Want

It wasn´t something Harry wanted.

It was something he needed.

It had been happening every night now for three weeks; it was an addiction at this point. The first time it had happened he had been assured it was only a dream-only a blip of his subconscious. The next day he had awakened with his entire body screaming from the knowledge of what he´d had inside of him, aching with desire to have it back-his memory perfectly clear.

The next night he had been told: "It´s real because you make it real, Harry Potter."

But Harry did not want this.

He craved it, yes; knew he´d go to any length to have that piercing pleasure, the rough harsh cooing tones around him, in his head-just as Harry knew that He could have him whenever he wanted-whenever the lust to be pinned together overcame the natural logic of everything that kept them apart.

"I thought I killed you."

"Oh, but you cannot kill a memory, Harry." Finger sliding over his cheek, his breath catching. "Had you ever really forgotten me?"

He hadn´t.

Harry liked to think that he was part-memory himself when He was inside of him, when Harry was being invaded and spreading his legs as far apart as he could, mewling and aching and scrabbling for more. He liked to think the scratches he routinely left on that dark chest were testaments to his becoming less and less. With every mark and bruise and bite that he had to hide beneath long clothing, he felt that he was being taken over more and more, until gradually he too would be memory.

He wanted to fade, but he did not want this. He knew he did not want it; so every moan culled from him by the flesh inside of him, every gasp and shudder and betraying utterance from his lips, murmured against skin, against nipple and lip and tongue and cheek and thigh and never oh please yes that throat and flank, confused him. He came harder when he was confused, when he was dizzy and spellbound and unsure who he was or who was He. Harry found that the addiction spiraled higher after every instance where his brain fought to resist-the thrill of succumbing and falling into this was more than he knew how to handle without losing himself altogether.

But He knew that was just what Harry did want.

You want it, oh, yes.

No-no-oh. Oh.

Yes. Say please, Harry.

I won´t.

Have it your way.

But-

Hmm...

No-

It´s easy, Harry.

Then-then please. Oh, please...

Such a good boy.

Harry was so very good, too. Harry gave Him just what He wanted. Harry made Him happy, clenching him closer, deeper, and running hands eagerly over Him just the way He liked it. Harry made him moan, and Harry had never done that before. He made Harry moan, too-that was good.

Harry needed Him to return. Harry knew that the fighting, the cursing and cuts and struggle and wounds, were only to remind Harry that this wasn´t what he wanted, before he begged for it, begged to have it in him so hard that he bled. And He was good to Harry: He took him so deep Harry knew He would never come out of him again.

It felt good. The cursing and the fighting made it even better. Being trapped beneath Him with his lips being bitten, his hair being wrenched by strong fingers, his tongue desperately stroking whatever he was given to stroke, and his thighs seeking contact with flesh he knew he was not supposed to seek-that was nearly perfect. The warmth at the end-the way he felt in that millisecond explosion, that feeling that yes, he had done it, he had finally manage to lose himself-that was almost as good as the satisfied hollowness when they rolled apart. That and the look of contempt in His eyes at the end-that was better than anything. That was the look, the feeling of Not Wanting-and it meant that He was addicted too.

Harry liked that they were addicted. It was the fastest way for them both to disappear.

And that was what he wanted most of all.

~~~~~~~~

fine.