& look ma, I can [build] ships
title: foretold the rest
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
fandom: HP
rating: adult
characters/pairings: Harry/Oliver
word count: 637
notes: one of those things that's been hanging around in my notebook. experimental, non-canon compliant & entirely self-indulgent futurefic. inspired by 'The Wasteland.' God bless you, T.S. Eliot.
He comes home in the evening and feeds Crookshanks. (Ron wouldn’t take the cat, couldn’t even look at him after...not after…) He puts up the milk and the tins of cat food and the bread. Makes himself two pieces of toast and waits.
Oliver never makes him wait very long. Sometimes Harry thinks the man has nothing better to do than show up at his door. He never says such things out loud of course. That would hardly be proper, and Oliver does have his uses after all.
*
They’d run up on each other months ago. (Or was it a year? Harry can never be sure anymore.)
Oliver still playing for Puddlemere, Harry a typist. Yes, The-Boy-Who-Lived is a bloody typist. He answered an advert in The Times and now has a modest income and a place to live. It's all Harry had ever aimed for really. No fame, no notoriety. Nothing.
*
(Really, it all sounded like a good idea at the time.)
*
He sees Oliver at least twice a week, maybe every night if it's the off season. There's a knock, heavy sound of a fist on the flimsy wood of Harry's front door. He pops the lock and Oliver's leaning against the jamb. There's a smirk on his face that was never there in Hogwarts. At first Harry was put off by it, but now...now. It's just another part of the way things are.
Oliver nearly yanks him off his feet. Pushes him back against the door and kisses him deep and dirty. Harry used to blush; it's been a long time since he's had reason to. He waits until Oliver's finished then asks for his coat.
*
Sometimes they go out for dinner, most often though, they don't. The two of them stay in the flat. Oliver says it's better. Harry's too tired to argue, even if he agrees. They sit at the table; Oliver makes it look tiny. His wide shoulders and height somehow seem unreal in the confines of Harry’s small kitchen.
Harry cooks dinner himself, or picks up something from the Indian take-out place two doors down from his flat. He never eats much. Oliver eats enough for both of them, then pulls Harry onto his lap for a round of ‘kiss the cook.’
*
The sex is alright; it's surely consistant. Oliver is like clock-work; once his belly's full he wants a good fuck. Wants to be the one doing the filling. Harry's become accustomed to the press of Oliver behind him while he does the dishes, cock hard against the small of his back. Oliver looms over him. Harry's too familiar with feeling small.
Sometimes they make it to the bedroom - most times, not. It's the couch, the kitchen table, the floor. Oliver never seems to mind where they wind up. Every relatively stable surface is fair game.
Harry locks his ankles behind Oliver’s back when they fuck against the wall, bends over the couch when they stumble into the living room. Lets himself be manhandled into a dozen different positions. He isn't bothered much by location either, but he’s pretty sure his reasoning isn’t the same as Oliver’s. Not at all.
*
(Harry thinks he might be broken.)
*
They don't have pet names. There's no sweet foreplay or pillowtalk afterwards.
More than once Oliver’s reverted to the tried and true ‘baby’ in the middle of things, but Harry’s sure there are at least two others besides himself being called that on a regular basis. More, if Puddlemere isn't playing on their home field. It isn't as if Harry's bothered. He can't, for the life of him, imagine shouting out 'Oh Ollie' while he's got the man's dick so far up his ass he's going to feel it for days.
He wonders if Oliver's ever noticed he never makes a sound.
- end
p.s. like the new layout? bow before the awesomeness of elethoniel, cuz yeah she loves me ;P
p.p.s. *flappy hands* j2_everafter TOMORROW. I WANT MAH PROMPT BEECHES.
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
fandom: HP
rating: adult
characters/pairings: Harry/Oliver
word count: 637
notes: one of those things that's been hanging around in my notebook. experimental, non-canon compliant & entirely self-indulgent futurefic. inspired by 'The Wasteland.' God bless you, T.S. Eliot.
He comes home in the evening and feeds Crookshanks. (Ron wouldn’t take the cat, couldn’t even look at him after...not after…) He puts up the milk and the tins of cat food and the bread. Makes himself two pieces of toast and waits.
Oliver never makes him wait very long. Sometimes Harry thinks the man has nothing better to do than show up at his door. He never says such things out loud of course. That would hardly be proper, and Oliver does have his uses after all.
*
They’d run up on each other months ago. (Or was it a year? Harry can never be sure anymore.)
Oliver still playing for Puddlemere, Harry a typist. Yes, The-Boy-Who-Lived is a bloody typist. He answered an advert in The Times and now has a modest income and a place to live. It's all Harry had ever aimed for really. No fame, no notoriety. Nothing.
*
(Really, it all sounded like a good idea at the time.)
*
He sees Oliver at least twice a week, maybe every night if it's the off season. There's a knock, heavy sound of a fist on the flimsy wood of Harry's front door. He pops the lock and Oliver's leaning against the jamb. There's a smirk on his face that was never there in Hogwarts. At first Harry was put off by it, but now...now. It's just another part of the way things are.
Oliver nearly yanks him off his feet. Pushes him back against the door and kisses him deep and dirty. Harry used to blush; it's been a long time since he's had reason to. He waits until Oliver's finished then asks for his coat.
*
Sometimes they go out for dinner, most often though, they don't. The two of them stay in the flat. Oliver says it's better. Harry's too tired to argue, even if he agrees. They sit at the table; Oliver makes it look tiny. His wide shoulders and height somehow seem unreal in the confines of Harry’s small kitchen.
Harry cooks dinner himself, or picks up something from the Indian take-out place two doors down from his flat. He never eats much. Oliver eats enough for both of them, then pulls Harry onto his lap for a round of ‘kiss the cook.’
*
The sex is alright; it's surely consistant. Oliver is like clock-work; once his belly's full he wants a good fuck. Wants to be the one doing the filling. Harry's become accustomed to the press of Oliver behind him while he does the dishes, cock hard against the small of his back. Oliver looms over him. Harry's too familiar with feeling small.
Sometimes they make it to the bedroom - most times, not. It's the couch, the kitchen table, the floor. Oliver never seems to mind where they wind up. Every relatively stable surface is fair game.
Harry locks his ankles behind Oliver’s back when they fuck against the wall, bends over the couch when they stumble into the living room. Lets himself be manhandled into a dozen different positions. He isn't bothered much by location either, but he’s pretty sure his reasoning isn’t the same as Oliver’s. Not at all.
*
(Harry thinks he might be broken.)
*
They don't have pet names. There's no sweet foreplay or pillowtalk afterwards.
More than once Oliver’s reverted to the tried and true ‘baby’ in the middle of things, but Harry’s sure there are at least two others besides himself being called that on a regular basis. More, if Puddlemere isn't playing on their home field. It isn't as if Harry's bothered. He can't, for the life of him, imagine shouting out 'Oh Ollie' while he's got the man's dick so far up his ass he's going to feel it for days.
He wonders if Oliver's ever noticed he never makes a sound.
- end
p.s. like the new layout? bow before the awesomeness of elethoniel, cuz yeah she loves me ;P
p.p.s. *flappy hands* j2_everafter TOMORROW. I WANT MAH PROMPT BEECHES.