(no subject)
Title: In My Place
Rating: R
Pairing: H/R + D. Almost.
Disclaimer: Not mine, and the characters belong to J. K. Rowling. Please, don’t sue.
Summary: Set between "Silversnake" and "Lightswitch". Draco has insecurities.
In the desert, Draco’s dreams are like water. Fluid, silvery, satin sheets against bare skin.
When Draco’s snake tattoo slithers down his leg and off his foot, Draco almost expects it. It coils into a neat pile and watches Draco.
Draco watches Ron and Harry.
They touch with a familiarity only the passage of years can bring. Harry’s cheek fits perfectly in the curve of Ron’s palm, and their mouths are always poised at the best angle. Draco watches as Ron’s hand slips down the curve of Harry’s spine, and how Harry’s breath catches at the moment Ron’s fingers reach the hollow of his back.
There is room for him there, maybe. He wonders where he would fit... next to Ron? Next to Harry? The only place that is clearly off-limits is between them. There is not even a breath of space between their bodies as Ron settles into the cradle of Harry’s limbs, and Draco knows he would suffocate if he tried.
Draco wonders what Harry tastes like. He thinks it would be like blood, rich with life, spilling over onto his tongue. Ron buries his fingers in Harry’s hair and kisses his cheek, his jaw; slides his tongue up the slope of his neck.
Draco cannot turn away from the two entwined bodies. The muscles in Ron’s back roll and shift, and Draco watches Harry’s face, watches his head fall against the blankets, his back bow, his fingers rake up Ron’s back to leave white, lingering trails. Harry forgets to breathe and only seems to remember when Ron kisses his mouth. And then all Draco can hear is their breathing, each forceful exhalation, and the slickness of their bodies moving in tandem.
They are beautiful together: Harry’s gasping, his spread knees, his curling toes; the constellation of freckles gathered at the small of Ron’s back gleaming with sweat. Draco is drawn by the patterns, wondering if he belongs there somehow, if it’s written down and only needs interpreting. He moves to take a step forward, out of the shadows, only to find that he can’t.
The silver snake is wrapped around his legs and slithering up his calves. The snake is endless and cool. It gleams in the light, and its tongue flickers across his skin, tasting him. It coils about his waist, and moves steadily upwards.
Ron bites down on Harry’s nipple and Harry’s moan resonates in Draco’s belly. He shivers, feels it in his bones, and the snake curls around his chest and hisses softly into his ear. His breathing labors as the coils constrict, matching Ron and Harry’s jagged breaths. The snake loops itself around Draco’s neck and begins to squeeze. He doesn’t think to cry out. He doesn’t breathe, he can’t, his ribs crumble, his diaphragm ruptures, his windpipe slowly, slowly gives way to-they only have eyes for each other when they come-a very sharp darkness-
"...wake up, Draco. Don’t make me smother you with a-"
Draco woke up sharply. Ron was sitting on him, straddling his chest, holding his wrists down by his head.
"Morning, sleeping beauty."
Draco blinked and looked around. They were in a tent. Which meant they were still in the desert, looking for Potter.
"Get off me," he said, shoving at Ron, who backed off quickly.
"What the... you wake up on the wrong side of the bedroll?"
Draco scowled. "We’ve been in the desert for nearly two days. My back is in knots, I have sand in places I don’t want to acknowledge, and-"
"I’ll take that as a yes. Look, this’ll all be over before you know it." Ron batted him playfully. "I have a feeling we’ll find him today. Then we can go home. Think of it that way, okay?"
Draco sighed. That was the problem.
Rating: R
Pairing: H/R + D. Almost.
Disclaimer: Not mine, and the characters belong to J. K. Rowling. Please, don’t sue.
Summary: Set between "Silversnake" and "Lightswitch". Draco has insecurities.
In the desert, Draco’s dreams are like water. Fluid, silvery, satin sheets against bare skin.
When Draco’s snake tattoo slithers down his leg and off his foot, Draco almost expects it. It coils into a neat pile and watches Draco.
Draco watches Ron and Harry.
They touch with a familiarity only the passage of years can bring. Harry’s cheek fits perfectly in the curve of Ron’s palm, and their mouths are always poised at the best angle. Draco watches as Ron’s hand slips down the curve of Harry’s spine, and how Harry’s breath catches at the moment Ron’s fingers reach the hollow of his back.
There is room for him there, maybe. He wonders where he would fit... next to Ron? Next to Harry? The only place that is clearly off-limits is between them. There is not even a breath of space between their bodies as Ron settles into the cradle of Harry’s limbs, and Draco knows he would suffocate if he tried.
Draco wonders what Harry tastes like. He thinks it would be like blood, rich with life, spilling over onto his tongue. Ron buries his fingers in Harry’s hair and kisses his cheek, his jaw; slides his tongue up the slope of his neck.
Draco cannot turn away from the two entwined bodies. The muscles in Ron’s back roll and shift, and Draco watches Harry’s face, watches his head fall against the blankets, his back bow, his fingers rake up Ron’s back to leave white, lingering trails. Harry forgets to breathe and only seems to remember when Ron kisses his mouth. And then all Draco can hear is their breathing, each forceful exhalation, and the slickness of their bodies moving in tandem.
They are beautiful together: Harry’s gasping, his spread knees, his curling toes; the constellation of freckles gathered at the small of Ron’s back gleaming with sweat. Draco is drawn by the patterns, wondering if he belongs there somehow, if it’s written down and only needs interpreting. He moves to take a step forward, out of the shadows, only to find that he can’t.
The silver snake is wrapped around his legs and slithering up his calves. The snake is endless and cool. It gleams in the light, and its tongue flickers across his skin, tasting him. It coils about his waist, and moves steadily upwards.
Ron bites down on Harry’s nipple and Harry’s moan resonates in Draco’s belly. He shivers, feels it in his bones, and the snake curls around his chest and hisses softly into his ear. His breathing labors as the coils constrict, matching Ron and Harry’s jagged breaths. The snake loops itself around Draco’s neck and begins to squeeze. He doesn’t think to cry out. He doesn’t breathe, he can’t, his ribs crumble, his diaphragm ruptures, his windpipe slowly, slowly gives way to-they only have eyes for each other when they come-a very sharp darkness-
"...wake up, Draco. Don’t make me smother you with a-"
Draco woke up sharply. Ron was sitting on him, straddling his chest, holding his wrists down by his head.
"Morning, sleeping beauty."
Draco blinked and looked around. They were in a tent. Which meant they were still in the desert, looking for Potter.
"Get off me," he said, shoving at Ron, who backed off quickly.
"What the... you wake up on the wrong side of the bedroll?"
Draco scowled. "We’ve been in the desert for nearly two days. My back is in knots, I have sand in places I don’t want to acknowledge, and-"
"I’ll take that as a yes. Look, this’ll all be over before you know it." Ron batted him playfully. "I have a feeling we’ll find him today. Then we can go home. Think of it that way, okay?"
Draco sighed. That was the problem.