Squickathon fic: H/D, R, asphyxiation
Title: Down Where It Doesn't Hurt
Author: acidquill
Rating: R
Word Count: 527
Challenge: Squickathon: Asphyxiation.
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Warnings: My version of smut again. Breath play.
Notes: Again, I think I was less squick and more…er well I don’t know. But I rather like it anyway. Second person pov.
His dick is up your ass; his arm on your throat. You lay back and let him fuck you until you can’t breathe. But, then, that’s the point. He doesn’t ask you questions. He gets off and gets you off and the two of you spend as little time as possible looking in each other’s eyes.
By now he has stopped calling you Potter but doesn’t call you Harry. He is Malfoy only in your mind, but you never, never, think of the word Draco.
He keeps time with each thrust. In, he presses down. Out, he lets up. You take shallow breaths and try to get the world to go just a little darker, stay away just a little longer.
It’s not enough for you. It’s never enough. You push it that much farther, that much harder. You want it to burn behind your eyes and down your throat. You want it to take you away, away where no one can touch you. Nothing. Not the war or hate or love. Nothing. You want it because it sets you free.
He presses down just a little harder and the blackness stays this time, clings and collects at the edge of your vision like cobwebs. This is what you wait for. He fucks you rougher right at the end. He comes, a hoarse shout in your ear, hands spasming, nails digging into your throat. Black pinpoints of non-stars explode in front of your eyes, but he rolls off of you and lies on his back. He always stops before it is too late; he’s never pushed it as far as maybe he knows you want to go. Sometimes you catch something in his eyes. It is small and sharp and fragile. It looks very much like pain.
You used to wonder why he didn’t just finish you off. It would be easier certainly, but the more time you spend thinking, the more you realize that he doesn’t like easy. Not when it comes to this. Not when it comes to you. You are learning quite a bit about him actually. The way his eyes changed color when he was angry, the exact curve of his sneer when you gasp, “More.” And lately it occurs to you that he’s using you for the same reason you’re using him: to forget. The ability is a precious commodity now, and should he have any less horror, fewer sins to wipe away than you?
In the end it doesn’t matter because he won’t stop. Tomorrow he’ll still wrap his fingers around your throat and press, just there, just enough to make you moan. He’ll bend you over backwards and hold your face down into the dirt until you gasp. He knows how much you want it. He won’t stop; he’ll do it - above anything, you think, because he understands you best. It’s not that you trust him more than your friends. Trust doesn’t come anywhere close to this. Not this and not him. The two of you can see under one another’s skin and see right through. He knows that no matter how fucked up you are, he’s just as bad.
Author: acidquill
Rating: R
Word Count: 527
Challenge: Squickathon: Asphyxiation.
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Warnings: My version of smut again. Breath play.
Notes: Again, I think I was less squick and more…er well I don’t know. But I rather like it anyway. Second person pov.
His dick is up your ass; his arm on your throat. You lay back and let him fuck you until you can’t breathe. But, then, that’s the point. He doesn’t ask you questions. He gets off and gets you off and the two of you spend as little time as possible looking in each other’s eyes.
By now he has stopped calling you Potter but doesn’t call you Harry. He is Malfoy only in your mind, but you never, never, think of the word Draco.
He keeps time with each thrust. In, he presses down. Out, he lets up. You take shallow breaths and try to get the world to go just a little darker, stay away just a little longer.
It’s not enough for you. It’s never enough. You push it that much farther, that much harder. You want it to burn behind your eyes and down your throat. You want it to take you away, away where no one can touch you. Nothing. Not the war or hate or love. Nothing. You want it because it sets you free.
He presses down just a little harder and the blackness stays this time, clings and collects at the edge of your vision like cobwebs. This is what you wait for. He fucks you rougher right at the end. He comes, a hoarse shout in your ear, hands spasming, nails digging into your throat. Black pinpoints of non-stars explode in front of your eyes, but he rolls off of you and lies on his back. He always stops before it is too late; he’s never pushed it as far as maybe he knows you want to go. Sometimes you catch something in his eyes. It is small and sharp and fragile. It looks very much like pain.
You used to wonder why he didn’t just finish you off. It would be easier certainly, but the more time you spend thinking, the more you realize that he doesn’t like easy. Not when it comes to this. Not when it comes to you. You are learning quite a bit about him actually. The way his eyes changed color when he was angry, the exact curve of his sneer when you gasp, “More.” And lately it occurs to you that he’s using you for the same reason you’re using him: to forget. The ability is a precious commodity now, and should he have any less horror, fewer sins to wipe away than you?
In the end it doesn’t matter because he won’t stop. Tomorrow he’ll still wrap his fingers around your throat and press, just there, just enough to make you moan. He’ll bend you over backwards and hold your face down into the dirt until you gasp. He knows how much you want it. He won’t stop; he’ll do it - above anything, you think, because he understands you best. It’s not that you trust him more than your friends. Trust doesn’t come anywhere close to this. Not this and not him. The two of you can see under one another’s skin and see right through. He knows that no matter how fucked up you are, he’s just as bad.