[Advent fic]: Until the Solstice Rises, H/D, R
Title: Until the Solstice Rises
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and her associates own these characters. I am writing this for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warnings: Present tense, omniscient POV, fluff
Wordcount: 900
Summary: Through the solstice night, until the sun rises, Harry and Draco touch each other.
Author’s Notes: This is the first of my Advent fics, inspired by prompts that readers on LJ left me.
ldydark1 asked for Harry/Draco, “what to do on the darkest night.”
Until the Solstice Rises
They lie in a room with no light. No candles, no fire, no lamps. No sun. This is the night of the solstice, and as the world breathes in Midwinter, they breathe in cold, darkness, motionlessness except for their hands that slide down sides, up ribs, around arms, into mouths.
They touch each other.
*
Harry knows the touch of Draco’s hair, the delicate flex of it, and the ends that almost curl but don’t, quite. It brushes against his palms, and he kisses it and follows it with his mouth when Draco turns his head away, sighing. Harry catches Draco’s face close, palms to cheeks, warm as fire’s embers, and kisses him again and again, hair and cheeks and drowning, open mouth, tongue limp and lazy with permission.
And as Harry knows that, so Draco knows the way Harry reacts when someone touches his scar, fingers wavering back and forth, following the lightning bolt pattern one moment, then marking unmarked forehead the next. Harry holds still for it a little while, then ducks his head, shivering, and acts as though he doesn’t know what to do next. Draco lets him have his little pretense, kissing and nipping at his fringe, filling his mouth with hair.
It makes the moment when he ducks down to explore Harry’s mouth again all the sweeter.
Draco touches Harry’s eyelashes, flinching and fluttering and retreating, so delicate that Harry can’t give him permission to touch them this time, and closes his eyes anyway. Draco kisses him, and rolls him down and under himself, on top of Harry’s chest, where his heart beats with the wonder and warmth of a live thing.
Harry closes his eyes and feels Draco’s warmth above him, the heat that reaches down deep and grounds him, like the running of a hot spring under the earth. He raises his hands and traces Draco’s shoulders, the smooth curve of bone that is strong enough to bear more burdens than it has so far. He wonders if there is any limit to Draco’s strength. Draco has been tested and has failed, but he is stronger now.
Both of them lie there for a timeless time, cradled in the darkness, both their eyes shut and their breathing deep and slow. They don’t need much more than this, not right now. The world is still all around them, the sun’s heartbeat stopped, even the turning of the earth different than normal. There is nothing urgent for them, nothing that need be done.
Until Draco moves forwards again and brushes his lips down Harry’s cheeks, and that is done because they want to, and need follows on desire.
Harry takes Draco’s arms and gently spreads them out, until their clasped hands, Draco’s clenched within Harry’s, are lying on the far sides of the pillow, the limit their arms can reach. Draco nods and kisses back, tongues once again lapping and twining, and then lies down chest to chest and erection to erection. He knows what Harry wants, and knows, as much as Harry does, that it will take them forever to come this way.
But what is time, to them?
Harry begins the motion, but they both continue it, hips working back and forth, rolling up and down, bones bumping now and then. They both laugh when that happens, a quiet sound so shared that they might breathe out a single puff of steam were they in the cold. But they are not. They are rocking, and it’s warm.
The sheets squeak under them. Their hands ache with the pressure of their clasp. Their skin separates with a sucking sound of sweat, and their tongues grace eyebrows and chins, sometimes, unable to aim in the sightlessness.
They rub, and roll, and rut, and rock, and the pleasure that comes is lingering, tight-drawn, close around them as the shield of darkness is over the world.
The pleasure rises and then slowly arcs to earth itself in their bodies, and they both pant in staccato motions when it comes, when they come. It takes forever to pass, as they take forever to pass, and the moment is not a moment. They cling to each other when they are done, Draco resting without encumbrance or barrier on Harry, chest to chest, arm bones pressing to arm bones, wrists in contact with wrists.
Cheek to cheek.
*
Draco turns his head and blinks lazily when he sees the light creeping through the shutters. And under them. And around them. Their shutters are old, and lazily fitted. Furnishings are not important in this house.
He watches the first light from the other side of darkness, and so does Harry, and it falls on their bodies and wakes the colors of their skin and eyes and hair to life. The fire stirs. The lamps can shine again. The candles can be lit, as they are.
But they do not need their eyes to see each other, so they do not look, instead lying still, entwined, bright as coals on this winter morning, as alive as fire.
The End.
Graceful Is As Graceful Does.
This entry was originally posted at http://lomonaaeren.dreamwidth.org/505901.html. Comment wherever you like.
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and her associates own these characters. I am writing this for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warnings: Present tense, omniscient POV, fluff
Wordcount: 900
Summary: Through the solstice night, until the sun rises, Harry and Draco touch each other.
Author’s Notes: This is the first of my Advent fics, inspired by prompts that readers on LJ left me.
ldydark1 asked for Harry/Draco, “what to do on the darkest night.”
Until the Solstice Rises
They lie in a room with no light. No candles, no fire, no lamps. No sun. This is the night of the solstice, and as the world breathes in Midwinter, they breathe in cold, darkness, motionlessness except for their hands that slide down sides, up ribs, around arms, into mouths.
They touch each other.
*
Harry knows the touch of Draco’s hair, the delicate flex of it, and the ends that almost curl but don’t, quite. It brushes against his palms, and he kisses it and follows it with his mouth when Draco turns his head away, sighing. Harry catches Draco’s face close, palms to cheeks, warm as fire’s embers, and kisses him again and again, hair and cheeks and drowning, open mouth, tongue limp and lazy with permission.
And as Harry knows that, so Draco knows the way Harry reacts when someone touches his scar, fingers wavering back and forth, following the lightning bolt pattern one moment, then marking unmarked forehead the next. Harry holds still for it a little while, then ducks his head, shivering, and acts as though he doesn’t know what to do next. Draco lets him have his little pretense, kissing and nipping at his fringe, filling his mouth with hair.
It makes the moment when he ducks down to explore Harry’s mouth again all the sweeter.
Draco touches Harry’s eyelashes, flinching and fluttering and retreating, so delicate that Harry can’t give him permission to touch them this time, and closes his eyes anyway. Draco kisses him, and rolls him down and under himself, on top of Harry’s chest, where his heart beats with the wonder and warmth of a live thing.
Harry closes his eyes and feels Draco’s warmth above him, the heat that reaches down deep and grounds him, like the running of a hot spring under the earth. He raises his hands and traces Draco’s shoulders, the smooth curve of bone that is strong enough to bear more burdens than it has so far. He wonders if there is any limit to Draco’s strength. Draco has been tested and has failed, but he is stronger now.
Both of them lie there for a timeless time, cradled in the darkness, both their eyes shut and their breathing deep and slow. They don’t need much more than this, not right now. The world is still all around them, the sun’s heartbeat stopped, even the turning of the earth different than normal. There is nothing urgent for them, nothing that need be done.
Until Draco moves forwards again and brushes his lips down Harry’s cheeks, and that is done because they want to, and need follows on desire.
Harry takes Draco’s arms and gently spreads them out, until their clasped hands, Draco’s clenched within Harry’s, are lying on the far sides of the pillow, the limit their arms can reach. Draco nods and kisses back, tongues once again lapping and twining, and then lies down chest to chest and erection to erection. He knows what Harry wants, and knows, as much as Harry does, that it will take them forever to come this way.
But what is time, to them?
Harry begins the motion, but they both continue it, hips working back and forth, rolling up and down, bones bumping now and then. They both laugh when that happens, a quiet sound so shared that they might breathe out a single puff of steam were they in the cold. But they are not. They are rocking, and it’s warm.
The sheets squeak under them. Their hands ache with the pressure of their clasp. Their skin separates with a sucking sound of sweat, and their tongues grace eyebrows and chins, sometimes, unable to aim in the sightlessness.
They rub, and roll, and rut, and rock, and the pleasure that comes is lingering, tight-drawn, close around them as the shield of darkness is over the world.
The pleasure rises and then slowly arcs to earth itself in their bodies, and they both pant in staccato motions when it comes, when they come. It takes forever to pass, as they take forever to pass, and the moment is not a moment. They cling to each other when they are done, Draco resting without encumbrance or barrier on Harry, chest to chest, arm bones pressing to arm bones, wrists in contact with wrists.
Cheek to cheek.
*
Draco turns his head and blinks lazily when he sees the light creeping through the shutters. And under them. And around them. Their shutters are old, and lazily fitted. Furnishings are not important in this house.
He watches the first light from the other side of darkness, and so does Harry, and it falls on their bodies and wakes the colors of their skin and eyes and hair to life. The fire stirs. The lamps can shine again. The candles can be lit, as they are.
But they do not need their eyes to see each other, so they do not look, instead lying still, entwined, bright as coals on this winter morning, as alive as fire.
The End.
Graceful Is As Graceful Does.
This entry was originally posted at http://lomonaaeren.dreamwidth.org/505901.html. Comment wherever you like.