Re: kink - fingering

Date: 2011-10-01 03:36 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
The soft red shhhh of the bed curtains makes his heart vault hard, and he gasps, sits upright so quickly it swirls his vision. Finds only a breeze edging the cloth, not what he's waiting for. Swallowing hard against the disappointment, he slips back down to the warm pillow, shifting his leg in an attempt at comfort. It fails. Ron's soft snore sings a quiet duet with his indecipherable mutterings and he tosses, stares at the curtains in the dim. Reaches. Down.

He's been hard since he slipped into his pajamas, the cool caress of the cloth reminding him of Draco's sleek fingers, dragging so slowly, so softly the night before. The way his thumb traced the bloom of wet against the fabric, the way- Oh.

He should wait. He should. Draco will be here any moment. Any moment, the bed curtains are going to part, the snowy head appearing like a sudden moon in darkness. And then the rest of him, sliding up onto Harry's bed. Sliding up onto. Harry.

Last night was the first time they'd gone further than snogging, and the feel of Draco's slight frame on top of him had almost been enough to make him come. When he'd opened his mouth with an insistent tongue, Harry had shoved upward with a sound drowned against the curling lips, and Draco had reached. Down. Stroked his fingers against his swollen prick, and then. Oh.

Reached inside. The hand was chilly against his warm flesh, and he'd made a sound in surprise, something strange and funny, a laugh that was a gasp, a gasp that was a laugh. Something that wasn't funny as Draco began to stroke. Oh god. Draco.

Yes?

Eyes sprung in panic, he almost doesn't cage the blurt of shock, and Draco helps. With his hand. He's always so helpful with his hand. Cool against his warm lips. Tiny flare of laughter in both their eyes as Harry recovers. Replacing the silencing hand with his lips, he slides. Oh. He slides. Under the blanket, onto him like a soft wave, fingers into his hair, tongue into the wetness of his mouth. The haze soaks his through, and it's only a sudden louder syllable - "breggle"? - rising out of Ron's unconscious sonata that shakes him back to reality. The- he tries, and only gets a rough plunder of his mouth for his effort. Nudging at the bony shoulder, he manages the rest. Privacy. Charm.

The quiet rustling of shift and charm and bed curtain flutter is followed by more, white skin emerging from shucked clothes with a sound that he swears is a sigh. Blush creeps up his neck, which is barmy, since he's not the one naked in the suddenly weighty quiet. Maybe he should be. But it's awkward, he doesn't know how to get out of his pajamas with that alluring shhhh sound Draco managed, and he bites his lip, wants to run away. Until Draco slides.

Into the warmth of his neck, fingers into his buttons, lips onto his wild pulse punching in the column of his throat. I. He doesn't even feel the slim white fingers moving, only knows he's bare because the chilly air laps his skin suddenly. The slide of the hand across his chest opens his mouth with a moan. A language Draco understands apparently, because he's moving. He's.

Sliding. Onto his bare skin. Against his jaw, his ear. Spoon of tongue in the bowl of his clavicle. I. He reaches for whatever he can get in the heavy bliss of it, lands a hand on bony hip, and it's Draco's turn for a word that isn't a word at all, mouthed against his skin. It's a small movement, a quiet shift. They're slipping now, and he wants. Wants. Doesn't know what, just that he does. Reaches. Down.
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