Title: The River Thames on a Sunday Author: lq_traintracks Pairing: Harry/Draco Rating: NC-17 Words: ~1,175 Notes: Filled as a member. Hope you enjoy! :D
On Sundays, Harry always goes for an early morning run along the Thames. We live in Greenwich, and he tends to run east, sometimes as far as the flood barrier and almost to where the river empties into the sea. I worry about the industrial areas and often tell him I wish he'd run in the bloody park, but he says he loves the way the river rises and falls with the tides. He's very stubborn. And he's Harry Potter. He can take care of himself.
I do rather like that he comes home smelling of salt and wind, the harshness of his breath filling our flat after hours of only the sounds of my tinkering, a rattle of the china here, a soft, "Oh shit," when my cauldron threatens to bubble over.
Harry invades all that with his bluster, his easy, "Hey," and the breathless report of how the river looks that day, how the sun broke through the fog on his return and warmed his back.
"Mm-hm." I sidle up, arms wrapped around his waist.
"Draco," he warns.
My face insinuates against his neck where the brine of the sea has licked him, scented him like a spray of cologne.
"I need to shower," he says.
"No, you don't." Always my answer.
I practically wrestle him into the bedroom where it's dark still, curtains undrawn. I have him stripped nude in moments, evading his hands at my own waistcoat and trousers, not letting him dislodge one iota of me. At least not yet.
"Lie down."
"In the shower," he tries.
"After," I say.
He's half-hard, his cock blushed in the low light, and it makes me ache to look at him. It always does.
He sighs, granting my wish and laying himself out for me. I run my hands up the backs of his legs, feeling him melt instantly for my touch. His arse unclenches, the muscles in his legs warming to my palms. I lean down and nip a bite to his arsecheek.
"Ow," he complains. "Twat."
I chuckle, lips hovering over his skin. "Sorry."
"No you're— Oh fuck."
I've opened the cheeks of his arse and I lap my tongue slowly over the furled rim of his arsehole.
"Good?" I ask after I've made a few soft, unhurried passes. But I know his answer. He's already undulating against the sheets.
Harry groans into the bed, and I smile. I love relaxing him after a run – when he's so wound tight, his muscles, his mind, his magic racing through his blood from heart, to lungs, to legs, and back in a continuous loop of energy.
I lick harder, with purpose, until he relaxes enough that I can push inside him a little. My eyes flutter closed, a heavy moan of satisfaction coming from deep in my chest. Harry always tastes like the ocean air, like sun on rocks.
He's begun to chant nonsense. He likes getting his arse tongue-fucked. He likes it probably as much as I like doing it to him. I squeeze the globes of his rutting arse in my hands and lap at him.
"I'm going to… I'm going to…" he whines. I do love to make Harry Potter whine. Not in that stupid schoolboy way like when I used to wish he'd crumble under the weight of his own fame and dissolve into very un-Harry-like whimpering tears. No, I love this in a reverent way. I love taking him apart with my mouth, Harry's pleasure being the most efficient way to ignite my own.
I lift my now-swollen lips and insert a finger into him. He cries out. I whisper a lube charm, and then I'm finger-fucking him to completion, murmuring to him how beautiful he is, how aroused I am by how hard he comes, how hard my prick is to be inside of him.
Author:
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1,175
Notes: Filled as a member. Hope you enjoy! :D
On Sundays, Harry always goes for an early morning run along the Thames. We live in Greenwich, and he tends to run east, sometimes as far as the flood barrier and almost to where the river empties into the sea. I worry about the industrial areas and often tell him I wish he'd run in the bloody park, but he says he loves the way the river rises and falls with the tides. He's very stubborn. And he's Harry Potter. He can take care of himself.
I do rather like that he comes home smelling of salt and wind, the harshness of his breath filling our flat after hours of only the sounds of my tinkering, a rattle of the china here, a soft, "Oh shit," when my cauldron threatens to bubble over.
Harry invades all that with his bluster, his easy, "Hey," and the breathless report of how the river looks that day, how the sun broke through the fog on his return and warmed his back.
"Mm-hm." I sidle up, arms wrapped around his waist.
"Draco," he warns.
My face insinuates against his neck where the brine of the sea has licked him, scented him like a spray of cologne.
"I need to shower," he says.
"No, you don't." Always my answer.
I practically wrestle him into the bedroom where it's dark still, curtains undrawn. I have him stripped nude in moments, evading his hands at my own waistcoat and trousers, not letting him dislodge one iota of me. At least not yet.
"Lie down."
"In the shower," he tries.
"After," I say.
He's half-hard, his cock blushed in the low light, and it makes me ache to look at him. It always does.
He sighs, granting my wish and laying himself out for me. I run my hands up the backs of his legs, feeling him melt instantly for my touch. His arse unclenches, the muscles in his legs warming to my palms. I lean down and nip a bite to his arsecheek.
"Ow," he complains. "Twat."
I chuckle, lips hovering over his skin. "Sorry."
"No you're— Oh fuck."
I've opened the cheeks of his arse and I lap my tongue slowly over the furled rim of his arsehole.
"Good?" I ask after I've made a few soft, unhurried passes. But I know his answer. He's already undulating against the sheets.
Harry groans into the bed, and I smile. I love relaxing him after a run – when he's so wound tight, his muscles, his mind, his magic racing through his blood from heart, to lungs, to legs, and back in a continuous loop of energy.
I lick harder, with purpose, until he relaxes enough that I can push inside him a little. My eyes flutter closed, a heavy moan of satisfaction coming from deep in my chest. Harry always tastes like the ocean air, like sun on rocks.
He's begun to chant nonsense. He likes getting his arse tongue-fucked. He likes it probably as much as I like doing it to him. I squeeze the globes of his rutting arse in my hands and lap at him.
"I'm going to… I'm going to…" he whines. I do love to make Harry Potter whine. Not in that stupid schoolboy way like when I used to wish he'd crumble under the weight of his own fame and dissolve into very un-Harry-like whimpering tears. No, I love this in a reverent way. I love taking him apart with my mouth, Harry's pleasure being the most efficient way to ignite my own.
I lift my now-swollen lips and insert a finger into him. He cries out. I whisper a lube charm, and then I'm finger-fucking him to completion, murmuring to him how beautiful he is, how aroused I am by how hard he comes, how hard my prick is to be inside of him.