’d flaunt his proficiency, never bested, except perhaps by Granger... Potter. Always he came back to Potter.
“Potter,” Draco turned back to the other boy. “Please, talk to me in snake.” Draco let his hand drift down his torso under his sheet where it came to rest on his hardening cock. The image of Potter lying there, full of dormant potential, that glorious language ready to ooze from his lips, if he’d only just wake up, was almost too much to bear after what seemed a lifetime of action.
Draco sighed. “Potter....” He felt strange now, thinking of Potter hissing to him, not threateningly, but with promises of more — in between the hissing — of Potter’s mouth on Draco’s sensitive lips, his chest, his cock.
Draco was instantly hard, visions of them lying together flitting across his mind’s eye, tasting each other on their tongues, burying their fingers in each other’s hair, hands and mouths wrapped around each other’s flesh… This time gentle, though, savouring, not frantic — not like scratching an itch, as sex with Blaise had been.
Having unlimited time to examine Potter so closely was a stolen treat. Potter was...sensual innocence, Draco decided — masterful in tone, yet chaste in body. Draco wondered if that’s what attracted him. Underneath their hostility and the vitriolic exchanges, there was a gravitation toward one another, like magnets, grabbing hold, coming together, completing the other.
“Gods, I want you…” Draco moaned and then came.
His shoulder ached from the movement on his injured collarbone. He ignored the pain, riding the waves of pleasure until they subsided. Behind his eyelids, he saw what he wanted — Potter, vibrant, his weight heavy upon Draco’s frame, his voice hissing liquid silk in Draco’s ear.
Draco looked across to the unconscious figure. So that was what it was, the ever-present feeling had a name now, but not one he’d dare speak. “Potter,” he panted. “What would I do without you?”
He fell asleep to the sound of Potter’s even breathing.
SSSsssssssssthhhhhhssaaaaaa, Draco....
Someone had said his name. He’d been having the most delicious dream, of warm lips against his ear, a hand holding his, when someone had said his name.
SSSSsssssstttthhhssssssthsssaaaa... The hand in his closed gently but firmly, and for one panicked moment, Draco thought he was being constricted by some sort of serpent. He blinked, almost certain he was dreaming. He squeezed his hand experimentally and the warm lips moved against his ear again. “SSSsssssssssaaaaaththhhhhsssssis this what you wanted?”
Draco’s eyes flew open as he felt another hand slide inside his pyjamas. How had it been under his blanket without him noticing? “Potter?” he squeaked, as the hand found flesh.
“Move over,” said the voice in the darkness. Potter’s voice.
Draco, mindful of his injuries, but startled beyond belief by this turn of events, shifted across the narrow bed to allow the other boy to lie next to him. The hand in his shifted to grab his wrist, as the other hand began slowly — achingly slowly — to stroke him.
“Potter, when did you—?” Draco began. Grey eyes searched out green ones in the darkness, seeing nothing but a messy head of dark hair as it bent toward him.
“Sssshhhhhh...” whispered Potter into Draco’s ear. Draco felt those lips against his throat now, and the hand on his cock sped up its rhythm. Draco arched his back and spread his legs, and Potter settled between them, covering half of Draco’s body in the process. Effectively trapped, Draco nearly came right then and there. Through sheer willpower, he forced himself to hold off, part of him sure he was still dreaming. He squirmed, which just made Potter tighten his grip on both wrist and cock.
“Ttthhhaaassssstttthhhhh....” Potter said, punctuating the sibilant phrase with a kiss to Draco’s unbroken clavicle.
“Gods...” Draco moaned into the mouth that covered his a moment later. He rocked backwards and forwards as his tongue twined around the one that pushed past his teeth. His free hand found its way to the body above and he grasped a handful of Potter’s pyjama-clad bum.
Now it was Potter’s turn to moan — and that was Draco’s undoing. He shook Potter’s hand from his wrist, and as he reached down to squeeze Potter’s arse with both hands, Draco’s cock spurted semen all over Potter’s fist.
“Ssssssssoo goooood.” The words, in English, were drawn out, long and low. Draco lost himself in the bliss of fulfilment.
When Draco became aware of himself again, he felt warm stickiness inside his flannel pyjamas and a hard cock rubbing along his thigh. He unconsciously raised his knee slightly, giving Potter more purchase. Having let go of Draco’s cock, Potter’s other hand now pressed into the mattress, raising himself up over the other boy. This image, had he not just come, would have had Draco well over the edge again.
Draco slid his hands into Potter’s pyjamas, sinking his fingers into flesh. He looked up just in time to see green eyes boring into his as Potter panted into his face. Then they squeezed closed as Potter’s knees gripped Draco’s leg.
A dark head fell into the crook of Draco’s uninjured shoulder and Potter’s weight pressed in on him. But it was only for a moment; Potter pulled away, leaving Draco to stretch out his leg, now covered in rapidly cooling semen.
Potter kissed him again, quickly, almost shyly, lifted himself off Draco, and climbed back into his own bed. He turned onto his side and looked at Draco with veiled eyes.
They stayed this way for a long time.
“What were you saying?” Draco finally asked him quietly, as if speaking too loudly might send Potter back to unconsciousness.
“Hmmm...” said Potter with a satisfied smile on his face. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
Draco looked over his shoulder to see if Madam Pomfrey was anywhere nearby. She usually left them to rest overnight, but once the nurse discovered Harry had recovered, there’d be few opportunities for this kind of thing until they were out of the Hospital Wing.
Draco sat up and perched on the side of his bed before getting up and hobbling the two steps it took to reach Potter’s bed. He unceremoniously pulled the blanket back and slid beneath it, feeling Potter shift sideways, then mould himself against Draco’s body. Draco nuzzled Potter’s neck, his mouth working up to an ear. He breathed into it. “Keep talking.”
The End
The sequel is Pillow Talk.
