Shadow/Light
Title: Shadow/Light
Pairing: Harry/Scorpius
Prompt: Hay en mi corazón furias y penas (In my heart there are furies and sorrows)... -- Quevedo
Words: 389
Rating: R
Warnings: Cross-gen smexing; a naughty word.
Notes: This was written for sortinghatdrabs this week. I'm not usually a fan of cross-gen (with the exception of Draco/Bella or Harry/Sirius) or next-gen, but I thought I'd take a stab at it.
Harry thinks, he's a baby; he thinks James; he thinks Albus, but none of this is true.
Hands tell stories; they are the maps to our lives. The lines that run through them can be traced back to our hearts. Scorpius's hands are not a child's hands. They are not James's hands, long and large-knuckled and clumsily impatient. They are not Albus's hands, petite; soft in odd places and callused in others. They are hands that have been forged by something hot; they have been carved from the muscle of fury and sorrow and steel; they are hard.
His hands are hard, and Harry is hard, and Harry only has a brief moment to wonder what in the name of Merlin he is doing - the Savior of the Wizarding World, or whatever nonsense they have added to A History of Magic in the past twenty years that makes Lily giggle like mad - bent over a desk for some kid less than half his age before his entire world goes white: white skin wrapped around him, white hair (it's as soft as it looks) hanging at his cheek, white magic crackling at the back of his neck, white fire behind his eyes, white.
Scorpius does not speak, just runs a sticky fist up Harry's body, bites into his shoulder blade, presses his forehead down and comes. Harry feels it run through him like a current; he feels it travel along the lines of his palm and explode in his heart like a Stunning spell. Between the teeth in his skin, he feels Scorpius's tongue lapping at his sweat; small licks, kitten-tongue, hard as his hands.
The desk bruises a line across Harry's hips that he can feel all day. His fingers wander absently into the waist of his trousers and press, and he thinks, over and over, this cannot be; this cannot be; this cannot be.
But this is.
Harry consoles himself with a reminder that the boy is nothing like his father.
(Or maybe he is.)
But then, Harry thinks, I suppose I'm nothing like myself.
(Or maybe he is.)
Either way, this is the truth: sometimes it feels more like looking at the moon than fucking. One side is the light; one side is the shadow, and which is which depends on where you happen to be standing.
Pairing: Harry/Scorpius
Prompt: Hay en mi corazón furias y penas (In my heart there are furies and sorrows)... -- Quevedo
Words: 389
Rating: R
Warnings: Cross-gen smexing; a naughty word.
Notes: This was written for sortinghatdrabs this week. I'm not usually a fan of cross-gen (with the exception of Draco/Bella or Harry/Sirius) or next-gen, but I thought I'd take a stab at it.
Harry thinks, he's a baby; he thinks James; he thinks Albus, but none of this is true.
Hands tell stories; they are the maps to our lives. The lines that run through them can be traced back to our hearts. Scorpius's hands are not a child's hands. They are not James's hands, long and large-knuckled and clumsily impatient. They are not Albus's hands, petite; soft in odd places and callused in others. They are hands that have been forged by something hot; they have been carved from the muscle of fury and sorrow and steel; they are hard.
His hands are hard, and Harry is hard, and Harry only has a brief moment to wonder what in the name of Merlin he is doing - the Savior of the Wizarding World, or whatever nonsense they have added to A History of Magic in the past twenty years that makes Lily giggle like mad - bent over a desk for some kid less than half his age before his entire world goes white: white skin wrapped around him, white hair (it's as soft as it looks) hanging at his cheek, white magic crackling at the back of his neck, white fire behind his eyes, white.
Scorpius does not speak, just runs a sticky fist up Harry's body, bites into his shoulder blade, presses his forehead down and comes. Harry feels it run through him like a current; he feels it travel along the lines of his palm and explode in his heart like a Stunning spell. Between the teeth in his skin, he feels Scorpius's tongue lapping at his sweat; small licks, kitten-tongue, hard as his hands.
The desk bruises a line across Harry's hips that he can feel all day. His fingers wander absently into the waist of his trousers and press, and he thinks, over and over, this cannot be; this cannot be; this cannot be.
But this is.
Harry consoles himself with a reminder that the boy is nothing like his father.
(Or maybe he is.)
But then, Harry thinks, I suppose I'm nothing like myself.
(Or maybe he is.)
Either way, this is the truth: sometimes it feels more like looking at the moon than fucking. One side is the light; one side is the shadow, and which is which depends on where you happen to be standing.