Catch Drunk
By Alicia Flint
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, JK's
Pairing: Harry/ Voldemort
"I've been waiting."
Harry Potter -- Standing out in the pouring rain, the fabric of his robes clinging to his lithe frame, his glasses so fogged up that he can't see right from left and yet, he knows that HE'S here -- Standing behind him. Harry's been standing out here all night -- Waiting for the moment when HE would come, ripping the night to shreds, trying to find the child that got away one too many times.
"You knew I would come?" HE asks.
And Harry finds himself exactly where he wants to be -- Trapped between Scylla and Charybdis at the edge of the world. No escape because Harry came out here unarmed, no pushing forward because then he'd prematurely cross the Stygian ferry (or "meet an untimely end" as Dumbledore sometimes used to put it). So he has to wait for HIM to make the first move.
"You're not trying to get away?"
HIS voice is filled with something that wounds Harry to the core -- Suspicion. Does HE really think that Harry would lay himself out as bait -- As some sort of virgin sacrifice offering himself up for the greater good? No, Harry's out here because HE is his sole weakness -- His blemish, his shortcoming, his Achilles heel.
HE has Harry catch drunk in love.
"Why are you standing out here in the rain?" A touch of concern, barely noticeable. "You'll catch your death." Then anger: "What are you trying to set me up for?"
No response from the child who stands with his back toward HIM. Suddenly, Harry feels a hand lightly wrap around his waist. He feels fingers probing around in the pockets of his robe, checking to see if he has his wand or not. The scar on his forehead burns -- Oh! It burns! -- White heat pulsing through his body.
"You're disarmed?"
The question is close to his ear -- So close. Harry nods as the scar on his forehead boils and singes. HE gently lays a hand over the mark, making Harry stew with blood heat. Then HE mutters an incantation and the pain is gone. Simply gone as if it had never existed in the first place. Harry sighs -- Relief and thanks.
"Why are you here if you're disarmed . . ." HE checks all around the grove -- The trees, the shrubs, the shadows. "If you're disarmed and alone?"
HIS breath is nicotine-stained -- One of those boys from the 1940s who never quite broke the habit. Hot puffs blasting onto the shell of Harry's ear.
"I was waiting for you," Harry replies honestly.
"Oh really?"
And the tell-tale erection is jabbing against the back of Harry's thigh, making Harry feel vainglorious in the moment -- Knowing that he can elicit this feeling from HIM. Knowing that it doesn't matter that he's "the boy who lived" -- HE still covets him.
"Please."
There's no more discussion -- No exchange of formalities. Everything that HE wants to know -- All of the motives that Harry Potter had for coming out here tonight -- are enclosed in that one small word. HIS hands move deftly, unbuttoning Harry's robe and pushing the fabric off of his shoulders, allowing it to pool at the child's feet, revealing flesh primed for the taking.
There is no preparation. Harry never thought there would be.
And with a sunburst of searing heat, Harry's so-called "maidenhood" is extinguished. Harry convulses and HE has to grab a hold of the child to keep him standing upright. Still, the thrusting continues, blood lubricating the passage, making the entire ordeal easier. The chalky white manhood crucifying "the boy who lived" -- But Harry Potter refuses to be called a martyr.
Then HE spasms and Harry feels the sticky-sweet damp saturating his insides.
Harry collapses to the ground, burying himself in the muck. Then he feels a hand trailing across his cheek, he feels those bleached lips against his. And he can't bring himself to open his eyes but he knows that HE'S the one kissing him -- Chastely kissing him.
"Why did you choose me?" HE asks.
"You don't understand," Harry murmurs.
Serenity etched into his features.
By Alicia Flint
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, JK's
Pairing: Harry/ Voldemort
"I've been waiting."
Harry Potter -- Standing out in the pouring rain, the fabric of his robes clinging to his lithe frame, his glasses so fogged up that he can't see right from left and yet, he knows that HE'S here -- Standing behind him. Harry's been standing out here all night -- Waiting for the moment when HE would come, ripping the night to shreds, trying to find the child that got away one too many times.
"You knew I would come?" HE asks.
And Harry finds himself exactly where he wants to be -- Trapped between Scylla and Charybdis at the edge of the world. No escape because Harry came out here unarmed, no pushing forward because then he'd prematurely cross the Stygian ferry (or "meet an untimely end" as Dumbledore sometimes used to put it). So he has to wait for HIM to make the first move.
"You're not trying to get away?"
HIS voice is filled with something that wounds Harry to the core -- Suspicion. Does HE really think that Harry would lay himself out as bait -- As some sort of virgin sacrifice offering himself up for the greater good? No, Harry's out here because HE is his sole weakness -- His blemish, his shortcoming, his Achilles heel.
HE has Harry catch drunk in love.
"Why are you standing out here in the rain?" A touch of concern, barely noticeable. "You'll catch your death." Then anger: "What are you trying to set me up for?"
No response from the child who stands with his back toward HIM. Suddenly, Harry feels a hand lightly wrap around his waist. He feels fingers probing around in the pockets of his robe, checking to see if he has his wand or not. The scar on his forehead burns -- Oh! It burns! -- White heat pulsing through his body.
"You're disarmed?"
The question is close to his ear -- So close. Harry nods as the scar on his forehead boils and singes. HE gently lays a hand over the mark, making Harry stew with blood heat. Then HE mutters an incantation and the pain is gone. Simply gone as if it had never existed in the first place. Harry sighs -- Relief and thanks.
"Why are you here if you're disarmed . . ." HE checks all around the grove -- The trees, the shrubs, the shadows. "If you're disarmed and alone?"
HIS breath is nicotine-stained -- One of those boys from the 1940s who never quite broke the habit. Hot puffs blasting onto the shell of Harry's ear.
"I was waiting for you," Harry replies honestly.
"Oh really?"
And the tell-tale erection is jabbing against the back of Harry's thigh, making Harry feel vainglorious in the moment -- Knowing that he can elicit this feeling from HIM. Knowing that it doesn't matter that he's "the boy who lived" -- HE still covets him.
"Please."
There's no more discussion -- No exchange of formalities. Everything that HE wants to know -- All of the motives that Harry Potter had for coming out here tonight -- are enclosed in that one small word. HIS hands move deftly, unbuttoning Harry's robe and pushing the fabric off of his shoulders, allowing it to pool at the child's feet, revealing flesh primed for the taking.
There is no preparation. Harry never thought there would be.
And with a sunburst of searing heat, Harry's so-called "maidenhood" is extinguished. Harry convulses and HE has to grab a hold of the child to keep him standing upright. Still, the thrusting continues, blood lubricating the passage, making the entire ordeal easier. The chalky white manhood crucifying "the boy who lived" -- But Harry Potter refuses to be called a martyr.
Then HE spasms and Harry feels the sticky-sweet damp saturating his insides.
Harry collapses to the ground, burying himself in the muck. Then he feels a hand trailing across his cheek, he feels those bleached lips against his. And he can't bring himself to open his eyes but he knows that HE'S the one kissing him -- Chastely kissing him.
"Why did you choose me?" HE asks.
"You don't understand," Harry murmurs.
Serenity etched into his features.