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Art: Show a little more tooth with your smile. (R)
Title: Show a little more tooth with your smile.
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
calanthe_fics and pink_mint
Characters: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Word count: 657
Created with: Painter X
Warnings: Extreme gore
Summary: One vision imprinted on his brain, and now that he’s seen it he’d embrace blindness because there’s no image left in the world that could make him feel more than this.
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_darkfest 2009, original entry here. Thank you to calanthe_fics for taking my simple concept and manifesting it into words with upmost ideal. Thank you to melusinahp, calanthe_fics, nuclearsugars and hpstrangelove for giving me support and great advice. Additional notes below.
Additional notes: I have two things to say about the making of this. I used only my hand as a reference for Harry's, holding it at that weird angle and then at another angle to capture the right lighting (ah, the beauty of a live model - makes my job easier!). So that was slightly painful yet satisfying, haha. And the other thing I'd like to add is that, as I research everything I do, I was, oh, sufficiently disturbed. I'd found a site that was ... helpful but completely demented. I was nauseous for an entire evening, seriously. Thinking about it, I'm still shocked and appalled. Absolutely am not giving that website out.
I couldn't be more excited by the response it received over athp_darkfest. I expected way less. The idea was mainly fueled by three things: my attraction to mouths, interest in gangs and organized crime and love of the Joker.
I personally think the best dark or the best fright comes from things left to the imagination, things left unseen. This certainly isn't in that category. But I wanted to see what a freshly made Glasgow smile might look like and figure out how on earth to make it as realistic as possible without having a clue.
In his excitement he’s all fingers and thumbs. Hands shaking, diaphragm quaking, he measures the fleshy resistance until the remotest parts of his body prick up and pay an interest, and then a single brutal jerk is all it takes and he’s sliding inside with a smile in his soul.
The electric shock of the inward slice is conducted from one body into the other and back again until the circuit is complete and the power surges around it, binding them into a single explosive being. It’s hot; hotter than his imagination and infectious with the taste of desperation. The red haze of emotion hangs about them, bloated steam over a boiling bath, and when he sticks his tongue out to taste the air it tastes like Shiraz laced with battery acid. The body joined to his is a high octane cocktail, and he imbibes with the fervour of the dehydrated, as grateful as a sick man swallowing his potion.
Hot, pungent, and sticky. Skin glazed with sweat that reeks more of flight than fight, and it matters little which way the balance tips because it won’t dent his ardour: he wants everything, any way he can get it, and he’s going to have it all. He laps the sweat off the corded neck before him, syrupy sour, and feels high frequency vibrations against the flat of his tongue, shrieking out a broadcast that no one but them can hear. It turns him on, this restrained reaction. It makes him harder than ever and hungrier for the fuck: hair-triggered, six gut wrenching spurts away from too fucking soon.
They’re surrounded by a stink of something that’s sexy when it shouldn’t be, reminiscent of seedy trysts and bodies too eager to wash before prick spears anus and rides it hard, sex out the back door and up the alley. He’d put his mouth there now – right on Man’s weakness and lick it out – but there are so many other places to put it, other mouthfuls to suck and tastes to memorise.
He can’t help but stare; one vision imprinted on his brain, and now that he’s seen it he’d embrace blindness because there’s no image left in the world that could make him feel more than this, strung taut with lust and an overwhelming sense of ownership. Thrum of surrender against his fingertips, cranking up to overload. Heaviness in his balls, ripe to overflowing. Feather-light brush of ecstasy caressing his brains and his heart.
One kiss: one chaste brush of lips against this wet cheek. One heart-stopping moment of victory – of pride in his craftsmanship, his creation. He worships on the fleshy slab of this most worthy altar, as hearts hammer and blood pumps and fingers and cocks chafe penetrable barriers.
He’ll always be the Chosen One to someone. He’s the one who conquers monsters and saves countries while all around him hold their breath and wait, quiet, small, eager to be overlooked. But Harry doesn’t wait for any man any more. His patience with the natural order of things has run out. For him, the task of taking a dour man and making him smile should be less than the effort it takes to get out of bed. But to make this man smile forever takes inspiration and bravery, finesse and a desire for every consequence, however base or crude. He wants it all; all he’s done is make sure he’s guaranteed to get it.
And now the face that tempts him in dreams is perfect, etched for everyone to see and to admire, its beauty revealed to anyone with eyes opened wide enough to see the man beneath.
Together they are more than the sum of their parts. Now they are bonded in blood pure enough to wash away all sins: no perpetrators, no victims. Lovers, bonded by bloody games and the silvered tracery they leave behind.
Now they’re a legend in black, white, and red.
Author/Artist:
calanthe_fics and pink_mintCharacters: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Word count: 657
Created with: Painter X
Warnings: Extreme gore
Summary: One vision imprinted on his brain, and now that he’s seen it he’d embrace blindness because there’s no image left in the world that could make him feel more than this.
Notes: For
hp_darkfest 2009, original entry here. Thank you to calanthe_fics for taking my simple concept and manifesting it into words with upmost ideal. Thank you to melusinahp, calanthe_fics, nuclearsugars and hpstrangelove for giving me support and great advice. Additional notes below.Additional notes: I have two things to say about the making of this. I used only my hand as a reference for Harry's, holding it at that weird angle and then at another angle to capture the right lighting (ah, the beauty of a live model - makes my job easier!). So that was slightly painful yet satisfying, haha. And the other thing I'd like to add is that, as I research everything I do, I was, oh, sufficiently disturbed. I'd found a site that was ... helpful but completely demented. I was nauseous for an entire evening, seriously. Thinking about it, I'm still shocked and appalled. Absolutely am not giving that website out.
I couldn't be more excited by the response it received over at
hp_darkfest. I expected way less. The idea was mainly fueled by three things: my attraction to mouths, interest in gangs and organized crime and love of the Joker.I personally think the best dark or the best fright comes from things left to the imagination, things left unseen. This certainly isn't in that category. But I wanted to see what a freshly made Glasgow smile might look like and figure out how on earth to make it as realistic as possible without having a clue.
In his excitement he’s all fingers and thumbs. Hands shaking, diaphragm quaking, he measures the fleshy resistance until the remotest parts of his body prick up and pay an interest, and then a single brutal jerk is all it takes and he’s sliding inside with a smile in his soul.
The electric shock of the inward slice is conducted from one body into the other and back again until the circuit is complete and the power surges around it, binding them into a single explosive being. It’s hot; hotter than his imagination and infectious with the taste of desperation. The red haze of emotion hangs about them, bloated steam over a boiling bath, and when he sticks his tongue out to taste the air it tastes like Shiraz laced with battery acid. The body joined to his is a high octane cocktail, and he imbibes with the fervour of the dehydrated, as grateful as a sick man swallowing his potion.
Hot, pungent, and sticky. Skin glazed with sweat that reeks more of flight than fight, and it matters little which way the balance tips because it won’t dent his ardour: he wants everything, any way he can get it, and he’s going to have it all. He laps the sweat off the corded neck before him, syrupy sour, and feels high frequency vibrations against the flat of his tongue, shrieking out a broadcast that no one but them can hear. It turns him on, this restrained reaction. It makes him harder than ever and hungrier for the fuck: hair-triggered, six gut wrenching spurts away from too fucking soon.
They’re surrounded by a stink of something that’s sexy when it shouldn’t be, reminiscent of seedy trysts and bodies too eager to wash before prick spears anus and rides it hard, sex out the back door and up the alley. He’d put his mouth there now – right on Man’s weakness and lick it out – but there are so many other places to put it, other mouthfuls to suck and tastes to memorise.
He can’t help but stare; one vision imprinted on his brain, and now that he’s seen it he’d embrace blindness because there’s no image left in the world that could make him feel more than this, strung taut with lust and an overwhelming sense of ownership. Thrum of surrender against his fingertips, cranking up to overload. Heaviness in his balls, ripe to overflowing. Feather-light brush of ecstasy caressing his brains and his heart.
One kiss: one chaste brush of lips against this wet cheek. One heart-stopping moment of victory – of pride in his craftsmanship, his creation. He worships on the fleshy slab of this most worthy altar, as hearts hammer and blood pumps and fingers and cocks chafe penetrable barriers.
He’ll always be the Chosen One to someone. He’s the one who conquers monsters and saves countries while all around him hold their breath and wait, quiet, small, eager to be overlooked. But Harry doesn’t wait for any man any more. His patience with the natural order of things has run out. For him, the task of taking a dour man and making him smile should be less than the effort it takes to get out of bed. But to make this man smile forever takes inspiration and bravery, finesse and a desire for every consequence, however base or crude. He wants it all; all he’s done is make sure he’s guaranteed to get it.
And now the face that tempts him in dreams is perfect, etched for everyone to see and to admire, its beauty revealed to anyone with eyes opened wide enough to see the man beneath.
Together they are more than the sum of their parts. Now they are bonded in blood pure enough to wash away all sins: no perpetrators, no victims. Lovers, bonded by bloody games and the silvered tracery they leave behind.
Now they’re a legend in black, white, and red.
no subject
Well done. I have goosebumps.
no subject