rurounihime (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rurounihime) wrote2006-06-08 10:42 pm
rurounihime) wrote2006-06-08 10:42 pm
Mpreg!
More mpreg! Wahoo, bebbehs!
Title: Over the Threshold
Author: me
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R
Summary: Draco's sleepless nights are getting worse.
Warning: MPREG. Hear ye, hear ye. Bebbehs in male bodies be yonder.
Notes: This one is for Coffee! *snuggles* Part three in the Under Fingertips universe. Thanks so much to Fire for the beta.
Part 1: Under Fingertips
Part 2: The Thought of It Otherwise
...
Over the Threshold
Clink.
The small pool of lamplight shone yellow down onto Draco’s hands. The rest of the room was washed in thick darkness. He looked up, saw the rumple of blankets over his knees; the blackness swallowed everything beyond. Beside him, Harry curled against the pillow, his back a warm weight along Draco’s thigh. Asleep again, finally. The soft whisper of his breathing was the only sound Draco could hear. That, and…
Clink.
Draco turned the small bottles over in his palm, and the glass gleamed back in feeble, iridescent shimmers.
Pay special attention to the scent of each.
The bottles lolled back and forth over his palm. He could still smell garlic faintly in the air. Harry sighed in his sleep.
Clink.
* * *
“You sure you’re alright?”
Harry gave a tired snort and narrowed his eyes. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Draco carded his fingers through Harry’s hair. The baby was moving again; he could feel it through his other palm, flat over Harry’s stomach. Tiny, insistent flutters beneath the skin. Harry murmured soft, wordless, surprised sounds with each kick. Draco mouthed Harry’s lower lip, kissed it gently, covered it with his own mouth and sucked, light and long. Harry’s hand climbed into his hair, stroking through the strands lazily, lulling him down again and again. Gentle, languorous flickers of tongue against his lips and teeth. Draco caught his breath this time for Harry’s quick thrust, deep into his mouth, caressing his tongue and drawing it out. He went, fell into it, did not try to stop the groan that accompanied the fall. He tilted his head, caught Harry’s lips again, and his lover lifted his head from the pillow with a dazed whimper.
Draco kissed him soundly. Harry’s lips opened under his, slightly chapped and soft and slick all at once. His tongue tasted of mint. Draco recognized it; toothpaste. Nothing underneath. He drew out of the kiss, licking his lips. Harry followed him upward, nipping at his mouth, and Draco raised himself out of reach.
“Did you eat?” he murmured.
Harry closed his eyes and lay back with a groan. His stomach muscles clenched slightly; the tiniest of grimaces flitted across his face. “Yes. Yes, of course I ate. You were there.”
Draco trailed his tongue over his own teeth. He could taste nothing but mint. “Harry—”
“I did,” Harry broke in. He touched Draco’s chin and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I promise I ate.”
Draco raised his head, just in time to find Harry’s mouth against his once more. He exhaled and stroked one hand over his lover’s shoulder, feeling each pull of muscle. Harry’s body rocked gently forward, against his side. One leg slipped up and curled itself around his hip. Draco could feel Harry’s foot drifting up and down the back of his leg. Toes clenched on the peak of the kiss, and Draco pulled back to find green eyes clouded and vague, blinking at him. Harry breathed, heavy, rapid pants that lifted the hair on Draco’s arms. He shivered. Felt the warm swell of Harry’s belly beneath his stomach. Another flutter.
Draco shifted back and looked down at where his hand rested against Harry’s abdomen. He felt the other man's breath hitch; fingers clenched almost unnoticeably around his arm.
“Is he always this active?” he asked quietly.
“More than usual tonight.” Harry stirred abruptly. Cleared his throat. “Is this— Are you—”
Draco met his eyes. Deep green. He wondered if the baby would have those eyes.
“No.” He bent and kissed Harry tenderly, feeling his mouth open hesitantly to the touch. There was a longing in that kiss, and he wasn’t sure who it was coming from. “It’s fine, Harry.”
His lover gazed at him for a long, tremulous instant, then Harry’s hand had inched down, felt for him between his legs. Draco hissed and sought air, and Harry kissed his throat almost chastely as he stroked him.
Suddenly Harry let out a groan. His hand pulled away. “No— no, it’s no use, I’m sorry.”
Draco drew a deep, difficult breath. He moved back off of Harry; the other man gave a weak groan and curled slightly onto his side. Draco watched Harry wrap one arm loosely around his abdomen. His own body floundered; waves of almost-pain pooled in his groin. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, willing the pressure to subside. He bit his lip a little too hard and clenched his toes at the burst of real pain. “You alright?”
Harry’s eyes were closed. One hand rubbed small circles over his stomach, trembling as it swept down the curve. “Just… hurts. What day is it?”
Draco propped himself on one elbow and watched the slow, steady circling of Harry’s hand. “It’s too soon, Harry.”
Harry nodded too fast, grimacing. Draco watched for a moment longer, feeling the dull ache in his loins, and then slipped his hand under Harry’s body and began to knead his back in tight, firm strokes. Harry’s eyes flew open and darted to his, and then he rolled gingerly, cupping his palm around the gentle bulge of his belly.
“Feels like I’ve been kicked in the stomach,” he muttered. Draco said nothing. His irritation was brief and fading already; each breath swept more of the poisonous tendrils away. Harry’s skin felt damp under his fingers. His eyes had taken on that shadowed look that Draco was beginning to associate with the end of the week. Harry’s breathing hitched again.
“Still moving?” Draco asked.
Harry nodded jerkily. “The more he moves, the… more it hurts. Always like this.”
Draco touched Harry’s forehead, and his lover suddenly opened his eyes and took a quick breath. His eyes roved Draco’s body. “I… Draco, do you want me to…”
He found a half-smile somewhere and shook his head. “Not much use anymore.”
Harry lay back with a groan. “Tomorrow, Draco. I promise.”
Yes, tomorrow. He frowned, listening to Harry’s shallow breathing. Tomorrow they would most likely finish what was started; Harry’s weekly dose would be fresh enough for the next four nights, if they wanted.
* * *
The hardwood creaked under Draco’s bare feet. He padded down the hall, and the silence of the house folded itself around him. He could feel the cool plaster of the wall beneath his fingertips. The air was almost too cold down his bare back, shifting over his arms and prickling the hairs there.
Ivory-blue light spilled in jagged stripes across the hallway from the bathroom doorway, lending a strange, ethereal glow to the room beyond. Draco’s fingers found the smooth rise of the doorjamb, and for just an instant, he paused, uncertain of his footing. The tiles in the shower shone under the bright moonlight from outside, and the mirror gleamed, a large, dark hole in the wall. Draco shut his eyes, opened them, and stepped over the threshold.
The tiny cupboard door opened with a squeal that grated on his ears. Draco rubbed at the back of his neck.
Three potions.
He could almost hear the Healer’s voice cascading off the cold tile in the milky moonlight. Pay special attention to the scent of each. The knowledge will become invaluable to you.
Draco lifted his left hand and stared at the three tiny bottles there. Almost without conscious thought, he uncorked the first vial and raised it to his nose, sniffing delicately. Years of potions classes had taught him the dangers of breathing deeply over strange mixtures. A full array of flavors hit his senses, but this time he did not gag, as he had in the Healer’s office. The color was impossible to discern in the odd light, but he remembered dark amber. Opaque.
To be taken on the first night of each month.
Draco mouthed his own words from weeks ago. Smells like garlic and anise. Predominantly.
Those cover the less inviting odors. The Titus Cirrus Elixir, after the man who first developed it. It’s meant to supplement the second potion.
He rolled the second vial between his fingers. Long, and rosy pink. To be taken on a weekly basis, on the same day, within the same two hours, as the week before.
He remembered the scent of rose water and fennel.
Unfortunately, it does not taste as good as it smells. Malattia Celi Beta. A mixture from Italy, containing all of the displacement charms and spellwork. A great deal of magic goes into it, and not simply in the potions field.
She’d smiled at him briefly, but then her expression had sobered. The third vial was small and rounded. Coriander. The smell of old leather. Valerian? And… Something that tingled Draco’s nose, threatening to burn through the soft tissues of his throat should he dare to swallow it. He studied the mixture in the darkness. It was the color of tar.
“If all goes well,” he said slowly into the silence. “If all goes well.”
This potion is a final option, should Harry’s body resist the other two. It contains several herbs from China, two of which have not been widely accepted for use, except for this very potion. And there is the Quemadura Root from Chile. Very obscure, very rare, and very potent. It will deaden the body’s natural defense mechanisms long enough for the other two potions to take effect. But understand, Draco, this one is a last resort. In the best of circumstances, I do not intend for Harry to use it. Any usage of this potion will require a subsequent visit from a Healer, and can cause lasting damage to the imbiber. The measurements must be precise.
Draco peered at the innocuous little bottle. It did so resemble the ink he'd used daily in school.
The precise dosage rested there in his palm, and it was all he would receive. Only if Harry were forced to use it… would they receive another.
Draco’s hand squeezed involuntarily around the bottle. He blinked and jerked his arm up, pushing the little vessel into the cupboard. His fingers left the smooth glass of the vial, and the room seemed to tilt, and then right itself.
“What are we doing?” he whispered. His own voice shocked him. He clutched the door of the cupboard, staring at the soft glimmer of light across the two remaining vials in his other hand. The strongest of medicines, potions he hadn’t even imagined the existence of three months ago, were in his home, waiting to be taken by the man he…
Draco frowned. The man he was sleeping with. The man carrying his child.
For a frightening instant, the idea of a child eluded him. Draco felt a shudder rattle through him. “It’s not a sickness, you arse,” he muttered. “There’s a baby there.”
He had felt it – him, Draco reminded himself – move, not hours ago. The tiniest of ripples beneath Harry’s skin, fragile and scarcely there. And these were medicines, there was no other word for them. They would strengthen that delicate movement into a baby. Draco ran a hand over his face, trying to see, really see, but found himself utterly void. There was no connection, no binding tie between those weak flutters and the image of a child; just a vague foggy space he could barely see into.
With an odd shiver, Draco realized his right hand was pressed across his own belly, quaking against the muscles and flesh there.
But for a stroke of… what? His fingers quavered, touching firm, flat expanses of skin and muscle. That night, it had been Harry who bottomed. If just one thing had been different, if instead, he had been the one to—
Draco gave a harsh gasp and scrabbled for the light switch. There was a breathless eternity of moonlight as he clawed at the wall, and then light flooded into his eyes, cruel and yellow. Draco grasped the sink with one hand, the two bottles a solid presence against his left palm, and stared at himself in the mirror. The muscles of his abdomen flexed with each breath, well-defined and familiar. Draco stared. Watched as gooseflesh crawled down his bare arms.
With a jerk, Draco turned from the mirror. He shoved the two vials into the cupboard with shaking fingers and shut the door with a sharp creak, then flicked the light off. The plunging darkness of the hallway unnerved him, and Draco reached for the wall, pressing his palm flat against the cool surface. He made his way slowly, blindly, toward the shadowy bedroom.
...
Part 4
...
...
...
Thanks for reading!
Title: Over the Threshold
Author: me
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R
Summary: Draco's sleepless nights are getting worse.
Warning: MPREG. Hear ye, hear ye. Bebbehs in male bodies be yonder.
Notes: This one is for Coffee! *snuggles* Part three in the Under Fingertips universe. Thanks so much to Fire for the beta.
Part 1: Under Fingertips
Part 2: The Thought of It Otherwise
...
Over the Threshold
Clink.
The small pool of lamplight shone yellow down onto Draco’s hands. The rest of the room was washed in thick darkness. He looked up, saw the rumple of blankets over his knees; the blackness swallowed everything beyond. Beside him, Harry curled against the pillow, his back a warm weight along Draco’s thigh. Asleep again, finally. The soft whisper of his breathing was the only sound Draco could hear. That, and…
Clink.
Draco turned the small bottles over in his palm, and the glass gleamed back in feeble, iridescent shimmers.
Pay special attention to the scent of each.
The bottles lolled back and forth over his palm. He could still smell garlic faintly in the air. Harry sighed in his sleep.
Clink.
* * *
“You sure you’re alright?”
Harry gave a tired snort and narrowed his eyes. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Draco carded his fingers through Harry’s hair. The baby was moving again; he could feel it through his other palm, flat over Harry’s stomach. Tiny, insistent flutters beneath the skin. Harry murmured soft, wordless, surprised sounds with each kick. Draco mouthed Harry’s lower lip, kissed it gently, covered it with his own mouth and sucked, light and long. Harry’s hand climbed into his hair, stroking through the strands lazily, lulling him down again and again. Gentle, languorous flickers of tongue against his lips and teeth. Draco caught his breath this time for Harry’s quick thrust, deep into his mouth, caressing his tongue and drawing it out. He went, fell into it, did not try to stop the groan that accompanied the fall. He tilted his head, caught Harry’s lips again, and his lover lifted his head from the pillow with a dazed whimper.
Draco kissed him soundly. Harry’s lips opened under his, slightly chapped and soft and slick all at once. His tongue tasted of mint. Draco recognized it; toothpaste. Nothing underneath. He drew out of the kiss, licking his lips. Harry followed him upward, nipping at his mouth, and Draco raised himself out of reach.
“Did you eat?” he murmured.
Harry closed his eyes and lay back with a groan. His stomach muscles clenched slightly; the tiniest of grimaces flitted across his face. “Yes. Yes, of course I ate. You were there.”
Draco trailed his tongue over his own teeth. He could taste nothing but mint. “Harry—”
“I did,” Harry broke in. He touched Draco’s chin and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I promise I ate.”
Draco raised his head, just in time to find Harry’s mouth against his once more. He exhaled and stroked one hand over his lover’s shoulder, feeling each pull of muscle. Harry’s body rocked gently forward, against his side. One leg slipped up and curled itself around his hip. Draco could feel Harry’s foot drifting up and down the back of his leg. Toes clenched on the peak of the kiss, and Draco pulled back to find green eyes clouded and vague, blinking at him. Harry breathed, heavy, rapid pants that lifted the hair on Draco’s arms. He shivered. Felt the warm swell of Harry’s belly beneath his stomach. Another flutter.
Draco shifted back and looked down at where his hand rested against Harry’s abdomen. He felt the other man's breath hitch; fingers clenched almost unnoticeably around his arm.
“Is he always this active?” he asked quietly.
“More than usual tonight.” Harry stirred abruptly. Cleared his throat. “Is this— Are you—”
Draco met his eyes. Deep green. He wondered if the baby would have those eyes.
“No.” He bent and kissed Harry tenderly, feeling his mouth open hesitantly to the touch. There was a longing in that kiss, and he wasn’t sure who it was coming from. “It’s fine, Harry.”
His lover gazed at him for a long, tremulous instant, then Harry’s hand had inched down, felt for him between his legs. Draco hissed and sought air, and Harry kissed his throat almost chastely as he stroked him.
Suddenly Harry let out a groan. His hand pulled away. “No— no, it’s no use, I’m sorry.”
Draco drew a deep, difficult breath. He moved back off of Harry; the other man gave a weak groan and curled slightly onto his side. Draco watched Harry wrap one arm loosely around his abdomen. His own body floundered; waves of almost-pain pooled in his groin. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, willing the pressure to subside. He bit his lip a little too hard and clenched his toes at the burst of real pain. “You alright?”
Harry’s eyes were closed. One hand rubbed small circles over his stomach, trembling as it swept down the curve. “Just… hurts. What day is it?”
Draco propped himself on one elbow and watched the slow, steady circling of Harry’s hand. “It’s too soon, Harry.”
Harry nodded too fast, grimacing. Draco watched for a moment longer, feeling the dull ache in his loins, and then slipped his hand under Harry’s body and began to knead his back in tight, firm strokes. Harry’s eyes flew open and darted to his, and then he rolled gingerly, cupping his palm around the gentle bulge of his belly.
“Feels like I’ve been kicked in the stomach,” he muttered. Draco said nothing. His irritation was brief and fading already; each breath swept more of the poisonous tendrils away. Harry’s skin felt damp under his fingers. His eyes had taken on that shadowed look that Draco was beginning to associate with the end of the week. Harry’s breathing hitched again.
“Still moving?” Draco asked.
Harry nodded jerkily. “The more he moves, the… more it hurts. Always like this.”
Draco touched Harry’s forehead, and his lover suddenly opened his eyes and took a quick breath. His eyes roved Draco’s body. “I… Draco, do you want me to…”
He found a half-smile somewhere and shook his head. “Not much use anymore.”
Harry lay back with a groan. “Tomorrow, Draco. I promise.”
Yes, tomorrow. He frowned, listening to Harry’s shallow breathing. Tomorrow they would most likely finish what was started; Harry’s weekly dose would be fresh enough for the next four nights, if they wanted.
* * *
The hardwood creaked under Draco’s bare feet. He padded down the hall, and the silence of the house folded itself around him. He could feel the cool plaster of the wall beneath his fingertips. The air was almost too cold down his bare back, shifting over his arms and prickling the hairs there.
Ivory-blue light spilled in jagged stripes across the hallway from the bathroom doorway, lending a strange, ethereal glow to the room beyond. Draco’s fingers found the smooth rise of the doorjamb, and for just an instant, he paused, uncertain of his footing. The tiles in the shower shone under the bright moonlight from outside, and the mirror gleamed, a large, dark hole in the wall. Draco shut his eyes, opened them, and stepped over the threshold.
The tiny cupboard door opened with a squeal that grated on his ears. Draco rubbed at the back of his neck.
Three potions.
He could almost hear the Healer’s voice cascading off the cold tile in the milky moonlight. Pay special attention to the scent of each. The knowledge will become invaluable to you.
Draco lifted his left hand and stared at the three tiny bottles there. Almost without conscious thought, he uncorked the first vial and raised it to his nose, sniffing delicately. Years of potions classes had taught him the dangers of breathing deeply over strange mixtures. A full array of flavors hit his senses, but this time he did not gag, as he had in the Healer’s office. The color was impossible to discern in the odd light, but he remembered dark amber. Opaque.
To be taken on the first night of each month.
Draco mouthed his own words from weeks ago. Smells like garlic and anise. Predominantly.
Those cover the less inviting odors. The Titus Cirrus Elixir, after the man who first developed it. It’s meant to supplement the second potion.
He rolled the second vial between his fingers. Long, and rosy pink. To be taken on a weekly basis, on the same day, within the same two hours, as the week before.
He remembered the scent of rose water and fennel.
Unfortunately, it does not taste as good as it smells. Malattia Celi Beta. A mixture from Italy, containing all of the displacement charms and spellwork. A great deal of magic goes into it, and not simply in the potions field.
She’d smiled at him briefly, but then her expression had sobered. The third vial was small and rounded. Coriander. The smell of old leather. Valerian? And… Something that tingled Draco’s nose, threatening to burn through the soft tissues of his throat should he dare to swallow it. He studied the mixture in the darkness. It was the color of tar.
“If all goes well,” he said slowly into the silence. “If all goes well.”
This potion is a final option, should Harry’s body resist the other two. It contains several herbs from China, two of which have not been widely accepted for use, except for this very potion. And there is the Quemadura Root from Chile. Very obscure, very rare, and very potent. It will deaden the body’s natural defense mechanisms long enough for the other two potions to take effect. But understand, Draco, this one is a last resort. In the best of circumstances, I do not intend for Harry to use it. Any usage of this potion will require a subsequent visit from a Healer, and can cause lasting damage to the imbiber. The measurements must be precise.
Draco peered at the innocuous little bottle. It did so resemble the ink he'd used daily in school.
The precise dosage rested there in his palm, and it was all he would receive. Only if Harry were forced to use it… would they receive another.
Draco’s hand squeezed involuntarily around the bottle. He blinked and jerked his arm up, pushing the little vessel into the cupboard. His fingers left the smooth glass of the vial, and the room seemed to tilt, and then right itself.
“What are we doing?” he whispered. His own voice shocked him. He clutched the door of the cupboard, staring at the soft glimmer of light across the two remaining vials in his other hand. The strongest of medicines, potions he hadn’t even imagined the existence of three months ago, were in his home, waiting to be taken by the man he…
Draco frowned. The man he was sleeping with. The man carrying his child.
For a frightening instant, the idea of a child eluded him. Draco felt a shudder rattle through him. “It’s not a sickness, you arse,” he muttered. “There’s a baby there.”
He had felt it – him, Draco reminded himself – move, not hours ago. The tiniest of ripples beneath Harry’s skin, fragile and scarcely there. And these were medicines, there was no other word for them. They would strengthen that delicate movement into a baby. Draco ran a hand over his face, trying to see, really see, but found himself utterly void. There was no connection, no binding tie between those weak flutters and the image of a child; just a vague foggy space he could barely see into.
With an odd shiver, Draco realized his right hand was pressed across his own belly, quaking against the muscles and flesh there.
But for a stroke of… what? His fingers quavered, touching firm, flat expanses of skin and muscle. That night, it had been Harry who bottomed. If just one thing had been different, if instead, he had been the one to—
Draco gave a harsh gasp and scrabbled for the light switch. There was a breathless eternity of moonlight as he clawed at the wall, and then light flooded into his eyes, cruel and yellow. Draco grasped the sink with one hand, the two bottles a solid presence against his left palm, and stared at himself in the mirror. The muscles of his abdomen flexed with each breath, well-defined and familiar. Draco stared. Watched as gooseflesh crawled down his bare arms.
With a jerk, Draco turned from the mirror. He shoved the two vials into the cupboard with shaking fingers and shut the door with a sharp creak, then flicked the light off. The plunging darkness of the hallway unnerved him, and Draco reached for the wall, pressing his palm flat against the cool surface. He made his way slowly, blindly, toward the shadowy bedroom.
...
Part 4
...
...
...
Thanks for reading!