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[personal profile] mildlunacy
Sooo... um, well, I did say it was a resurgence :D Oddly, it was reading this poem called 'Phenomenology of the Prick', which is a great title if there ever was one and got ridiculously inspired-- enough to write a whole fic around it. Which makes this a poem!fic, slightly less embarrassing than a song!fic. Maybe. Er... yeah. -.-
    So basically it fits into my pre-existing desire to write something that wasn't fluffy... and also wasn't my novella. For which I'm practicing! I mean... um, I can do that, right?? ^^;;

It... well, it isn't fluffy. :D Back to your regularly scheduled Reena, basically. Whew!! >:D

Disclaimer: not mine, thankfully.

Author's Note: based around italicized lines from Frank Bidart's poem, "Phenomenology of the Prick".

- the prick -

the world is changing, or has changed, or is about to change; we want to get naked.

After the whole ghastly business is fully over, naturally they have a party. The surprising part is that Mr. Draco Malfoy is invited; the absolutely shocking part to you personally, sitting quietly with your tea in the morning, is that you're considering whether to accept. You're considering your options, which currently hover somewhere in between cracking enough to start talking to house-elves or doing something more extreme, like trying to get a position as an Auror just to have something to do. Something to do with him, of course. What a laugh.

With the ease of habit, you ignore the rush of heat in your belly, the way your thighs clench instinctively at the mere thought of him and your throat grows suddenly quite dry, remembering the year you'd spent-- doing what?

Being a burden. Being a charity-case. Being a thorn in his side. Being part of Potter's heroic fucking team.

All over now, but here's the fruit: an innocent-looking roll of parchment, quite proper and wizarding-standard, laid neatly by the breakfast biscuit by Neddy, the one house-elf you hadn't been forced into giving clothes to.

What could it hurt, you think. More, you add, without acknowledging.

Seven or eight old friends want to see certain bodies that for years we've guessed at, imagined. For me, not certain bodies: one. Yours. You know that.

You like to believe you're no longer surprised by much of anything, but it startles you: Longbottom looking slim, relaxed and happy (as you slick back your hair with one hand, wondering what the current fashion for robes is), Weasley and Granger both living in Muggle London as wizarding ambassadors to the Prime Minister, laughing with Lovegood, who's babbling at them and being paid about three times as much attention as you are.

Then there is all the Muggle-worship, which shouldn't have surprised you at all, but here it is: you think that's called a stereo that Granger brought in, but it sounds loud and thumpy and nearly obscene in some indefinable way, until finally you make a mental note to look into this one-- "punk rock", apparently. Hmm. Your interest-- your questions-- are stupid and embarrassing, yes, but for that moment it's worth it. It's so much better than the rubbishy Weird Sisters and their equally rubbishy shrill so-called songs. A guitar screams and a small, better-off unnoticed part of you screams along with it.

Instead of butterbeer or firewhiskey, they're drinking some disgusting American brand that Weasley has apparently grown fond of. Potter's little girlfriend (she'll always be The Little Girlfriend even though-- even though things had since changed), of course she's the one on Potter's lap, laughing and swigging Muggle beer, but what stops you a bit short is that she's staring at you. She's snug as a bug on Potter's lap, but she can't take her eyes off you.

You can't help the frantic, immediate, did he tell? It's at the forefront of your mind, and you can't help the cold sweat, the painfully obvious rising flush, the sheer renewed burst of hatred threatening to choke you even as your cock goes half-hard at the idea that he remembers, that he didn't forget, that he tried to blame everything on 'that git, Malfoy' as per usual. That, if nothing else, is no surprise at all.

You think about how they must've laughed at you, all of them, but you've learned to seethe in silence. You've learned to wait, to heed your chances when they come. You've learned not to get carried away where Potter is concerned. Sixth year taught you that, but it was Potter's face after you had his prick in your hand that one night that brought the lesson home.

It's always been Potter.

The only thing Potter doesn't know is that it's a two-way street. It gave you some measure of satisfaction, knowing Potter better than he did himself. It gave you some measure of self-control when Potter's unwanted pity turned into equally unwanted consideration, even a small measure of respect during the long stretch when Ms Firebrand over there wasn't allowed to play the grown-up games or be around to let off certain... tensions.

No, the Weasley bint was too precious to sully with Potter's fears and needs and kinks. Oh, but the kinks had exceeded all your expectations, when it came to the sheer inventiveness of Potter's denial and the lengths he'd go to have you without actually having you. Far be it from the two of you to have something you imagined would resemble 'real sex'.

No, what you had could best be broken down into three simple rules:

Rule #1: Only touching in the dark, whenever otherwise forced to share sleeping bags or packed "accidentally" into the same tiny room in some wizarding dirt-road inn.

Rule #2: Hands only; no licking, sucking, kissing, speaking, name-calling, loud moaning or coming on the other's face, nipples, or cock. Definitely no touching or spooning while asleep, which shouldn't even be considered in the first place.

Rule #3: Any attempt to actually verify and verbally or nonverbally argue with either of the other two rules would result in stonewalling, resentful glaring, and a possible return to outright hexing. Consequently, no special requests, no starting first, no wanking yourself unless being wanked while pretending sleep and/or coma, no wanking him without direct nonverbal commands and definitely no staring as Potter stifles his grunts and comes like the Hogwarts Express.

Most of all, no cheating or otherwise indirectly avoiding any rules without threat of extreme penalty.

Well, that's all right with you. All except possibly the part about knowing you could never come all over Potter's face and mouth and tongue, dripping off his eyelashes and sticking in his hair, because that's been Wank Fantasy Numero Uno since you were around twelve and learned how to wank. Truth was, it wouldn't have been very satisfying in the charmed pitch-blackness anyway.

(Still, what you wouldn't have given for the balls to simply Obliviate Potter after a single Lumos! and the sight of your come dripping from the corner of his mouth. The only problem-- the thing that stopped you-- lay in the knowledge that you wouldn't be able to stop, because even in the fantasies, you immediately got greedy and wanted to see Potter's cock. God, how you needed to fucking see his prick, finally, but even that would never be enough. Nothing would be enough for your runaway wish-list: seeing him blow his own load, wanting to see his eyes half-lidded and soft after a proper buggering, wanting to see him finally, finally beg to touch himself, beg to come all over you and then inside you, beg to have you sit on his fucking face. He'd look at you like he was going to eat you alive, lick by lick by lick by lick as you emptied your balls down his throat yet again, not bothering to swallow your screams, knowing he was wanking himself desperately the whole time because you could feel his grunts and groans right against the skin of your pulsing tight sac. And he'd do it so so slowly, even once he came, so it would just last and last.)

The point is it was better this way. He gave you enough material to wank by yourself any time you'd care to, thank you very much.

There are different kinds of power, your father once told you, but you hadn't understood until you saw the shame in Potter's eyes that belied the flimsy pretense of having been asleep that night.

Oh yes. It has always been Potter, and he'd always been a prick. You remember these things as they play their Muggle party games in the half-light, politely inviting you several times. You had to play the role, refuse with a sneer, make eyes at Weasley until her brother has to be restrained by Granger from slapping you or worse. It's all part of the dance, and you hate to disappoint.

"Draco Malfoy doesn't do Muggle kissing games," you say as snottily as you can manage, and they laugh. Yeah, you're a riot; they want to see you crack.

Well, tough luck, Weasley, you think bitterly. Too fucking late for that.

You light a cigarette, allowing me to see what is forbidden to see.

"Let's get naked," Potter says now, and he's looking straight at you unblinking.

Everyone laughs (it's such a great joke, isn't it?), though it's down to the five of you now. Maybe you're supposed to feel extra super special now; you can just bet you are. You do know what Potter's capable of better than these arsewipes, in any case.

They're all drunk or stoned off their arses by now, and Potter's only just rolled up his piece of newspaper and is making you choke. So close, the smell is something awful, and it's staining your best robes, though you're a Malfoy and unfailingly a polite houseguest. You say nothing.

Everyone else-- Weasley, Longbottom, even Granger-- grins wildly in the semi-dark. A small part of you shivers, shrivels in your pants, nearly terrified with the notion that this is all a prank. All a way of laughing at you. That pathetic tosser, bet he'll wank his guts out at the first sight of Potter arse.

You sit up a little straighter at the lumpy old Muggle sofa, determined to win this round. Your fists clenched at your sides, but you smirk and lean back, raising your eyebrows and tilting your head a bit. "Go crazy," you drawl, because that's what you're supposed to say. You know how to play by the rules when you have to; something Potter and company never got through their thick skulls, among other things.

And it's no surprise that Potter goes first: Potter always has to be first.

He takes off his shirt, nipples small and tight and dark and you'd fucking give your nonexistent firstborn to suck those things between your teeth and bite, fucking bite till he gasps and grinds up and whines at the back of his throat, till he admits what a huge sodding hypocrite he is.

You check for drool (no, no drool yet).

He mouths that cigarette like a little prick, and your cheeks heat up but you're sitting in shadow. He's the only one with the light now, the attention hog that he is. He smirks like he'd learned from the best and burrows his nose into Weasley's shoulder, making fake little humming noises and reaching up to cup her tit. You swallow. He doesn't pause, making it a smooth practiced movement to slip her blouse right off her head and turn her to face him full-on. Surprise surprise, the little wench isn't wearing a bra. Oh, how positively wild. You can feel yourself sneer reflexively, but mostly you try to ignore the rampant fantasies where you yank her off by the hair and possibly step on her face.

You're seized with a wild, feverish sense of the sheer unreality of this scene, the pure insanity, as if you're stuck in one of your nightmares. You pinch yourself, breathe deeply, check your erection: oh yeah, still awake. Potter still humming with a redhead on his lap with her face in full shadow. The only thing that bird even has on anymore is a clich├ęd little red thong, but she's not alone. You try not to look, but you can hear them, laughing and moaning a little in the dark corner across the room.

It doesn't matter: none of it matters except Potter's eyes on you and the toxic-smelling thing you think is a cigarette. Your father only smoked imported cigars with the usual charms on to keep them safe. You don't need to ask to know there's no charm anywhere within half a mile. There's only Potter.

You think the smoke's affecting you more than you realized, because you do feel high. Woozy, barely focusing, barely able to see except for the tiny patch of skin Potter's cigarette lights up. You can see the curve of Potter's thigh too fucking well, thank you, and doesn't Potter know it.

Oh, he knows. And he knows you know, and he knows you're watching as he reaches between the bitch's legs and makes her gasp and arch against him, knows you're watching as he pushes her back towards the edge of his knees, and takes his prick out of his pants. He can't not know, because his cigarette keeps on burning right next to the exposed skin, right on your side, seeing as bet your bottom galleon, the others' side gets nothing. He probably thinks you love that; he probably thinks this means something to you, that you're going to just eat this up like a yummy snack.

He's right, of course.

It's as if he'd simply forgotten to put that awful thing back in his mouth. Yeah, as if.

He gives it a few strokes for effect, eyes glittering predator-bright in the dark.

You seem satisfied. This night, as they say, completed something. After five years of my obsession with you, without seeming to will it you

managed to let me see it hard.


You never knew Potter was such a performer, and neither did you realize he was this cruel. You wonder about that-- whether this is cruelty indeed-- in a sort of philosophically removed fashion as he stares at you. You can't see him do it, not in the dark like this, but you can feel it, just as you could feel the sudden absence of any others besides the three of you: you, him, and the girl with her face in shadow.

Sure, you can see her tits pressed against him-- small and high, and you don't need to see to how pink and tight the nipples are, which is an academic kind of question-- and yeah, you can hear the pathetic little squeaking noises she keeps making. The least she could do is be silent, right? This is between you and Potter, after all, that much is clear to anyone with half a brain, though you're not actually sure what he's trying to prove yet.

It's obvious enough that Potter is satisfied with whatever it is he thinks he's achieved, though. He's grinning that wolfish smile, the one that only used exist right before he'd caught the Snitch and right after it was too late to stop him. Even so, you doubt: he'd always been so very very oblivious.

He makes it look casual, almost natural, really, like he's not in fact maneuvering you into crying or coming in your pants, of course not. Just show Malfoy what he's missing, right? Give him a little taste; no harm done.

You know him better than that, though. You know it, whether or not he does: Harry fucking Potter wants Draco Malfoy to see his cock. He wants to make ever so bloody sure of that, so you play his game the way you always do: finally, you strip.

Were you giving me a gift. Did you want fixed in my brain
what I will not ever possess. Were you giving me
a gift that cannot be possessed.


He doesn't look at you now, oh no. Now that you've caved, now that you sit alone with your legs spread and your fist around your cock on the stupid huge leather sofa, of course he's carefully not looking now.

Potter's sucking at the bitch's pale freckly neck, mumbling something that's probably endearments where naturally you'd much prefer curses, and of all the daft things, Weasley's bloody thong is still on, protecting her maidenly virtue. You can't quite bring yourself to look, but you'd be willing to bet actual money the little slut shaves down there, just to try and get Potter's mouth anywhere near that thing.

Right now, Potter's not even penetrating; you know because you can't hear the inevitable smacking noises, but you can't see because the light's slipped to the floor and it's just you and him (and Weasley) in the dark. Weasley, who must really be pissed as a skunk to allow this, not that you're concentrating on her so-called welfare by any means.

Mostly you're just relieved about the darkness seeing as you're crying like a total grade-A idiot, though thankfully silent, while still thinking about what might possibly be going through Potter's deranged mind at this point.

You wonder this as your hand goes slow and steady around your prick, though gripping so tight it's nearly painful. You wonder if he thinks he's doing you a favor, or if he's trying to test you and see if you snap and tear her off him, or if he just doesn't give a fuck anymore and basically had nothing better to do with his life than bait you because Weasley is such a lousy shag. This cheers you up a little.

Even so, he's supposedly a Gryffindor. Why beat around the bush? He may as well say it by now: "I'll never sink to your level, Malfoy."

"I don't want you, I just want you to remain my bitch, get it through your skull, Malfoy."

"I'm bloody well married now so it's all rather moot, or have you been living under a rock, Malfoy?"

It's all the same, isn't it? Same old song; gets dull after a while, but you know you've got no one to blame but yourself for staying to listen.

But no, he's too fucking good for that, isn't he? You bite your lip bloody as your prick pulses hard in your clenched fist, cursing yourself for still being there, for not looking away for a single second. You'd shut your eyes minutes ago, but it didn't matter. You'd swear you could hear their whispered little lies, smell Weasley's cunt even at this distance.

And then Potter looks right at you once again, and your eyes snap open. He's lit a cigarette again, holding it loosely between two fingers as he leans forward, an elbow on his lap. Watching you. Watching you alone.

He's not touching his prick, but you can see it glisten at the tip by the tiny light-- you can nearly taste it.

"Potter!" you gasp, and you unravel right there in front of him. He's made sure of that.

You make sure
I see how hard
your wife makes it. You light a cigarette.



mildlunacy: (Default)
the artist formerly known as lunacy

October 2012

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