Splintered Sayings March Prompt: when I pitch a fit screaming.
Title: L'homme et la femme.
Prompt: when I pitch a fit screaming
Character: Draco Malfoy.
Warnings: Genderswitch, m/m slash, adult material.
Pairings: Draco/Mike.
Fandom: Harry Potter.
Word count: 1664.
Rating: NC17.
Disclaimer: Mine they are not, dream a girl can, no money have I.
L'homme.
Draco is used to the strange duality that is now a permanent part of his life. He's gone through the stages of grief - anger, despair, denial, acceptance - and with acceptance has come the realisation that being a girl some of the time isn't really quite that bad. Even if he gets little to no advance warning about when he's going to change into a girl, and sometimes there is a bit of vertigo or memory loss immediately after the change, but still and all.
Girl? So much better than suffering from having been werewolf bitten.
When he is in his normal shape and his husband is off doing whatever it is he does - Draco rarely asks (and the lack of asking is not due to lack of interest, quite the opposite. The lack of asking is due entirely to the fact that Draco worries, and when he worries, things escalate and it's a whole downward spiral of worry.) - Draco does what any rich young man with land and title do. Nothing, richly and idly.
He has his club of course, the gentleman's club that is called The Cadaver Club and is situated on Whitechapel Road. The building is a Tudor style residence converted into the gentleman's club, the library full of books on all manner of arcane subjects and the membership is that of the elite of the elite of both Wizard and Muggle societies. Here, politicians rub shoulders with bankers, wizards with New Scotland Yard commissioners, the young and the old, the wealthy and the intelligent coming together to drink fine wines, smoke fine cigars, eat elegantly prepared meals and relax.
The Cadaver Club is one of Draco's little private luxuries - which is to say that he's never mentioned it, simply because it's never crossed his mind to do so. And that day, Mike is off saving the world, again, from some sort of giant slime monster, so Draco goes to his club, reads the papers, checks his stocks and bonds, smokes a fine cigar and drinks port with his peers in wealth and society, and gossips.
He gets home, smelling faintly of the lingering whisper of expensive cigar smoke, the sweet tang of port on his tongue and Mike shoves him against the wall, hands roaming over Draco's body, as he licks the shell of Draco's ear and purrs, "I missed you, baby."
Draco can't manage anything more coherent than "Ungh!" as Mike drops to his knees, mouths at Draco's cock through his expensive woollen trousers and through the haze of rising lust and heat, fingers in Mike's hair, Draco manages not to scream - at least not until he's coming hard, down Mike's throat.
La Femme.
He's waiting for Mike, leaning back against the console, wearing a black, silk dress that shows off an almost unseemly amount of thigh and cleavage, long blonde hair streaming down his shoulders. He's smirking, although it doesn't really look like a smirk - more like an expression of a very well satisfied cat. The reason for the smirk is because Mike has just come home, covered in some sort of fluorescent orange goo, and is staring, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish.
"Go wash and get changed, Love," Draco says, his voice soft and feminine, large silver-grey eyes framed by sooty lashes gazing at Mike seductively. "We're going out."
"Uhn…" Mike says helpfully, and Draco grins, shifts a little, the hem of the dress riding up just a little higher as he crosses stiletto clad feet. "God…" Mike just stares, and Draco grins, waves a hand towards the door.
"Bathe and change," he insists, and he swears that it has to be the fastest wash and change in the history of humankind because before he's had time to look over his shoulder, Mike is back, grinning and reaching for him.
"Uh-uh," Draco waves a finger in admonishment, steps back, and Mike pouts. The pout is adorable at the best of times, but tonight, Draco has his own plans for the two of them, and they don't include ravishment before they've even left home. He's been in girl shape for five hours - long enough certainly to go shopping and buy new shoes, a new dress and have a manicure and facial - Draco is, after all, fastidious about his appearance, no matter what shape he's in, and he has plans.
It's Paris, it's spring, it's evening, and Mike and Draco eat a romantic dinner at one of the more expensive restaurants beside the Seine. Draco drives Mike wild by making the simple act of eating into an exotic porn show and every man that stares, well. Mike telekinetically trips them over, making sure they land face first in something disgusting and embarrassing, all the while not taking his eyes off his husband. When Draco eats glace cherries, that's it, Mike grabs him and they're gone, to the luxurious apartment near Montmatre and they slam together against the door, hands working frantically at clothing, mouths glued together, hungry, needy sounds filling the air.
Draco's up against the door, pinned there as Mike lifts him; he wraps his legs around Mike's hips, feels warm hands push the silk of the dress up his hips. One of Draco's own hands clutches at his husband, the other grips the coat handle on the back of the door for leverage and he arches, gasping loudly as Mike slides deep. The sounds of pleasure rise as they fuck, Mike's mouth on Draco's neck, Draco's hand in Mike's hair, soft strands wound around his fingers.
L'homme.
"God!" Mike's trying desperately not to scream, and Draco laughs softly, humming around his mouthful. People look in their direction where they sit in the opera box, wonder why Mike's face is flushed, his eyes glazed, why he's biting down so hard on his lower lip. Draco licks a long, wet, slow path up Mike's cock, then sucks lightly on the head, tonguing the slit, before taking all of that straining hardness deep and sucking, his hands rubbing hot skin.
Mike's trying desperately not to yell his pleasure out loud, but that doesn't stop him from screaming in Draco's mind, screaming things like "GOD!" and "DRACO!" and "FUCK YES!" Nearby, people are wondering why they're starting to feel aroused, why the idea of a quick shag in the middle of Rome's most famous Opera House sounds like the best idea ever. Mike's shields are in tatters as Draco licks and sucks then locks his jaw, thinking to his husband, Fuck my mouth, Love, and that's it, mental screaming of sheer bliss, and Draco swallows greedily, making happy noises as Mike pants harshly, looks down at him with a mixture of wonder and love and lust.
"God," Mike says again, and Draco smirks, because yes, he is that good and there's nothing he likes better than rendering his husband incoherent and desperate for Draco's touch. Draco likes to be wanted and when Mike looks at him like that, smiles at him like that, touches him like that, Draco knows that it's not just a case of being wanted, it's a case of being loved, cherished. He sits up, kisses Mike and because the words still aren't coming for his post blow job speechless husband, grins and purrs, "I love you, too."
La femme.
It's a full moon and they walk hand in hand along the banks of the Nile. Draco's hair is pulled back, held up by careful placement of combs made from tortoiseshell, and Mike is looking not at the scenery but at Draco. "Are you okay?"
The full moon - before the potion that gave Draco the ability to switch gender at random times - shines brightly above them. Draco can feel it prickling beneath his skin, the taint of lycanthropy, the way it wants to twist him, destroy him and rebuild him. It's a shadow of what it used to be, nothing more than an irritant now. Certainly not as bad as it was before the potion, but it's still there, and so is Mike, and that's the more important thing.
"Yes." Draco smiles and Mike, tilting his head uncertainly, sighs and slips his arm around Draco's shoulders.
"You know I love you, right?"
Draco nods as he leans into Mike, absently realising that they fit so well together whether he's in his boy shape or - as now - in his girl shape. "I love you too."
"The shape doesn't matter, you do know that, don't you?" Mike sounds worried, and Draco stops walking, turns in the circle of Mike's arms and smiles.
"Yes." A single word, a wealth of meaning, and Mike smiles, ducks his head shyly, one of the most endearing things he does in Draco's opinion. Draco finds these moments, when Mike is suddenly shy and smiles at him as if nothing is more precious or treasured as Draco is, to be the most perfect in the entire world. "I love you. I married you. We're together." Draco kisses Mike and Mike's arms tighten around him as he kisses Draco back.
They make love on the banks of the Nile, the soft sounds of passion mingling with the sounds of the night, the chirrups of small insects and the splash of the river as it laps the banks. Draco still finds the duality of his situation strange sometimes, but he can live with it. When Mike leans down to kiss and suck a nipple, gently caressing a breast, Draco moans softly, legs around Mike's hips and they let down their shields, feeling each other in every possible way. No screams of passion tonight, only soft whimpers and moans and sighs, and,
"I love you, Draco."
"I love you, Mike."
Prompt: when I pitch a fit screaming
Character: Draco Malfoy.
Warnings: Genderswitch, m/m slash, adult material.
Pairings: Draco/Mike.
Fandom: Harry Potter.
Word count: 1664.
Rating: NC17.
Disclaimer: Mine they are not, dream a girl can, no money have I.
L'homme.
Draco is used to the strange duality that is now a permanent part of his life. He's gone through the stages of grief - anger, despair, denial, acceptance - and with acceptance has come the realisation that being a girl some of the time isn't really quite that bad. Even if he gets little to no advance warning about when he's going to change into a girl, and sometimes there is a bit of vertigo or memory loss immediately after the change, but still and all.
Girl? So much better than suffering from having been werewolf bitten.
When he is in his normal shape and his husband is off doing whatever it is he does - Draco rarely asks (and the lack of asking is not due to lack of interest, quite the opposite. The lack of asking is due entirely to the fact that Draco worries, and when he worries, things escalate and it's a whole downward spiral of worry.) - Draco does what any rich young man with land and title do. Nothing, richly and idly.
He has his club of course, the gentleman's club that is called The Cadaver Club and is situated on Whitechapel Road. The building is a Tudor style residence converted into the gentleman's club, the library full of books on all manner of arcane subjects and the membership is that of the elite of the elite of both Wizard and Muggle societies. Here, politicians rub shoulders with bankers, wizards with New Scotland Yard commissioners, the young and the old, the wealthy and the intelligent coming together to drink fine wines, smoke fine cigars, eat elegantly prepared meals and relax.
The Cadaver Club is one of Draco's little private luxuries - which is to say that he's never mentioned it, simply because it's never crossed his mind to do so. And that day, Mike is off saving the world, again, from some sort of giant slime monster, so Draco goes to his club, reads the papers, checks his stocks and bonds, smokes a fine cigar and drinks port with his peers in wealth and society, and gossips.
He gets home, smelling faintly of the lingering whisper of expensive cigar smoke, the sweet tang of port on his tongue and Mike shoves him against the wall, hands roaming over Draco's body, as he licks the shell of Draco's ear and purrs, "I missed you, baby."
Draco can't manage anything more coherent than "Ungh!" as Mike drops to his knees, mouths at Draco's cock through his expensive woollen trousers and through the haze of rising lust and heat, fingers in Mike's hair, Draco manages not to scream - at least not until he's coming hard, down Mike's throat.
La Femme.
He's waiting for Mike, leaning back against the console, wearing a black, silk dress that shows off an almost unseemly amount of thigh and cleavage, long blonde hair streaming down his shoulders. He's smirking, although it doesn't really look like a smirk - more like an expression of a very well satisfied cat. The reason for the smirk is because Mike has just come home, covered in some sort of fluorescent orange goo, and is staring, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish.
"Go wash and get changed, Love," Draco says, his voice soft and feminine, large silver-grey eyes framed by sooty lashes gazing at Mike seductively. "We're going out."
"Uhn…" Mike says helpfully, and Draco grins, shifts a little, the hem of the dress riding up just a little higher as he crosses stiletto clad feet. "God…" Mike just stares, and Draco grins, waves a hand towards the door.
"Bathe and change," he insists, and he swears that it has to be the fastest wash and change in the history of humankind because before he's had time to look over his shoulder, Mike is back, grinning and reaching for him.
"Uh-uh," Draco waves a finger in admonishment, steps back, and Mike pouts. The pout is adorable at the best of times, but tonight, Draco has his own plans for the two of them, and they don't include ravishment before they've even left home. He's been in girl shape for five hours - long enough certainly to go shopping and buy new shoes, a new dress and have a manicure and facial - Draco is, after all, fastidious about his appearance, no matter what shape he's in, and he has plans.
It's Paris, it's spring, it's evening, and Mike and Draco eat a romantic dinner at one of the more expensive restaurants beside the Seine. Draco drives Mike wild by making the simple act of eating into an exotic porn show and every man that stares, well. Mike telekinetically trips them over, making sure they land face first in something disgusting and embarrassing, all the while not taking his eyes off his husband. When Draco eats glace cherries, that's it, Mike grabs him and they're gone, to the luxurious apartment near Montmatre and they slam together against the door, hands working frantically at clothing, mouths glued together, hungry, needy sounds filling the air.
Draco's up against the door, pinned there as Mike lifts him; he wraps his legs around Mike's hips, feels warm hands push the silk of the dress up his hips. One of Draco's own hands clutches at his husband, the other grips the coat handle on the back of the door for leverage and he arches, gasping loudly as Mike slides deep. The sounds of pleasure rise as they fuck, Mike's mouth on Draco's neck, Draco's hand in Mike's hair, soft strands wound around his fingers.
L'homme.
"God!" Mike's trying desperately not to scream, and Draco laughs softly, humming around his mouthful. People look in their direction where they sit in the opera box, wonder why Mike's face is flushed, his eyes glazed, why he's biting down so hard on his lower lip. Draco licks a long, wet, slow path up Mike's cock, then sucks lightly on the head, tonguing the slit, before taking all of that straining hardness deep and sucking, his hands rubbing hot skin.
Mike's trying desperately not to yell his pleasure out loud, but that doesn't stop him from screaming in Draco's mind, screaming things like "GOD!" and "DRACO!" and "FUCK YES!" Nearby, people are wondering why they're starting to feel aroused, why the idea of a quick shag in the middle of Rome's most famous Opera House sounds like the best idea ever. Mike's shields are in tatters as Draco licks and sucks then locks his jaw, thinking to his husband, Fuck my mouth, Love, and that's it, mental screaming of sheer bliss, and Draco swallows greedily, making happy noises as Mike pants harshly, looks down at him with a mixture of wonder and love and lust.
"God," Mike says again, and Draco smirks, because yes, he is that good and there's nothing he likes better than rendering his husband incoherent and desperate for Draco's touch. Draco likes to be wanted and when Mike looks at him like that, smiles at him like that, touches him like that, Draco knows that it's not just a case of being wanted, it's a case of being loved, cherished. He sits up, kisses Mike and because the words still aren't coming for his post blow job speechless husband, grins and purrs, "I love you, too."
La femme.
It's a full moon and they walk hand in hand along the banks of the Nile. Draco's hair is pulled back, held up by careful placement of combs made from tortoiseshell, and Mike is looking not at the scenery but at Draco. "Are you okay?"
The full moon - before the potion that gave Draco the ability to switch gender at random times - shines brightly above them. Draco can feel it prickling beneath his skin, the taint of lycanthropy, the way it wants to twist him, destroy him and rebuild him. It's a shadow of what it used to be, nothing more than an irritant now. Certainly not as bad as it was before the potion, but it's still there, and so is Mike, and that's the more important thing.
"Yes." Draco smiles and Mike, tilting his head uncertainly, sighs and slips his arm around Draco's shoulders.
"You know I love you, right?"
Draco nods as he leans into Mike, absently realising that they fit so well together whether he's in his boy shape or - as now - in his girl shape. "I love you too."
"The shape doesn't matter, you do know that, don't you?" Mike sounds worried, and Draco stops walking, turns in the circle of Mike's arms and smiles.
"Yes." A single word, a wealth of meaning, and Mike smiles, ducks his head shyly, one of the most endearing things he does in Draco's opinion. Draco finds these moments, when Mike is suddenly shy and smiles at him as if nothing is more precious or treasured as Draco is, to be the most perfect in the entire world. "I love you. I married you. We're together." Draco kisses Mike and Mike's arms tighten around him as he kisses Draco back.
They make love on the banks of the Nile, the soft sounds of passion mingling with the sounds of the night, the chirrups of small insects and the splash of the river as it laps the banks. Draco still finds the duality of his situation strange sometimes, but he can live with it. When Mike leans down to kiss and suck a nipple, gently caressing a breast, Draco moans softly, legs around Mike's hips and they let down their shields, feeling each other in every possible way. No screams of passion tonight, only soft whimpers and moans and sighs, and,
"I love you, Draco."
"I love you, Mike."