Author: Chrystal Barr (
![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
carbonised)Rating: NC-17
Canon: post-HBP, no spoilers.
Length: 1,400 words.
Scenario: I promise to let you dress me up however you'd like.
Summary: Potter must never know. But he already does, remember? That's what this is all about.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the sole property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Christopher Little Agency and associates. No money is made from this work, it is purely a work of fanfiction. Notes: Hi. I write like a pretentious person. I likes it, too. Be warned. :) Thanks to
darkasphodel for keymashing at me and by being really helpful at making me a filthy minded girl, and to James Joyce, wherever he is. Without you, sir, I would have spent my whole life being afraid to write from my mind, for fear others wouldn't understand. ♥Derevaun Seraun
(The end of all pleasure is pain)
Five.
Once, Joyce wrote 'Derevaun Seraun.' The end of all pleasure is pain. And oh, how it all just breaks.
But that's all love is, after all. Isn't it? Giving and taking away and starting it all over again. How can they ever want to keep if they don't know they could lose? he wonders. So he plays it sharp with silver cards, their crisp and angry paper crumpling in curious hands, and the ink still so hot that it runs a bit.
The cards say the most curious things. He can't really articulate this desire. Not this time. Besides, the unknown, that which is beyond comprehension perhaps, is what's most desirable to others, he's learned.
Meet me at 8 o'clock, in the apple tree, he writes. The sun sets orange against their red flesh, but it's impossibly purple against the leaves. I can't stop thinking of you. I cannot, should not, want this. I want to swallow your mouth until this unending pain is pleasure. Don't stop now, Potter. Bring your stockings. The air is too thick in here.
Six.
He knows this war has made him a little...unbalanced. He's lost time, and friends, and family, and sense. There is a birdcage behind the bar now, a blue canary whistling constant, and this gin is too dry to be wet. He watches Harry Potter dance across the room. The girl is dark, like Potter, and too tall, and oddly familiar. She's clever and strong and doesn't fear the canary is watching. This is an impossible disaster, he tells the inside of a glass.
Potter must never know. But he already does, remember? That's what this is all about. The girl is somehow pressing Potter against the door of a flat he doesn't remember renting, and it's become Potter's skirt that is pushing further and further up his smooth thigh, and Draco can't even look. He can feel too much, pressing against him, in places he knows he doesn't have. Potter's seeping in, somehow.
Hey little sister, what have you done? Hey little sister, who's the only one? I've been away for so long, so long.
The hallway is filled with music, and he thinks he'd settle for River Dance at this point, just so long as he can just keep feeling being felt. Damn neighbors; he's told them to stop pressing on the walls. She's turning the knob now with impossible hands, and there's so much white inside that he isn't sure he can follow them. A piano looms in the corner, a heavy and voyeuristic shadow, or is that just him? He watches so quietly now, aware that he is losing time this time, and his watch is ticking too loudly. Surely they will find him here.
He finds a lovely Louis XVI chair in the corner, and he waits on it. Clicktick, clicktock, clickclock, buttonpop and it's warmer in here than August bonfires. Once, his grandmother told him that we all wear masks. No one person can bear the truth of themselves. They can only take them off when someone else bears that weight for them. Draco thinks his mask is slipping, and what he's seeing under it can't be a reflection.
Seven.
She pushes Potter down on the bed. The sheets are rough, new and satin, so soft they are hard again. Her cock brushes across Harry's stomach, against the cotton of his button up shirt, and her hand pulls his zip down and makes no ceremony of bringing his own cock out. She pulls so slowly up it, squeezing a little bit, and Potter looks torn between screaming and screaming. He looks down at her, wondering how he got on the bed too.
'All right?' Harry asks, looking confused.
And she says yes. Always yes to him. They all do.
I promise to dress up however you want. Harry had said. And he did. Draco only dressed in his head. And he's pushing her out and pushing into Potter's mind and his cock is so heavy as it slides inside Harry. It has to be pressing him down against the bed. Pressing them together as he tears it all apart. He pushes, and he pushes, and Harry fucks himself up against her.
The folds of Harry's skirt are pooled along a waist too broad, and the stockings are sliding along her skin and Draco's lower back feels so much colder than it should across the room on the bed. His only instinct is to press harder, push farther and faster and rougher, make Potter see who she is. But then again, he's only starting to see himself.
Potter's leg is under his arm now and he's fucking him right into the mattress. The sheets aren't so fitted anymore, and they are piling up under Harry's toes, and Draco thinks Potter is trying to clear the whole bed off at this point. He's sweating so much that the mascara and eyeliner are running down his cheeks. What a pretty little girl, and doesn't she listen so well? So very obedient, Potter.
She leans in, kissing so hard Draco hopes it bruises, and she pulls the wax from Potter's lips and smears it red across his chin. She's biting his bottom lip and Draco sees it swell slightly, and she takes it in, takes it in and tastes it, and Potter's begging to be let go and held down all at once. He can't seem to stay still now, he's doing anything to make contact for his cock. Draco thinks about holding it down against his stomach, seeing how long he can tease him into wanting her, to make it that much worse for Potter. He doesn't want this pleasure to end. That would only bring the pain, he thinks.
Eight.
'Tell me what you want, Harry,' she coos, moving too slowly inside him.
'Y-you. I want you.' Harry is breathing so heavily now that he can barely answer, trying to capture his prey, her mouth, Draco's heart all at once.
She's leaning on one elbow, looking for all the world bored. 'Yes, I know. But what do you want me to do?'
'F-fuck me. I want to fuck you. Want you inside, want inside you. Oh god.'
The string of pearls around Potter's neck is poking out over the swollen lip, and Draco wants her to snap it, send the beads swirling around the room. He wants to watch it all shatter. So he pulls out and she pulls too and they move quickly on top of Potter, sinking down on that hard cock, and watch in fascination as Harry's eyes cloud so dark and violently aroused, and they slide so slowly on top of him until they touch his stomach flat.
Harry moans around a mouthful of necklace and a fistful of abused bedding and the sheets are totally off the bed at the bottom, but they start to fuck him harder now, and they can sense the sunrise poking over the East. They can feel Harry all around them. Draco's chair in the corner is empty now. Was he ever there? Harry hasn't said anything yet, and Draco wonders if he will. He can't be fucked caring just now, as Harry is thrashing all over the place and, god, he's actually begging them. He knows. Draco swears Potter's just mumbled his name and he reaches behind him, between Potter's thighs and smoothes his index finger down so slowly, and Potter's coming inside him now, so hot, with one hand wrapped around their cock, fisting the fuck out of it until he's so crazy he doesn't know which one of them she is.
'Oh fuck,' Potter states. It's a fact, really. 'This game was an amazing idea, Malfoy. I never would have thought of it.'
Draco collapses against the one pillow still in its case and stares at the ceiling. He turns and can't help but smile at the mess that's Harry's hair. 'Mmm, yes. You're right. That damn bird has finally shut up. And the pain is so familiar.'
All dimpled cheeks and curls,
Your head it simply swirls.
Seaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck in trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the day, singing. Friend of the family. Swurls, he says. Pier with lamps, summer evening, band.
Those girls, those girls,
Those lovely seaside girls.
Milly too. Young kisses: the first. Far away past now. Mrs Marion. Reading lying back now, counting the strands of her hair, smiling, braiding.
A soft qualm regret, flowed down upon his backbone, increasing. Will happen, yes. Prevent. Useless: can't move now. Girl's sweet light lips. Will happen too. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Useless to move now. Lips kissed, kissing kissed. Full gluey woman's lips. --James Joyce's Ulysses
