pitchblackrose & florahart
Title: Kiss of Life
Author: pitchblackrose
Pairing: Harry/Dean
Challenge: Friendship battered down by/Useless history/Unexamined failure - Jeff Buckley, Morning Theft
“Honey, you know it was for the best, don’t you?” Harry caresses Dean’s warm neck as he whispers.
“I couldn’t let you go to him. I couldn’t. You knew what he’d done to me...
Besides, you’re muggle-born! He only... He probably would’ve laughed at you killing your own kin and then done the same to you. I had to protect you...” He slides Dean’s pyjamabottoms down while grazing a brown nipple.
“You must forgive me, honey. But really, it was my duty to you to do it, as soon as you took the mark. Before you…” His voice breaks. “It hurt so much to see you do this. Do this to hurt me. I had to bring you back, Dean. At any cost. Even if it was like this. I just couldn’t let him have you too.”
He slips a slick finger into his lover.
“I loved you, honey. All those years. Even after...” With a sigh he slides into him. “But you’re safe now. I won’t let them near you again.”
He sobs as he thrusts deeper into him, clutching a limp leg on either side.
“I promise, from now on only I will kiss you, honey, only I...”
Title: Nine Minutes/Forty-Three Tears
Author: florahart
Rating: R?
Words: 1100
Summary: Dean listens, Harry talks.
It throbs, and there is nothing I can do. I tried to count, to note each pulse of fire, but though I remember how to count in principle, I remember not what each number is, nor in what order they go, nor what they mean, the ones I am able to find in my head. I remember nine, and forty-three, and I think one of them takes longer to think, so it must be bigger. Or brighter.
Are numbers bright? I can't recall. So, when it throbs, which I think might be always, I cannot count because I cannot, but I remember every time that it did throb already, nine times or forty-three, or another number, because I am sure there are more than nine or forty-three or however many those were. I think. Pulse pulse pulse always until ever. But not always, because when I knew other numbers, it didn't bump bump bump against under along my skin. It wasn't until the throb started and I came back in the dark to, I was supposed to, expected to, commanded to cast a spell, but the boy was faster, smarter, sharper, and he won. And so did I, because I didn't want, didn't hope, didn't wish to hurt him.
I can't remember his name, and he never tells me. He doesn't tell me mine, either, I don't think, and I don't know if I should know, or if it matters. Though I have the idea that his does matter and is why I was to hurt him. I think I was to hurt him. I think it would have, what I was to do, though I cannot recall how, or why, or for that matter what, exactly, it was that I was to do.
He talks to me still. I can't remember why. I know he did, then, before I almost hurt him, before I made him cry, he used to talk to me low in my ear, late in the dark after the others slept, snored, closed their curtains so it was just him and me, and I remember sometimes or nine times, he made me cry.
I can't cry now, though he still does, almost always, as often as I hurt and throb and thrum. He whispers words I remember I used to know, though sometimes I don't know them now, and then I want to cry, though my body no longer complies, which makes me want it more, so I try not to think of it, as I have nothing else, nothing but his tears and his body and the pulse of my pain to think of. I want to understand how we fit together, but clearly this is impossible.
Do you wonder, now, what he says to me? I could tell you. He's speaking to me right now, whispering in my ear: “Honey, you know it was for the best, don’t you?” I feel his skin against mine, and he is cool or warm or hot--I can't remember. “I couldn’t let you go to him. I couldn’t. You knew what he’d done to me... Besides, you’re muggle-born! He only... He probably would’ve laughed at you killing your own kin and then done the same to you. I had to protect you...” I don't know what that means, what muggle-born means, or who he is, against whom he protects me, but always I have felt safe with him, with his fingers under me and in me. He feels safe too, holding me, he said then, and when he cries now, I feel insecure and alone despite him moving over me. I don't understand this, but I know if I could remember, it would make more sense.
He has more of my skin bared now, and--oh!--he's touching there, where it hurts and helps and feels so--oh! My skin is loose where he touches, so his hand can slide and squeeze and move against me Some of me tenses as his hand and lips pass along, not the muscles I no longer seem to control, but the flesh itself, raising into bumps over my heart and into a firm long rod, my, my, I can't, it's on the tip of my tongue, but then his tongue is wet on me, and I can't remember what I knew nine minutes ago anyway, so I feel what I feel and listen as he speaks, as he blames himself and tells me he had no choice--about what, I can't remember, though I think I once knew. “You must forgive me, honey. But really, it was my duty to you to do it, as soon as you took the mark. Before you…” He sounds so sad, and I wish I could comfort him, though I think it somehow comforts him when he touches me. Or it hurts him, and I think it's the same thing, even though a part of me says that can't be right. “It hurt so much to see you do this. Do this to hurt me. I had to bring you back, Dean. At any cost. Even if it was like this. I just couldn’t let him have you too.”
He's pushing into me now, and this is the thing that hurts and helps and I can't tell, if I could move, whether I would open my legs or push them closed, or if I would lift my knees and push against him. I can't see what he does--can't see him, in fact; my eyes can't remember how to make a picture from the light they see. I know they do, because I feel the burn of brightness and the cool of dark, but nothing transmits. He says he loves me, and I can't remember if that's good or bad, and the feel of him pushing into me, it hurts and helps and feels so full, and that's no help there. “But you’re safe now. I won’t let them near you again.” I feel his tears dropping on my skin now, and I feel his fingers on my knees, and he sobs and pushes and pushes and sobs and I feel him wet inside me, and he's still talking, “I promise, from now on only I will kiss you, honey, only
I...” and it sounds like he's promising something good, doesn't it? Doesn't it? That has to mean I will remember eventually, right? That I'll remember real sight and sound, that I'll forget the flash that blinded me and sent me to the floor and made me lie and listen to the tussle around me. I'll remember, and I'll feel, and I'll be able to speak back. It can't take more than nine more days, can it?
Can it?
Author: pitchblackrose
Pairing: Harry/Dean
Challenge: Friendship battered down by/Useless history/Unexamined failure - Jeff Buckley, Morning Theft
“Honey, you know it was for the best, don’t you?” Harry caresses Dean’s warm neck as he whispers.
“I couldn’t let you go to him. I couldn’t. You knew what he’d done to me...
Besides, you’re muggle-born! He only... He probably would’ve laughed at you killing your own kin and then done the same to you. I had to protect you...” He slides Dean’s pyjamabottoms down while grazing a brown nipple.
“You must forgive me, honey. But really, it was my duty to you to do it, as soon as you took the mark. Before you…” His voice breaks. “It hurt so much to see you do this. Do this to hurt me. I had to bring you back, Dean. At any cost. Even if it was like this. I just couldn’t let him have you too.”
He slips a slick finger into his lover.
“I loved you, honey. All those years. Even after...” With a sigh he slides into him. “But you’re safe now. I won’t let them near you again.”
He sobs as he thrusts deeper into him, clutching a limp leg on either side.
“I promise, from now on only I will kiss you, honey, only I...”
Title: Nine Minutes/Forty-Three Tears
Author: florahart
Rating: R?
Words: 1100
Summary: Dean listens, Harry talks.
It throbs, and there is nothing I can do. I tried to count, to note each pulse of fire, but though I remember how to count in principle, I remember not what each number is, nor in what order they go, nor what they mean, the ones I am able to find in my head. I remember nine, and forty-three, and I think one of them takes longer to think, so it must be bigger. Or brighter.
Are numbers bright? I can't recall. So, when it throbs, which I think might be always, I cannot count because I cannot, but I remember every time that it did throb already, nine times or forty-three, or another number, because I am sure there are more than nine or forty-three or however many those were. I think. Pulse pulse pulse always until ever. But not always, because when I knew other numbers, it didn't bump bump bump against under along my skin. It wasn't until the throb started and I came back in the dark to, I was supposed to, expected to, commanded to cast a spell, but the boy was faster, smarter, sharper, and he won. And so did I, because I didn't want, didn't hope, didn't wish to hurt him.
I can't remember his name, and he never tells me. He doesn't tell me mine, either, I don't think, and I don't know if I should know, or if it matters. Though I have the idea that his does matter and is why I was to hurt him. I think I was to hurt him. I think it would have, what I was to do, though I cannot recall how, or why, or for that matter what, exactly, it was that I was to do.
He talks to me still. I can't remember why. I know he did, then, before I almost hurt him, before I made him cry, he used to talk to me low in my ear, late in the dark after the others slept, snored, closed their curtains so it was just him and me, and I remember sometimes or nine times, he made me cry.
I can't cry now, though he still does, almost always, as often as I hurt and throb and thrum. He whispers words I remember I used to know, though sometimes I don't know them now, and then I want to cry, though my body no longer complies, which makes me want it more, so I try not to think of it, as I have nothing else, nothing but his tears and his body and the pulse of my pain to think of. I want to understand how we fit together, but clearly this is impossible.
Do you wonder, now, what he says to me? I could tell you. He's speaking to me right now, whispering in my ear: “Honey, you know it was for the best, don’t you?” I feel his skin against mine, and he is cool or warm or hot--I can't remember. “I couldn’t let you go to him. I couldn’t. You knew what he’d done to me... Besides, you’re muggle-born! He only... He probably would’ve laughed at you killing your own kin and then done the same to you. I had to protect you...” I don't know what that means, what muggle-born means, or who he is, against whom he protects me, but always I have felt safe with him, with his fingers under me and in me. He feels safe too, holding me, he said then, and when he cries now, I feel insecure and alone despite him moving over me. I don't understand this, but I know if I could remember, it would make more sense.
He has more of my skin bared now, and--oh!--he's touching there, where it hurts and helps and feels so--oh! My skin is loose where he touches, so his hand can slide and squeeze and move against me Some of me tenses as his hand and lips pass along, not the muscles I no longer seem to control, but the flesh itself, raising into bumps over my heart and into a firm long rod, my, my, I can't, it's on the tip of my tongue, but then his tongue is wet on me, and I can't remember what I knew nine minutes ago anyway, so I feel what I feel and listen as he speaks, as he blames himself and tells me he had no choice--about what, I can't remember, though I think I once knew. “You must forgive me, honey. But really, it was my duty to you to do it, as soon as you took the mark. Before you…” He sounds so sad, and I wish I could comfort him, though I think it somehow comforts him when he touches me. Or it hurts him, and I think it's the same thing, even though a part of me says that can't be right. “It hurt so much to see you do this. Do this to hurt me. I had to bring you back, Dean. At any cost. Even if it was like this. I just couldn’t let him have you too.”
He's pushing into me now, and this is the thing that hurts and helps and I can't tell, if I could move, whether I would open my legs or push them closed, or if I would lift my knees and push against him. I can't see what he does--can't see him, in fact; my eyes can't remember how to make a picture from the light they see. I know they do, because I feel the burn of brightness and the cool of dark, but nothing transmits. He says he loves me, and I can't remember if that's good or bad, and the feel of him pushing into me, it hurts and helps and feels so full, and that's no help there. “But you’re safe now. I won’t let them near you again.” I feel his tears dropping on my skin now, and I feel his fingers on my knees, and he sobs and pushes and pushes and sobs and I feel him wet inside me, and he's still talking, “I promise, from now on only I will kiss you, honey, only
I...” and it sounds like he's promising something good, doesn't it? Doesn't it? That has to mean I will remember eventually, right? That I'll remember real sight and sound, that I'll forget the flash that blinded me and sent me to the floor and made me lie and listen to the tussle around me. I'll remember, and I'll feel, and I'll be able to speak back. It can't take more than nine more days, can it?
Can it?