Punch Drunk
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
3,520
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
3,520
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Punch-drunk
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns.
- punch drunk -
Draco hated screaming, but the putrid fluids clogged his throat.
What mattered was that Draco hated this: hated Potter\'s hands on him, hated Potter\'s tongue tracing patterns on his back, hated Potter\'s scent everywhere. Potter screaming his name like he owned it: Draco hated that the most.
Draco hated Potter\'s cock, which was bigger than his and which had never begun to feel comfortable, stretching him and filling him and spurting filthy wetness that dripped down his legs, leaving him sticky and unsatisfied. He was never satisfied.
Draco hated knowing that he could have anyone, but he let Potter touch him; hated knowing that he had no rights in this game, and Potter set all the rules. He could laugh with Weasley and kiss some fifth-year Hufflepuff under the mistletoe with only a blush to show any discomfort, and Draco was limp and angry and useless with anyone else. He hated not being able to kiss a girl without feeling queasy anymore, realities colliding until he was back in his arms, being held too tightly and kissed too long and taken too fast.
--
He grunted as he pushed into him mindlessly, their thighs slapping together and the sheets all but sliding off the bed. This whole experience was too wet, too slick, too foul, and yet Draco returned again and again. When he thought Potter believed he liked being degraded like this, he felt like himself again, wanting to kill him with his bare hands, but it wasn\'t enough. Never enough.
--
Potter bit his neck like he wanted to taste blood even though he never did, and he gripped Draco\'s cock like he could squeeze it into pulp with his bare fist, and then when Draco fell over exhausted on his belly, he slapped Draco\'s arse hard, making his hips jerk in awful arousal.
\"So you like it,\" Potter hissed, like he didn\'t know, like Draco didn\'t scream his throat raw every time, like he didn\'t wank himself to orgasm whenever Potter left him at the painful edge. Like he didn\'t look; didn\'t notice; didn\'t care.
\"FUCK YOU,\" but it was too late and Potter laughed, of course he did.
So he slapped his arse again and again, rumbling with a breathless sort of laughter at the way Draco\'s hips rose every time, until finally he took pity and thrust a finger up inside, then two and three, though he didn\'t stop the rhythmic, stinging slaps. Draco\'s thighs bucked to meet every evil little jab (not thick enough, not fast enough, not Harry\'s fucking cock, though the burning need for more just made it sharper and-- fuck-- then Potter\'s whole fist was fucking him and he didn\'t know \'delirious\' meant screaming until he bit his tongue). Draco\'s thighs trembled so hard he thought he would never recover from this. Never; not while the filthy oil mixed in trails down his legs along with come and sweat and need.
How much did he hate his cock for creaming whenever Potter\'s flesh as much as grazed his own? How much did he hate his heart for racing whenever Potter looked at him -that- way, like he -had- him, like he was picturing him up against a dingy closet wall with his pants halfway down to his ankles and his thighs wrapped around Potter\'s? How much did he hate his hips for bucking like whores, begging for another strike and his cock for twitching and always, always bursting open?
All it took was a third finger for Draco to scream this time, and he couldn\'t hear Potter\'s crooning, \"you\'re my fucking nasty little whore, aren\'t you? You\'d lick this up if you could, wouldn\'t you? You\'re going to beg me, right? Say it, then. Say it. Beg me, Draco.\"
--
\"I\'m tired of playing this stupid game,\" he said, staring up into nothing. Potter was smoking again, knowing Draco hated the smell. He -knew-, and of course that\'s why he did it. The more Draco would say it, the more likely he\'d continue; that was just how Potter worked.
\"I think you\'re starting to actually believe you\'re my fucking lord and master, Potter. How fucking pathetic can you be?\"
\"Who\'s playing?\" Potter said casually.
Draco was straddling Harry in a flash, teeth bared. \"You want to die today, Potter?\"
Potter grinned. \"I like it when you\'re feisty, you know.\"
\"Sodding twat,\" Draco sighed, flopping down onto Potter\'s chest. \"I get to ream you all this week or you get zero arse.\"
\"That\'s what I like to hear,\" Harry smirked.
\"You\'re only saying that to mess with my mind, aren\'t you?\"
\"Yeah, pretty much.\"
\"I\'m still fucking you though. This is getting a tad repetitive.\"
Potter reached around before he could blink, and a rough finger plugged Draco\'s arse yet again. Draco\'s hips shoved backwards immediately and he moaned, simultaneously muttering obscenities. \"You don\'t fuck fair,\" Draco gasped.
Yes, hate was the word.
- punch drunk -
Draco hated screaming, but the putrid fluids clogged his throat.
What mattered was that Draco hated this: hated Potter\'s hands on him, hated Potter\'s tongue tracing patterns on his back, hated Potter\'s scent everywhere. Potter screaming his name like he owned it: Draco hated that the most.
Draco hated Potter\'s cock, which was bigger than his and which had never begun to feel comfortable, stretching him and filling him and spurting filthy wetness that dripped down his legs, leaving him sticky and unsatisfied. He was never satisfied.
Draco hated knowing that he could have anyone, but he let Potter touch him; hated knowing that he had no rights in this game, and Potter set all the rules. He could laugh with Weasley and kiss some fifth-year Hufflepuff under the mistletoe with only a blush to show any discomfort, and Draco was limp and angry and useless with anyone else. He hated not being able to kiss a girl without feeling queasy anymore, realities colliding until he was back in his arms, being held too tightly and kissed too long and taken too fast.
--
He grunted as he pushed into him mindlessly, their thighs slapping together and the sheets all but sliding off the bed. This whole experience was too wet, too slick, too foul, and yet Draco returned again and again. When he thought Potter believed he liked being degraded like this, he felt like himself again, wanting to kill him with his bare hands, but it wasn\'t enough. Never enough.
--
Potter bit his neck like he wanted to taste blood even though he never did, and he gripped Draco\'s cock like he could squeeze it into pulp with his bare fist, and then when Draco fell over exhausted on his belly, he slapped Draco\'s arse hard, making his hips jerk in awful arousal.
\"So you like it,\" Potter hissed, like he didn\'t know, like Draco didn\'t scream his throat raw every time, like he didn\'t wank himself to orgasm whenever Potter left him at the painful edge. Like he didn\'t look; didn\'t notice; didn\'t care.
\"FUCK YOU,\" but it was too late and Potter laughed, of course he did.
So he slapped his arse again and again, rumbling with a breathless sort of laughter at the way Draco\'s hips rose every time, until finally he took pity and thrust a finger up inside, then two and three, though he didn\'t stop the rhythmic, stinging slaps. Draco\'s thighs bucked to meet every evil little jab (not thick enough, not fast enough, not Harry\'s fucking cock, though the burning need for more just made it sharper and-- fuck-- then Potter\'s whole fist was fucking him and he didn\'t know \'delirious\' meant screaming until he bit his tongue). Draco\'s thighs trembled so hard he thought he would never recover from this. Never; not while the filthy oil mixed in trails down his legs along with come and sweat and need.
How much did he hate his cock for creaming whenever Potter\'s flesh as much as grazed his own? How much did he hate his heart for racing whenever Potter looked at him -that- way, like he -had- him, like he was picturing him up against a dingy closet wall with his pants halfway down to his ankles and his thighs wrapped around Potter\'s? How much did he hate his hips for bucking like whores, begging for another strike and his cock for twitching and always, always bursting open?
All it took was a third finger for Draco to scream this time, and he couldn\'t hear Potter\'s crooning, \"you\'re my fucking nasty little whore, aren\'t you? You\'d lick this up if you could, wouldn\'t you? You\'re going to beg me, right? Say it, then. Say it. Beg me, Draco.\"
--
\"I\'m tired of playing this stupid game,\" he said, staring up into nothing. Potter was smoking again, knowing Draco hated the smell. He -knew-, and of course that\'s why he did it. The more Draco would say it, the more likely he\'d continue; that was just how Potter worked.
\"I think you\'re starting to actually believe you\'re my fucking lord and master, Potter. How fucking pathetic can you be?\"
\"Who\'s playing?\" Potter said casually.
Draco was straddling Harry in a flash, teeth bared. \"You want to die today, Potter?\"
Potter grinned. \"I like it when you\'re feisty, you know.\"
\"Sodding twat,\" Draco sighed, flopping down onto Potter\'s chest. \"I get to ream you all this week or you get zero arse.\"
\"That\'s what I like to hear,\" Harry smirked.
\"You\'re only saying that to mess with my mind, aren\'t you?\"
\"Yeah, pretty much.\"
\"I\'m still fucking you though. This is getting a tad repetitive.\"
Potter reached around before he could blink, and a rough finger plugged Draco\'s arse yet again. Draco\'s hips shoved backwards immediately and he moaned, simultaneously muttering obscenities. \"You don\'t fuck fair,\" Draco gasped.
Yes, hate was the word.