odd, how often we forget who we are.
For addictedkitten
Harry/Draco, R
I hate it, but hey, whatever.
It’s the touch of the tongue to the skin, or the sacrifice of love for only sex. It’s the option of tonight but the question of tomorrow. It’s the way Draco sinks his clear lacquered nails into his back that makes Harry wonder if human nail marks are supposed to be that big.
When they have sex, Harry entirely forgets who he is. Draco is like versed*. And in a way, it’s beautiful.
Mostly, they do it in the shrieking shack. That was the farthest out-of-the-way location that Harry could come up with. So they meet there. Usually late at night or during the days when it’s cold, but only cold enough so that the rain freezes into mean droplets near hail. You can’t even see the Quidditch pitch, the fog rises so quickly.
Harry likes those days best because he likes the way Draco’s hair sticks to his forehead and makes him look like a small and unhappy child that has been left in the rain. He likes the way Draco peels off his white school shirt and the way the green of his Slytherin crest dampens to emerald. Once, Draco told him that he should’ve been a Slytherin because the uniform suits his eyes.
Someday, Harry wants them to switch uniforms and take pictures. He’ll never tell Draco though. Because what they have doesn’t involve photographs, or evidence, or sloppy kissing in public.
What they have is wet and damp and sometimes very cold.
+
Harry lets his head fall back against the headboard and savors the smack of his skull against the aging wood. Draco, who sits astride his thighs, laughs at his clumsiness. Harry flips him off. It’s been raining for three days straight, raining so hard that the fields are swamped and all out-door classes have been cancelled. The students have far too much free time on their hands now. Harry and Draco have been slipping down to the shrieking shack from the passage in the castle.
Draco looks thin and faded in the gray light and his hair is damp with sweat. The room smells like them-it has for some time-but now it also smells of winter rain, the dangerous kind that threatens hail and comes down in sharp bullet pelts. Harry runs a hand over his chest, dances fingers over Draco’s fabric-clad nipples. Perhaps he’s clumsy, but he has always been dexterous.
Draco lets out a long breath and they both watch it hang in the air. Harry lifts his hips up slightly and Draco smirks at him in that self-satisfied manner he has. It means he’s not quite ready yet. That Harry will have to wait. And wait. And probably grow cold while his legs go numb from Draco’s weight.
He sighs and tugs at the waist of Draco’s briefs. “I’m cold,” he says.
“Pity,” Draco says, but leans to kiss him anyway.
They shed their shirts hours ago, but Draco always wears a small off-white undershirt. Sometimes he takes it off just before he enters Harry. But not always. Harry likes wrapping his hands in it anyway. Now he runs his hands over Draco’s back, slides his hands up under the shirt and kisses, kisses, kisses.
Above him, Draco finally presses his crotch down hard over Harry’s and Harry has to stop himself before he bites down onto Draco’s lower lip. He has before. Draco bled all over the sheets once. Instead, he presses back and they start into the familiar rhythm of almost every time they do this. Next Draco will snake his fingers down Harry’s waist and take off his boxers and Harry will wait shivering for a moment while Draco takes off his own. This is how it always is. This routine without being routine at all.
Harry closes his eyes and Draco kisses his neck. Draco’s nails scrape over his chest, and move toward his waist.
When they’re both naked (except for the undershirt), their kisses become headier, longer and in the dark room where Harry first met his godfather, he lets cool, thin fingers slide into his ass, while he rubs his cock against Draco’s like there will be no five minutes from now.
End.
*versed = a pain reducer with amnesia inducing tendencies.
Feedback would be much appreciated. I'm feeling very down on my writing and I could use some constructive criticism <333
Harry/Draco, R
I hate it, but hey, whatever.
It’s the touch of the tongue to the skin, or the sacrifice of love for only sex. It’s the option of tonight but the question of tomorrow. It’s the way Draco sinks his clear lacquered nails into his back that makes Harry wonder if human nail marks are supposed to be that big.
When they have sex, Harry entirely forgets who he is. Draco is like versed*. And in a way, it’s beautiful.
Mostly, they do it in the shrieking shack. That was the farthest out-of-the-way location that Harry could come up with. So they meet there. Usually late at night or during the days when it’s cold, but only cold enough so that the rain freezes into mean droplets near hail. You can’t even see the Quidditch pitch, the fog rises so quickly.
Harry likes those days best because he likes the way Draco’s hair sticks to his forehead and makes him look like a small and unhappy child that has been left in the rain. He likes the way Draco peels off his white school shirt and the way the green of his Slytherin crest dampens to emerald. Once, Draco told him that he should’ve been a Slytherin because the uniform suits his eyes.
Someday, Harry wants them to switch uniforms and take pictures. He’ll never tell Draco though. Because what they have doesn’t involve photographs, or evidence, or sloppy kissing in public.
What they have is wet and damp and sometimes very cold.
+
Harry lets his head fall back against the headboard and savors the smack of his skull against the aging wood. Draco, who sits astride his thighs, laughs at his clumsiness. Harry flips him off. It’s been raining for three days straight, raining so hard that the fields are swamped and all out-door classes have been cancelled. The students have far too much free time on their hands now. Harry and Draco have been slipping down to the shrieking shack from the passage in the castle.
Draco looks thin and faded in the gray light and his hair is damp with sweat. The room smells like them-it has for some time-but now it also smells of winter rain, the dangerous kind that threatens hail and comes down in sharp bullet pelts. Harry runs a hand over his chest, dances fingers over Draco’s fabric-clad nipples. Perhaps he’s clumsy, but he has always been dexterous.
Draco lets out a long breath and they both watch it hang in the air. Harry lifts his hips up slightly and Draco smirks at him in that self-satisfied manner he has. It means he’s not quite ready yet. That Harry will have to wait. And wait. And probably grow cold while his legs go numb from Draco’s weight.
He sighs and tugs at the waist of Draco’s briefs. “I’m cold,” he says.
“Pity,” Draco says, but leans to kiss him anyway.
They shed their shirts hours ago, but Draco always wears a small off-white undershirt. Sometimes he takes it off just before he enters Harry. But not always. Harry likes wrapping his hands in it anyway. Now he runs his hands over Draco’s back, slides his hands up under the shirt and kisses, kisses, kisses.
Above him, Draco finally presses his crotch down hard over Harry’s and Harry has to stop himself before he bites down onto Draco’s lower lip. He has before. Draco bled all over the sheets once. Instead, he presses back and they start into the familiar rhythm of almost every time they do this. Next Draco will snake his fingers down Harry’s waist and take off his boxers and Harry will wait shivering for a moment while Draco takes off his own. This is how it always is. This routine without being routine at all.
Harry closes his eyes and Draco kisses his neck. Draco’s nails scrape over his chest, and move toward his waist.
When they’re both naked (except for the undershirt), their kisses become headier, longer and in the dark room where Harry first met his godfather, he lets cool, thin fingers slide into his ass, while he rubs his cock against Draco’s like there will be no five minutes from now.
End.
*versed = a pain reducer with amnesia inducing tendencies.
Feedback would be much appreciated. I'm feeling very down on my writing and I could use some constructive criticism <333