Peregrine

Title: Peregrine
Pairing: Kaufmann/Harry
Summary: Harry looks up at Kaufmann and immediately wishes he hadn’t.
A/N: Note the attack of lazy concerning summary-writing. I wrote this because THERE IS NO HARRY/KAUFMANN ANYWHERE. SRSLY U GAIZ. All I found was some stuff by Zarla (who wins, btw) and this fanfic: http://community.livejournal.com/shslash/33194.html#cutid1. So anyway, I'd set out to write Kaufmann/Harry smut. Something resembling this emerged, but it was all full of emo. Then I got annoyed because while I did like it (who doesn’t like Harry Mason squirming on his knees? >3), I couldn't post it and then later do the story I intended to do in the first place, since it would be exactly the same premise (Kaufmann+Harry+pool table+blowjob=hot). Then I found the aforementioned ONLY Kaufmann/Harry story on teh Intarwebz, and it was exactly the same as the story I was going to write except for characterization (and the blowjob). So I'm just giving the hell up and posting this. Enjoy!

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Harry looks up at Kaufmann and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Kaufmann’s black eyes slide steel through him, pinning him in place with physical force. He cannot help but compare those eyes to those of a raptor and squeezes his own shut against them, focusing instead on the whitening darkness behind his lids.

(it’s snowing, at this time of year)

This is like reading the lyrics of a song he doesn’t know the melody to. This is like the eyes of naked mole rats, filmed over with skin. He’s on his knees before a sharp-gazed falcon in black and white, and there is no love, no beloved, only another man’s cock bulging his throat and treacherous lust heating him up from the inside. He’s down on his knees and penetrated in a way that should (does) disgust him but instead just makes him quiver, makes him ache with hot desire and ashy shame that feed on each other until he can’t tell which came first or which makes him harder. If Kaufmann relaxes back against the pool table, edges one leg forward, he might not be able to resist rocking against it like an animal.

But he doesn’t think to touch himself. That would be too intimate. There is no room for mutual pleasure here, in this thing which is strictly business. A transaction, simply: do this for me, and I’ll use all my power to help you find her.

(little girl, short, black hair, about seven years old)

There is no room to think of this man as Michael.

But Harry still shivers and moans, still softly sobs his frustration, and Kaufmann purrs at the vibrations he sends through his flesh. Vague half-thoughts, half-hopes of stop, get up, hot kisses, legs wound around tight and body jolting with Kaufmann’s thrusts chase fervently through his mind; his nonverbal pleas fill the silence further. Maybe he will decide to take pity on him, decide that his ass will be better than his mouth, decide to reward his good behavior, anything that involves touching him in even a cursory way. It’s ridiculous. It’s completely ridiculous to think that this bird of prey would know either pity or mercy, but still Harry whimpers out his muffled cries because he just can’t stop.

One severe black shoe presses hard and sudden between his legs. It’s authoritative and inexorable and it hurts and he likes it far, far too much. He mewls, unable to beg with words. His hips buck into it against his will.

Kaufmann abruptly pulls out of his throat, gagging him, to spill into his mouth with a thick groan. The coarseness of the sound surprises him, inflames him unbearably, as does the salt-sweet-bitter taste of the hot sticky fluid gushing over his tongue. There’s more of it than the other man’s perfect composure led him to believe there would be, a lot more, and he sucks hard and struggles to swallow it all. Some dribbles from the corners of his mouth; he feels himself leaking in response, spreading wet over the front of his pants, and cannot hold back a whine. He resists the urge to lick his lips when it finally stops and instead wipes them on his sleeve. Kaufmann doesn’t see this, thankfully—Harry finally opens his eyes again to see him with his head thrown back, out of breath, bracing himself with trembling arms on the rough green table. An abnormal wave of vicious satisfaction washes through him, see, you bastard, you’re not so great, such a goddamn statue, but at the same time stronger lust steals his own lungs empty. The heat coiled sinuous in his gut, impossibly, twists even tighter until he honestly thinks he’s going to die.

He climbs awkwardly to his feet, wincing at how knitting needles spike in the hollows of his knees—he’s not used to kneeling on hard floors like that, he’s not as young as he used to be. His jaw is painfully stiff, too. His throat feels raw. His lips are swollen and numb and they tingle faintly, like they’ve been stung by wasps until venom took its own pain away. He’s aware that he’s panting, his eyes hooded and dark with desire, acutely aware of the wet staining through his pants; he knows he must look like a total fool, a whore, a slut, but he’s so hard it hurts and all he can think of is to beg Kaufmann for another deal. Please, touch me, fuck me, anything, I’ll do anything… The words start and die in that falcon’s gaze, hard and black and glassy, comforting as cold obsidian. He has groomed himself monochrome in moments, immaculate again, like nothing ever happened. The look in his eyes is one of faint contempt.

And then he’s gone and Harry is left alone in ruined old Annie’s Bar, need eating raw at his flesh and despair pulling him down like famine. He wonders what he could have said to make him stay.


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