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birdsofshoreTitle: Living Deep
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
birdsofshore
Word count: ~1800
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: Harry has a thing for holidays. Draco has a thing for Harry.
A/N: Forcapitu, on her birthday. Dear capitu, See what you do to me? I wanted to write you filthy smut, but then all this soppy, smoochy stuff came out instead. ♥
Thank you so much totraintracks for the attentive and inspiring beta.
The title is from Thoreau: I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.
Harry loves holidays. Birthdays, Christmas, New Year, Easter – you name it, he's quite the fan. Presents, parties, feasts and traditions... he says he had a late start when it came to such things, and he intends to cram as much joy into the rest of his time on earth as possible.
I think he enjoys the preparations almost as much as the actual celebrations. Would you believe the Boy Who Lived has become famous for his baking? He's a dab hand in the kitchen, and every year on my birthday I torment myself by watching him whip up a tarte au citron. Later, we'll share it, Harry sliding a forkful of heavenly, sweet-sharp treat between my lips like silk and smiling as the flavour bursts against my tongue, almost shockingly lemony. For now, I stare at his strong sinewy forearms tensing and flexing, thrusting out from rolled up sleeves. The covering of dark hair and the power in his wrists make my mouth water; he assumes I'm craving dessert and teases me about my sweet tooth.
The sight of his blunt fingers gripping the rolling pin, deftly moving this way and that as he makes the mass of pastry do his bidding...Merlin, I'm embarrassed to tell you how it tugs at me. Slam, slam, push, push, and it's done: his hands strong, capable, and slightly floury. All the while, I've been watching him, circling him, distracting him with gropes and squeezes. Now he's finally slid the tart into the oven, I nudge him backwards until he's pressed up against the cupboard. I mouth at his neck, needy and urgent, the heat from the oven and the honeyed, luscious scent of the filling, the sweet spicy warmth from his body and the smell of melting buttery pastry curling all around us.
“Draco...” he warns. “The pastry.”
“Fuck the pastry,” I say, edging a knee in between his thighs to feel the heat of him there, to let him feel me hard and wanting against his leg.
“You know you always say it's not your birthday without tarte au citron. Just wait for this to be done and then I'm all yours.” His eyes are mock-stern, twinkling with humour. He sucks on his fingers, cheeks hollowing and tongue moving purposefully to seek out the smears of sweetness. I've about as much power to resist him as that ball of pastry had. Bam, bam, slam, and I'll lie down flat for him in any shape he desires.
Holidays with Harry are sticky-warm kisses in front of the fire, lips tingling with champagne, satiated from dinner, discovering traces of the chantilly cream Harry habitually piles onto his dessert plate. Soft noises fall from our lips as our limbs shift against one another and bare skin is gradually exposed to be fire-warmed, while in the grate, logs crackle and hiss as they shift and fall, mirroring our motions.
Or, on our birthdays, the windows are flung open to the summer's heat, a breeze whispering across our chests. Harry likes to enchant lanterns, a whole string of them swaying in the trees just outside, their soft light flickering across our faces in the darkening room. The floor is hard against my back as he presses inside me with first tender, then insistent movements. The satisfying wince of discomfort from my shoulder blades and coccyx the next day, as I pull my shirt over rug-grazed skin.
Which brings me to the way Harry dresses on holidays. Year long his body languishes in faded denims and crumpled t-shirts, or Quidditch gear, which does admittedly hold its own appeal, with its tang of sweat, and a sprinkling of mud to add piquancy.
However, this is how a physique like his is designed to be displayed: fitted charcoal trousers, the fabric hugging that meaty peach of an arse, and a crisp dress shirt, the collar open at the throat, dazzling-white against his skin, making his hair look coal-black and his eyes glint a brilliant green. No more sagging jeans and shapeless jerseys; it's positively criminal to hide this body away like that. I should Incendio the rest of his clothes while he's dressed properly, every inch of his charms apparent from the broad shoulders to the trim waist, and that indecently firm, high, jutting bum. Yet, when he wears these clothes all I can think of doing is getting them off again; Harry is by far the most thrilling parcel which I have the pleasure of unwrapping every birthday.
I confess these adult pleasures are still my favourite, but Harry's fond of more innocent pastimes, as well. When holidays include family gatherings, he's everybody's favourite uncle. Let me tell you, you haven't lived until you've seen the Saviour of the Wizarding World giving horsey-rides on his hands and knees to endless urchin-faced Weasley offspring. He always buys the most unsuitable presents, too: I've seen the parents wincing as their precious ones unwrap a hamper of tooth-rot from Honeydukes, a box of exploding underpants, or some wildly hard-to-train pet that he must have procured from Hagrid himself. Harry says he can't resist the look on the kids' faces.
At Christmas, he's even more ridiculous. He insists on hanging a stocking every year, despite the fact that he's thirty-three years old.
“I spent too much of my life thinking that magic was only in fairy-tales.” He shrugs, looking half his age, a smile twitching at his lips. “I'm going to bloody well make sure I believe in everything I can, from now on.”
Birthday mornings are stocking-less, naturally, but they can hold their own share of surprises. This morning, I woke to the slow slide of lips against my cock. Harry himself is nowhere to be seen, but a shifting, shapeless lump under the sheet gives away his whereabouts, his hot-velvet mouth in glorious contrast to the heavy rasp of his stubble.
He's always been a fan of making the most of morning hard-ons. “Why waste a chance to enjoy yourself, when Nature's handing it to you on a plate?” he likes to say, eyes creasing with mischief. His grin sets something smouldering in my chest.
I stretch my legs under the sheets, still half-drifting in the place between sleep and wakefulness, and Harry grabs one of them and hooks it over his shoulder, his skin always scandalously hot. He presses his nose to the seam of my bollocks, nuzzling and nipping at the sensitive skin, then moving lower, making me squirm and sigh.
The light streams in through the gauzy hangings around the bed. I feel him dab at my entrance, his tongue a soft point, pausing after each touch. He's told me he likes the way the pucker of skin unfurls, finds it fascinating, beautiful even. Part of me basks in the way he finds my body so delightful, but it makes me fidget a little, too, each time, knowing he's just sitting there, looking. Then, presumably when he's gratified his curiosity, he dives in and I gasp at the sudden sensation of being stretched.
I would have to say Harry's rimming technique lacks finesse, but, by god, he makes up for it with enthusiasm. He basically fucks me with his tongue, making all kinds of appreciative sounds while he does it. I peek under the covers to see his big mess of morning-hair sticking every which way, and his hand moving over his erection. He gives the thick shaft of it a few lazy strokes before bringing both hands up to spread me further, all the while pressing his tongue into me until I feel like he's trying to climb inside.
He's actually a bit of a pig about it. The noises! I've never met anyone so utterly uninhibited about what they like. I teased him about it once, probably hoping to make him blush a little. “You don't even try to hide the fact that you're so into it.”
He laughed and asked what was the point of pretending not to enjoy something that you fucking loved? His hands ruffled his own hair as he barked a laugh at the thought of how idiotic that would be. I don't know. When he talks like that, I don't know if he's crazy or if everybody else is.
On this most sublime of birthday mornings, he continues to take me apart with his lips and tongue, until I'm well beyond thought, beyond control, beyond everything but an intense, almost frightening ascent to pleasure. It leaves me grabbing and shoving at him with my fists, not knowing whether I'm trying to stop him or pull him further in. My orgasm rips out of me, my body juddering, completely at his mercy, only Harry's hands holding me fast, keeping me steady.
It's hard to improve on a day which begins with Harry Potter's tongue up your arse.
Afterwards, he holds me as my heart rate returns to normal and the sweat cools on my chest. He whispers filthy things in my ear while he strokes himself off, eyes sweeping hungrily across my body. The look on his face, you'd think it was his birthday. It makes me think again of Harry's Christmas stocking, Gryffindor-gaudy and perky with hope.
All right, I know I encourage him. After the first year, I admit I made sure the bloody thing was full when he woke up on Christmas morning. What can I say? His beam of pleasure when he sees it, lumpy and crammed with frivolous treats, makes it impossible to resist.
“Ah, Draco,” he says. “You see? I told you so. The world is full of magic. You should hang up one of your own, next time.”
I always scoff, but I think this year I just might. If Father Christmas doesn't consider me worthy of a visit, I'll fill it myself, with the memories of moments like these which illuminate our lives. The aromas of baking, seductive and cosy. Children's freckled faces, alight with anarchic glee. His fingertips brushing mine under the table, and later, the scrape of stubble against my thigh.
I'll stuff my stocking full to the brim, till it's bulging like Harry's, and at the top, I'll place this moment, here. There were days when I doubted I would see twenty; however, I am thirty-four today, and the man I love is licking icing sugar off his fingers, his full lips sucking them down to the knuckle. With a few quick movements, the pastry case is transferred neatly onto a cooling rack, and Harry turns to me with a look that makes me want to fold at the knees. He pulls me close for a kiss, tangy with lemons, a kiss that warms me deep inside, somewhere I thought I would never allow anyone to go.
These moments glimmer and shine like Harry's lanterns, each one connected to the next. Happy birthday to me, I think. Another year. Another year of living deep.
Author:
birdsofshoreWord count: ~1800
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: Harry has a thing for holidays. Draco has a thing for Harry.
A/N: For
capitu, on her birthday. Dear capitu, See what you do to me? I wanted to write you filthy smut, but then all this soppy, smoochy stuff came out instead. ♥Thank you so much to
traintracks for the attentive and inspiring beta.The title is from Thoreau: I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.
***
Harry loves holidays. Birthdays, Christmas, New Year, Easter – you name it, he's quite the fan. Presents, parties, feasts and traditions... he says he had a late start when it came to such things, and he intends to cram as much joy into the rest of his time on earth as possible.
I think he enjoys the preparations almost as much as the actual celebrations. Would you believe the Boy Who Lived has become famous for his baking? He's a dab hand in the kitchen, and every year on my birthday I torment myself by watching him whip up a tarte au citron. Later, we'll share it, Harry sliding a forkful of heavenly, sweet-sharp treat between my lips like silk and smiling as the flavour bursts against my tongue, almost shockingly lemony. For now, I stare at his strong sinewy forearms tensing and flexing, thrusting out from rolled up sleeves. The covering of dark hair and the power in his wrists make my mouth water; he assumes I'm craving dessert and teases me about my sweet tooth.
The sight of his blunt fingers gripping the rolling pin, deftly moving this way and that as he makes the mass of pastry do his bidding...Merlin, I'm embarrassed to tell you how it tugs at me. Slam, slam, push, push, and it's done: his hands strong, capable, and slightly floury. All the while, I've been watching him, circling him, distracting him with gropes and squeezes. Now he's finally slid the tart into the oven, I nudge him backwards until he's pressed up against the cupboard. I mouth at his neck, needy and urgent, the heat from the oven and the honeyed, luscious scent of the filling, the sweet spicy warmth from his body and the smell of melting buttery pastry curling all around us.
“Draco...” he warns. “The pastry.”
“Fuck the pastry,” I say, edging a knee in between his thighs to feel the heat of him there, to let him feel me hard and wanting against his leg.
“You know you always say it's not your birthday without tarte au citron. Just wait for this to be done and then I'm all yours.” His eyes are mock-stern, twinkling with humour. He sucks on his fingers, cheeks hollowing and tongue moving purposefully to seek out the smears of sweetness. I've about as much power to resist him as that ball of pastry had. Bam, bam, slam, and I'll lie down flat for him in any shape he desires.
Holidays with Harry are sticky-warm kisses in front of the fire, lips tingling with champagne, satiated from dinner, discovering traces of the chantilly cream Harry habitually piles onto his dessert plate. Soft noises fall from our lips as our limbs shift against one another and bare skin is gradually exposed to be fire-warmed, while in the grate, logs crackle and hiss as they shift and fall, mirroring our motions.
Or, on our birthdays, the windows are flung open to the summer's heat, a breeze whispering across our chests. Harry likes to enchant lanterns, a whole string of them swaying in the trees just outside, their soft light flickering across our faces in the darkening room. The floor is hard against my back as he presses inside me with first tender, then insistent movements. The satisfying wince of discomfort from my shoulder blades and coccyx the next day, as I pull my shirt over rug-grazed skin.
Which brings me to the way Harry dresses on holidays. Year long his body languishes in faded denims and crumpled t-shirts, or Quidditch gear, which does admittedly hold its own appeal, with its tang of sweat, and a sprinkling of mud to add piquancy.
However, this is how a physique like his is designed to be displayed: fitted charcoal trousers, the fabric hugging that meaty peach of an arse, and a crisp dress shirt, the collar open at the throat, dazzling-white against his skin, making his hair look coal-black and his eyes glint a brilliant green. No more sagging jeans and shapeless jerseys; it's positively criminal to hide this body away like that. I should Incendio the rest of his clothes while he's dressed properly, every inch of his charms apparent from the broad shoulders to the trim waist, and that indecently firm, high, jutting bum. Yet, when he wears these clothes all I can think of doing is getting them off again; Harry is by far the most thrilling parcel which I have the pleasure of unwrapping every birthday.
I confess these adult pleasures are still my favourite, but Harry's fond of more innocent pastimes, as well. When holidays include family gatherings, he's everybody's favourite uncle. Let me tell you, you haven't lived until you've seen the Saviour of the Wizarding World giving horsey-rides on his hands and knees to endless urchin-faced Weasley offspring. He always buys the most unsuitable presents, too: I've seen the parents wincing as their precious ones unwrap a hamper of tooth-rot from Honeydukes, a box of exploding underpants, or some wildly hard-to-train pet that he must have procured from Hagrid himself. Harry says he can't resist the look on the kids' faces.
At Christmas, he's even more ridiculous. He insists on hanging a stocking every year, despite the fact that he's thirty-three years old.
“I spent too much of my life thinking that magic was only in fairy-tales.” He shrugs, looking half his age, a smile twitching at his lips. “I'm going to bloody well make sure I believe in everything I can, from now on.”
Birthday mornings are stocking-less, naturally, but they can hold their own share of surprises. This morning, I woke to the slow slide of lips against my cock. Harry himself is nowhere to be seen, but a shifting, shapeless lump under the sheet gives away his whereabouts, his hot-velvet mouth in glorious contrast to the heavy rasp of his stubble.
He's always been a fan of making the most of morning hard-ons. “Why waste a chance to enjoy yourself, when Nature's handing it to you on a plate?” he likes to say, eyes creasing with mischief. His grin sets something smouldering in my chest.
I stretch my legs under the sheets, still half-drifting in the place between sleep and wakefulness, and Harry grabs one of them and hooks it over his shoulder, his skin always scandalously hot. He presses his nose to the seam of my bollocks, nuzzling and nipping at the sensitive skin, then moving lower, making me squirm and sigh.
The light streams in through the gauzy hangings around the bed. I feel him dab at my entrance, his tongue a soft point, pausing after each touch. He's told me he likes the way the pucker of skin unfurls, finds it fascinating, beautiful even. Part of me basks in the way he finds my body so delightful, but it makes me fidget a little, too, each time, knowing he's just sitting there, looking. Then, presumably when he's gratified his curiosity, he dives in and I gasp at the sudden sensation of being stretched.
I would have to say Harry's rimming technique lacks finesse, but, by god, he makes up for it with enthusiasm. He basically fucks me with his tongue, making all kinds of appreciative sounds while he does it. I peek under the covers to see his big mess of morning-hair sticking every which way, and his hand moving over his erection. He gives the thick shaft of it a few lazy strokes before bringing both hands up to spread me further, all the while pressing his tongue into me until I feel like he's trying to climb inside.
He's actually a bit of a pig about it. The noises! I've never met anyone so utterly uninhibited about what they like. I teased him about it once, probably hoping to make him blush a little. “You don't even try to hide the fact that you're so into it.”
He laughed and asked what was the point of pretending not to enjoy something that you fucking loved? His hands ruffled his own hair as he barked a laugh at the thought of how idiotic that would be. I don't know. When he talks like that, I don't know if he's crazy or if everybody else is.
On this most sublime of birthday mornings, he continues to take me apart with his lips and tongue, until I'm well beyond thought, beyond control, beyond everything but an intense, almost frightening ascent to pleasure. It leaves me grabbing and shoving at him with my fists, not knowing whether I'm trying to stop him or pull him further in. My orgasm rips out of me, my body juddering, completely at his mercy, only Harry's hands holding me fast, keeping me steady.
It's hard to improve on a day which begins with Harry Potter's tongue up your arse.
Afterwards, he holds me as my heart rate returns to normal and the sweat cools on my chest. He whispers filthy things in my ear while he strokes himself off, eyes sweeping hungrily across my body. The look on his face, you'd think it was his birthday. It makes me think again of Harry's Christmas stocking, Gryffindor-gaudy and perky with hope.
All right, I know I encourage him. After the first year, I admit I made sure the bloody thing was full when he woke up on Christmas morning. What can I say? His beam of pleasure when he sees it, lumpy and crammed with frivolous treats, makes it impossible to resist.
“Ah, Draco,” he says. “You see? I told you so. The world is full of magic. You should hang up one of your own, next time.”
I always scoff, but I think this year I just might. If Father Christmas doesn't consider me worthy of a visit, I'll fill it myself, with the memories of moments like these which illuminate our lives. The aromas of baking, seductive and cosy. Children's freckled faces, alight with anarchic glee. His fingertips brushing mine under the table, and later, the scrape of stubble against my thigh.
I'll stuff my stocking full to the brim, till it's bulging like Harry's, and at the top, I'll place this moment, here. There were days when I doubted I would see twenty; however, I am thirty-four today, and the man I love is licking icing sugar off his fingers, his full lips sucking them down to the knuckle. With a few quick movements, the pastry case is transferred neatly onto a cooling rack, and Harry turns to me with a look that makes me want to fold at the knees. He pulls me close for a kiss, tangy with lemons, a kiss that warms me deep inside, somewhere I thought I would never allow anyone to go.
These moments glimmer and shine like Harry's lanterns, each one connected to the next. Happy birthday to me, I think. Another year. Another year of living deep.
