Natt (nattish) wrote,

  • Mood:
  • Music:

FIC: What Boys Do Together

I wish I understood why it is easier for me to write in present tense. It flows, I suppose. All those –ed endings are so clunky. This I wanted to be in past, so I ended up first writing it in present, and then going back and changing all the verbs.

Anyway, I sat down to finally write my bottom_draco fic, and this came out. I silly.


What Boys Do Together
By Natt


At bath time Dudley insisted that Harry should have to sponge his back, and from all the chasing and fighting at school it was grimy with dried sweat. Harry gagged but did as he was told. He sat on the edge of the tub and watched the flecks of dirt roll off with the sponge, until the water was dense and gray.

He tried not to touch Dudley's skin, though he was hardly ever allowed to touch anyone, because Dudley was ugly and probably felt as slimy as he looked. Dudley probably would not want to be touched by a freak anyway—Harry resented that. Then he thought he would like to touch Dudley's skin after all, just to see what it would be like and maybe to infuriate him, but he only looked and wrinkled his nose at his cousin's boyish smells.

He didn't wish to notice that Dudley already had thin wisps of hair on his private area. That made him jealous. It was no good to be jealous of a fat lump, because even though Harry was not very good looking he still looked a lot better than Dudley, even if his privates were bare and even if his bollocks hadn't descended. Harry tried not to notice that about Dudley either, but he was bathing him and that made it difficult.

It was also difficult not to grab the toy boat Dudley puttered around with and chuck it at his head. Dudley had received it on his tenth birthday. Harry knew the only reason it was intact was that Dudley had seen the way Harry's eyes lit up when he unwrapped it; he knew Harry liked boats, motorbikes, and trains, and Dudley liked Harry to long for things he knew he could never have. Dudley had never played with the boat in the bathtub before. Harry knew this because whenever Dudley took a bath he snuck into Dudley's room to look, not to handle, the boat. It was a beautiful little thing.

He made this a special occasion, just to taunt Harry.

Dudley smirked. "You hate this."

That's pretty obvious, dummy, Harry thought but did not say because he didn’t need a face full of foul water.

Harry had had his leg folded under him for several minutes, resting his bottom on his socked foot. He shifted for comfort. Now he was cross-legged, balanced on the tub's edge.

He washed the piggy shoulders when Dudley told him to do so, both hands moving up and down. He scrubbed hard, fast, and thorough, like he did the dishes; he was surprised the skin didn't peel off and stick to the sponge. Dudley whined no word in particular, a nasal eh, as he hunched over his stomach, face toward the surface of the water, like he had a terrible weight on his shoulders. But Dudley was just lazy. (In contrast, Harry was scrawny and could not weigh more than the boys his cousin liked to pick up and throw off the jungle gym.)

Dudley was so lazy that he drooped down into the now tepid water, his face poking out and his hair hanging, and whined again. That was when Harry realized he was not whining because of the painful sponge, for he could not reach Dudley’s shoulders at this slant.

Dudley's hands were under the water. Though he could not see them clearly, he could see Dudley's arms working, rhythmic, accomplishing something under there. The pudgy face was in a haze, nostrils flaring, lips being licked—pink and polished with saliva, not water. Another whine.

Harry's eyes were big as he questioned Dudley in a tone of wonderment.

"What are you doing?"

His voice was loud in the bathroom, which was silent apart from panting and from water sloshing. Harry felt himself flush, humiliated, a little annoyed by these antics. Dudley should not be doing this—how could he be doing this?—it was wrong; he was ignoring Harry and his discomfort, and even though that was perfectly normal this was entirely different from teasing Harry, chasing him, or beating on him.

"If you don't stop that I'm going to tell Aunt Petunia," Harry said. He had been to church and he knew right from wrong. He didn't want to be blamed if his aunt or uncle happened to walk in right now.

Dudley opened one eye, a tiny spot of blue embedded in flesh. "What?" he said in a drawn out way. He was annoyed. Harry loved it when he was annoyed, but Harry was annoyed too, and he wouldn't stand for this.

"Stop that, I said!" Harry punched Dudley on the shoulder because he had not yet stopped despite Harry's franticness and because his cheeks were coloring further and his throat was making noises.

The haze on Dudley's face was gone, replaced by anger. Dudley didn't like interruptions when he was watching television, playing video games, or eating. Now Harry could add wanking to that list. Wanking. He must have been bright red in the face—it was not appropriate to even think such a word.

"Keep washing me," Dudley said.

Harry felt tingly in his pants, sort of swirly, restless, so of course he didn't listen to Dudley. He threw down the sponge. Water splashed up Dudley's nose. He spluttered.

If he were large enough he would have hauled Dudley right out of there. He could only off the tub and pull on Dudley's arm, as Dudley pulled him in return—Harry shuddered, knowing where those hands had been—pulling with greater force so that finally, after a struggle, Harry relented and stepped into the water, clothes and all, knowing otherwise he would have slipped and cracked his head. Dudley was persuasive when he needed to be, only with his muscles instead of brains.

"What, Dudley? You have to get out now." Harry squatted, ready to spring up when his cousin let go.

For the first time in his life, Dudley looked pensive. It seemed difficult. Then he looked triumphant.

He said, "Do it, too." He nodded toward Harry's privates.


"Do it with me."

If he didn't know Dudley was trying to slither out of trouble, Harry would have thought he was out of his gourd.

"Go on," Dudley said. "It's fun." Then he lifted most of his body out of the water, trying to prove it. He waggled his penis at Harry, who had to shield his eyes from wet flecks. "Go on."

Harry did not think he had been swayed by his cousin, but the sight of the water pouring off his body and his hand holding...that, swollen and red unlike anything Harry had seen in his whole nine years, was fascinating. Harry was naturally curious.

He touched the tip.

"No, you pouf," Dudley cried, scooting backward. The whole tub of water lurched. "Touch your own."

Harry looked down at his little bulge. The toy boat floated by and bumped it.

Neither Aunt Petunia nor Uncle Vernon had told him anything about sex or how his body would start to work around puberty, and he had no friends, so his only option had been to read the leaflet he found in the school library. It told him about growing up: the way different hair and goops would come out of him, the way he would be able to impregnate girls, the way he might have desires at inappropriate times but that it was all right because the same thing happened to all other boys as well and he shouldn’t be ashamed.

The leaflet did not say anything about touching himself. He realized he had no idea what to do.

But he would not let Dudley show him up.

Harry was sitting on Dudley's legs because Dudley took up the entire tub. They twitched sporadically under him, so he pressed one hand down on them as he tried to focus. He did not need to unzip his trousers to put his hand down there; once upon a time these were Dudley's and that meant they would not fit Harry properly until...well, Harry could count that far. Even if he could, he did not think he would want to anymore, as he was squeezing himself now, mimicking Dudley's blurred underwater movements, and he had not quite felt this way ever. Not ever.

They had probably read the words wrong at church—he knew he’d read words wrong at school before—because this could not possibly be wrong. If it were true that God invented everything, then the bloke probably did this himself.

Dudley was letting him in on something, just for now. Just to keep him quiet, but still Harry was doing something with another boy—not for or to or near but with. Even if the other boy was Dudley, it was something new, exciting him, and he tugged faster to keep up. He could do this too! Water lapped around his waist. He had to grasp the edge of the tub or he might have thrown himself out of it with the momentum he gathered up in his shoulders, legs, and pelvis.

"We do this at school behind the hedges," Dudley murmured. Harry thought he meant with his friends because he certainly couldn't recall doing this.

Harry had played with it, but never so long that it stood up on its own, and he found himself wishing he were as knowledgeable about this as his cousin. For once, he wanted Dudley to talk to him and tell him all about everything—Dudley must have known a lot if he could make himself feel like this and get any toy he wanted and have all the friends on the entire planet. Harry sure had been missing out.

Aunt Petunia would murder Harry for getting his clothes wet. It was a strange thing to think about with his hand down his trousers, grasping himself with his cousin right next to him. The trousers stuck to him horrifically. He itched to peel them off, they were in the way, holding him hostage, bulky, horrific, but there was no time, no time left. He couldn't stop now.

He was kneeling, his head pressed onto the slippery porcelain when the world ended for a second, and when it came back he was dizzy and his penis was limp again. He wondered what happened to make that feeling become so strong, and then just go way. It felt funny to touch himself afterward, too sensitive, so much that he didn't think he'd be doing that ever again.

Harry looked up to see that Dudley was spurting a small stream of liquid into the water. He resembled a large pink pastry having its filling squeezed out and its shell left behind. Harry grimaced, knowing he'd be able to do that someday—just one more thing to clean up, he supposed.

Harry was probably dirtier now than when he entered the bathroom. Knowing Aunt Petunia, she would sense it and make him wash off with the hose outside. Dudley would enjoy seeing that.

"I'll get Mum to make you bathe with me next time," said Dudley, his face twisted up like he was half eager and half loving Harry's disgust at where they had ended up.

Harry didn't care that this was something Dudley did with his friends. He didn't want to do it again. He wanted to sleep, and so he slumped with his legs drawn to his chest. His jeans had never felt this heavy, neither had his eyelids, and he thought that it might be okay to nod off here. Just for a few minutes before someone came to check on them.

The leaflet had not told him how tiring growing up would be.

"Now you're not just a freak. You're a perverted freak."

Harry opened his eyes and glared at the stupid, relaxed lump.

Dudley still hated him and he still hated Dudley. And nothing had changed. Harry could not say he was disappointed.

Then there was cloud of warmth and change of color in the water, and Harry realized Dudley had peed.

If Harry were allowed to say naughty words, he would have strung a whole sentence of them together so that Dudley would feel really awful right now. But he only splashed yellow water in Dudley's face and made a run for it, sliding on his socks all the way to his cupboard.

(Published 11/03; Edited 1/09)
Tags: my fics

  • (no subject)

    I'm at my lowest point in life. I'm helpless to improve my situation. I wish I were dead. I'm not suicidal. But I do think that would be easier than…

  • RIP Alan Rickman

    Hey guys. It's a sad day. I was sick in bed, and when I finally emerged from the covers Space Marine greeted me sheepishly with the news about…

  • Crackfic?

    So, how do you distinguish a crackfic from a comedy? I just started writing what I thought was a comedy when the absurdity of the story began to…

  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →

  • (no subject)

    I'm at my lowest point in life. I'm helpless to improve my situation. I wish I were dead. I'm not suicidal. But I do think that would be easier than…

  • RIP Alan Rickman

    Hey guys. It's a sad day. I was sick in bed, and when I finally emerged from the covers Space Marine greeted me sheepishly with the news about…

  • Crackfic?

    So, how do you distinguish a crackfic from a comedy? I just started writing what I thought was a comedy when the absurdity of the story began to…