Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
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SUMMARY: PWP—Harry wanks. Seriously. That's all there is.

WARNINGS: wanking, pornography, sexual fantasies, mild bondage/kinbaku karada

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

DA MIHI CASTITATEM ET CONTINENTIAM, SED NOLI MODO.

“Lord grant me chastity and continence, but not yet.”

- St. Augustine

Harry was digging around Gideon's room, looking for a place to keep his extra jumpers, when he found them.

Dirty magazines. Great piles of them. Wizarding magazines, even, mixed in with the muggle. Moving pictures—limbs, naked flesh and naughty bits winking up at him as he flipped the pages.

It was quite the stash, really. Harry felt a blush creeping over his cheeks as he picked up one book after another. Gideon Harper had been a right pervert, that much was sure. Then again, he'd been a sixteen year old boy who knew he was going to die. The boy's magazines read as a how-to manual, getting dirtier and freakier as Harry went on. First it was just scantily-clad women posing suggestively, touching their breasts. Then there were men and women together, with articles about something called a “G” spot and charms to stimulate it. Four or five books later, Harry caught his first flash of the familiar—two muggle blokes with their cocks out, wanking each other and kissing. Blasted Gryffindor curiosity getting the better of him, Harry kept right on turning the pages, ignoring the blush suffusing his face as he soldiered on.

Leather. Whips. Two cocks in one hole. Some type of metal clothes pins which muggles put on their nipples. It looked painful, but the woman in the picture seemed to be, uh, enjoying herself.

Head cocked, trousers tight and peering at a trio of wizards buggering one another's brains out, Harry wondered if he made faces like that when Draco took him. One of the blokes had his mouth hanging open, drooling, his eyes screwed shut. The chap on the bottom looked crushed and about to vomit. As the picture moved, the fellow's fist pressed against his mouth, like he was trying to keep either the sound or his lunch in. Harry couldn't quite tell. The wizard fucking him had an enormous prick, though—even larger than Draco's. Harry thought he would lose his chips, too.

It was good to know he wasn't the only one to feel split open by the activity—buggery had a tendency to rip apart your insides if you weren't careful. Wizards had better ways of dealing with the after-effects than muggles, it seemed—charms and spells being preferable to the... rather “manual” methods the muggle pages described.

He paused on an article which looked vaguely familiar; granted the witch was naked in this photograph, but he'd seen a similar method of restraint during his instruction with Margie Gweir. He wouldn't have minded seeing her naked, like the witch in the picture. His eyes followed a fall of long dark hair, the conjured rope making breasts and bum bulge, exaggerating her curves. Harry licked his teeth, barely resisting the urge to dive into the photo and bite each red, rounded swell.

He set the magazine down on the mattress, dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed. His hand found its way to his mouth, brushing his lips as he considered the spells detailed. He recognized one—a wrist restraint Draco had used on him, binding him in leather before lashing him to the Black family piano in the middle of the parlor. That had been a trip. He rubbed at the tendons in his wrist, remembering the pressure, the brush of fine leather against his skin.

Maybe there was something to this.

After all, Draco had tied him up loads of times. Perhaps it was time he returned the favor. Gideon Harper had all-but left him a road map.

Harry flipped a few pages, seeking out something simple... and maybe something for a man. Most of what he saw called for breasts, for protruding flesh, enough to be caught up in ropes and pinched, held. On a man's flat chest, something like that would only slide off.

He found a solution with three magazines and a pamphlet all open at once. The pamphlet seemed to come from non-magical sources and warned, in no uncertain terms, of the dangers involved with restriction. These were mostly things he knew from his training—that restriction of blood flow could result from binding of the wrists or ankles, that numbness or purpling were warning signs, and that in any scenario, scissors or some other implement of escape should be kept readily available. He nodded, knowing that in his case, a wand to hand would always be enough. For his own sake, he'd keep his hands free. For now.

Two magazines depicted patterns of rope: harnesses, they were called. To Harry, they resembled works of art, ropes placed just-so to accent muscles, limbs, breasts or, in one clever case, the appearance of a splotchy caramel birthmark sitting between a woman's collar bones. Red silk wrapped her torso, chest and neck, forming a pentacle around the marking on her light skin. In the image, her bosom rose slowly with her even breaths, swelling her breasts, the silk sliding over her skin. He liked the way she moved, hands free to trace the arch of her neck or flip the curtain of auburn hair from her shoulder. Harry's mouth watered, his trousers now unmentionably tight. Something like that on Draco... or even on himself....

He checked the magazine one last time before shoving the whole lot off the bed, toeing off his trainers as he scrambled up onto the crisp sheets. His tee and trousers couldn't come off fast enough. A wave of his wand sent his socks flying for the hamper. He took his time with his pants, realizing with a jolt that he'd donned Draco's that morning. A designer waistband stared back at him, French lettering embroidered in white thread against dusty green. The color looked better against Draco's paleness, bringing out the pinks and blues hiding under his skin. Harry examined the image he himself made, tight fabric hugging his bum, stretching over the fat roll of his cock. Hand snaking down his side, he understood why Draco wore these ruddy tight pants. They made your prick look huge, like a rabid creature fighting for escape from a cotton prison. He stroked the line of his hip, eyes closing as he replaced the image of himself with Draco in these pants, lying lazily on the bed beside him, hip bones jutting from his fancy green pants like a mountain range, all angles and rosy flush.

His breath sped up, spit pooling beneath his tongue.

He hooked a thumb under the thick waistband, drawing it down to hook beneath his sac. His cock sprung free, smacking against his stomach. He ignored it, instead thumbing the familiar hair between his shaft and bollocks. He closed his eyes again, remembering that Draco would be growing his pubic hair at Harry's insistence. Would there be hair on his chest? His stomach? How much might he have lost due to the scars? And would the hair cover his scars completely? Or might it be thin or light enough for the familiar marks to show through? And light blonde hair? Coarse, curly or sleek? White? Ashy? Possibly darker?

His hand found his prick at last, squeezing the head with spine-shuddering force. He wished his palm were Draco's mouth, conjuring a smear of lube. But it wasn't enough, even as he stroked.

He'd been spoiled—ruined by Draco. By his deft, knowing hands, his unassailable mouth and the daring weight of his prick, heavy against Harry's tongue, teasing his mouth or slapping his hole before taking him, good and rough.

Harry let out a long breath, slowing his heart. It had been a long time.

He threw his head back, given over to the memories, mind wandering as freely as the ghost-hands along his body.

Sex was great and all—but it wasn't what he missed. He longed to put his palm to Draco's cheek, turning that pointed face up to the light, catching his stormy-colored gaze, grazing a thumb over his plump pink lips. The nearness. Their souls, like an acid cord of magic, connecting them.

He wanted the hot roll of it, the burn of Draco sweaty and groaning against him—with him, there in the filthy, perverted depths of it. He wanted the sharpness of teeth breaking his skin, the sting of rounded nails digging into his skin, leaving their half-moon signature up and down his body. He wanted the press, the verve, the violence—to be together, unafraid. Unhinged. He missed letting go.

So he imagined Draco's hands on him, Draco's mouth. He flipped his wand, picturing the cream-colored ropes winding around his chest as Draco's thin fingers working his skin, tangling through the black hair of his pecs, embracing—tightening, sweet and right.

Arching his back, he sunk into the sheets, letting the magic take hold.

Heat rushed over him, the roughness of rope in contrast to his hard body and the give of sheets. And he closed his eyes, reaching out as though Draco were there, millimeters away, just beyond his reach. He stretched, a hand caressing the sheets, remembering the curves and bone-pale swells of him, the ache and burn and fucking give. He followed the swirling path of Draco’s scars from memory, fingers inching across the pale blue sheets. Helpless, his lips traced the line of a bicep as his fingers curled in his own hair, tugging as Draco would. The languid press was almost right, almost the sweet tremor of Draco's flesh under his mouth. He imagined it was and tugged harder.

Every gasp and twitch pulled at the ropes, tightening, releasing with each breathy exhale—a great pair of hands encasing him, holding him close even as he arched against the crush of it. Air quickly became scarce, replaced by sweat and heat, daunting rapture and need. Draco's mouth would be on him now, working him, plying the sensitive nerves behind his ear until he was frantic, bucking. No wonder Draco always closed his eyes. It wasn't to enhance the feeling so much as to avoid the sight—purple-red prick and tight ropes and timorous muscle gagging for it, flexing under weak little strings he could break any second if his magic went wild enough. That was what Draco didn't want him to see—that erotic, writhing sight.

He came with no warning, just spilled in his hand the moment he opened his eyes and saw himself—heedless, fervid, so right.
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Conscience