THURSDAY : SLASH
Hello, everyone. I’m emmatheslayer and today's theme is slash Prompts can be
anything as long as its f/f or m/m as the pairing
Just a few rules:No more than five prompts in a row ( Read more... )
anything as long as its f/f or m/m as the pairing
Just a few rules:No more than five prompts in a row ( Read more... )
“Oh, Malfoy, your father would love this,” Hermione says, sidestepping across the dirty tour-bus floor to pan the camera over the intertwined bodies. “Can I send it to him? Please?”
“’Mione, really,” Neville groans, rolling off Draco to flop gracelessly onto the floor. He’s flushed from the tips of his ears down to his chest-his bare chest, which Hermione has not actually ever seen before this amazing moment, and if the bulge in his boxer briefs had anything to say about the situation, he was not happy to be interrupted.
“Go on, send it to the Minister,” Draco says coolly, using the oft-begrudging nickname he reserved for his estranged father. He leans back on the cramped bus couch, trying for casual and failing-his chest is still heaving, his forehead still sweaty, his ice-blonde hair still plastered to his neck. “If he’s going to have a disappointing gay musician for a son, he might as well have a disappointing gay musician who is fucking a punk rocker for a son. Go big or go home.”
“Draco,” Neville sighs. He sits cross-legged on the floor, running a hand over his buzzed scalp. He’s changed a lot since they were all in school together-no more baby fat, no more brightly-patterned sweaters, no more missing teeth-but he’s still nerdy little Neville Longbottom at heart. No tattoo or piercing or underground record could change that.
Hermione turns the camera off and leans against the doorway. As band manager for the Warthogs, she’s used to surprises-at least once a week, Harry is at the helm of any given argument in the scene and Ron has developed a cult following of teenage girls across the continent. But Neville was always the easy one, the one who lived for the music and stayed away from the drama.
Screwing Draco Malfoy, the lead singer of the alt-rock band Slither, was not a good way to keep drama-free. She’d know, after all-she dated bassist Pansy Parkinson for two months and watched it play out on AbsolutePunk the entire time. It didn’t matter if they all knew each other since childhood-punk rockers and hard rockers were rivals, period.
“So, how long has this been going on?”
“Since Amsterdam,” Draco says, tugging his shirt back on.
“Fuck,” Hermione says through her teeth. That was their second stop on the summer tour. “Does anyone else know?”
“Potter, and probably Zabini,” Draco says. “You’re lucky you caught us before it all came off. Potter wasn’t so fortunate.”
Neville goes bright red again, but as he stands to pull his jeans back on, he leans down to kiss Draco’s forehead-an oddly tender gesture for such a mismatched pair. “And now you know,” he says to Hermione, face serious. “And I know I can trust you.”
Hermione bites her lip, nodding. “Always.” It might be odd, the two of them-she would’ve never guessed. But, what happens on tour tends to stay on tour.
Maybe she’ll go see what Pansy was up to-after all, Draco was right. Go big or go home.
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