Author's Notes: Was talking to Ivy about hygenic sex. So I wrote some. Picking up on the gorge!L/S dynamic a little, I suppose. And of course nicking heavily from it. Apologies to w00b for conventions.

Breathe Softly

By Libertine


Draco, slithering.

He is hunkered up beneath the blankets, mattress to knees to chest, gloating with his chin pushed forwards and the sharp point of it sunken into Neville's buttocks. The pink sliver of his tongue lolls out of his mouth like a panting dog, lapping, poking, while Neville trembles in a sort of restrained ecstacy, too couragous to protest, too weak to speak his name. It's a mind rush this, for all its sweaty sloppy reality: a reversal of sorts, a metaphor inverted, and Draco is thinking, with a cynicism which becomes his character but not his current position, //I'm not the only one who knows how to kiss ass.//

Prior to this little episode Neville has been cleaned and cleared: he's had the fastidiously-minded Draco bend him over in the bathtub, working his thin, lathered fingers in-out-in-out. That rapid, careless motion inspired a sweet ecstacy all of its own: so near and so far and Neville, mouth open, inhaled foam and touched himself and rode the bottom of the tub as if it were were a body -- much to Draco's amusement. ("Do I excite you, hm?" he'd said, sarcasm thinly veiling disbelief. "Does this-" and a longer, deeper thrust of his fingers, "-excite you?" Neville, cock bunting hopelessly against the smooth ceramics, found himself at a loss for a definitive answer.)

As consequence of these prepatory exertions the taste of Neville's asshole carries a waxy, soapy flavour, which, whilst somewhat unsavoury, is preferable to the musky alternative. Above all things Draco likes cleanliness: he likes to be clinical about sex, he would wrap Neville up in transparent guaze if he could, he would fuck him encased in film and leave the precipitate of his zenith in a sterilized sanctuary of plastic. The notion of distance, even if only of membrane thickness, is almost as exciting as closeness. It is a safe excitement, it is an excitement with boundaries, and thus (to his reasoning) can be indulged without suffering the prickling of his conscience. Draco dislikes unpredictability, especially in the bedroom; it wars with his desire for control.

Neville's buttocks are as round as the rest of him and it takes some manouvering and prying before Draco can fully root his tongue in the boy's arse. A moan, a sigh, and Draco, encouraged, proceeds to explore further. There are muscles here, beyond that tight ring of muscle, ripples of flesh which squeeze valiantly against him, a mess of senses and nerves all inviting a closer inspection, a more vigorous approach. With an artful twist of his wrist Draco's hand slips between Neville's thighs, fingers curving upward to accomodate the shape of the pitiful erection which dips toward the bedsheets. It is nicely firm; Draco toys with it, batting, pinching the head between thumb and forefinger until Neville recoils, pain overriding pleasure.

Then he's sprawled uncomfortably on his stomach with his hands trapped above his head and Draco is sitting astride him, all smirk and sex and taunting Neville with the pressure of his body, with the precome moistness his cock leaves on the hollow of Neville's spine.

"You aren't getting away," says Draco.

"I don't want to," says Neville.

Draco says nothing. Neville breathes softly into the pillows.

"You know that," says Neville.

//There was no right answer,// he thinks miserably.

Draco swings his leg over him and falls onto his back on the mattress, lies there with his eyes panning the ceiling. He notices a constellation of small black spots near the runner, like the ink spray of a quill; if he blurs his vision they join together, a Rorscharch design. Neville's fingers run hesitantly across his thigh, pausing every now and then to assess Draco's response, then darting forwards once more. To Draco it feels as if he is being seduced by an easily startled rabbit. He grunts, reaches down, grips Neville's wrist, clamps the boy's hand firmly around his erection and hears Neville make a small, keening sound. A whimper of delight: ecstactic, awed and unfailingly proud of the fact he alone has been chosen to hold Draco's cock.

//Too easy,// Draco thinks, //Too fucking easy.// He's aware on some level that there is no such thing as uncontested power, that to fuck a boy who does not say No, who only says Yes and Please and More and Thank you, Draco, is nothing to be proud of. There is no battle, there is no victory, there's no euphoria to be derived from brutalising a boy who desires above all things to be brutalised. This, all of this, is shameful, sinful - it is too easy to be real.

If darkness is sinful.

If sex is shameful.

If Neville was ever easy.

He spreads his legs and Neville crawls between then and the rough of his tongue plies the heated flesh which emerges from the snare of his pudgy fist. Hot and wet and sloppy and it's a little like cannibalism, soft sticky cannibalism as Neville feeds from him, tenderises him, sheathes and disgorges him and all this time his fingers are sliding in the grease of his own saliva, tugging out of, into and against the ministrations of his mouth. Clumsy and toothless and graceless, and it's hard to concentrate, hard to lose oneself to this infernal awkwardness, and Draco's half a mind to push Neville off when suddenly something changes, a raise in tempo and finally, fucking finally, here's a rhythm Draco can latch hold of, a rhythm which grows surer in each breath, which aligns itself to the beat of Draco's heart and thuds into Draco's groin like a death-knell, a life-knell, parched mouth and the spots on the ceiling blur into some weird hypnotic swirl and for two point four seconds, Draco Malfoy is



and stays, suspended, until Neville squirms and blushes and splutters less-than-subtly into the sheets. Draco reaches for him impulsively, fingers finding fingers and knotting, tightly, until it starts to hurt and the sweat creeps between their palms, soiling everything. Their eyes lock, brown and grey, and there's a fury in Draco's face, a futile anger that evokes in Neville a strange sense of pity.

//It must be hard,// he thinks, //to be loved like this.//

"Well?" Draco says hoarsely into the silence, voice hitting a note that's a short step from a wail. "Don't you have anything to say? Nothing?

"No," says Neville, sliding away, and smiling as he slithers, the blankets drawn with him. "No, Draco. Not at all."


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