mildlunacy: (bam! harry time)
[personal profile] mildlunacy

2.  Skin

i cannot name this
i cannot explain this
and i really don't want to
just call me shameless
i can't even slow this down
let alone stop this
and i keep looking around
but i cannot top this   
~ Ani DiFranco

It was a slow Sunday night, and Harry was a bit restless. He sat down on the sofa with a beer, sighed, got up again; went to the refrigerator and stared sightlessly for a few moments, then shut the door. He thought about turning on the radio and thought better of it. Harry flopped onto the bed, throwing the covers off.

After a minute, he got up blindly and stumbled to his desk, where he kept the porn. He thought of the memory of Draco's face in the candlelight the night they'd all spent stoned off their arses, and the lengths he'd gone to get that reaction from him. It used to be Malfoy that did all the pushing in that regard. Honestly, Harry wasn't sure what devil drove him that night. With Malfoy there and Ginny between them, he had felt so restless, so itchy he could have crawled right out of his skin. A small, oddly vocal part of him wanted to know how far he could push both of them.

Harry sighed. This sort of brooding wasn't good for him. He hadn't done much of it since sixth year, really.  He was suddenly aware of the hole that existed in his recollections of sixth year, especially where Malfoy was concerned. Harry frowned. No, that wasn't it, was it. He didn't forget: he chose not to remember, most days. He'd put Malfoy away with much of his past. There was no reason to let the ghosts and goblins of his childhood keep ruining-- or running-- his life now, was there.

Harry hadn't even liked Malfoy. The pointy-faced git had been as maddening at eleven as he'd been at sixteen. That time when he was sixteen going on seventeen felt clipped from someone else's life; that had been neither truly him nor Malfoy. They'd been thrown together by chance, and Harry had simply taken out his frustrations and anxieties in the most convenient way at the time. And if Malfoy's stubborn resistance had inflamed his curiosity, that particular cat was long since dead, wasn't it?

One thing Harry did remember: that year, he'd been restless too.

Harry flopped onto the bed again, deciding against a wank after all. He needed sleep. Burrowing his head in the pillow, he sighed. The feel of the cool breeze through the window was his last sensation before he slept.

The dream began with Harry's hand on Ginny's breast. He never kissed her, never undressed her: she was always nude, her body pale and soft. Ginny's skin was too pale in the dream; it shone white like a vampire's, and her mouth was red with blood. Harry, she whispered. Come back to me, Harry. Obligingly, he'd leant down and licked the red off her lips, thrusting inside her, but he could never get any closer to satisfaction-- he just kept going at those yielding thighs with a mounting claustrophobia. In the dream, Harry felt like he could get lost inside her. It wasn't long before his lungs burned; he was afraid.

Harry only woke up all the way having already stumbled to the toilet, heaving the remains of last night's supper. He sat down on the floor; head propped up on his knees, Harry told himself it couldn't go on like this. He had to do something, but what? All he did do was clean up the mess, rinse his mouth and sleep through the dreamless night.


He had no reason to do this. He was stupid. He was stupid and he was throwing away everything that had ever mattered, and his cock felt so good down the nameless bloke's throat.

So.  Fucking.  Good.

Harry groaned, picking up the pace, slamming the other's head against the filthy toilet wall with every thrust of his hips.

"Take it," he gritted out, fingers rough in short, bristly hair. "You can fucking-- take it, you stuck up little-- fuck!"

Harry jerked away, clutching at his leaking dick, staining his own trousers in his hurry to tuck it in as soon as possible. How had that slipped out again?

He hadn't meant to do it tonight anyway, not in some grotty park bathroom. He'd just wanted to get out and dance and forget himself a while. He shouldn't have come to this club, though, knowing it was notorious for anonymous pulling. If he were honest, of course, that was the appeal. That wasn't something Harry wanted to consider at the moment, what with that taste at the back of his throat as he stumbled away. A part of him felt guilty, too, since this hadn't actually been a whore. It was just a lad who'd had the particular misfortune to be bent, blond, and daft enough to grind up against him in the club when he'd been in a mood.

Sex was supposed to feel good; Harry knew that. This was something other people enjoyed in a normal, sane fashion, queer or not. Harry himself wasn't queer; he merely had a problem that he couldn't fix by himself. Regardless, this never felt good; he craved the revulsion, craved the anonymous blowjob, the rough hand in a piss-stained alley with rumbling bass shaking the walls. He wanted to come with that sickening twist in his stomach. There was something about it-- the self-hatred afterwards? That reminded him more of sixth year than anyone's hair color.

He knew this would have to stop soon, what with him getting married and all, but it had become a habit. He'd started going to clubs, and sometimes seeing street kids, almost immediately after he'd graduated.  He'd always meant to stop-- everyone had a vice they haven't quite kicked yet, and this one was tricky. It was simply fucking; that's all it was, but he knew Ginny wouldn't understand.  She couldn't accept that it had nothing to do with her; she couldn't fix it. That wasn't how it worked.

Ginny wanted all of him, but if there was one thing Harry knew for sure, it was that no one got what they really wanted.


Ginny had only asked the question once, the first time he'd asked for her hand.

They'd almost gotten done taking the N.E.W.T.s, having crammed and swigged constant coffee and slept on chairs for several weeks straight by then. Voldemort may have been history, but they still needed to catch up on a year's worth of study in little more than a month. Truth be told, that was when Harry started thinking seriously about going to a Muggle college. He may or may not squeak by because of his status as Harry Potter and Hermione's efforts, but he wanted a break. A little fun, and actually learning something that had nothing to do with Dark curses or maybe even the wizards that cast them.

They had been staying over at one of their teachers' home the past few frantic days; Lupin was Sirius's long-time lover, a fact that mostly surprised Harry by how much it hadn't startled him. It was a little weird staying over at a teacher's house, but it was a better idea than taking time off to cram at the Dursleys'.

The night before the last exam, Harry managed to fight off an attack of nausea and exhaustion by sheer will. Ron had suggested they have a pre-exam party, which wasn't as counter-intuitive as it first seemed. They all needed to relax or they were going to chew paper rather than write on it tomorrow. Still, it was draining to keep smiling so long and Harry felt himself deteriorating. He wanted Ron and Hermione to have a good time, though, since they deserved it. If not for the two of them, Harry would still be off playing ball and pretending the future was never going to get there. They were probably more tired than him, too. Hermione in particular was frazzled and gaunt, her hair a frizzy halo and her skin increasingly yellowish. Tonight she looked positively pink for the first time in a month. He had to make a more conscious effort to think of his best friends more. He had to support them, and not just expect them to work at keeping him afloat.

In the end, Harry's bright idea was to drag Ginny out to the football field with a few beers, heaving a sigh of relief when they leaned against a tree and took some long sips together. She didn't speak, didn't insist of asking him what was up. Ginny was always so good at knowing when to back off.

They wound up tangled together under that oak tree, breathless and hushed. The moon was particularly bright that night, and Harry's breath caught when he saw Ginny watching him. What did he do to deserve her?

He tried to summon up an appropriate wave of love-- or something, but all he felt was gratitude. Harry cupped Ginny's cheek, smiling at her gently. His thumb rubbed across Ginny's wide mouth, pulling at her bottom lip slightly as it passed. He drew a deep breath and plunged ahead.

"Will you marry me?" he blurted, and winced. They hadn't gotten back together yet, not officially. Even he knew he was taking her for granted, but he wanted a sure thing. Was that so wrong?

There was a long silence, and Harry cringed deeper. Was she crying? He couldn't quite see her expression clearly as the moon hid behind a stubborn cloud.

"Do you love me, Harry?" Ginny asked softly.

"I-- really fancy you," Harry said, blushing, and snogged her, pressing her back into the grass. The crickets chirped nearby, but mostly Harry heard Ginny's sigh.

"You have to tell me at least once. I won't keep asking."

Harry couldn't say it.

Instead, he raised a dry hand to her soft breast, kneading through her mum's newest jumper. He could only mutter into her ear, biting it and grinding a bit against her hip to make it easier.

"I love the way you make me feel," he whispered, nudging the jumper up over her bra. "I love the way you smell." He grinned against the swell of her left breast as she moaned and wriggled against him. He snapped the bra hooks one-handed with the ease of habit.  "I love your hair. I love your firm-- tasty-- titties," he swiped a lick all the way up across her nipple, pausing to bite it. "And your bellybutton--" he kissed lower down, "and your thighs-- Mm, and all the way up." He swirled his tongue until she gasped and shook in his hands. "I love the way you--" he pressed his tongue in and forgot to continue.

"That's not--" she gasped-- "that's-- that's-- " She shuddered, and raised her head.  "Dammit, Harry! No, I won't bloody-- ahh!-- marry you, you idiot!" Finally, Ginny gave another moan, and let him press her down deeper onto the grass.

He had her then, even so. She believed in him, even when he didn't give her words to believe in. He would do anything it took to keep her safe, to keep her happy. Anything.


Ginny was everything he wanted to come home to; she was his in a way nothing else was. Just hearing her laugh made Harry feel as if everything was the same. His life was still his life, no matter what else changed, because Ginny was his constant.

She is so beautiful, Harry thought when he looked at her beside him.  She was tough and strong and she simply fit; they must have been inevitable ever since Harry had met Ron's snot-nosed little sister.

So why did he dream about pointless, meaningless-- fucking? Sleeping next to her at night, what he saw was Malfoy, who was dirty and shameless with his pretty legs obscenely spread. He dreamt about doing Malfoy on his bed with the sun streaming through the windows. They went at it like the world was ending-- he made Malfoy whimper like a girl and bleed onto the sheets, which only made him do it harder, so that Malfoy hissed and clutched the pillow. That slick, fine hair was sticky with sweat in Harry's fist. Malfoy is so filthy, he thought, he'd always wanted this. Malfoy would even like it if Harry hurt him; he didn't mind when Harry came through the door and whipped it out without a word. He dropped to his knees like a slut, and when Harry came, he moaned and licked his lips. He loved it. Harry knew that Malfoy loved it, and he throbbed with the need to simply rut; to give it to Malfoy until the nasty bastard could feel it up in his throat.

"Tell me!" he yelled. "Tell me you love it!"

That vicious red mouth of Malfoy's parted, puckering before he swallowed and licked his lips. "Please! Please…."

He pumped and pumped at Malfoy's arse, but the goal-- the satisfaction-- only seemed farther away. Too late, it hit him that he was the one losing control. Harry moaned and flipped Malfoy onto his back, sucking on Malfoy's tongue. He was half out of his mind with the need for release, but he couldn't get there. He could only jerk between Malfoy's legs, his hips in a mindless frenzy. The only sounds were squelches of their flesh slapping together and Malfoy's wheezing inhales. Sometimes, there was the faint scrabbling noise of Malfoy's fingernails as he scratched at the sheets, grunted near-silently and came yet again while Harry's awareness narrowed painfully to a single point of seething frustration, and he woke.

Harry became aware he was panting loudly, so he smothered the noise with a pillow. He was groggy and had a pounding headache, and the sticky sheets clung maddeningly to his stomach. His whole body buzzed with the need to come, and he sat for a moment with his head in his knees, trying to be perfectly still so Ginny wouldn't wake up. He stayed motionless but awake for interminable minutes, feeling half-sick with self-disgust. He was still so hard it actually hurt, and the idea of touching Ginny with a hard-on from that was unimaginable.

After a moment, he got up and stumbled to the shower, turning it on to cold full-blast. He tried to use reason, to figure out how to deal with this, but it was early morning, and he'd never been the best at self-analysis. What he knew was that this was disgusting, and pathetic besides. It wasn't like some sort of PTSD flashback, because they'd never done that: they'd never gone all the way. The only person he'd ever done that with was his future wife; he'd been so careful not to edge over that line of no return. So why did he have to torment himself with this Malfoy-that-wasn't, that was nothing like the sarcastic git he'd actually known?

In these dreams, Malfoy was transformed. He was pathetic, the way he looked with thin trickles of sweat running down his temples as Harry pounded him. The softness was what was different, though: the way he looked at Harry, humiliated and angry but also needy. Harry didn't know what, but it was some a softness in Malfoy's eyes that made Harry want to keep fucking him forever, until nothing was left of either of them but unconscious slabs of meat. The softness was impossible, really-- but in the dream, it was like seeing Malfoy's vulnerable belly left Harry himself exposed. He was dizzy with the consuming need to smother that weakness in himself, smother it with the sheer volume of fucking.

The shower method wasn't really working anymore, so he gave in and turned the temperature up. He may as well be comfortable. He didn't look down, just leaned his head against the slippery tile and tried not to move too much, not to moan, not to think anymore. He came under a minute, making a sticky, smelly, gooey mess that washed away all too easily, but then he was hard again, imagining that smell on Malfoy's squeaky-clean high class body. Harry had to breathe in hard not to let frustrated tears escape.

He was in hell.


It didn't take very long for Ginny to confront Harry over the sleepless circles under his eyes and the heightened irritability, not to mention the fact that he could no longer touch her. He couldn't even look her in the face without flinching.

"You can tell me, Harry," she said, watching him. Letting him tell her when he was ready.

He would never be ready for this, he thought.

"I don't want to get married. Yet," he said instead, his voice a hoarse whisper. God, he could barely force the words from between his clenched teeth. He would rather have this conversation than have his small intestine pulled through his throat, but not by much. "I'm sorry, Ginny, okay? It's all my fault. I'm really fucking sorry. Can you just-- give me some time? I'll fix it, I swear!" He stared at her earnestly. "I'll figure something out."

"Okay," she said after a minute or so with her eyes closed.  Her mouth was a thin white line. "Tell me why, Harry. I need to hear it."

"I can't," he said tightly, "I can't explain it, all right? You wouldn't understand."

Ginny's eyes snapped open, and they were blazing. Harry knew right away he'd said exactly the wrong thing.

"How dare you," she hissed. "How fucking dare you say that to me, after all we've been through? After all I did for you? Have you really got no shame, Potter? Are you really that blind?"

He tried to bite his tongue, knowing how hard this had to be for Ginny. He was trying to be understanding, though a part of him wished there was a way to make her leave right now without actually having to ask. But no, he'd had to go and propose, didn't he; she wasn't some slut he'd picked up in a club. Of course, he didn't pick up girls in those clubs, or bring them home for that matter. He couldn't meet her eyes.

"Well? Do you really think my patience is unlimited, Harry? Do you? I knew you took me for granted, I knew you had bloody issues from your childhood. I was going to wait! I was going to help you, I was going to give you all the chances you needed because you needed them, but this is beyond--"

She rose and stalked over to him with her hands on her hips, with her glorious red hair flying around her shoulders. She should have been the spitting image of Mrs. Weasley right then, but she wasn't. She was Ginny, and she looked absolutely furious and-- damn-- gorgeous. God, he wanted her.

She waited until it was clear Harry wasn't about to volunteer an explanation. "You know what? Fuck you," she said in a voice that was so soft it made Harry shiver. She always yelled. All the Weasleys yelled in a fight, but this was Ginny at her limit. He'd finally gone too far. She turned around without another word and walked to the hallway, fetching her coat in silence.

At that moment, it was like Harry slammed right back into his sixteen year-old self. He knew he had no right to say anything, knew he should let her go. They'd had fights before; they'd taken breaks before. This was okay. But he could almost hear the door slamming shut, maybe for good this time. He'd really be alone every night, then, and panic always made him reckless.

"Stop! Stop! Wait!"

And because Ginny was Ginny, because she loved him, she paused at the door. Her back was to him and it shook with rage, but all Harry wanted was to rub against her arse, really give it to her from behind like this. Not looking at her, not seeing her eyes, not even taking her knickers off, like it was the back door of a club and they'd spent the past fifteen minutes grinding to electronica. He was panting, but Ginny might think it was from emotion.

"Wait," he said again, lamely. He didn't know what else he was supposed to say. Most of his mental effort was taken up by clenching his fists and counting from one to ten, then back to one.

"I'm waiting," she said tersely.

"I'm--" He flushed, his scalp prickling, heart pounding. Fuck, what could he say? Was it too late to run away? Harry took a shuddering breath. "I can't because-- because I don't want to h-hurt you, and-- don't take this the wrong way, okay?" He swallowed, his erection thankfully dead. "I've been, er, c-curious about-- you know, other blokes. So. I thought-- I thought I should, um, figure out what's going on-- I mean, what the hell's wrong with me. Whether I'm--I'm not like that, but. You know, I should know for sure. Before I got married. Okay?"

He almost slid to the floor right there, because that was almost the truth.

Ginny turned around and looked at him mutely, and his mouth kept running as if someone forgot to turn the motor off. "I mean, I still want you," he blurted. "Too. I still want you too, you know?"

She sighed, sliding down the door to sit on the floor next to him. She dropped her head on her knees for a moment, then turned her head to look at him, and what shocked him was the look of relief on her face.

"Harry," she whispered. She reached out a hand, and Harry grasped it tightly, shuddering.

"G-god." He shivered, moving to put his arms around her. This was exhausting, but was he also a little relieved?

"It's okay," she whispered, making a wet spot on his neck. "Harry... Harry, you could've told me. I understand-- Shhhh, it's okay...."

The corners of his eyes prickled and he knew-- he knew he didn't deserve this, but the comfort felt so good, and she was warm and God, he didn't want to lose her.

"Ginny...." He muttered senselessly, kissing his way up her neck to her mouth and finally taking it in a gentle kiss, licking at her lips as she kissed him back just as gently. He felt boneless, safe, like he could tell her anything. Almost like he could tell her about Malfoy, because it was only a dream, wasn't it? Plus, he was still nineteen, he could-- well, he was supposed to experiment, right?

He had to take it slow. He couldn't just spring it on her all at once. That would be selfish. He had to wait... he had to pick the right moment, and then they'd figure something out. Hell, they could have a threesome; they could do it as a couple, the way it should've been. It was so bloody simple! Why didn't he think of this before?

He squeezed her tighter. "So, um... are we okay, then? It would only be for a little while. And I could-- we could--" God, why couldn't he spit it out? Since when was he such a bloody coward? "I mean, there's a few blokes I had in mind, and if you're up for it-- together, you know--" He kneaded at her breast, cursing at the jolt of heat in his belly as he found it pebbly against his thumb.

Ginny arched against him, before pushing him down on his back and straddling his chest. She moved slowly, deliberately. Her fiery hair hung down and hid her face; Harry couldn't see her eyes, but she was panting, and her fingers dug into his sides. Her inner thighs made that jerky little squeeze of arousal, dampening his trousers.

"It's okay if you're there too," she whispered roughly. "Anything you want." Ginny still wasn't looking at him, and she seemed a little too willing, but this was what he wanted; he couldn't think past that anymore.

"Thank you. I mean it," he blurted, immediately mortified. Where the fuck had that come from?

"Yeah, I know," she said. Then she rose up on her knees so she could take his dick out.

Harry blinked at her in confusion, but she only held it tighter, squeezing him to the point of discomfort. He looked up at her steadily, and finally she shook her hair back like he'd known she would.


She released him, and her mouth twisted in an unfamiliar, bitter and unflattering sort of way for a moment. She reached into his jeans pocket like she knew what she was doing, and Harry was speechless when she withdrew a small bottle of lube.

"You want my arse, don't you? Oh,  I know you do." And she wet her finger before thrusting it unceremoniously behind her down the waist of her jeans, making one small gasp. After an awkward moment that seemed to stretch for entirely too long, she returned her attention to him, holding his penis up though he'd grown soft. Harry kept making a superhuman effort to keep still, to wait patiently and not turn her over and bugger her arse till she bled, and-- he grunted in shock.

"Yeah!" he yelled. He jerked one arm around her so she fell forward, but Ginny balanced on her other arm. He watched her breasts sway wildly above him, mesmerized and entirely silent now, before his eyes rolled up and he checked out completely. His girlfriend was tighter and hotter than anyone, than anything.

He'd sullied her.

part 3a


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the artist formerly known as lunacy

October 2012

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