Title: Trust Me
Author: Leela (leela_cat)
Characters/Pairings: Bill Weasley/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Themes/kinks chosen: nipple play, begging, pervertibles
Other Content/Warnings: blindfolding, wax play
Word Count: ~1,250
Beta: florida_minxie, eeyore9990
Summary: You need to trust yourself with me, and me with you.
A/N: Many thanks to florida_minxie and torino10154 who helped me work out how to turn this month's themes into a story.


Draco Malfoy lay on his back in the middle of a bed that even he thought was ridiculously enormous and stared up at Bill Weasley. Bill was naked. His stupidly attractive red hair spilled free over his shoulders and down his back. His scars managed to draw Draco's attention despite there being so much more of Bill to look at. And somewhere underneath everything, Draco knew that Bill was unhappy with him.

Waiting for Bill to explain, trying to find the patience that he'd never ever had, Draco focussed on not squirming. He'd got himself down to one single twitching baby finger when Bill sighed, and his muscles began aching with the need to move.

"You need to trust me, Draco." Bill crawled onto the bed, a tray floating next to him. As the tray settled onto the covers with a clink, Bill came to kneel between Draco's legs. At a nudge from Bill, Draco spread them as far apart as he could, exposing himself to the air and to Bill.

"No," Bill corrected himself, "you need to trust yourself with me, and me with you."

"I..." Draco trailed off as he realised that he couldn't protest or deny that. Pressing his lips together in annoyance, at himself, at everything and everyone, he nodded.

"You do want to trust me."

It was more of a statement than a question, but Draco could feel the weight of it, the way it pressed on his sternum and left him fighting to drag in breath after breath. The way it asked for something from him that he'd never been taught how to give, not to someone who wasn't family. His damn left foot jerked, drawing a frown from Bill, and Draco gasped, "Please."

"Trust me," Bill said. He pulled Draco down, until he was tilted upwards, almost uncomfortable, with his arse resting against Bill's thighs and his legs seeming barely long enough for his feet to touch the bed so he could brace himself.

Knowing Bill would want some kind of verbal acknowledgment, Draco forced a "Yeah" out.

"As much as you can, love," Bill said, and then he began to hum, low and dreamlike. His hands with their callouses, long fingers, and wide palms moved constantly. They skimmed, stroked, pinched, and caressed. Gliding over Draco's inner thighs, pressing into the crease at the top of his thighs, and fanning across his stomach and chest.

Draco's skin warmed under Bill's roving hands. His eyes fluttered closed, and he gave himself over to the sensations, the rhythm of Bill's attention. With each repeated motion, Draco relaxed a little bit more, was drawn deeper into a world that held only Bill and him.

When Bill finished, ending with one hand cupping each of Draco's hips, Draco opened his eyes. He focussed on not glancing down at the scars that slashed across Bill's face and looked directly into his eyes, which were the most intense blue Draco could ever remember them being.

"I need you to show me, love," Bill said. His head tilted in inquiry, and his thumbs rubbed over the sharp edges of Draco's hipbones.

Something in Draco told him that this was it, that he'd come out of whatever was going to happen with everything changed. He took a deep breath and nodded. "All right."

A corner of Bill's mouth curved up in into a smirk that would have looked at home on the most serpentine of Slytherins, and he uncovered the tray with a flourish. Before Draco could see what was on the tray, Bill leaned forwards. "Close your eyes."

When Draco obeyed, a length of nubby silk folded itself over his eyes. He had a moment to think my scarf before the fabric shifted and sealed itself, leaving him in darkness. His hands curled up automatically, blunt nails dragging against the duvet cover. He froze and flexed his fingers, getting them to relax as best he could.

Instead of punishing him, Bill began to hum again. The same low, nearly tuneless sound seemed to draw the tension out of Draco.

"Such a lovely snake." Bill dragged his hands up Draco's sides, pushing Draco's arms upwards. "My lovely snake."

"Yours," Draco murmured. When his arms were stretched over his head, he grasped the bars of the headboard, and the curtain ties wound themselves around his wrists to hold them there.

Bill touched him again. He interspersed unpredictable, hectic, random pinches to nipples, and gentle caresses to his face, stomach, and inner elbows, liccking on the webbing between his fingers, biting and sucking on his collarbone, pressure almost hard enough to bruise on his hips and inner thighs.

Draco drifted from sensation to sensation, anchored and drowning. The stickiness of precome on his stomach, the bounce of his erect cock added to the haze of want and need, sending him closer and closer to the edge.

"Oh." The syllable was dragged from Draco by a nip to his belly button and pressure wrapping around the base of his cock.

"Not yet," Bill said. "Not until I tell you."

Then Bill's hands were gone, and there was nothing for long seconds until ice-fucking-cold slid in a trail down his collarbone and around his left nipple. Goosebumps rose in its wake, his nipple pebbled and peaked, and Draco arched into the feeling only to have it disappear.

A breath of air raced over Draco's damp skin, drawing a second "oh" from him. Then another piece of ice darted across his lower stomach, spiralling in and out of his pubic hair and belly button. Each piece of ice was followed by a burst of warm breath, tracing pattern after pattern on Draco's skin, until he was floating in cold and damp and warm and dry.

Moments later, it stopped. The two ice cubes that were dancing around his nipples seemed to leap off his skin. Bill muttered a word that Draco could not hear over the buzzing in his ears, and Draco felt the sharp tingle of Bill's magic twisting above him. And then ice bit into his sensitised aching nipples, clamping them tight and sending shards of want-need directly into his cock and balls.

Shocked, Draco whined Bill's name.

"Not yet." Bill chuckled and began brushing the still-damp, still-cold lines on Draco's torso and neck with the soft plume of a feather. A quill, Draco's brain provided unhelpfully when a waft of air signalled Bill spinning the feather before he used the sharp point in an outline around Draco's cock.

Again, again, and again. Up and down and around until Draco was shivering and pleading, words spilling from his mouth that he'd never spoken, could never offer to anyone else. Betraying words that were hidden so far inside he couldn't find them without Bill taking him so deep. And all the way through, Bill continued talking to him, soft-voiced and encouraging, rewarding him and holding him on that hard, tight edge.

Soaring in a haze of sensation, tingling with pinprick bursts of arousal, Draco floated in Bill's touch and Bill's voice.

After Bill said an incomprehensible word, rivulets of hot wax splashed down on Draco's chest, melting the ice clamps and sending twin bursts of pain-pleasure racing through him. Then Bill dipped the nib into the slit of Draco's cock as if it were an inkwell, and said, "Come."

Draco flew apart, and when he came back down to earth, Bill was holding him, soothing him.

"Trust you," Draco said, curling into Bill, and Bill smiled.