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[electricandroid.livejournal.com]

A drabble - I guess. It is an accompanying piece to Eclair - and is called Hands. It is from the point of view of Snape's Hands during the implied threesome scene, hence the confusing P.O.V. You probably should have read Eclair before you tackle this.

Crossposted to: hpslash and thelemontree

Title: Hands
Author: ElectricAndroid
Feedback: adirtymindisaterriblethingtowaste@hotmail.com
Rating: NC17 I guess
Pairing: Severus/Draco/Harry
Summary: This will make little to no sense if you have not read Éclair. This is the interpretation of the threesome scene after it finishes from the point of view of Snape's Hands. Enjoy.
Warnings: Hands.
Spoilers: All five books - to be on the safe side
Author's Note: I suggest you run... far... into the hills... yet again. It's Frulie's Fault!
Disclaimer: All the characters represented herein are the property of J.K.
Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Warner Bros. et al. No money is being made and no
copyright infringement is intended.



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Hands
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Slick we slither over corpulent curves, the contrast of the firm wet ripe cherry, and the supple slicked skin of the aristocrat beneath us barely noticeable. We aim to elict reactions - and we succeed. The incessant rhythm of our placement, hand on mouth, hand on cock, and the predetermined patter - the hiccupping breath - the queasy moans - we respond to and surrender. The feel of silk on skin - skin on skin - flesh on flesh and sinking - endless into nothing into darkness, into depth. The catch in the rise and fall of a chest, and the thumping heartbeat beneath the fingers. The sweet cherry slicked lips, and the gentle brushing, misplacement, removal as we touch the hard wooden wand. The pattern and the wave, so similar - and the door slides open.

The bed drops. More texture, more movement more beat. Taunt and tight, rough and calloused, hands meet hands. Eyes are nothing but tools, but we skitter prehensilely over planes, hard and tight. Down and down but never hard enough, and the heaving shows us, tells us. Up and up. Wanting. Less finess, more agrarian splendor, more direct - less polished. In contrast the tongue, wet, warm, and needy, caressing and suckling, juice of cherries, vibrations of keening, lifting, sucking. Hungry.

Hard planes, soft planes sinking - contrast, depth, and warmth. Curving, gliding, caressing, cupping, squeezing, pulling. We stop. Touching. We feel the melding and molding, the thrusting and coupling.

Pull back and push - reposition the hardness and softness under ourselves. Stop. Glide over cornsilk, glide over straw, rough and silken collide - intertwined. Mouths, chapped and needy, both devouring our tips. Pleasure. Drag trails, glossy sleek moisture, across chins, stubble and smooth. Hard and soft. Hedonistic vibrations, heaving, moaning, arching thrusting - contrast and mirror, chaos and order.

Down necks, soft young tautened necks. Arching upwards, always arching, trying to glean as much as possible. Collarbones and corpulence. Clavicles and chests; soft down and hard wire. Pectoral definition. Unblemished smoothness. The beat of hearts in synchronicity. The beat of our own in counterpoint. The muted touch of breath on skin, softly panting, one, both, all. Sobbing, hitching, patterns erratic. The complexity of twoness. The completion.

Onwards to waists, by definition so different. Éclairs, cream and debauchery, and puritan practice, drive and definition. Grip them, turn them, and mould them into the other. Crushing grinding groping we inveigle ourselves betwixt the hardness, and separate. The sensations that we feel indicate acute loss now. They mourn the other.

We silence their lamentation, cautiously, carefully. If there was a time of reckoning, perching on the edge of a precipice, it is now. But the joyful harmonics as we glide over the stiffness - and in this there is little contrast - lead us to believe that we shall continue. Slowly, tantalizingly, up and down and up and down. We move them in counterpoint to the another, but the soft silky down is already arcing upwards, and thrusting, backwards and forwards, and keening and moaning, and grinding, and covers us with silk. We pause.

Urgently we roll the silkiness over. We ghost over subtle curves and shapes, glide into crevasses and withdrawal. We stop. We move the sculpted arm over.

The bed vibrates with the force of the calluses on the smoothness, as it does with the throaty whimper after. We ghost over the defined shoulders, the frustration easing out of them, as they relax under us. The bed keeps on vibrating, as the other hand moves down. We pull it back. Caress the puckered flesh between the orbs with oils. Gently rub, in and out, around, feeling the bearing pressure on our tips. The contractions tell us that we are succeeding. This should be enough.

Carefully we position the litheness, the definition under us, with the corpulence under him. There is pleasure in the bed now, the harmonics of us all moving in accord, hands ghosting over hands, over feet, of chests, beating pounding, caressing, curving pushing, pulling , urging thrusting urgently. Then - completion.

We disentangle ourselves from the flurry of limbs. One hand on cornsilk, one hand on straw, we wait.