Current mood:	cranky
Entry tags:	fic

H/D Response to Challenge #17 @ the Garden
This is first time sex. Yes, it is kind of fluffy, but not too much mind. I suppose I'm just not really cut out to write the gentle, loving, fluffy sex *shrug* Oh well.

Title: How and Why

Pairing: H/D

Rating: NC-17

Warning: PWP for gratuitous sex and very little else.

Note:This is for quote challenge #17 over at the_dark_garden. The quote is "Find value in what we've been taught is worthless. Find good in what the world says is evil."~Chuck Palahniuk (Invisible Monsters). Thanks as always to my beta syrosis.

Summary: Everyone is always asking me, but they don't really want to know.



"Find value in what we've been taught is worthless.
Find good in what the world says is evil"

Chuck Palahniuk
(Invisible Monsters)

How and Why

Of all the questions I’ve ever been asked about him, nobody has ever bothered to ask me how. They ask me why all the time. They disguise it as how by saying things like “How can you do that? How can you touch him? How can you let him near you? How can you stand it?” They don’t really mean how when they ask me those questions. They mean why. “Why have you betrayed us? Why is he the one? Why are you so different? Is it his fault? Can we blame him for it?”

Those are the real questions. The questions I am asked that I never answer.

But no one ever asks me how. Not really. I think perhaps they don’t want to know.

They don’t want to know, and if the truth be told, I don’t feel any need to tell them.

We were very young. Only seventeen, you know. And we hated each other. Hated each other intensely, with all the burning passion of the desperately young.

He was evil. Everyone said so and for as long as I had known him all through school, he had never done anything redeeming to prove them wrong. I know now that this was because he felt no need to prove himself to people who were determined to cast him in the role of villain. He is, and always has been, hard to make friends with. He makes you work for his friendship, but once given, it is never taken back.

I did not know then how very great a thing it was for him to offer his hand to me. He offered me his hand in friendship that first day I met him, without question or condition, and I carelessly cast it aside. It was never offered to me again.

Even now, years later, with everything that lies between us, I cannot quite call what we have friendship. I have had him inside me from every possible angle and he has fucked me in every conceivable position, and there is a companionship of sorts that has developed over the years because of this, but we are not friends. Lovers, perhaps, if you stretch the truth a lot and tilt your head just so when you look at our relationship under a microscope.

Mostly we just fight. No great change there. Except now when we fight, sometimes I pull my punches and sometimes he curbs his wicked tongue. And sometimes—most of the time—the fights end with rough sex and heated words whispered into the shell of my ear, instead of shouted at me across the room. It’s still there when we’re finished. The anger, the resentment, the words waiting just a few more minutes for him to catch his breath, to be hurled at me with as much rage as he can muster with my cum glazing his belly and the taste of my sweat on his tongue.

Some days when we fight we never leave the bed.

That summer, when we were seventeen, we were both staying with the Order at Grimmauld Place. Neither of us had much choice in the matter, really. Neither of us had anywhere else to go.

I hated that house. I hated it for what I felt it had taken from me. There is a part of me that still hates it, will always hate it. But there is another part of me, the part that belongs to him—that part remembers the smell of honeysuckle and wild roses, the taste of tears on his skin, and the prism shine of his hair in the midday sun. That part of me finds it impossible to hate that house.

I came upon him that day, sitting on a stone bench in the overgrown garden. He had a tawny owl perched on his shoulder and a small roll of parchment clutched tightly in his hands. He was half turned away from me, so I stood there for a few moments, unnoticed, and watched him.

He took a deep, ragged breath, then viciously crumpled the parchment up and threw it as far as he could—which was not very far. The parchment caught the little breath of air that gusted through the ivy and floated back to the grass a short distance from his feet. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, tilting his face toward the sun. His movements disturbed the owl and she flew away with a disgruntled hoot.

I moved forward then, as he sat there with his head tilted toward the sky. He was perfectly still, except for the slight tremors along his shoulders that made him shake just a little. I quietly walked over to him and stood, careful not to let my shadow fall over him, and looked down at his face.

He had tears in his eyes, gleaming on his white lashes and pooled in the hollows at the corners of his eyes. They looked like smooth diamonds, or opals, or moonstones. Some kind of precious stone that could be gathered and put on a chain for a pretty girl to wear. The sun shining through the trees surrounding the garden dappled his alabaster skin with bits of gold that fluttered like moths trapped just beneath the surface of his skin.

As I watched, he sighed and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and nibbled on it. His eyes fluttered, but did not open.

That was the first time I realized that he was beautiful. And almost as soon as I realized that, I knew that I wanted him.

I must have said something. Probably his name, now that I look back on it.

He opened his eyes and lowered his head to look at me. He regarded me coolly for a long drawn-out moment while I watched his silent tears slide down his face.

“My father’s dead,” he murmured.

I nodded and said nothing. What could I say to that? I never really had a father.

“My mother…my mother’s afraid,” he confessed. To this day, I do not know why he confided these things to me. Not there, in the garden, with his tears caught like gleaming jewels on his eyelashes.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and though I really wasn’t, he seemed to accept it.

He nodded and looked down at his lap, where he was twisting his fingers together.

I reached out and touched him then. I slid my fingers up the back of his neck and through his hair. He tensed, instinctively I think, at the contact, then seemed to force himself to relax. He bent his head a little more forward and made a soft sound of pleasure, like a cat purring.

“What are you doing?” he asked me. Not like he wanted me to stop, more like he truly wanted to know.

“Touching you,” I said softly.

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

I drew my hand back then, but he caught it. “Don’t.”

I lifted a brow at him. “Don’t what?”

His pale grey eyes stared straight into mine. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not…” I hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I’m not going to comfort you,” I said. It sounded heartless, even to me, but I meant it. I wasn’t going to do anything more if he wanted to use me to make himself feel better.

He lifted my hand to his mouth and I thought he was going to kiss it like some dandy in a Shakespearian play. So I was caught completely off guard when he pulled my middle finger into his mouth and sucked. He kept his eyes on mine as he did it and I felt all the blood in my head rush straight to my loins.

He took my finger out of his mouth, gave the tip one final swirling lick of his tongue, and said softly, “Do I actually look like I need comforting?”

No, he didn’t. But then, too me, he never seemed open to that kind of empathy from anyone. Especially not from me.

“No,” I said.

He smiled a little then and tugged me forward by my hand, standing to meet me as I drew near. “Harry?” he whispered, his breath warm against my face, making me shiver.

“What?”

“Can I kiss you?”

It is one of very few times that he has ever asked me for my permission, but I remember it well because it was the first.

I swallowed and stared into his eyes, pale and colorless as chips of ice, but just there, just below the surface, for the first time, I saw something more.

“Yeah,” I said. It was spoken on a breath, almost inaudible.

He smiled at me again, and this time it was wicked and knowing, just this side of taunting me with his laughter. Then he kissed me. He kissed me slow and deep, with tongue and teeth and a ferocity that surprised me, and I forgot about his taunts and his laughter and just let myself feel the heat in my blood and the slow, throbbing tingle running up my spine.

Somehow I ended up on my back in the grass with him on top of me. He pulled my shirt off and threw it aside like it was a vile bit of rubbish, then began trailing soft nipping kisses down my throat, along my collarbones, over my chest, lower, until I was whimpering and writhing like a wanton. I felt vulnerable with him straddling my legs like that, but for the first time since I knew him, I didn’t worry that he would take advantage of it. I knew he was going to take advantage of it. And I wanted him to.

I slipped my hands under his shirt and tugged on it until he stopped kissing and licking my belly long enough to sit back and take it off himself. When it was gone, I ran my hands up his stomach, flattening my palms, smoothing up his pale chest to grip his shoulders.

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to mine, but did not kiss me. “Do you even know what we’re doing here?” he whispered against my lips.

I tried to pull him down, force his mouth to mine, but he was stronger than he looked, even then.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you?” he asked. His tongue flicked out over my bottom lip and I moaned.

“I…have a pretty good idea,” I said breathlessly.

He grinned, and it was a look I had seen on his face many times, but never directed at me. It was that look that always had me comparing him to corrupted angels.

With his eyes laughing at me and that wicked smile still on his face, he unfastened my belt with a sharp jerk.

“Draco?” I gasped.

“Hmm?” He was unfastening the fly of my jeans.

“Be…careful,” I said hesitantly.

He looked at me over the length of my body and met my eyes, held them, then nodded. He understood what I was saying without needing me to voice it. He understood, and he agreed.

“Careful,” he said. “Got it. Now lift your hips up.”

The look in his eyes and the low tone of his voice made me catch my breath. I did what he said and he crawled backward along my body, pulling my trousers and pants with him.

I threw one arm over my eyes and nibbled my lip nervously. I was essentially naked, laying in the grass, with Draco Malfoy of all people, undressing me. I was blushing. I couldn’t help it.

He grazed his teeth lightly over my calf and I gasped. “What—?”

“Shh,” he soothed. He pulled the laces of my shoes free and slipped them off. The socks next, then my pants, and I was completely naked.

It did not escape my notice that he was still mostly dressed. I reached for him, but my fingers slid over his skin and he pulled back with a mocking grin.

“Draco, damn it—”

“Patience,” he admonished.

I huffed out a breath and lay back, then cried out and almost leapt to my feet in shock when he kissed the tip of my cock.

He chuckled at my innocent reaction, then pushed my legs apart and swirled his tongue over the tip. I moaned and pulled at the grass on either side of my hips.

“Please,” I gasped.

“Mmm, sure,” he murmured.

He slid his mouth over my cock, sucked gently, then flicked his tongue over the slit again and again until sharp, desperate little cries were falling from my mouth and my grass stained fingers were tangled in his hair. I whimpered, moaned, cried, and begged until he sat back, laughing.

“Don’t stop,” I moaned. “Please, gods, don’t…”

He reached down and unfastened his belt, his eyes still on me, staring at me like some predator that was going to eat me alive. Had that been the case, I couldn’t have cared less.

“I’m not,” he said, then reached between my legs and pushed a precum slicked finger inside me. “I promise you, I’m not.”

I hissed out a breath and tensed at the intimate intrusion. He moved over me and scraped his teeth lightly along my neck to my ear. He nibbled my earlobe and pushed his finger deeper. It hurt a little and I made a soft whimpering sound and writhed to get away.

He released my ear and nuzzled the side of my neck, then thrust his finger deeper and curled it. Pain blossomed into pleasure so fast that I screamed and arched against him, digging my fingers into his shoulders.

He pressed his mouth against my cheek, beside my ear and whispered, “You okay?”

I made a desperate mewling sound and clutched at him, throwing my head back as pleasure, like razors, sliced me open. “Draco,” I moaned. “Draco, please…oh fuck!”

He shifted and pushed his trousers down his hips with his free hand, then added a second finger to the first and spread them. I bit down on his shoulder and my scream this time was muffled by his skin.

“Hush,” he murmured. He removed his fingers and pressed his cock against my ass, slicking precum over my entrance, then returned one of his fingers to slide it inside. “It’ll only hurt for a moment.”

He waited until I nodded before he started to push forward. I gasped and clawed at his back and he stopped.

“Harry?”

I squeezed my eyes shut and whimpered.

“Harry, look at me,” he insisted.

I opened my eyes and looked back at him. “W—What?”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

I took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes.”

He did not ask again. He grabbed my hips, tilted me back, and pushed inside me to the hilt. I did not scream, but it was a very near thing.

“Oh God, oh God,” I panted.

“Yeah,” he said.

He pulled back and thrust forward again and I wrapped my legs around him, and threw my head back with a shout. He laughed softly and the sound vibrated along my skin and up my spine, raising gooseflesh everywhere and making me shiver.

It was one of the single most amazing sensations I had ever felt in my life. Like being marked, branded, owned, and conquered. Being filled so completely that there was no room for pain, only intense, cell splintering pleasure.

And so this brings us back to how.

Or maybe why. Why do I love him? It’s really very simple. Because I would never change him. There are things about him that I do not always like, but they are part of the whole that makes Draco Malfoy the man he is. I love him because he is not easy to love. He’s not easy to love, and that’s what makes it so easy for me to love him. I know that makes no sense at all, but it is true nonetheless.

Call it betrayal if you want, but it isn’t. Blame him for changing me if you like. He has changed me…in so many ways.




//finis///