snarrymod (snarrymod) wrote in snarry_games, @ 2006-04-16 12:32:00 |
|
|||
Current mood: | determined |
TEAM ANGST ENTRY - MASQUERADE
Original poster: snarrymod
Title: Crazy Man Michael
Author: Amanuensis (amanuensis1)
Pairing: Harry/The Half-Blood Prince
Rating: NC-17
Categories: Drama/Angst
Summary: "O, where is the raven that I struck down dead?"
A/N: Based on the ballad of the same name, lyrics here.
For the 2006 Snarry Games Angst Team, prompt "Masquerade."
Warnings: Warnings/Ratings/Kinks Pop Up
Sometimes, in rare moments when he cannot summon the rage to thrust the thoughts away, Harry allows himself to remember the Half-Blood Prince.
The memories come when he despairs, when he is at his lowest. Not because the thoughts give him comfort, or because he reaches for the thoughts to bolster himself. No, they slip in because he has no resistance to them. The day Hermione shows him the anonymous hate mail she's received, saying Mudblood scum like her should go back to her own world and we know where your filthy Muggle parents live, and neither he nor Ron can stop her tears or her shaking; when the rumors about a great white phoenix seen in Little Whinging prove to be no more than that: Death Eater-spread rumors; when Nymphadora Tonks loses an arm saving twenty-two Muggles from a booby-trapped underground train, and neither Skele-Gro nor metamorphmagery can give her back what she's lost; on each of those days, Harry finds his naked heart laid open to those memories of the Half-Blood Prince, and can do no more than succumb.
The Half-Blood Prince ages as Harry ages, though Harry's not conscious of doing that. When Harry first imagined him, the Half-Blood Prince was sixteen, like him, the expected age to be reading and making notes in a sixth-year Potions text. When Harry realized the extent of the Prince's expertise, he didn't age him up, exactly, but something changed--he became the sort of bloke Dudley would have idolized, all rough edges and street smarts, unshaven chin and hair longer than his mum would want him to have it. Jacket of beat-up leather, and probably a disreputable vehicle. Bit like Sirius, actually.
The most incongruous element in this fantasy--which Harry somehow never had difficulty getting round--is, for all his sophistication, the Half-Blood Prince never tells someone like Harry to bugger off and go bother someone else.
The Half-Blood Prince slouches against a wall, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Harry approaches, and knows not to say hello, or to say anything at all--that's fatal with someone as casually cool as the Prince. Instead he copies the slouch, or tries to copy it--even in a fantasy he acknowledges his limitations. Feels the stones, uneven, on his shoulderblades, feels himself balanced on his back and on his heels as he crosses one ankle over the other, locks his knee.
The Prince slips a half-empty pack of fags (of course he smokes) from his pocket, lights it from the end of the one already burning between his lips. Hands the newly-lit one to Harry without looking at him. Harry takes it, and even in the fantasy he coughs as he tries to imitate the Prince's slow stylish drag upon it.
Half of the Prince's mouth curls up. It's a smile that says Prat or Wanker without having to speak, as if Harry's inability to handle the intricacies of nicotine aren't worth wasting his voice. It's the moment Harry's crafted to smooth over that incongruity, without realizing it; the Prince's moment of yes, I let you hang around with me, even though you don't deserve it.
Harry breaks the silence first. "Sectumsempra," he says, leaving it open at the end, a question.
"Yeah?" says the Prince. It's more of a grunt.
Harry pauses to put the cigarette back between his lips, drawing on it carefully so that the smoke doesn't get down his lungs too quickly. "I used it. On Malfoy."
The Prince doesn't smile, and Harry's glad. He doesn't say anything, though, and so Harry begins again: "I didn't--" But he can't go on, because the next word would be think or know or realize, and the Prince would scorn that kind of weakness, he knows.
The Prince understands, though. Grunts again, this time a scoffing noise. "I said it was for enemies, didn't I? Not like I said it was for your aged granny, or a bit of weekend fun."
The knot in Harry's stomach, tight as a fist since he saw Malfoy lying in that spray of blood in the girl's lavatory, loosens a little. "Yeah."
It's not the Prince's fault. He labeled the spell. He wasn't writing a textbook for someone else to follow, either; it wasn’t as if he should even have had to label it. One could say he did more than was necessary. It was Harry's choice to use that spell, and at no one's urging.
He doesn't want it to be the Prince's fault.
"That what you came here to say?" says the Prince, inhaling on his cigarette again.
If he says yes maybe he'll be dismissed. If he says no he'll need something else to say.
"Didn't really come to talk," says Harry, shrugging in a way he thinks might even be cool enough for the Prince.
The Prince's exhale of the smoke stream is slow and unaccompanied by any comment, and Harry knows he's passed.
A little flick, and the fag lands on the ground, the Prince uncrossing his ankles to grind its lit end into the stones with a toe. As he turns, he takes Harry's cigarette from his hand and stubs that one out against the wall itself.
He puts his hand to the side of Harry's neck, leans in a little. Sniffs. "You smell like someone else. That girl." The way he says girl would make a Zen Buddhist snarl and go on the defensive.
Harry says, "You going to tell me there hasn't been anyone except me since the last time?" Harry's learned this is a good answer. The Prince never answers this question, and Harry can believe in his fantasy a little better.
The Prince growls. His black hair is falling over one eye and he doesn't bother to shake it back when he fixes Harry with that look--that look, delivered one-eyed, is still perfectly intimidating. Harry stands his ground.
The moment doesn't break, and neither of them backs down. The moment simply becomes the next, when The Prince moves his hand from the wall at Harry's side to his side, his waist, pulling Harry's belt open. Harry always has a belt on in these fantasies. It wouldn't do to look too eager.
There is no kiss. Harry can't imagine the kiss, not at the beginning of their encounters and probably not at the end, either. A kiss would require a bed, a more intimate coupling than what's about to happen here, someone freer with words and gestures of affection. A kiss would require someone worthy of the Half-Blood Prince, someone who could inhale cigarette smoke without coughing and earn those little vulnerabilities from him.
But what Harry gets isn't unsatisfying. The Prince has his belt open, and Harry waits until about then to reach for the placket of the Prince's trousers (sometimes he has a belt and sometimes not; it's not as if he would care if someone thought him eager), as if to show he's waited for permission. The Prince stares at Harry's face as he slips his hand into the waist of Harry's pants, but when Harry's own hand is upon him, that's when his gaze shifts; he groans and his eyes are looking at the stone wall over Harry's shoulder, or perhaps at Harry's shoulder. Harry curls his hand about the Prince's cock and tries to see if he can make him groan again, all the while closing his lips against his own moans, biting his lip as the Prince's fingers reach under to cup his balls and lift them free of the bunched-up clothing about his thighs.
Harry's fingers, gripping just a little bit harder around that cock than he himself likes, do earn him another groan, and an "Oh, fuck, yes..." This is why Harry tries not to say anything himself at first; he fears the sound of that fuck coming from his own mouth will sound like he's trying to fake the same audacity, the same cool.
They never call each other by name. Harry wouldn't know what to call the Prince, and so it doesn't seem right for the Prince to use his.
This is one of the later fantasies. Meaning Harry's moved it past the handjobs to something more complex, and the Prince pushes Harry back up against the wall with one hand at the center of his chest, and goes to his knees. The other hand is still cupping Harry's balls, lifting his cock with it at the same time. He licks first, licks Harry from the base of his cock to its tip, uses his tongue on the head with fierce, messy attention before taking the hard length in his mouth. As Harry is enveloped, the sound he makes is unguarded and very, very uncool: a pup's whine, a strangled click in the back of his throat, three little gasps like he still has the cigarette in his mouth and is trying another inhalation.
The Prince stands back up. This is another feature of the later fantasies; Harry would have had the two finish each other off with one-after-the-other blowjobs once upon a time, but in this one the Prince shoves his own pants further down so that his cock juts free, black hair marching up to his navel, thicker than Harry's own. No kissing, no, but he presses forward, his face and mouth not far from Harry's, fixing Harry's eyes as their cocks make contact and Harry sucks in breath again, feeling the pulse of the smooth underside of the cock against his, the heat of it, there at the moment where it doesn't matter who's more eager.
A shift as the Prince lifts a foot, raises it high enough to catch at the crotch of Harry's trousers, steps right into the fabric strained taut between Harry's thighs and shoves them down to his ankles, caught beneath his foot. Trapped, Harry can't free his feet, nor can he bring his legs together as that intervening foot angles to shove his feet as far apart as the trousers will allow. He has his hands free, of course, but those are already curled about the Prince's shoulders, and God help him if he's going to let go now.
The angle is awkward, Harry's cock now being stimulated more by the Prince's thigh, but it's an eager, demanding thigh, and the Prince's cock is finding enough purchase on Harry's hip to be worth the thrusting and the Prince himself is softly snarling between clenched teeth. They rub and thrust and duel against each other, and Harry's eyes close, only to open when he feels the Prince's hand cup his bare arse--not merely the caress of a hand, but five impatient fingers, sliding towards and then down his cleft, spreading him, a single finger seeking the wrinkled pucker that resists the entrance. The finger insists. Harry hisses.
There's a sound the Prince makes then, a contented hunh of noise that isn't related to arousal--it would be a purr of satisfaction, if the Prince were pretentious enough to purr. Satisfaction at having forced that sound out of Harry, and the finger penetrating him twists just so, turning Harry's hiss into something between a pant and a moan. "Fuck, " Harry says then, and can't worry how it sounds, the word distorted against the Prince's shoulder, where Harry's head has come to droop in helpless surrender.
There's hot dampness on Harry's belly that isn't sweat; the Prince is pressing against him hard, cock dragging at the juncture of Harry's hip and stomach, marking him with the trails of spunk threading from it. He hasn't come, but he's getting there, the sounds in his throat growls now, his forehead pushed against Harry's, still nothing close to a kiss between them. Harry hasn't let go of his shoulders; he smells the musk rising off both of them, his own arousal honing as he breathes it in. He pushes back against the finger in his arse, and the fantasy lets him, for all that he should be trapped against that wall, caught in his clothing and bared waist to ankles as his cock and balls bounce against the thigh spreading his own legs, mercilessly pulling him on towards orgasm.
Neither throws his head back as he comes. Both pant their orgasms out face to face, foreheads still touching, Harry's hands still clutching at the Prince and the Prince's finger still buried deep in Harry's arse. Harry is aware of everything: the way his cock softens and the feel of it against the hairs on the Prince's thigh, the throb of his arse around that finger, his utter lack of an inclination to move, then or ever.
It's the Prince who does move at last, starting by lowering his thigh from between Harry's legs, leaving the finger in Harry's arse until last. It makes Harry shudder when he slips it free, clutch a little harder at the Prince's shoulders.
The Prince draws up his trousers with enviable casualness, as if he could just as easily remove them; one way or the other, doesn't matter, he'd still walk away without a care. It's he who helps Harry put his clothing to rights, ignoring any mess smeared on either skin or fabric, even running his fingers through Harry's hair at the last as if to give it a quick comb-through. "Fuck off," he says fondly, with a last hair-ruffle, "I'll see you later."