Monochrome - R - Harry/Draco
Title: Monochrome
Author: poetic_licence
Rating: R
Summary: A forbidden encounter caught between the moon and all the shades of grey. Instalment #1 of the Monochrome Series
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and other trademarks are © by JK Rowling, Little Literacy Agency, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, Arthur A. Levine, & Warner Brothers. No profit is being made, it's all good clean fun. Really.
Monochrome
You’d dig your blunt nails into my thighs as they wrapped themselves around your hips as you pressed my back into the stone wall behind me with such force that I thought that you’d broken it this time.
I’d never think it right then of course, it would always be later, examining the bruises in the shower alone; right then I would be too busy loosing myself in the expanse of your mouth; tangling my protests up in your tongue for a better day that never came.
I’d mew helplessly, arching my back against and with your advances, in two minds about your mouth, your skin, the empty classroom, my aching need, what was right, what was proper. You and me, it certainly wasn’t proper, but it felt good at the time.
And it felt better the next.
And the next.
And the next time after that.
Until we were the best, tugging and waning with the moons pull, in the depths of 2am when the moonlight was hazy and there were no interruptions. There was no Quidditch, no classes, no houses, no Snape, no McGonagall, no Ron, no Gregory, no Hermione, no Pansy, no Neville, no Vincent.
Just you and me, delighting in each others forbidden skin, like a cool reality that would steal away again as soon as the light touched it, splattered Mercury clinging to itself in a quicksilver motion that only it could ever truly understand. You were like poetry under my fingertips, you lived and breathed, you were harsh and mean, indifferent during the day and oh-so-willing at night.
Your curves were sharp under my tongue, and I would trace your velvet taste with everything that I had inside of me. You were hot and cold, blazing and calm; you would wrap yourself up in your henchman to maintain your façade to the world; I would unwrap you at night and trace your lines of strength and claim you in small significance. You in your kingdom in the sky, me in my hut on the ground. I was so unworthy. You were my God.
And as you lowered me to the floor claiming me as your own, I realised that perhaps I really could see myself in you, that you could complete me, fill me, empty me again. Fill the void. Drain the pity. Controversial, conversational, completely forbidden.
This pleasure we shared should have been outlawed, written down in texts thousands of years ago, long before us, it should have been painstakingly chiselled into a tome and placed somewhere where people would flock to see it, "Thou Shall Not…"
It should have been tattooed on our bare skin that would not disappear with scrubbing and scratching and sweat. And my god you tasted like rainbows, your tongue dragging the storm and hail out of me until it poured out of every crevice that you knew by heart. You would never hold me long afterwards, our breath still heavy, two figures moulded together, pale on dark, black on white.
Did I ever tell you my favourite thing in the world was grey? Not a colour. Just a monochrome, filling a spectrum that included the silver-grey sweater, school ties, charcoal that I used to etch the memory of your body, etching it between my sheets that are so lonely without you.
You dress quickly, your hurry evident as you retreat back to your own world to rebuild your mask of indifference that never seems to slip, that holds itself in place with no uncertainty. I watch you grimly stride away, mouth bruised, and I dress carelessly, my crumpled self evident in the nearly full moon’s watchful cycloptic eye.
I never thought I’d fall this hard for you. Why aren’t you falling too, I ask to your retreating back, my shadow the only thing to hear it.
Why aren’t you falling too Harry?
- finished -
Author: poetic_licence
Rating: R
Summary: A forbidden encounter caught between the moon and all the shades of grey. Instalment #1 of the Monochrome Series
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and other trademarks are © by JK Rowling, Little Literacy Agency, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, Arthur A. Levine, & Warner Brothers. No profit is being made, it's all good clean fun. Really.
Monochrome
You’d dig your blunt nails into my thighs as they wrapped themselves around your hips as you pressed my back into the stone wall behind me with such force that I thought that you’d broken it this time.
I’d never think it right then of course, it would always be later, examining the bruises in the shower alone; right then I would be too busy loosing myself in the expanse of your mouth; tangling my protests up in your tongue for a better day that never came.
I’d mew helplessly, arching my back against and with your advances, in two minds about your mouth, your skin, the empty classroom, my aching need, what was right, what was proper. You and me, it certainly wasn’t proper, but it felt good at the time.
And it felt better the next.
And the next.
And the next time after that.
Until we were the best, tugging and waning with the moons pull, in the depths of 2am when the moonlight was hazy and there were no interruptions. There was no Quidditch, no classes, no houses, no Snape, no McGonagall, no Ron, no Gregory, no Hermione, no Pansy, no Neville, no Vincent.
Just you and me, delighting in each others forbidden skin, like a cool reality that would steal away again as soon as the light touched it, splattered Mercury clinging to itself in a quicksilver motion that only it could ever truly understand. You were like poetry under my fingertips, you lived and breathed, you were harsh and mean, indifferent during the day and oh-so-willing at night.
Your curves were sharp under my tongue, and I would trace your velvet taste with everything that I had inside of me. You were hot and cold, blazing and calm; you would wrap yourself up in your henchman to maintain your façade to the world; I would unwrap you at night and trace your lines of strength and claim you in small significance. You in your kingdom in the sky, me in my hut on the ground. I was so unworthy. You were my God.
And as you lowered me to the floor claiming me as your own, I realised that perhaps I really could see myself in you, that you could complete me, fill me, empty me again. Fill the void. Drain the pity. Controversial, conversational, completely forbidden.
This pleasure we shared should have been outlawed, written down in texts thousands of years ago, long before us, it should have been painstakingly chiselled into a tome and placed somewhere where people would flock to see it, "Thou Shall Not…"
It should have been tattooed on our bare skin that would not disappear with scrubbing and scratching and sweat. And my god you tasted like rainbows, your tongue dragging the storm and hail out of me until it poured out of every crevice that you knew by heart. You would never hold me long afterwards, our breath still heavy, two figures moulded together, pale on dark, black on white.
Did I ever tell you my favourite thing in the world was grey? Not a colour. Just a monochrome, filling a spectrum that included the silver-grey sweater, school ties, charcoal that I used to etch the memory of your body, etching it between my sheets that are so lonely without you.
You dress quickly, your hurry evident as you retreat back to your own world to rebuild your mask of indifference that never seems to slip, that holds itself in place with no uncertainty. I watch you grimly stride away, mouth bruised, and I dress carelessly, my crumpled self evident in the nearly full moon’s watchful cycloptic eye.
I never thought I’d fall this hard for you. Why aren’t you falling too, I ask to your retreating back, my shadow the only thing to hear it.
Why aren’t you falling too Harry?
- finished -