Rating: PG through R
Disclaimer: JKRowling owns Harry Potter. No infringement intended. All I own is 12 HP books, 6 mini snowglobes, 1 T-shirt, 1 Sorting Hat (thanks Jen!), 1 poster, and 2 mugs.
Author's Note: From time to time I have been inspired to write short ficlets for the H/D thread at SCUSA at FictionAlley Park. Most of them are too short to really warrant their own page here, so I'm going to just put them all here together for now.
Feedback: Yes please. Even short notes mean a lot to me. I accept constructive as well as positive remarks.
Chocolate Body Paint
Night (has artwork!)
Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus
Chocolate Body Paint: Rated R
Inspired by Liss
"Tell me again, why are we doing this?"
"Because," Harry replied, opening the jar, "it'll be fun."
"Really. And where did you get this chocolate body paint? I don't recall it being on the shelves at Honeydukes."
Harry flushed slightly. "Actually it is from Honeydukes. Fred and George tipped me off that Honeydukes has an 'adult' catalogue, by request only."
"How did " Draco paused, rolling his eyes. "You know, I don't really want to know how the Dynamic Duo would know this. Just promise me that they didn't manufacture it themselves, at their joke shop. I don't want to discover tomorrow that this stuff turned me purple or anything."
"Will you relax? It's all legit."
"All right, fine. You try it first."
Harry paused. He'd been stirring the contents of the jar with a small artist's paintbrush; now, he pulled the brush out, but instead of tasting it, he set both items down and reached out for his lover's hand. Slowly, deliberately, he dipped Draco's index finger into the jar, and then drew the chocolate-coated tidbit into his mouth.
Draco groaned as he felt Harry sucking on his finger. "Mmmm . Ohhh Oh, ok, ok. You've mmmm . convinced . me."
Harry released his hand and planted a thoroughly satisfying chocolate-tinted kiss on Draco's mouth. Then he picked up the jar again. "Glad to hear it," he said, with a self-satisfied grin. "Now, are you going to take off your shirt, or am I going to have to strip it off of you?"
"Well, that could be an evening's entertainment all by itself," Draco smirked. But he undid the buttons voluntarily, deliberately slowing the process -- to tantalizing effect.
Harry swallowed as his boyfriend's smoothly muscled torso came into view. Damn, he was lucky.
"So," Draco tossed the remains of his shirt aside and leaned back against the pillows. "Is the brush really necessary, or might you try using your own fingers somewhere this time?"
With a quirk of his eyebrow and a mischievous smile, Harry dipped his own hand into the jar. "Where," he breathed, "would you like me to start?..."
(End) Feb 3, 2002
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Jacuzzi: Rated PG-13/R
Inspired by Aja
Disclaimer: It was pointed out to me (thank you Slightlights!) that the Slytherin dorm doesn't *have* a portrait hole to hoist yourself through, as per CoS. Forgive the artist license.
Slowly, painfully, Draco Malfoy made his way down the dungeon stairs to the Slytherin dormitory. At the portrait hole he stopped, and ran his fingers through his hair; it was late enough that most of his comrades would likely be in bed already, but he had a public image to maintain, and how would it do for them to see him looking so tired and beaten? Hardly how a Slytherin golden boy should look. No, it was worth the extra effort he took to appear groomed and confident in front of his peers.
His resolve was tested a few moments later, however, as he hoisted himself through the portrait hole. Aching muscles screamed in protest, and continued to voice their renewed complaints as he walked through the common room (sure enough, a few late-night studiers followed him with their gaze) and made his way to his room. Silently, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to maintain his languid gait. Only a few more steps, just a little more . The corridor had never felt so long but, finally, he made it to the safety of his room, where he was able to collapse behind the bed's velvet hangings and give in to his pain.
Normally, Draco loved Quidditch with a fiery passion. It was one place he felt truly free, as if he was alone in the air -- even with six other teammates zooming around him; since catching the Snitch was his only task, he could ignore the others entirely. Let them battle for the Quaffle, let them swing their Beaters' clubs at each other. When he played, it was just him and the Snitch, and the freedom of the air. Bliss.
Practice sessions had, however, been less blissful and more vigorous of late. Striving to reclaim their championship status, they had worked on several tricky new moves, and were focusing particularly on their individual maneuvers. Draco had only himself to blame - as Captain, it had been his idea, and now he was paying for the exhaustive workouts. He had always considered himself fit, but the new exercises were finding muscles he didn't know he had, muscles that were now proclaiming their presence in a fanfare of agony.
He lay there on his bed, trying to find the energy to remove his clothing and crawl under the covers. Then he heard it - the faint but unmistakable tap of a beak against the glass. No way, Potter, not tonight. With a stifled groan, he hauled himself upright, limped over to the window to pull it open, and accepted the letter from the bright-eyed school owl who awaited him there.
Sure enough, it was a letter from Harry. But this time, instead of the usual "Classroom 317" meeting place, Harry had written "Greenbriar Inn, Tub #12". At the bottom of the envelope, Draco found a pinch of Floo powder.
He groaned again. Normally, he rather enjoyed their late-night clandestine meetings. There was something delicious about publicly warring with the dark-haired boy by day, and privately snogging, stripping, and shagging him by night. There was never a pattern to these invites - sometimes he issued them, sometimes Harry did. It was always spur-of-the-moment, and the sight of a late-night owl was usually enough to get a rise out of him on the spot, in anticipation. Especially if it had been awhile since their last meeting - and it had been.
But tonight he was in too much pain to even consider any further activities. He was on the verge of just ignoring the note, crawling into bed, and rationalizing his absence to Harry later. But the unusual address made him curious - Tub #12?? With a sigh, Draco pulled on his cloak (wincing at the ache in his shoulders), shook the Floo powder into his hand, and stepped up to the room's small fireplace. This had better be good, Potter .
He stepped out into an unfamiliar, steam-filled room. But before he could even call out, he felt arms circle him from behind, and gentle fingers undoing the throat-clasp of his cloak.
"Took you long enough," spoke a familiar voice.
"You're damn lucky I came at all, Potter," Draco grumbled, as the cloak fell away. "I can hardly move tonight, so if you're expecting any thrills, they're going to have to come from your own hand." He turned, and felt his mouth go dry.
Harry was standing in front of him, bared to his gaze. He wore nothing but a small blue towel wrapped around his waist, and the ever-present silver neck chain Draco had given him several months ago. "Why do you think I brought you here?" Harry asked. He stepped aside and nodded at the simmering Jacuzzi tub behind him. "Hot water works wonders on abused muscles."
"You brought me all the way out here for a bath? We have bathtubs at Hogwarts, you know."
"Yes, but this is a Jacuzzi," Harry explained. "It's a Muggle invention - don't roll your eyes at me like that - the tub's bigger, the water's hotter, and," he pointed at the bubbling surface, "there are jets. As nice as the tubs are at school, they're not this nice. And besides, it's more private here. Figured you wouldn't want to risk Crabbe or Goyle stumbling across us if they had to take a late-night trip to the loo. And there's Moaning Myrtle to consider, as well."
He had continued to work more of Draco's clothing off as he talked. First easing the school vest over his head, then nimbly undoing the buttons on his shirt and gently pushing it off his shoulders. He let his fingers trail briefly over Draco's bare chest, but it was more a soothing gesture than one meant to arouse.
Draco looked again at the steaming tub while Harry tugged off his shoes, and silently acknowledged that the Gryffindor was right. In fact, it was a sign of how worn he was feeling that the promise of a soothing soak was, at the moment, more appealing than the towel-clad boy who helped him out of the last of his clothing and into the Jacuzzi. The water was almost too hot - it took him a few minutes to acclimate. But soon he was stretched out on one of the moulded seats, propped up against Harry's chest, while the dark-haired boy used his strong fingers to work out the worst of the muscle knots.
Harry worked his fingers down Draco's arm, kneading, twisting down to the pale fingers, which were just beginning to prune. He took his time with Draco's hand, working his thumbs into the back, then the palm, followed by deft friction on each finger, outward to the tips. One at a time. As nice as the rest of the attention had been, with Harry unknotting his neck, shoulders and back, Draco found himself going positively boneless at the hand massage. Maybe there was something to this Muggle-bath stuff after all.
"Give me your other one," Harry whispered. With effort, Draco lifted his other hand out of the steaming water and felt the rubdown begin anew, from bicep to elbow to palm to fingertips. He felt Harry gently raise the hand to his mouth and kiss the tips.
"Better?" he murmured, letting go of Draco's hand.
"Mmmhmmm." He craned his neck around to kiss Harry - just a quiet kiss -- and then relaxed again against his chest. But his mouth awoke at the familiar feel of the other boy's lips against his own, and he soon found himself seeking another kiss. And then another. And another. He felt Harry's tongue caressing his lips, seeking entrance - he granted it without hesitation. Adrenaline was bringing his energy level up at Firebolt speed and, now that he was no longer in pain, Draco became suddenly aware of the feel of Harry's naked form beneath him. Hmmm naked, wet Harry. Shifting easily in the buoyant water, he turned around so he could kiss him better, placing a knee on either side of the other boy's slim hips in the process.
"I didn't bring you here so we could shag you know," Harry murmured between kisses.
"I know," Draco replied. "But since it seems you did go through the trouble of procuring us the only guaranteed privacy we'll likely ever have, seems a pity to waste it. Besides," he added, running his fingers over Harry's wet chest in a seductive repeat of the Gryffindor's previously soothing gesture, "I wouldn't want to seem like an ungrateful bastard, and now that you've made me feel ever so much better ."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "So I won't have to resort to using my own hand after all, as you'd originally threatened?"
"Uh-uh." Draco's response was muffled, as he had bent down to Harry's neck, and was busy sucking at what he knew to be a sensitive spot. He felt, rather than heard, the vibrations as Harry groaned low in his throat. Oh yes. How could he have even thought about refusing Harry's invitation tonight? Pain, weariness - it all felt like another night, another person. All he knew was the feel of the deliciously slippery form underneath him now on top of him and the feel of the jets as they unexpectedly struck an interesting spot.
And thus our two boys passed the night at Greenbriar Inn, Tub #12. I shan't go into further detail because a) tisn't allowed here and b) don't they deserve at least some privacy? :D
Meanwhile I'll be serving up banana splits with whipped cream here at my gutter condo. Everyone welcome!
(End) Feb 19, 2002
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Night: Rated PG
Drawing by Adi
Faint moonlight streams in through the window, illuminating the bedside clock just enough for me to see the time -- 3:30am. There was a time in my life when I hated being awake in the middle of the night. It was lonely, so lonely, and the everpresent dark failed to keep my demons at bay. But now it's different. On those nights when sleep eludes me, I now have company, I have light. That company is provided by the person who mirrors me and completes me, and who curls his slender form around me every night. And that light comes from the silver-bright strands of tousled hair, which brighten the darkness even when there is no moon.
We've been together nearly nine years now, and I never stop marveling at the miracle of it all. That we were able to recognize the fact that our 'differences' really reflected how much the same we were. That our obsession of dislike turned into a obsession of interest, of lust, and, eventually, of love. And that we've been able to keep up that single-minded devotion for so long.
Even now, I can't stop staring at his pale, finely-chiseled features. So often, that face is hidden in a mask, a shield against the public eye. Only when we're alone do I see the true Draco, with all the warmth and emotion, fear and pain that he is capable of. And only in sleep do I ever see him completely relax. The gray eyes are closed now, but I don't need to see their ever-changing hues; we have held each other's gaze so often - across crowded rooms and in the intimacy of private moments -- that I have their many storms and hidden messages burned into my brain. Those eyes have often told me far more than words. He's not a man to say "I love you" outright; not often, anyway. But I don't need the words. His face and, more importantly, his actions go much further to express how he feels about me, about us, and I have never doubted his love.
He shifts restlessly on the bed, and another bright flash catches my eye. His ring. I reach out to twine my own left hand in his, shifting my fingers until there's the slight *clink* of metal's kiss. A perfect example of actions speaking louder than words. There was no fanfare, no official proposal or speaking of vows, just - one day he showed up with two identical silver rings in a box, already perfectly sized for the two of us. Around the band were Hebrew characters, but he offered no translation, and I didn't ask. Instead, I took my ring - or rather, I took myself (the ring has never come off my hand) - to the nearest temple the next time I was in the City, and asked the Rabbi what it meant.
"I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine."
Who knew a wizarding child from a Dark family had read the Song of Songs? But I loved it. I love that it's something meaningful to us, and yet private - after all, few wizards can read Hebrew. The silver doesn't draw a lot of attention, not like gold or jewels; but whenever we run our fingers together, the twin bands stand out in our eyes, highlighting the meaning and strength of our union.
There are so many other things he does for me, ways of expressing his commitment and affection without being mushy. Tea waiting for me each morning. The way he scrubs my back in the shower. And the fact that he volunteered to teach Quidditch to the kids at the orphanage where I work. I don't think he really had ever had much exposure to children before, but after I fretted about needing some sort of activity for them, he simply showed up one evening after work, broom in one hand, and a gaggle of eager children tugging on his other. I'm sure he was terrified, but he never complained, and now he has come to love them all as much as I have. We've talked about adopting a couple of them ourselves, perhaps someday soon.
Who needs words when you have all this?
The sky outside is still a star-spangled black, but I know the dawn is coming soon. Another cup of tea, another slick of soap over my back, another day of work and chores and stresses. Another night of making love.
Another day with Draco.
(End) Feb 23, 2002
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Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus: Rated R
Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon....
Harry tossed his keys on the counter, shrugged off his cloak, and gave a cursory look through the day's mail. Then, unfastening the neck of his work robes, he made his way through the silent house and went upstairs to change into more comfortable clothing.
He paused in the bedroom doorway. A familiar lean figure was sprawled across the rumpled quilt. Grey eyes, capable of thunderous storms, chilling frosts, and molten heat, were hidden behind blond-fringed shutters. Only the slight sound of deep, even breathing greeted his arrival home.
The bedsprings croaked slightly under his weight. For a long, silent moment, he simply sat and watched his other half sleep. Then -
"Hey." No matter how much enjoyment he got out of admiring Draco's boneless grace, he was in the mood for something more interactive.
Harry traced his fingers lightly up his husband's arm. "Honey, I'm home," he intoned, mocking the scenes he remembered from Dudley's favourite childhood TV shows; they both hated the popular pet name.
Draco pulled away his arm slightly from the tickling touch, but the grey eyes remained closed, and the tousled head didn't shift so much as an inch over the patchwork design.
Spurred on by even so miniscule a response, Harry skimmed his fingertips along the more sensitive inner arm this time. "Come on, naptime's over," he goaded.
"Mmmrmmphh." A hand batted him away, then fell back limply to the mattress. Silence.
"Oh, no you don't," Harry retorted. "We're going to have some quality time now. And don't give me that 'beauty sleep' line you're so fond of. You're already the prettiest wizard in Britain - even Witch Weekly agrees." Abandoning subtleties, he launched into a full-scale tickling attack on the sleeper's ribs.
With a roar, the dragon awoke.
In an instant, Harry found himself pinned to the bed, held there by a weight which matched his own, and further secured by the long muscled legs which straddled his hips. Strong, slim fingers held his wrists at his side, rendering him nearly as motionless as any body-binding charm.
"You know how much I hate that," Draco growled.
Harry smiled innocently. "It got you up, didn't it? And I'll have you know I tried more subtle methods first, but you insisted on snoring right through them."
"I don't snore."
"How would you know?" Harry tried to wrest one of his hands free, but the blond held them fast. "Ok, fine, fine. You don't snore. You going to let me go now?"
"No way. In fact," Draco shifted his grip so he could pin both of Harry's hands over his dark head in a single long-fingered manacle. "Now seems to be the ideal moment for a little revenge."
"And here I was thinking that you had lost some of those oh-so-charming Slytherin qual-yipe!" Harry's remark was cut off as his lover's free hand began working its way to his more ticklish regions.
Draco smiled calmly as his fingers continued their attack. "And here I was thinking that you still had that Gryffindor sense of fairness."
Whatever he was going to say next was lost in the tumble as Harry wrenched himself free from his grip, and rolled them back over so he was on top again. "All's fair in love and war, my love," he grinned. And the battle began. Rolling, pouncing, pinning, tickling - the rumpled quilt became their battlefield. Momentarily on the losing side, Draco lifted his head to suck on Harry's earlobe; the distraction worked, and in seconds he was able to flip his dark-haired partner back over.
"You fight dirty," Harry complained, launching himself at a particularly sensitive area on the other man's neck. Draco gasped as the warm mouth found its target; he hardly noticed that he was once again on his back. Suddenly it didn't seem like such a bad place to be, what with Harry's pelvis against his own; he pushed his hips up against the weight that held him.
"Are you calling for a truce?" The green eyes sparkled suggestively.
"Nah." Long fingers were pulling at the remains of Harry's robes, and then his shirt. "Just taking a break. All part of my long-term revenge plan."
Harry's voice was muffled against his lips. "Uh huh. I bet."
A belt slithered out of its loops. "I'm serious. I haven't forgotten the tickle wake-up call. You better watch yourself."
"Mmmhmmm." One pair of boxers joined the clothing heap.
"Damn overconfident Gryffindor." And another pair. "I can't believe I'm letting you distract me like this again."
Skin pressed against him, head to toe. "Why do you think I tickle you awake so often?"
(end) March 5, 2002
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Lambada: Rated PG-13/R
The steps sound weird, but trust me - it's a really sexy dance if you have the right partner. *g*
"So, what's this called, again?"
"It's called the Lambada. It was part of some Latin dance craze about ten years ago."
"You're teaching me some fad dance? And a 'has-been' fad at that. How unlike you."
"I think you'll find it still has some merit. And, anyway, it's much more interesting than that lame Macarena you showed me."
"It's not like I had private dance tutors growing up, you know. The Macarena was the only thing I could learn on my own."
"Fine. Point taken. Even if it is still a silly dance." A grin. "But this is different. This is sexy. Here, watch me. Feet about shoulder-width apart. Now shift your weight - right, left, right. Brush your left foot out to the side as you take that final shift to the right. Reverse - left, right, left, brush your right foot to the side."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Nope. This dance is done in place. That's why it's more like a weight shift than an actual step, even if you do pick up your feet slightly."
"And this is supposed to be sexy?"
"Oh yes." He demonstrated a few repetitions. "It's all in the hips."
"It looks like a duck waddling."
Grey eyes rolled heavenward.
"Would it help if I said it was a sexy duck?"
A long-suffering sigh.
"Oh, all right, I'll give it a shot."
"Your enthusiasm is overwhelming. But I have a feeling you might change your mind after you see how close we get to dance." With a grin, he pulled his lover into position.
"What, no rigid frames, no 'this is my space, this is your space' reminders?"
"Not for the Lambada. In fact, you should be even closer than this." The two lithe figures realigned themselves until hips met hips, and nary a piece of parchment would have fit between their torsos.
"Hmmm . You're starting to convince me."
A smirk. "I thought so." A wand flashed out of his pocket and, with a murmured word, the CD began to play.
"Are you sure you can dance to this?"
"Shhh. Listen." They began to move their feet in the prescribed pattern, and he marveled at the way his partner's first awkward steps almost instantly morphed into the sleek movements of the dance. That same innate grace which had allowed his lover to soar through the air the very first time he ever rode a broom had remained with him into adulthood; flying, waltz, swing, tango, and now this - his body was made to move.
"That's it. Close your eyes and feel the rhythm." The murmured encouragement was hardly necessary; it was obvious the man in his arms was already being pulled into the music.
They stayed there for long moments, weight shifting, legs gliding, hips swiveling together in perfect synchrony, until he decided the time had come to introduce a new element. Slowly, he stretched their hands, fingers still twined together, out to their sides, and continued the arc to raise them overhead. Torsos stretched upwards and together, and he could feel the pounding of the other's heart. The green eyes slid open, dark with a growing passion.
"Then how about this?" By crossing his partner's hands overhead, he turned the other man around, until they stood front to back, still keeping the rhythm of the dance. Right left right slide, left right left slide. He allowed his own hands to slide down the other's body, slowly tracing a path down upstretched arms, feeling the smooth curve of lats and the slight dip of the waist, finally coming to rest on the hips in front of him. The other pair of hands followed him down and came to rest atop his own; fingers created their own intimacy as they retwined themselves.
As tantalizing as it had been to have their bodies pressed together before, it was somehow all the more electric to be pressed front-to-back now. He pulled his lover's swaying hips roughly against him, trying to dispel whatever molecules might still have separated them. In response, the dark head twisted round, their lips met in a searing kiss and the pattern of the dance was soon broken and forgotten as they got caught up in their own internal rhythm. The beat of their hearts set the new pace, and the final crescendo of music fell as a mere whisper on their ears.
(end) March 12, 2002
Dancing and feedback -- two of my favourite things.
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