birdsofshore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
birdsofshore) wrote2014-03-07 04:44 pm
birdsofshore) wrote2014-03-07 04:44 pm
Entry tags:
Fic for raitala: Turning the Tables
Title: Turning the Tables
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
birdsofshore
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Harry / Draco
Word count: ~1300
Warnings: elements of D/s
Summary: There was a time when things were quite different. When he held all the cards – or at least thought he did. But even then, I knew how this would end.
A/N: Forraitala, a very happy birthday! This was 100% inspired by your wonderful art, First Catch Your Dragon, which has obsessed me ever since I saw it. I do hope you don't mind me playing in your personal toybox, my dear. You know I adore this art and when I sat down to write something for you, I simply could not get it out of my head. Thank you for making such beautiful things for us. ♥ I pinched a couple of phrases (and the title :D) from things you said to me about the art.
Thank you also totraintracks for the lovely beta.
Turning the Tables
There was a time when things were quite different. When he held all the cards – or at least thought he did. But even then, I knew how this would end.
He was always so delightfully buttoned up when he brought me in for questioning – his uniform immaculate, every fibre screaming I am in charge here, from the square shoulders of the tawny-red jacket, past the leather gloves clinging like a second skin to his long fingers, right down to those shiny fuck-me boots that any fetishist would give their eye-teeth for.
He was so mistrustful, so guarded, that I sometimes wanted to laugh at his cartoonish frowns, those disapproving looks. I knew in my bones that it would not take much for him to acquire a taste for the piquant pleasures of relinquishing control. That one shining day he would kneel before me. It was not such a stretch to imagine it: there had always been something about me that he could not resist. He sealed his fate the day that he took the bait in the form of one suspect, Draco Malfoy, a worm on a hook, wriggling oh so beautifully to catch the hungry eye of Auror Potter.
You could see that he thought he finally had me where he wanted me. If only he knew how I throbbed with power, sitting there before him with my wrists manacled. It was all falling into place, just as I knew it would, even before I saw the way his eyes dawdled over the shape of my body under the folds of those prison robes.
Turning the tables – it's an old, old story. How I ensnared him, little by little... but it was so easy, you know? So terribly easy. You don't think I'll confess all of my methods here, like this? Any more than I confessed anything real to all-knowing Auror Potter. Auror Potter: so masterful. So moral. So utterly incorruptible. Or so one would think, if one knew no better.
He knows, now, who's in charge, even if he doesn't like it. He's only too aware of all of the ways in which I have him well and truly by the bollocks. Blackmail, threats, coercion, just a sliver of dark magic... not forgetting good old-fashioned lust, for he is not without certain appetites, and it seems only I can scratch that particular itch. It seems I am willing to share a few of my methods, after all, but I'll leave the finer details to your imagination. It's so much more amusing that way. Just know that I have made him sweat, and shiver, and burn with longing, and spit in my face with the bile of pure loathing, sometimes all in the space of the same intoxicating hour.
Oh, but you know what really rouses me? Through it all, he has never lost that spark, that cocky tilt to his head, the audacity and the nerve that have driven me insane since we were eleven. I'm pretty sure that's actually the best bit. Merlin, but I adore a challenge. I could acquire ten slaves in one of those dives in Knockturn Alley just by snapping my fingers; I could use Imperio or Amortentia if I was so inclined, but that wouldn't get me what I want – nothing near it. I crave the thrill of locking horns with someone who's my equal. And then winning, using everything I have to wrest victory from his grasp, with Potter still fighting me every step of the way, snarling and cursing me to the very last.
But this is not the time for reminiscing, no matter how enjoyable such recollections can be. The incantations are finished now, and I place my wand to one side. Potter kneels on the floor, exactly as I always knew he would. I can smell the sharp sweat from his body, and see a vein thrumming at his temple.
His state of semi-dress illustrates perfectly his position, currently poised between command and abandon. His lower half is every inch the Auror: the boots polished and stiff, his trousers impeccably pressed. The belt, fastened tight and secure, denying entry, the killjoy custodian of Potter's cock. I relish the sight of these symbols of control, even as my mouth waters with the anticipation of stripping each one away.
His upper body is a different story. Laid bare, every muscle, every hollow, exposed to my scrutiny, every hair, every scar, every tiny freckle. I see it all, my eyes sweeping unhindered across the contours of his nakedness. The close-shorn hair, still quirking this way and that with its own odd vitality. My gaze lingers on that proud throat which nature made to wear my collar. Even his face looks naked without his glasses, but instead of vulnerability, the raw power of his eyes blazes out at me. The face, Potter's face, which once I left battered and bloody; the face I still long to mark, to mar. My hands twitch, wanting to make fists of themselves, remembering the satisfaction and the passion of that cruelty. I admit I wouldn't mind leaving a few scars of my own on him, a little bodily graffiti to show that I was here.
And somewhere within that body, not a million miles from the surface, is that righteous little boy who scorned to shake my hand.
It is tempting to leave him like this a little longer... or a lot longer... just leave him, half-nude, half-clothed, half-longing, half-hating, his body coiled with delicious tension, kneeling before me on the cold floor, while I soak up the sight of him. But there will be time enough for such sport – we have a lifetime ahead of us. The moment is near. I gather my strength, the certainty of my entitlement, around me like a cloak. Yes. This is who I am; this is what I deserve.
I chose to disrobe for the ritual. I have no need of clothes to prove my authority. I stand, naked and imperious, dressed only in the skin that I was born in, and summon him. There is no vestige of doubt in my mind but that he will come to me. We both know that when he does, this game will be at an end: he will be mine, and the very thought is laden with more erotic promise than a thousand whispered obscenities, than the most wanton display imaginable. It will jolt through me like a distillation of pleasure, searing into my veins. It is for this that I am hard and aching: the thought of him choosing to yield, submitting to me, a hundred times that, so much more than the lines of his admittedly sublime body, or the prospect of carnal delights to come. I almost need to shield my eyes, the thought dazzles me so, but I hold my pose steady.
His face is filled with a glorious mutiny. This is it, the moment that everything else was leading to. The moment when he, kneeling, glares his defiance, his brows fearsome and his body taut with the strain of resisting, and for a second I feel the nauseous trickle of fear – what if— ?
But there's something new here, after all; just when I thought I had seen it all, I note the traitorous softness to his jaw, a gentle hint of pliancy that was never there before the tables were turned. His eyelids droop as if they long to flutter closed, as if imagining the blissful moment of submission. He's picturing it in his mind, how it will be when he belongs to me, and I do believe that some deep, hidden place in him revels in the idea. I hold my breath, while his rasps loud and uneven in the silent room. Everything hangs in the balance for one perfect, endless moment; I arch one questioning eyebrow, hold his gaze, savour the heady rush of power surging inside me, and then―
Crawling on all fours, his eyes still flashing fury, he comes.
Author:
birdsofshoreRating: PG-13
Pairing: Harry / Draco
Word count: ~1300
Warnings: elements of D/s
Summary: There was a time when things were quite different. When he held all the cards – or at least thought he did. But even then, I knew how this would end.
A/N: For
raitala, a very happy birthday! This was 100% inspired by your wonderful art, First Catch Your Dragon, which has obsessed me ever since I saw it. I do hope you don't mind me playing in your personal toybox, my dear. You know I adore this art and when I sat down to write something for you, I simply could not get it out of my head. Thank you for making such beautiful things for us. ♥ I pinched a couple of phrases (and the title :D) from things you said to me about the art.Thank you also to
traintracks for the lovely beta.***
Turning the Tables
There was a time when things were quite different. When he held all the cards – or at least thought he did. But even then, I knew how this would end.
He was always so delightfully buttoned up when he brought me in for questioning – his uniform immaculate, every fibre screaming I am in charge here, from the square shoulders of the tawny-red jacket, past the leather gloves clinging like a second skin to his long fingers, right down to those shiny fuck-me boots that any fetishist would give their eye-teeth for.
He was so mistrustful, so guarded, that I sometimes wanted to laugh at his cartoonish frowns, those disapproving looks. I knew in my bones that it would not take much for him to acquire a taste for the piquant pleasures of relinquishing control. That one shining day he would kneel before me. It was not such a stretch to imagine it: there had always been something about me that he could not resist. He sealed his fate the day that he took the bait in the form of one suspect, Draco Malfoy, a worm on a hook, wriggling oh so beautifully to catch the hungry eye of Auror Potter.
You could see that he thought he finally had me where he wanted me. If only he knew how I throbbed with power, sitting there before him with my wrists manacled. It was all falling into place, just as I knew it would, even before I saw the way his eyes dawdled over the shape of my body under the folds of those prison robes.
Turning the tables – it's an old, old story. How I ensnared him, little by little... but it was so easy, you know? So terribly easy. You don't think I'll confess all of my methods here, like this? Any more than I confessed anything real to all-knowing Auror Potter. Auror Potter: so masterful. So moral. So utterly incorruptible. Or so one would think, if one knew no better.
He knows, now, who's in charge, even if he doesn't like it. He's only too aware of all of the ways in which I have him well and truly by the bollocks. Blackmail, threats, coercion, just a sliver of dark magic... not forgetting good old-fashioned lust, for he is not without certain appetites, and it seems only I can scratch that particular itch. It seems I am willing to share a few of my methods, after all, but I'll leave the finer details to your imagination. It's so much more amusing that way. Just know that I have made him sweat, and shiver, and burn with longing, and spit in my face with the bile of pure loathing, sometimes all in the space of the same intoxicating hour.
Oh, but you know what really rouses me? Through it all, he has never lost that spark, that cocky tilt to his head, the audacity and the nerve that have driven me insane since we were eleven. I'm pretty sure that's actually the best bit. Merlin, but I adore a challenge. I could acquire ten slaves in one of those dives in Knockturn Alley just by snapping my fingers; I could use Imperio or Amortentia if I was so inclined, but that wouldn't get me what I want – nothing near it. I crave the thrill of locking horns with someone who's my equal. And then winning, using everything I have to wrest victory from his grasp, with Potter still fighting me every step of the way, snarling and cursing me to the very last.
But this is not the time for reminiscing, no matter how enjoyable such recollections can be. The incantations are finished now, and I place my wand to one side. Potter kneels on the floor, exactly as I always knew he would. I can smell the sharp sweat from his body, and see a vein thrumming at his temple.
His state of semi-dress illustrates perfectly his position, currently poised between command and abandon. His lower half is every inch the Auror: the boots polished and stiff, his trousers impeccably pressed. The belt, fastened tight and secure, denying entry, the killjoy custodian of Potter's cock. I relish the sight of these symbols of control, even as my mouth waters with the anticipation of stripping each one away.
His upper body is a different story. Laid bare, every muscle, every hollow, exposed to my scrutiny, every hair, every scar, every tiny freckle. I see it all, my eyes sweeping unhindered across the contours of his nakedness. The close-shorn hair, still quirking this way and that with its own odd vitality. My gaze lingers on that proud throat which nature made to wear my collar. Even his face looks naked without his glasses, but instead of vulnerability, the raw power of his eyes blazes out at me. The face, Potter's face, which once I left battered and bloody; the face I still long to mark, to mar. My hands twitch, wanting to make fists of themselves, remembering the satisfaction and the passion of that cruelty. I admit I wouldn't mind leaving a few scars of my own on him, a little bodily graffiti to show that I was here.
And somewhere within that body, not a million miles from the surface, is that righteous little boy who scorned to shake my hand.
It is tempting to leave him like this a little longer... or a lot longer... just leave him, half-nude, half-clothed, half-longing, half-hating, his body coiled with delicious tension, kneeling before me on the cold floor, while I soak up the sight of him. But there will be time enough for such sport – we have a lifetime ahead of us. The moment is near. I gather my strength, the certainty of my entitlement, around me like a cloak. Yes. This is who I am; this is what I deserve.
I chose to disrobe for the ritual. I have no need of clothes to prove my authority. I stand, naked and imperious, dressed only in the skin that I was born in, and summon him. There is no vestige of doubt in my mind but that he will come to me. We both know that when he does, this game will be at an end: he will be mine, and the very thought is laden with more erotic promise than a thousand whispered obscenities, than the most wanton display imaginable. It will jolt through me like a distillation of pleasure, searing into my veins. It is for this that I am hard and aching: the thought of him choosing to yield, submitting to me, a hundred times that, so much more than the lines of his admittedly sublime body, or the prospect of carnal delights to come. I almost need to shield my eyes, the thought dazzles me so, but I hold my pose steady.
His face is filled with a glorious mutiny. This is it, the moment that everything else was leading to. The moment when he, kneeling, glares his defiance, his brows fearsome and his body taut with the strain of resisting, and for a second I feel the nauseous trickle of fear – what if— ?
But there's something new here, after all; just when I thought I had seen it all, I note the traitorous softness to his jaw, a gentle hint of pliancy that was never there before the tables were turned. His eyelids droop as if they long to flutter closed, as if imagining the blissful moment of submission. He's picturing it in his mind, how it will be when he belongs to me, and I do believe that some deep, hidden place in him revels in the idea. I hold my breath, while his rasps loud and uneven in the silent room. Everything hangs in the balance for one perfect, endless moment; I arch one questioning eyebrow, hold his gaze, savour the heady rush of power surging inside me, and then―
Crawling on all fours, his eyes still flashing fury, he comes.