Drabble # 1
In case anyone missed it, I'm offering to write drabbles. Request one here! You know you want to. :)
And here's the first of the batch:
For the sensational sandrainthesun:
***
War Games
Ron doesn’t know why they have let Draco Malfoy so easily into their ranks, why not killing someone you intended to kill somehow changes who you are, but now Draco is at Grimmauld Place just like Ron and Harry and Hermione, and Draco is allowed to contribute to the Order to repent for his sins, but Ron does not have to treat Draco kindly.
Ron is the larger boy. Ron easily shoves Draco against the wall and Draco squirms but is unable to do anything.
“I win,” Ron whispers, not quite knowing the game they are playing but watching transparent white skin flush as his breath hits it. “You lose.”
“Never,” gasps Draco, and kisses him like an assault.
Ron loses.
*
“Why?” Ron asked the first time, after sweat and grime and kisses had been exchanged in the hallway after practice (learning how to hurt the enemy).
“Why does there have to be a why?” Draco replied. “It just is.”
Ron wanted to argue, but all that came out of his mouth was a gasp.
*
Nobody knows their secret.
Hermione lectures him endlessly about treating people with the same sort of respect he wants to be treated with himself, and he cannot tell her about the bite mark over his nipple or the blue-black bruises on his hips.
Harry is exasperated with Ron and Draco bickering, but Ron feels hot pangs of jealousy whenever Draco turns that sneer (his sneer) on his best friend and says something in that haughty, hateful way that makes Ron want to beat him bloody and lick him clean.
Draco’s insults to Ron are even more vile, and raise Ron’s temper to unbearable heights.
“Don’t say that about my mother again,” Ron warns after pounding Malfoy into submission, limbs languorous and mind tantalizingly sleep-fuzzed.
“How are you going to stop me?” Draco replies, rolling over and onto him. Ron is suddenly in no position to argue.
*
Ron enters his room (their room, he thinks without cause) and is confused as his bare foot crunches into fresh snow.
“What--” he begins, but then a snowball smashes into his face, and all he can taste is ice.
Years of instinct honed by being the youngest brother have him scooping up a handful of snow and tossing it across the room back at Draco, who laughs and dodges it.
The world becomes instantly narrow- only the feel of snow smooth and cold on bare skin, the burn of ice on unprotected skin, the smooth arch of muscles as he throws another clump of snow at his lover.
They chase each other, over the bed and around the armoire, until finally they are close enough that Ron can dump an armful of snow down Draco’s back, and Draco can shove Ron down and pummel him playfully with cold fists and warm smiles. Ron manages to pin Draco, holding him down with his face in the snow, struggling and laughing and Ron can’t help leaning over and planting a light kiss on his flushed neck.
Ron loosens his grip, and is aware that they are more tangled together than they are in the aftermath of their violent fucking, and that snow is glittering on Draco’s eyelashes and is clinging to the faint, nearly nonexistent hair above Draco’s lip.
This is their first fairy-tale kiss, filled with softness and caring and the sort of unrelenting gentleness Ron associates with girls, not Draco Malfoy’s embrace.
I love you, Ron thinks, and is aghast. What he has with Draco isn’t love, it’s violence and domination and bruises marking his territory. But he smiles at the wintery boy in his arms and does not pull away.
And here's the first of the batch:
For the sensational sandrainthesun:
***
War Games
Ron doesn’t know why they have let Draco Malfoy so easily into their ranks, why not killing someone you intended to kill somehow changes who you are, but now Draco is at Grimmauld Place just like Ron and Harry and Hermione, and Draco is allowed to contribute to the Order to repent for his sins, but Ron does not have to treat Draco kindly.
Ron is the larger boy. Ron easily shoves Draco against the wall and Draco squirms but is unable to do anything.
“I win,” Ron whispers, not quite knowing the game they are playing but watching transparent white skin flush as his breath hits it. “You lose.”
“Never,” gasps Draco, and kisses him like an assault.
Ron loses.
*
“Why?” Ron asked the first time, after sweat and grime and kisses had been exchanged in the hallway after practice (learning how to hurt the enemy).
“Why does there have to be a why?” Draco replied. “It just is.”
Ron wanted to argue, but all that came out of his mouth was a gasp.
*
Nobody knows their secret.
Hermione lectures him endlessly about treating people with the same sort of respect he wants to be treated with himself, and he cannot tell her about the bite mark over his nipple or the blue-black bruises on his hips.
Harry is exasperated with Ron and Draco bickering, but Ron feels hot pangs of jealousy whenever Draco turns that sneer (his sneer) on his best friend and says something in that haughty, hateful way that makes Ron want to beat him bloody and lick him clean.
Draco’s insults to Ron are even more vile, and raise Ron’s temper to unbearable heights.
“Don’t say that about my mother again,” Ron warns after pounding Malfoy into submission, limbs languorous and mind tantalizingly sleep-fuzzed.
“How are you going to stop me?” Draco replies, rolling over and onto him. Ron is suddenly in no position to argue.
*
Ron enters his room (their room, he thinks without cause) and is confused as his bare foot crunches into fresh snow.
“What--” he begins, but then a snowball smashes into his face, and all he can taste is ice.
Years of instinct honed by being the youngest brother have him scooping up a handful of snow and tossing it across the room back at Draco, who laughs and dodges it.
The world becomes instantly narrow- only the feel of snow smooth and cold on bare skin, the burn of ice on unprotected skin, the smooth arch of muscles as he throws another clump of snow at his lover.
They chase each other, over the bed and around the armoire, until finally they are close enough that Ron can dump an armful of snow down Draco’s back, and Draco can shove Ron down and pummel him playfully with cold fists and warm smiles. Ron manages to pin Draco, holding him down with his face in the snow, struggling and laughing and Ron can’t help leaning over and planting a light kiss on his flushed neck.
Ron loosens his grip, and is aware that they are more tangled together than they are in the aftermath of their violent fucking, and that snow is glittering on Draco’s eyelashes and is clinging to the faint, nearly nonexistent hair above Draco’s lip.
This is their first fairy-tale kiss, filled with softness and caring and the sort of unrelenting gentleness Ron associates with girls, not Draco Malfoy’s embrace.
I love you, Ron thinks, and is aghast. What he has with Draco isn’t love, it’s violence and domination and bruises marking his territory. But he smiles at the wintery boy in his arms and does not pull away.