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This is what happens when I see too many mangas with extra-explicit kissing scenes where one person is always holding up the other as they swoon, clutching at them like a drowning person. Um. -.-;;; They say write what you know, but I write what I read. *facepalm*


Disclaimer: not mine, eh? Eh.

Author's Note: I wish this was the silliest, most ridiculous piece of nonsense I'd ever written. But I've done worse, actually. *facepalm* Be thankful I didn't call it 'Harry Potter and The Kissing Clause'; I was tempted.





- The Kissing Clause -


Everyone over the age of thirteen knew there was a clause somewhere in the dating rulebook that said: kisses should make you weak-kneed. Kisses that were sweetly bitter and painfully soft, kisses that stung, kisses that made you moan and clutch for balance, kisses that made you swoon as all your blood rushed south-- it was to be expected. The kisses made the couple, and perhaps it could even be said that every couple had its own particular flavor of kiss, more or less satisfying.

Harry Potter, for instance, knew it was wrong when a girl's kiss was merely -wet-, like something gone sour and stale. In contrast, he knew it was right when a girl's kiss was hot and pulsing heavy all the way down to his cock. Harry's old kisses, at least the ones after that first wet one (a disaster, but also an anomaly) were nothing to sneeze at; he may have been a clueless sixteen, but tongue-fucking came naturally, at least with the right girl, he thought.

So when Harry kissed Ginny for the first time after it was all over, after they had nothing to stop them-- he waited for his stomach to flip and twist, his knees to wobble. Indeed, Ginny did moan into his mouth and melt against him, it was just that nothing happened. Nothing -else- happened. It was dark outside, the world only lit by the full moon, and Harry tried again, telling himself this was just a fluke: he closed his eyes and thrust his tongue in bold as you please, and noted that Ginny's mouth was hot and her tongue was slick and quite pleasant rubbing up against his, and it was nice to feel her breasts pushing up against him through their layers of clothes, but. But. Maddeningly, ridiculously, somehow or other none of it felt... real; it felt distant yet nice, as if it was already a memory he'd have of kissing his first real girlfriend years from now.

Somewhere beneath all that was a hollow feeling, like when he'd come back to visit Hogwarts after the war was over. It hadn't been the same. It hadn't been -home-, but only a place where he'd once spent six long, eventful years. A place he didn't belong.

He gasped and tore himself away from her, running back into the Burrow. He couldn't face her; he couldn't face the disappointment he felt. This was too unfair; he'd been looking forward to this for months!

Harry buried his head under the pillow, groaning quietly and trying not to wake Ron. What a bloody disaster. Only one part could make it worse, and he felt awful thinking about it, feeling like he betrayed Ginny unforgivably, and at the same time telling himself he'd made no promises. He couldn't be blamed for any of it, except possibly for temporary insanity.

Hadn't he said it was over? And either way, hadn't he already lost it months ago?

The images came unbidden, much as he tried to ignore them; the comparisons seemed inevitable.

When Harry had kissed Malfoy, he hadn't been pliant at all. He'd been startled stiff at the sudden move, his mouth pressed tightly closed, and he'd -hissed- at the contact like a cat would. And yet-- and yet, he hadn't pulled away. He'd had Harry's wrist in a death grip, but he didn't pull away.

Harry was about as shocked at himself, and he didn't pull away either.

The only place they'd touched that night was at the mouth, leaning over the corner of the kitchen table at Grimmauld; even so, it felt like tiny fizzing sparks were flying everywhere like a cloud of static electricity, zapping his skin. It should've -hurt-, and maybe it did, but in a way Harry couldn't get enough of.

He'd groaned and stumbled forward awkwardly, dug his fingers hard into Malfoy's shoulder, apparently unable to pull his mouth away for the life of him. They'd almost chewed at each other, mouths still primly shut, only their teeth pulling at each other's lips. Malfoy had small, sharp teeth, but he never bit hard enough to pierce, only hard enough to really fucking -hurt-.

His head was swimming, and he hadn't even realized he'd raised a hand to grip Malfoy's chin, moving it to cover his ear, then cup the back of his head. Malfoy's hair was so silky fine he'd actually shivered as he carded it through his fingers, and finally he'd opened his mouth in sheer desperation, his lips kneading at Malfoy's mouth and chin as if he was trying to eat him alive.

Malfoy had torn himself away the second Harry's tongue swiped between his lips, looking about as dazed as Harry felt.

"What the bloody fuck -was- that?"

Harry gaped silently for a moment. "I don't know." He'd wiped his mouth, looking away as he tried to breathe evenly. "But it didn't happen, got it?"

"Yeah," Malfoy said, impassive already though the color was still high in his pale cheeks. "Got it." He was panting, mouth fallen halfway open, the tip of his tongue just visible; the spectacle was something Harry couldn't look away from for the life of him.

"Good."

"Great."

They didn't move, and distantly Harry was aware they were staring at each other silently now. He panicked a little. Malfoy's pupils were so wide Harry could only discern the narrowest ring of pale grey around them, and since when did staring at Malfoy's flushed, pointy face worsen his already annoying erection?

He'd never know who moved first, but they moaned in unison: mouths wide open, tongues thrusting and swiping and darting forward in wet, wicked bursts as they came together and jerked away, still flicking and rubbing and licking with the tips of their tongues the only point of contact until one of them groaned and mashed his mouth up again. Harry could feel a trickle of spit running down his chin from the corner of his mouth, and Malfoy's tongue was dripping saliva everywhere. He had to hold on to the corner of the table with one hand and hope he didn't collapse entirely.

It was definitely Malfoy who tore himself away, because Harry was completely lost. He could have stood there sucking face for aeons, but Malfoy pulled away with a tiny, sad sucking sound. Harry barely had time to open his eyes, befuddled, to see him all but running, stumbling out the door without a word. Not that Harry could blame him, because holy fuck, that was the freakiest thing that had ever happened to him in a long history of increasingly freaky and disturbing events that was his life.

By some sort of unspoken agreement, both he and Malfoy had pretended that never happened, and Harry could almost convince himself it didn't most days, and if not for kissing Ginny, he might well have done it. Now, the memory was back full force. With spiked boots on, trampling all over his sensitivities.

Only one option remained: Harry simply had to try again. Prove to himself that was a fluke.

There was no way Malfoy's kisses really made Harry weak-kneed, was there?

Of course not.

There were rules about these things.

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the artist formerly known as lunacy

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