Title: Up Jumped the Devil
Prompt: #34 submitted by reikokatsura
Summary: The chase goes on, no matter who is running.
Warnings: Rough lovemaking. Severe lack of redemption.
Word Count: ~ 1,600
Author's Notes: Dear reikokatsura, this might not be what you expected, and I hope you won't be disappointed. But I loved the simple prompt, and the intense imagery it caused in my mind. The prompt came to life – something that usually tells me, “Yes. Go write this.” So I did. I hope you enjoy, as well as everyone else who chooses to read!
Much love and thanks to my betas anna_unfolding and vaysh, who see both fault and feeling. It was exciting to compare where you agreed and where you contradicted each other 100%! ;) I'm lucky to have you.
The title was snagged with awe and morbid joy from a Nick Cave song of the same name.
The righteous path
is straight as an arrow,
Take a walk and you'll
find it too narrow.
- Nick Cave
Of all things, none of them persistent, this is real.
Neither the cracked ground, nor the damp stone beneath Draco's fingertips are permanent or bound to stay. They race past, slip and tumble back like stones down a well.
But the hair whipping around his face and the rhythmic stab of air in his lungs – they are.
He's running, like he always is. His harsh breath drums a staccato through the night, sometimes the day. Sometimes night and day blur and there is no difference. Then he's pressed up against another stone wall for a second, gasping for air, smelling humid dirt in the darkness behind him.
Someone's following him. Someone's always following him, sometimes so far behind that the stranger's steps are nothing but an echo of Draco's own; their twin of dreams. Sometimes they are so close Draco thinks he can feel someone's breath against his nape.
He's been followed for weeks. Draco knows, but he never looks back.
Revoltingly typical for Muggle cities, the sky is overcast by industrial emissions. Reddish clouds fog the stars and hover unmoving between the monolithic buildings. It's quiet, most of the windows are dark. Draco lets his head fall back against the wall and takes a moment to catch his breath.
Casting a swift glance to both sides, he makes sure he's alone then takes out his wand. It's earlier than expected – he's well on schedule.
Draco spells his sweat-soaked shirt dry and puts the wand back into his pocket. It's quiet; too quiet. Something's not right.
Where are you, he wonders without really wondering. I know you're there.
His feet hurt. Legs and lungs throbbing from overuse is a common condition, but what he could really use right now is a glass of water. His mouth is dry, lips chapped and raw. Draco rubs the back of his hand across his mouth, but it only increases his thirst. You're well on time, he tells himself – that's all he knows and it will have to do.
He has no idea where the others are. Perhaps there are no others any more.
Then he feels him, even before he hears him. He turns his head, not making a sound, and wraps his fingers around his wand just in time to cast a nonverbal Disillusionment charm.
Potter rounds the corner, hair and glasses askew as always. His Auror robes are obscenely bright in the darkness of this July night, but they are nothing like Potter's eyes, which are blazing and searching, and have yet to find what it is they're searching for.
They fall on Draco's face and stay there. Draco breathes quietly, calmly; he does no longer recall the day he learned doing that, long ago. He knows Potter can't see him, but there is this disquieting something in his eyes that makes Draco wonder, what if he can. He holds his breath, just in case.
Potter lifts his wand. He doesn't even blink.
A rat could come, or a cat chasing it – anything to distract. But the alley remains deadly silent and Draco feels a sweat break out upon his brow and in his armpits.
He's not afraid; he never is.
“Malfoy,” Potter whispers, still as a statue and his gaze directed at where he can only assume Draco's face to be. “It's over.”
Draco almost laughs out loud. If one thing, Potter doesn't want this to be over, or he would have caught him weeks ago. Draco is fast and he knows how to blend with the background when circumstances require it. But Potter knows where to look, how to look. No one following Draco has ever come so close to catching him, and he can only assume Potter knows that, too.
He smirks, gripping the wand in his pocket. As the magic gathers in his fingertips, he imagines the sharp edges of the top floor, the concrete roughened by wind and warmth and the endless stretch of sky.
With a crack, Draco Disapparates.
“Malfoy,” says Potter, very close to his ear, and it’s likely the last thing he’ll say tonight. His breath is hot and familiar, as familiar as his hands slipping underneath Draco’s shirt and tearing it open with enough force to rip the seams.
Draco moans and thinks, Bastard owes me yet another one.
The smell of moss on stone grows stronger when he's pressed against the wall. Then all he smells is Potter.
They undress frantically and there’s not a sound in the alley but fabric hitting the dirt. Potter’s offensive robes pool around their feet like a puddle of blood and Draco makes sure to stomp on them as he pulls Potter close. Potter’s always so warm, like he was on fire. Draco shivers violently as the air hits his sweaty back.
“God,” murmurs Potter, “I think you have a fever.”
You’re breaking the rules, you tosser, Draco thinks but doesn’t say it. He kisses him instead, so that Potter will keep his stupid mouth shut, and unbuckles his belt. It’s that item that screams authority! more than anything, but Potter’s cock is hot and hard as rock and Draco knows just how easily he’ll submit.
Potter kisses back like he’s drowning. His hands are on Draco's face and in his hair as if he was learning him by heart, and even though Draco should tell the fool to touch his prick already, he can't. He's been running for weeks that feel like years.
“You need to see a doctor,” Potter insists, and Draco catches his hands and turns him over with one angry push. The prickle left by Potter's palms fades as Draco presses himself against the curve of his spine. Draco lets his mouth fall to Potter's neck.
Potter's so fucking talkative tonight. Draco pulls down his trousers and underwear and bites down on Potter's shoulder.
“Malfoy – you can't keep doing this forever.”
Of all things Draco didn't invite him to say, this is first on the list. He bites harder, then sucks on the abused flesh and reaches around Potter to touch his cock. It's damp already with anticipation and he knows Potter wants this – wants it more than anything else in this moment. Draco works a finger deep inside him and feels him squirm.
A full-bodied shudder dances through Potter's body when Draco finally pushes into him and drives him into the wall. One, two shallow thrusts, and Draco's buried balls-deep in Potter's arse. Then he lingers, pressed up against Potter's warm body as tightly as possible. He inhales his scent like it's the last chance he's got. It might as well be. They are both panting, tearing at the silence and throwing its ragged pieces to the wind.
“Fuck,” Potter curses, and it really is his last word tonight. He lowers his head to the crook of his arm and meets each of Draco's thrusts halfway, until semen is running down the wall and the inside of his thigh.
Face still pressed into Potter's hair, Draco pulls out and tries to catch his breath; he used to be faster at regaining his composure. Potter turns in his arms and his pupils are wide in the dark.
He could, Draco thinks, he always could. But he won't.
Potter grabs Draco's face and kisses him with that mixture of demand and desperation that no one else can muster. As always, Draco is helpless against it.
When they finally break the kiss, Draco steps on the crimson robes again. Potter watches his every move.
Fifteen seconds – that's all he can give him.
It's much cooler on the roof. As Draco steps up to the edge, the wind whips his hair about and crawls beneath his shirt.
He hasn't been up on this one yet, but they all turn out to be disappointingly similar. Draco looks down at the city, a murky mosaic of stone and lights; it's blurred like a place underwater. The alley he just left has become a snapped wire.
His legs are burning – time keeps running.
On the horizon, light scatters darkness like a flock of crows. Dawn, the unwelcome guest, heaves itself above the skyline.
Potter doesn't know half of what Draco has done.
He steps up to the brink until his toes hit thin air and inhales the stench of the city. It doesn't matter – he's chasing him anyway. The prize the Ministry put on Draco's head would exhaust the Golden Boy's vault; at least so says the Prophet. Of course they're blind to the irony.
Draco watches the fuzzy specks of morning sun. He can't remember when last he saw it rise like this, out in the open like there was nothing to hide and nothing to run from. Something pulls in his chest, but it's too vague to have a name.
The crack of Apparition is audible even above the roaring winds.
From here, Draco knows, he could go anywhere; Potter knows it too. He's been a fool to even let him come this far.
“Fifteen seconds,” Draco says against the wind. “That's all I can give you.”
He puts out his hand and starts counting.