Fic: No Surprises (five ways Harry Potter never told Draco Malfoy he loved him)
So it's two thirty in the morning, and I'm awake because one of the disadvantages of living across from a lovely park is that on weekends it is an ideal place for drunken yahoos to do their drunken yahoo-ing. One of the advantages of living across from the park is that I get a perverse pleasure from calling the police on drunken yahoos having fisticuffs in front of my window.
So anyway. I don't know why late = filth (poetic filth, but it's still very porny), but it does. That, and I wanted Sally to have something that would melt her pants off first thing in the morning.
Please to be ignoring the fact that I can't write anything other than H/D anymore. :P
Title: No Suprises (five ways Harry Potter never told Draco Malfoy he loved him)
Author: justholdstill
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Words: 998
Warnings: Underage Sex (but only in the first section), slightly AU
Summary: It’s the middle of a long July, just when the heat is the worst, when in the dusk the cicadas call and the fireflies spark across the swimming hole, when the air shimmers with unseen humidity and smells sweet and cloying, the result of too many flowers withering in a dry spell. Harry’s two weeks from being eighteen, which makes him too young to be doing this - too young to be drunk on cheap champagne stolen from the back of Mrs. Weasley’s larder, and too young to be sucking off Draco Malfoy under the lilac bush in the lane.
No Surprises
i.
It’s the middle of a long July, just when the heat is the worst, when in the dusk the cicadas call and the fireflies spark across the swimming hole, when the air shimmers with unseen humidity and smells sweet and cloying, the result of too many flowers withering in a dry spell. Harry’s two weeks from being eighteen, which makes him too young to be doing this - too young to be drunk on cheap champagne stolen from the back of Mrs. Weasley’s larder, and too young to be sucking off Draco Malfoy under the lilac bush in the lane. He feels dizzy and swollen, so it’s probably a good thing they’re lying down, and powerful, because even though Draco’s trying to be quiet he’s not doing a very good job of stifling his moans.
He’s never done this before. Everything about it is awkward and unfamiliar - the taste of another boy, the way his cheeks go concave as his mouth slides up and down Draco’s cock, the way he has to arrange his body, and lean up on his elbows to accomplish his task. There are pebbles digging sharply into his knees, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, until at last Draco gives a broken moan, and collapses back against the grass, shaking from his orgasm.
Harry doesn’t quite know how to swallow, so he spits discreetly instead, and wipes his mouth on Draco’s trousers.
Draco doesn’t look at him afterward, or return the favour, and Harry tells himself he’s not disappointed until the next evening, when Draco corners him coming out of the broom shed and tells him it’s his turn.
ii.
He doesn’t think Draco hates him, exactly, but Harry also doesn’t think Draco likes him enough for them to be doing what they’re doing. Some part of Harry still thinks you should at least like someone to be having sex with them (if sex is what you call what they do), and Draco still calls him names, and refers to him as “Potter”, and Harry has a sneaking suspicion that if it came down to it, Draco wouldn’t think twice about hexing him into oblivion.
There’s another part of Harry that worries maybe he enjoys this too much - not just getting off, but who he’s getting off with - and it’s probably true. When everyone else has gone to bed, and Draco is on his knees, and Harry’s jeans are unceremoniously around his ankles, and he’s got a splinter in his bum from being pressed up against the side of the house, Harry threads his fingers through Draco’s hair and thinks that he likes the way the colour looks against his fingers.
Once, just before Harry comes, Draco looks up at him and gives this wicked, knowing little smile, and that’s when Harry’s certain he’s in trouble.
iii.
And then there’s the time Draco breaks his wrist during a pick-up game of Quidditch, and Mrs. Weasley makes him drink a whole goblet of Skele-Gro and stay in bed for a whole day and night. Malfoy snaps at everybody, even at Ginny when she comes in to keep him company, but he looks as miserable as he acts, and against his will Harry feels sorry enough for him that he crawls into his bed that night, and when he slides his cold hand into Draco’s pyjama trousers, he finds him hard and leaking, as if he’d been waiting for Harry all along.
Draco’s still not very good at being quiet, but Harry’s getting better at using his mouth to stifle the noises Draco makes.
iv.
(He does say it, once, but he’s a coward, and waits until he’s almost certain Draco’s asleep; even then, he only whispers it against his shoulder, and then escapes back to Ron’s room. Harry lies awake the whole night, and listens to Ron snore. Malfoy drops scrambled eggs down the back of Harry’s shirt at breakfast, so Harry thinks he’s probably safe.)
v.
It’s September now, and for the first time since they were twelve, the Hogwarts Express is steaming through the Scottish countryside without them. The warmth of summer lingers, but there’s something else in the air now, too, a hint of the coolness to come, a hint of change on the wind that seems to soften Draco’s intentions toward Harry.
Harry’s used to this, and he isn’t. It occurs to Harry that he knows Draco now more than he has ever known anyone, and despite that he can navigate Draco’s body as if he were a blind man and it was Braille, he is constantly startled by the new things they try, and that he lets Draco do to him, like now, when he has Harry on his hands and knees on the bed; his fingers are slick and so is his tongue. He’s found his way into Harry’s body the same way he found his way into Harry’s heart; he’s persuasive and charming when he wants to be, and gentle, and he seems to know all the spots that make Harry the weakest. That, thinks Harry, his head swimming with lust, is the chief advantage of having your childhood enemy as a lover.
He’s not ready to have Draco fuck him, not yet, isn’t ready to let Draco bend him over his trunk or shove him up against the wall, but he’s close, and the fingers that stroke and slide so neatly into his arse are pushing him ever closer to the precipice of being ready. It’s when Draco bites his hip, and hisses something against his lower back that might be his name (not Scarhead, not Potter, but Harry) that Harry jolts forward, and comes all over the blanket; it’s when he’s lying on his stomach with the taste of Draco in his mouth that it occurs to Harry that he’ll let Draco do anything he wants.
And that he really isn’t safe, anymore.
Fin
ETA: listening to Patrick Wolf sing the word "aviary" makes me happy in my pants.
So anyway. I don't know why late = filth (poetic filth, but it's still very porny), but it does. That, and I wanted Sally to have something that would melt her pants off first thing in the morning.
Please to be ignoring the fact that I can't write anything other than H/D anymore. :P
Title: No Suprises (five ways Harry Potter never told Draco Malfoy he loved him)
Author: justholdstill
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Words: 998
Warnings: Underage Sex (but only in the first section), slightly AU
Summary: It’s the middle of a long July, just when the heat is the worst, when in the dusk the cicadas call and the fireflies spark across the swimming hole, when the air shimmers with unseen humidity and smells sweet and cloying, the result of too many flowers withering in a dry spell. Harry’s two weeks from being eighteen, which makes him too young to be doing this - too young to be drunk on cheap champagne stolen from the back of Mrs. Weasley’s larder, and too young to be sucking off Draco Malfoy under the lilac bush in the lane.
No Surprises
i.
It’s the middle of a long July, just when the heat is the worst, when in the dusk the cicadas call and the fireflies spark across the swimming hole, when the air shimmers with unseen humidity and smells sweet and cloying, the result of too many flowers withering in a dry spell. Harry’s two weeks from being eighteen, which makes him too young to be doing this - too young to be drunk on cheap champagne stolen from the back of Mrs. Weasley’s larder, and too young to be sucking off Draco Malfoy under the lilac bush in the lane. He feels dizzy and swollen, so it’s probably a good thing they’re lying down, and powerful, because even though Draco’s trying to be quiet he’s not doing a very good job of stifling his moans.
He’s never done this before. Everything about it is awkward and unfamiliar - the taste of another boy, the way his cheeks go concave as his mouth slides up and down Draco’s cock, the way he has to arrange his body, and lean up on his elbows to accomplish his task. There are pebbles digging sharply into his knees, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, until at last Draco gives a broken moan, and collapses back against the grass, shaking from his orgasm.
Harry doesn’t quite know how to swallow, so he spits discreetly instead, and wipes his mouth on Draco’s trousers.
Draco doesn’t look at him afterward, or return the favour, and Harry tells himself he’s not disappointed until the next evening, when Draco corners him coming out of the broom shed and tells him it’s his turn.
ii.
He doesn’t think Draco hates him, exactly, but Harry also doesn’t think Draco likes him enough for them to be doing what they’re doing. Some part of Harry still thinks you should at least like someone to be having sex with them (if sex is what you call what they do), and Draco still calls him names, and refers to him as “Potter”, and Harry has a sneaking suspicion that if it came down to it, Draco wouldn’t think twice about hexing him into oblivion.
There’s another part of Harry that worries maybe he enjoys this too much - not just getting off, but who he’s getting off with - and it’s probably true. When everyone else has gone to bed, and Draco is on his knees, and Harry’s jeans are unceremoniously around his ankles, and he’s got a splinter in his bum from being pressed up against the side of the house, Harry threads his fingers through Draco’s hair and thinks that he likes the way the colour looks against his fingers.
Once, just before Harry comes, Draco looks up at him and gives this wicked, knowing little smile, and that’s when Harry’s certain he’s in trouble.
iii.
And then there’s the time Draco breaks his wrist during a pick-up game of Quidditch, and Mrs. Weasley makes him drink a whole goblet of Skele-Gro and stay in bed for a whole day and night. Malfoy snaps at everybody, even at Ginny when she comes in to keep him company, but he looks as miserable as he acts, and against his will Harry feels sorry enough for him that he crawls into his bed that night, and when he slides his cold hand into Draco’s pyjama trousers, he finds him hard and leaking, as if he’d been waiting for Harry all along.
Draco’s still not very good at being quiet, but Harry’s getting better at using his mouth to stifle the noises Draco makes.
iv.
(He does say it, once, but he’s a coward, and waits until he’s almost certain Draco’s asleep; even then, he only whispers it against his shoulder, and then escapes back to Ron’s room. Harry lies awake the whole night, and listens to Ron snore. Malfoy drops scrambled eggs down the back of Harry’s shirt at breakfast, so Harry thinks he’s probably safe.)
v.
It’s September now, and for the first time since they were twelve, the Hogwarts Express is steaming through the Scottish countryside without them. The warmth of summer lingers, but there’s something else in the air now, too, a hint of the coolness to come, a hint of change on the wind that seems to soften Draco’s intentions toward Harry.
Harry’s used to this, and he isn’t. It occurs to Harry that he knows Draco now more than he has ever known anyone, and despite that he can navigate Draco’s body as if he were a blind man and it was Braille, he is constantly startled by the new things they try, and that he lets Draco do to him, like now, when he has Harry on his hands and knees on the bed; his fingers are slick and so is his tongue. He’s found his way into Harry’s body the same way he found his way into Harry’s heart; he’s persuasive and charming when he wants to be, and gentle, and he seems to know all the spots that make Harry the weakest. That, thinks Harry, his head swimming with lust, is the chief advantage of having your childhood enemy as a lover.
He’s not ready to have Draco fuck him, not yet, isn’t ready to let Draco bend him over his trunk or shove him up against the wall, but he’s close, and the fingers that stroke and slide so neatly into his arse are pushing him ever closer to the precipice of being ready. It’s when Draco bites his hip, and hisses something against his lower back that might be his name (not Scarhead, not Potter, but Harry) that Harry jolts forward, and comes all over the blanket; it’s when he’s lying on his stomach with the taste of Draco in his mouth that it occurs to Harry that he’ll let Draco do anything he wants.
And that he really isn’t safe, anymore.
Fin
ETA: listening to Patrick Wolf sing the word "aviary" makes me happy in my pants.