#it’s a messy sketch so it should be fine anyhow

[o0o0thorn0o0o]

February’s almost up, man. At least there’s the majority of March. Still, need to pick up the pace with me winter ideas.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Gliding Dragon

Day 1 of @avatarworldweek‘s summer love event: Unconditional love.

I haven’t seen any fics at all for Azula/Teo so I wrote one. Because why not?

She was there strictly on business, or she was supposed to be anyhow. The Fire Nation needed new machines, but creativity wasn’t exactly an area of expertise among Azula’s people. Not in an era where dancing had been banned. The Fire Nation needed an inventor. Apparently, it was her job to find one, as Zuko busied himself with other matters. Frankly she believed that she should be the one fussing with foreign affairs back at the palace as opposed to making another journey to the Earth Kingdom. A place where she left empty handed, with only a small lead. None of the machinists in the Earth Kingdom impressed her well enough for her to request an alliance. But she heard tell of a machinist who dwelled in the Northern Air Temple after being displaced by a flood of sorts.

This tip had her on her way back to the Fire Nation to retrieve an airship, and then right back in the direction she had just come from. It had been so tedious. But she would only accept the finest for the Fire Nation, for her nation. Azula sighed, the things she did for it.

 She supposed that the hassle of the trip was all well enough in the end. The mechanist was highly skilled, almost beyond what she had hoped. And with the offer of a place to stay for he and what remained of the others in his village, he would put his skills to use.

Azula had accomplished her mission, with seemingly no personal gain—something Zuko was annoyingly proud of; “finally you did something out of the kindness of your heart!” She vowed that if he kept it up, it would be the last selfless thing she did.

 Azula fell onto her bed, she was exhausted. Travel was losing its appeals, she felt as though she was spending more of her life in the Earth Kingdom than in her own home these days. She didn’t know how she let herself be drawn into it. She had a strong feeling it had to do with something, something along the lines of, “a change of scenery will be good for you.”

Right.

 In the days to follow she began to see more of the mechanist’s son. She would see him in the halls, observing the Fire Lord portraits. She would run into him while on walks in the town. She would find him dining in the same restaurant as she, and never with any plans to meet up there. Beforehand she didn’t pay him much attention, her goal was to strike a deal with his father and that was it. In her time at the air temple the man had been absent most of the time, whizzing about on his glider. She had been meaning to ask him about that. Perhaps, that’s what compelled her to finally strike up a conversation with him. If she was going to be seeing him around so often, she may as well make him less of a stranger. Naturally this is when she stopped seeing him around so frequently.

 She didn’t see him again, in fact, until a week or so later when she found herself sitting on the rim of a fountain in the center of the Capital’s shopping ring. Azula wasn’t much of an artist, it was a hobby she had just taken up. It was something that seemed to be coming naturally to her. In current the princess was sketching one of the dragon statues that rested before a weapons vendor. Though it was hard to work with someone eyeballing her unfinished work. She turned the sheet over with a purpose.

 Shamelessly the man inquired, “whacha drawing?”

 “Mind your own business.” Azula muttered, before looking up to see who was addressing her. Just like that she realized her chances of finding out more about the man’s glider had just diminished some. She turned to him and mumbled something akin to, “your father’s inventions are quite innovative.”

 “Yeah, he comes up with some neat stuff.” The man wheeled himself up next to her.

 “Did he make that wheelchair glider for you?”

 The man smirked, “mind your own business.” She had half the mind to push him into the fountain. “Yeah, he made it for me a long time ago. I was always kind of stuck, ya know, watching the other kids chase each other around. I was invited but never had much fun.” He motioned to the wheelchair. “I couldn’t go as fast so I always lost tag. So my father gave me a way to see the world. I kind of think that it’s better than walking.”

 “What happened? Where you always like that.” She asked, pointing to his legs. She turned away abruptly with the faint feeling that it was rude to have asked so bluntly and in the manner that she had. Why was she so dreadful with words when she wasn’t speaking politically? If she could smooth talk into getting the better end of a deal than she ought to be able to hold up a more simplicity conversation. She muttered a quick apology for the ignorant wording of her question.

 But the man didn’t seem phased. “I’ve heard worse.” He waved it off. “But no, when I was a really young child I was able to walk. I lost the ability during the flood that destroyed my village.”

 “I promise we, here in the Fire Nation, don’t condone flooding.”

 The man laughed, “I’ll hold you to that next time it rains hard enough.”

 “I’d like to see you try.”

 “I’m Teo.” He held his hand out.

 Azula took it. She assumed that her name was more or less common knowledge and she couldn’t imagine that he didn’t recognize her, but she returned the introduction anyhow. Better to be formal in forming relationships. It would be her first friendship since Mai and TyLee. She didn’t have any enemies at this point, but she didn’t allow anyone to get particularly close either. No, the princess liked to keep to herself. It felt safer, more comfortable.

But Teo had an air about him, a laidback air. She couldn’t see him offering her any sort of drama and she had no prior connection to him. No abundant and questionable history, only a very vague memory of seeing him among those at the Western Air Temple when she’d attacked it. It hadn’t been personal, not in the way it was with Zuko. She wondered if she should bring it up at all.  

 Instead she turned her page up again and handed him the sketch.

 He held it up to the actual dragon statue. “Not bad.” He noted.

 “Not finished.” She reminded. He handed it back. Rather he tried to. “It’s yours.” She didn’t know why she had given it to him, he hadn’t requested it. But if felt like a good thing to do at the time.

 “Thanks.” He grinned. “I don’t think anyone has given me a drawing before, especially not a lady. I’m not exactly a hit with the ladies.”

 “I’m not exactly a… ‘hit’ with anyone.” Azula muttered.

 “I don’t know, I like you.” He replied. “You’re…eccentric.”

 Azula concluded that, that was rather well as far as first encounters went. It hadn’t been as smooth or seamless as she wanted it to be, but she hadn’t ruined anything yet. The truth was she wanted a friend again. She needed a friend, especially one that didn’t come with a messy history.

 She spoke with him many times after that. Each time he treated her very well, better than perhaps most people treated her. She came to know his habits and those little quirks he had; such as pushing on his aviation goggles when he was bored or trying to distract himself. She wondered if he had picked up any of her habits. He enjoyed sightseeing, Azula came to find. Teo constantly requested to see new places, and so she began showing him lesser known spots. Sections of the Fire Nation that she’d come to know because she had lived there for so long and explored it so passionately.

 One day Teo asked her if she had ever flown before.

 “Many times.” She replied. “On warships and on the back of a bison.”

 “How about with a glider?” He asked.

 “Once.” Azula replied thinking of the mishap where she’d thrown herself off of Appa in a poorly planned escape attempt. “Well it wasn’t exactly flying.”

 “A while ago I dated this village girl named Li-Roa.” Teo started. “Before we broke up she wanted to fly on my glider with me, so my father invented a glider big enough for me and my chair and for Li as well.” He explained. “I haven’t used it since…”

 “And you want to use it with me?” Azula filled it.

 “If you’re interested.”

 Somehow Azula felt honored, which wasn’t an easy thing to make her feel. But she was conflicted; she’d seen Teo on his own glider and it never looked stable. He boasted that he’d been using the same glider wheelchair since he was a boy, only changing it when he out grew it. Azula was no aviator, in fact being so high up with nothing to hold onto made her somewhat queasy, but she would never admit it. Yet there Teo was, vowing to teach her to fly. The princess didn’t know if she wanted to fly.

Not until she allowed him to slip in and convince her.

He took her hand and helped her into the chair.

 “We won’t go too high at first, not until you get the hang of it.”

 “The hang of it?” Azula frowned. “You’re steering.”

 “Yes, but you have to do some peddling also.”

 “Wonderful.” Azula grumbled. But she wasn’t one to shy away from a challenge, even if her belly was fluttering and tied in all sorts of knots. Teo walked her thought the basics; as it would turn out he neglected to tell her that she would be in charge of steering the rear glider. He explained it much like sailing, all she had to do position the glider-piece so that it would catch the most wind. As long as she did that and distributed her weight evenly the flight would go smoothly.  “If you can beat us during an eclipse where we have the disadvantage, you can do this.” Teo declared.

 “Well I suppose you’re right.” Azula agreed. Rather she pretended to. She still had her doubts.

 She had expected him to reassure her, to tell her that she’d do just fine on more time. And he did. What she didn’t expect was a hug. She could remember the last time someone had initiated one with her. But it was probably a time when she and TyLee wee close. She let him hold her for a moment before she finally returned the gesture. The nervousness that, that ignited within her pushed out the fluttery feeling brought by the anticipation of flight. She hoped that her cheeks weren’t any shade pink. He let her go and with a smile asked, “are you ready?”

 Actually, being in the air was a different matter altogether. It was exhilarating. To have her hair tossed about and her robes fluttering so wildly. She felt like a real dragon. Flying with Teo was much different than the airships and much different than the bison. This time she had some navigational control and it was fantastic. She felt so free. On top of that, she’d never had such a splendid view of her nation. Once or twice Teo called back to her to tell her that she was doing great or to ask her which way she’d like to go next. That was the thing though, in that one moment, she wanted to go everywhere.

 In time, wanting to go everywhere became wanting to go anywhere. Teo had a sense of adventure that she didn’t, not until she talked to him more. Teo kindled within her, the ability to express herself, to truly decide what she wanted to do. And she found that she was rather fond of the notion of seeing the hidden corners of the world.  She took him to Ember Island and to Hira’a. Hira’a where she revealed things about herself that she kept concealed from most others. Things that concerned her poor relationship with her mother. She didn’t ask for it and she didn’t think that she had displayed any particular signs of distress, but he took her hand anyways and he held it for a long time. That night she had sketched a picture of a bamboo mask; one of the many things that adorned the town stage. She found herself answering Teo’s inquiries more than actually watching the play.

In return he took her to the place where his village used to stand. That had been a very raw moment. One where he rubbed at tearful eyes and told her about how he’d lost his mother there and how that was the moment he’d become a freak. The princess wasn’t good with words of comfort and gestures of it came hard as well. But she had assured him that he was no more of a freak than someone who heard things that weren’t there. She noted that he probably wouldn’t be Teo without the hardships and lessons that the loss of feeling in his legs had given him.  Anyways, she was slowly learning that the perfection that she had once coveted was overrated anyhow. It was odd to admit it and if felt wrong coming from her lips. But apparently, she had done something right. Because that day was first time he kissed her. She wasn’t a graceful kisser to begin with and trying to find the right position around the wheelchair was a bit of a task, she felt a tad flustered for it. Eventually he coaxed her into sitting on his lap, from there pressing her lips against his came naturally. For some time he held her with her head against his chest and his hand over brushing over her hair, watching a few stars begin pop up over one of the many ruined houses.

A quick sketch of the ruins and the stars above, found a place among her other drawings.

 Eventually, spending so much time with her, Teo would see sides of her; the darker, rougher ones. The wilder ones that most people feared. The ones she went out of her way to bury deep and hide from him. He was the only person who didn’t seem to fear her nor to be weary of her and she wanted to keep that. Teo had been spontaneous from the start so she shouldn’t have been surprised at how readily he accepted and worked with the more dangerous of her moods. He was patient and somehow unphased by the worst of her threats, until her temper dulled again.

 Azula found it very well to know that at least one person seemed to love her in spite of her worst self. To know that at least one person was accepting of that part and didn’t demand that she make any abrupt changes. For the first time she felt at ease with someone. For the first time she felt as though she had someone who didn’t expect anything of her. Someone who didn’t love her power nor her brains, but loved the person shaped by these qualities. The person who possessed them. She just hoped that he felt as comfortable around her. That she conveyed just as much care.

She must have if he was still traveling with her.

If he still unfolded the drawing she’d given him when they first talked.

 “You still have that?” She asked one day as the sat at the edge of a dock. Jang Hui was a gem so close to home she wondered how she had never been. Last she heard, the place was a sludgy mess. The river looked rather pristine to her.

 “Of course I still have it.” Teo replied.

 “It’s a terrible drawing.” She muttered.

 “I don’t know, I think that it’s better than that lion-moose you tried to draw.” He shrugged.

 She gave his arm a swift punch. “My lion-moose looked better than you ever will.” She folded her arms across her chest.

 “Ouch.” He muttered.

 “Here.” She said suddenly, handing him an assortment of pages. She and Teo found themselves on one of the Fire Islands. It was close enough to home for Azula to know their trip was coming to a close. It seemed like it had been such a short time, had it really been over a year? It must have been; each drawing in that collection had been dated. And there were hundreds of different sketches, one from each day���a little something that meant something to her. Some were quite dismal, the ones that she had painted in some Earth Kingdom bayou for one. That part of their trip had been a mistake, it was a part that had thrown her terribly off and sent her right back into a place where she couldn’t decipher the real from the false. On those days she had drawn her hallucinations, horrifying swamp beasts and the taunting face of her father as it molded in with the scenery. The only thing that kept her from going completely under was Teo admitting that he’d been having visions of his own. The swamp had been alive with spirit energy and it had, had them both on edge.

 “What’s this?” He asked.

 “Sketches, from each day since we started this journey.” Azula replied. “I wanted to make something for you.”

 Teo flipped through the pages. Many of them were adorned with flora, trees, and other plant life—most of which were the ones he’d pointed out to her. She also had a few buildings, artifacts, and people. The one that stood out to him was her rendition of the elaborate door to the Southern Air-Temple. There was something very Fire Nation to her version of it, he thought that this was how the door would look if made by Fire Nation hands. Her latest drawing was of a very old man named Doc…or was it Shoo? He seemed to use them interchangeably. Each and every one seemed better than the next, her skill was flourishing fast, not that he expected anything else. “They’re gorgeous.”  He sighed, “but I didn’t make anything for you.”

 Azula shrugged. “I didn’t ask you to.”

 “I should have thought of it though.” He pointed out.

 “You gave me the opportunity to draw them at all.” She replied. He watched her kick her feet at the water. If he could draw, that would have been an image to capture. She looked peaceful, her hair let loose and rippling over her shoulders.

 “I guess that that’s true.” He agreed. “I wish I could do that.”

 “Draw?” Azula asked.

 “No,” he pointed to her swinging feet. “I’ve never dangled my feet in the water before.”

 Azula looked at him for a moment, contemplating something. Without so much as a warning, she lifted him from his wheelchair. The woman was stronger than he had anticipated. Carefully she set him down, took his shoes off, and turned him so that his feet finally met the water. He was overtaken by a sense of glee, it was such a simple and stupid thing to be delighted over. And yet…

 “Well? Is it everything you hoped for.”

 “Yeah, I think I can see some fish under there too!” He exclaimed.

 “A few have brushed by, yes.”

 He wished that he could actually feel them rushing by. Feel the sensations of the water. But it was enough for him, to be able to have his feet in the water at all.

 “Thanks.” He beamed up at the princess.

 She shrugged, “you act like it was hard to do.”

 “It still means a lot. People don’t realize that I like this kind of small stuff…” he trailed off. “It’s always Teo the bold and adventurous. Teo the independent and daring. No one seems to think that sometimes Teo could use some help.”

 No one seemed to think that of Azula either so she nodded in understanding. “I take it you don’t like to ask for it either.”

 He rubbed the back of his head with a goofy smile. “Not particularly.” And then he added, “I don’t want to bother anyone.”

 “You didn’t bother me.” She rather liked having someone to help, actually.

 “Would you mind helping me back into my wheelchair?” He asked.

 “Now that’s asking too much.” Azula smirked. She gave a small pause before scooping him into her arms. She was going to fufill his request, but decided that she liked holding him more than she fancied helping he right back into the chair. Anyways, he didn’t seem to mind it any. With him in her arms and the late summer sun dazzling her skin, Azula decided that she liked this much more than she would have enjoyed the throne. There was a sense of imprisonment that came with the throne, Zuko couldn’t very well just leave on a year-long sabbatical as she had just done. She rested her chin on the top of his head.

 To think, it began with one irritating political quest and one ridiculous moment at a fountain.

[destiel--23484-blog]

Drarry Christmas Eve

Summary: Draco wakes early on the morning of Christmas Eve. Even though they are still pretending the thing between them is just sex, the gifts he and Harry have for each other speak of something more. So, Draco decides to something other than speak... ✨ The chill draws Draco from disjointed dreams. He grumbles and rolls over, reaching for the solid warmth beside him, but his sleep-clumsy fingers slide over cool sheets instead. Draco cracks an eyelid, forehead creasing at the empty other half of his bed.   It takes a second to understand he is alone, and then his heart stills in his chest as that is followed by a realization that he has not only become used to sharing his bed with Harry’s untidy sprawl, but to expect it. He has just reached for Harry whilst half-asleep and still feels the sharp twinge of disappointment that he has left.   Draco burrows deeper beneath the blankets, away from the winter air, but gooseflesh still ripples down his bare arms.   Since that first time he showed up in the middle of the night, Harry has stayed over many times, though he makes a point not to be regular about it. And Draco pretends not to notice the extra toothbrush in the bathroom, or the tin of Harry’s favorite tea in his kitchen cupboard, pretends those things don’t send a shock that’s half fear and half joy through him every time he catches sight of them.   But this, this ache at waking to an empty bed, this is new. And terrifying.   He swallows, his throat dry, and stares into the early morning darkness. Outside his window, the sky has just begun to brighten and the air in the room is grey with gloom. Draco can just make out the snow-covered roof of the building across the street.   “It’s fine,” he whispers into the pillow, his voice hushed and thready.   He rubs a hand over his eyes, wishing he could rub away his unease as easily. The truth is, Draco still has no idea what he and Harry are doing. Since the first, he’s been acting on instinct, hurtling forward without stopping to think. Draco doesn’t want to think about what any of this means.   And while they now do more than just tear at each other’s clothes and come together in a mindless, wordless heat, they still don’t talk about it. This. What they are.   Across the way, the neighbors’ Christmas lights blink on and off. Draco squeezes his eyes shut.   Of course Harry left early. It’s Christmas bloody Eve. He’s no doubt got plans, wassailing with the Weasels and Granger or something. Draco’s due for dinner at his mother’s place in France this evening himself. There’s absolutely no reason to be crestfallen at not getting to say goodbye. It’s not as if Draco is one for soppy seasonal sentiment anyhow.   And yet, at the sound of a soft step downstairs, his heart leaps.   The floorboards are cold beneath his bare feet as he climbs from the heated cocoon of the bed, but Draco pads to the stairs regardless. He pauses only to pull on his robe over his nakedness. The risers don’t creak under him, but the sight that greets him at the bottom stills him.   Unbidden, a smile curls the corner of Draco’s mouth.   Harry rummages through the cupboard for tea with one hand and scrubs the other through his messy locks. He wears nothing but a pair of royal blue boxer briefs, the cotton clinging to the curves of his tight arse, which sways in time with the Celestina Warbeck song he’s humming under his breath.   Seeing him like this, he is a far cry from the gangly boy in spectacles Draco met in Madam Malkin’s. His bare shoulders are broad and the smooth, tan skin of his back stretches over thick muscle. The tips of Draco’s fingers tingle in remembered sensation.   He rubs them against his lips, the hum starting in his blood. The kettle burbles in the quiet.   “Do you want tea?”   Harry’s voice is sleep-rough and skitters along Draco’s wakening nerves. Draco strolls over and dips a finger into the elastic of Harry’s waistband. Harry turns but Draco keeps hold. The soft hair on Harry’s taut abdomen brushes his knuckle. Draco takes a deep breath of his musky scent. What had Harry asked? Tea?   “Yes.”   Amusement twinkles in Harry’s emerald irises. Draco lifts a brow, but can’t refrain from petting that tantalizing trail of hair with a fingertip. His own mirth is muted by the early hour and his growing arousal. Especially when he sees the soft bulge of Harry’s cock twitch.   Harry curls his hands around Draco’s upper arms. They’re covered in calluses that have grown thicker with the recent renovations he’s begun on Grimmauld Place.   Draco presses in closer, sliding a leg between Harry’s thighs. “I thought you left.”   He’s not sure why he says it. Once the words are out, he bites his lip. They sound small and needy. He wants to snatch them back. But Harry loops his arms around Draco’s neck, his smile loose and crooked.   “I don’t have anywhere to be until noon.”   Warm breath puffs against Draco’s cheek as Harry rubs his nose along Draco’s. The kettle whistles and he expects Harry to release him—needs that, maybe, because his breath is tangled in his lungs and his heart thumps his ribs like a rogue bludger—but Harry flicks his fingers and murmurs something to make the kettle stop shrieking. The graze of his lips against Draco’s jaw is so soft, so tender. Draco’s heart lurches, clogging his throat.   He pulls away, tightening his robe tie with a jerk. The thin silk doesn’t do much to shield his stiffening prick, but he feels slightly better anyway.   Harry’s cheeks bloom pink. He tilts his head, his gaze sliding to the counter, where the spoons merrily stir their tea. He rubs a hand across the sprinkle of dark hair on his chest, opens his mouth, closes it again.   His gaze finally settles on the small, round cafe dining table to Draco’s right. He nods at it, cheeks darkening to red.   “I got you something.”   The parcel is large and wrapped in silver paper. Draco blinks, wondering fleetingly where it came from. He personally stripped every bit of clothing off Harry when he’d stumbled from the fireplace the night before.   Draco’s hands tremble as he lifts it. It’s heavy and squarish. He presses his fingers against the cool, slick paper, feeling the slight give of cloth beneath. His eyes drift from the simply wrapped gift up to Harry, then back down.   “I…”   Harry rolls his eyes. “Just open it, Malfoy.”   The edge of exasperation in Harry’s tone is refreshingly familiar. Draco’s heartbeat slows down a little as he picks at the tape holding the silver paper closed. He can feel a crease form between his brows when he pulls it open, revealing what appears to be dark, folded leather.   It’s old, worn and soft and heavy. Draco strokes it for a moment, enjoying the supple suede, before realizing there is something inside. A book, from the feel of it.   When he looks up at Harry, the other man is still smiling, though the curve of his lips is more subtle now as he sips his tea and watches Draco unwrap his present. Draco feels the blood creep up his neck to his face and bends back to the book.   A gasp bursts from him as he takes in the title on the carefully preserved tome resting in his hands.   Musings on the Medical & Magical Properties of Many Plants, he reads, stamped in gold foil letters on a cover of purple cloth. The author’s name is on the flyleaf—Griselda Root.   The volume is exceedingly rare. There are only three still in existence. One resides in the restricted section of the library at Hogwarts. Another is owned by a private collector in America. The third was the beloved heirloom of a former Minister for Magic who was the last of her family line. She left it in trust to future Ministers. Draco knows this because he has to request special dispensation every time he wishes to access it at the Ministry.   Draco touches shaking fingers to the thick pages, surprised at the creamy white of the paper. The copy held under lock and key at the Ministry is faded and stained.   “Where… how…?”   There weren’t even rumors of another copy anywhere, let alone one in such pristine condition. It must be worth millions. Tens of millions. Easily. Draco swallows. His face is numb with surprise.   “Harry…”   He tries to find the words to say he can’t accept this gift, though he wants to clutch it to his chest and never let go. Harry ducks his head and shrugs.   “Er, it’s sort of yours anyway. I’m just returning it.”   “I don’t understand.”   Draco flips gently through several pages of the book, entranced by the fine, elaborate sketches of leaves and flowers. Harry takes a sip of tea. Draco doesn’t miss the way his hands tremble a bit too. It should make him feel better, but it only makes his stomach flip.   Harry runs a finger along the rim of his cup.   “Found it in a trunk full of things in the attic. It sounded familiar, so I asked Hermione about it.”   For a second, Draco feels a sharp spear of fear. And an increasingly common bolt of… something else he doesn’t want to consider too closely. It’s been months, but they rarely acknowledge the outside world. The friends they are keeping each other secret from.   Harry talks on, oblivious to the churning emotions inside Draco.   “She said Griselda Root was a relative of your mum’s from way back. So I thought you might like it.”   Griselda was a many times great-aunt who married into the Black family. She died long before his mother was ever born, her only claim to fame the book in his hands—which is only revered among potion masters and herbalists.   There is a thread of vulnerability in Harry’s voice and it makes Draco smile. He lays the book on the table—carefully!—and refolds the leather. He can’t help but spread his fingers over the covering.   “I like it very much. Thank you.”   Harry’s blush intensifies, but his grin is wide. “I’m glad.”   He lifts the cup to his lips again, but Draco reaches out and takes it from him. He sets it aside, curling his fingers in a wordless Accio. The small, wrapped box zooms into his palm, gold bow bobbing slightly. When he extends it toward Harry, Harry’s eyes go comically wide.   “I got you something as well,” Draco says, trying not to give away how hard his heart is pounding, or the nerves that sizzle beneath his skin.   He is still unwilling to admit the impulse that had him marking down the spell when he came across it in the Archives, but he knew as soon as he completed the thing who he meant it for. He busies himself with his own tea now as Harry tears at the paper to reveal the plain black box within.   Draco places the tin of tea back in the cupboard, watching from the corner of his eye as Harry lifts out the thin leather cord. The small golden charm dangling from it catches the faint light in the room and gleams.   When Harry runs a broad thumb over it, its tiny wings flutter to life. He gives a soft, surprised chuckle, one corner of his mouth twitching upward, his eyes intent. Despite his obvious, lingering sleep-befuddlement, the look of concentration is one Draco remembers well from the Quidditch pitch.   Draco’s earlier desire returns, heating his blood, burning away some of the awkwardness.   “It’s a portkey. Of a sort.”   Harry’s gaze jumps to his, brow furrowing. Draco reaches out, takes the thing from Harry and slips the leather over his head. It drops around his neck, the miniature snitch bouncing against his breastbone.   “In an emergency, all you need to do is say the word, and it will whisk you away from danger.”   He says it brusquely, his eyes on the little charm instead of Harry’s face. Heat scalds his cheeks. Harry’s touch is gentle on his chin, nudging his gaze upward. He lifts it with a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest, scowling at the grin on Harry’s face.   “What?”   “What word?”   “Excuse me?”   Harry strokes his thumb along the edge of Draco’s jaw. “You said I need to say a word.”   He wants to capture Harry’s digit between his lips and suck it into his mouth. To forget this awkward exchange and the deeper meanings behind it in a storm of passion. That’s what they do. What they’re good at. Draco coughs, his throat dry.   “Incolumitas.”   The snitch’s miniature wings whir to life and the charm emits a faint white glow that grows brighter for a moment before blinking out like a Christmas light. The wings furl back around the small golden ball.   Harry frowns at it, his chin tucked in, brows squished down. “Er, was it supposed to do something just then?”   Draco inspects the perfectly buffed length of his nails, pulling a bit of Malfoy arrogance around him like a cloak.   “Yes, well, you’re not in danger, are you? And you’re already here, at any rate.”   It takes Harry a minute, in which Draco notices that his cuticles seem a little dry and wonders if he should be using a heavier lotion now that it’s winter. When Harry speaks, his words are slow.   “I’m. Already. Here.”   “That’s what I said.”   Harry slides his arms around Draco’s waist, pulling him back against his body. Draco hardly notices the chill, between the heat of embarrassment and feel of Harry’s warm skin. With a sigh, Draco rests his hands on Harry’s shoulders and meets his slightly narrowed gaze.   Harry’s tongue slides slowly along his lower lip before he continues.   “If I’m in trouble, the portkey will bring me here.”   Draco huffs out an annoyed breath, wishing they could end this conversation. “Yes, Potter. I know you’re not overly fond of plans, but really. Who knows what kind of danger you’re likely to get into? I had to consider all the possibilities. Depending on the threat, it might be assumed you’d go home, to the Weasley’s, or the Ministry. But it’s unlikely anyone would think to look for you here .”   Again, that twinge of what Draco refuses to call disappointment flares in his gut. But Harry nods. He folds one large hand around the tiny snitch and smiles.   “Thank you, Draco.”   He lifts his mouth to Draco’s, his lips parted. His tongue tastes of tea and Draco moans, glad to be done with talking. Thinking.   Harry backs him up a step at a time, hands tugging at the knot of Draco’s robe. Draco holds on to Harry’s muscled shoulders and pours his turmoil into the kiss, sucking at Harry’s tongue. Cool wood presses against the back of his bare thighs, making him gasp.   Somehow, Harry has maneuvered him around against the counter while ravaging his mouth. He didn’t even feel himself being turned. Though his head is spinning, so that’s not entirely surprising.   His robe falls open, the tie finally undone, and Harry shoves it down his arms until it slips to the floor. Draco’s cock, already more than half-hard, juts from the small patch of palest blond curls. Harry hums under his breath. He flattens his left hand against Draco’s belly, holding him in place as he folds to his knees.   “Harry.”   Draco groans. Harry wraps the fingers of his right hand around the base of Draco’s shaft and strokes upward, gem-bright gaze glowing with heat. Draco’s knees give at the pleasure that surges through him. He catches himself with a palm on the counter, rattling the tea cup on its saucer and nearly upending it.   Harry’s lips curl in a wicked, challenging grin. His eyes roam up and down Draco’s body as he continues his slow, tight caress. His left hand wanders from Draco’s belly up to his chest, tracing over his ribs and pectorals. He circles one small nipple with the edge of his thumbnail, making it bead.   “You look incredible like this. Spread all smooth and white and pink against the counter. Bare, panting, willing to let me touch you anywhere.”   The heat pooling in Draco’s stomach creeps up his throat. This is a new thing, the talking during sex. Harry would sometimes babble incoherently in the past, but he’s only recently begun to speak with fervent calculation. He knows what it does to Draco. It’s obvious, as his cock is now rock hard with pre-come glistening at the tip.   When Harry leans forward and swipes the bubble of clear fluid away with the flat of his tongue, Draco gives a hoarse cry. His head falls back on his shoulders. He inhales through clenched teeth, toes curling against the floor.   “Mmmmm,” Harry moans, savoring Draco’s taste, then bends to slide his mouth over the smooth head of Draco’s prick.   Draco cards a hand through Harry’s hair, gripping the thick, soft strands tight in his fingers while Harry swallows him. It is impossible to decide which is better, the sight of Harry on his knees or the feel of his lips and tongue wrapping around his shaft. They both fill him with molten desire and crackling pleasure, like a lightning storm and a volcano beneath his skin.   His hips pump of their own accord, thrusting into Harry’s throat, desperate for more of the sweet, hot sensation.   Harry doesn’t mind. He curls both hands around Draco’s arse, urging him deeper. His eyes are closed, cheeks flushed red, lips swollen and wet. He pulls back briefly, fighting Draco’s hold to press his open mouth to Draco’s bollocks, his tongue laving the sensitive sack.   “Oh! A-ha! Harry!”   His eyes are glazed when they meet Draco’s, shimmering and soft. There is so much in them that Draco has to close his own, squeeze them shut. Still, the feel of Harry drawing his cock back into the heat of his mouth wrings a long moan from his lips.   He bobs quickly, shuttling up and down the throbbing length of Draco’s shaft and sucking at the rounded crown.   Draco feels his orgasm building, twisting and coiling at the base of his spine and pulsing through his veins. But before he reaches the peak of his pleasure, Harry releases him with a wet pop and spins him. He presses a hand to the small of Draco’s back, urging him to bend forward against the counter.   All thoughts have fled Draco’s head, but he understands the wordless instruction and braces himself on his forearms. Harry’s rough hands knead his buttocks, squeeze, and then draw them apart. Warm, panting breath skates over Draco’s skin, making him shiver and tense.   “Harry.”   Another groan. His name has become almost a chant on Draco’s lips. A plea. He rocks backward, bare feet sliding on the wood floor as he spreads his legs wider. Harry accepts the blatant invitation, raining nipping kisses all across the smooth skin of Draco’s backside.   His lips graze the quivering ring of muscle at the entrance to Draco’s passage and send a spark of pure bliss straight up Draco’s spine. He drops his head forward, resting his forehead on his crossed wrists, shaking under Harry’s ministrations.   Harry’s tongue is insistent and clever, teasing out every tingling nerve between the small of his back and his bollocks. Though neither of them touches Draco’s cock, it jerks and throbs with each swirl of tongue and scrape of teeth.   Draco feels the rough prickle of Harry’s unshaven cheeks and chin, the brush of his fringe. When Harry’s wriggling tongue breaches him, pushing inside him and withdrawing, Draco’s curses are muffled against his knuckles.   Harry chuckles, the vibrations echoing through Draco and making his ears ring.   He rolls his hips, chasing that pleasure. This he understands. This he is unafraid of. Passion between them is nothing new. They have always known how to drive each other mad.   The first finger glides in easily, joining Harry’s tongue, stretching him. After so many months exploring, Harry finds his prostate with ease, brushing the gland only fleetingly to tease him. It sends delicious shocks throughout Draco’s whole body, but isn’t enough to put him over the edge.   Harry pulls his mouth away but keeps thrusting his finger in and out of Draco. He adds another, presses deeper, humming at Draco’s choked groan. He rubs his other palm encouragingly over Draco’s buttock. Draco knows Harry is staring at the sight of his fingers sliding into his stretched hole and he doesn’t care. Welcomes it, in fact.   Harry’s gaze burns his skin as he urges him on with gruff, filthy words.   “Yes, like that. Fuck yourself on my fingers, Malfoy.”   “More.” Draco’s not sure at this point if it’s a plea or a command, but either way Harry listens and adds a third finger. His mouth returns to its work, the point of his tongue darting around his own pumping digits. Draco loves the heat and the pressure, the swirling pleasure swelling within him.   Again, just as his orgasm is within reach, Harry stops, withdrawing.   “Damn it, Potter,” Draco growls, glaring over his heaving shoulder. Harry sits back on his heels, face red, lips plump and glistening with saliva. He pushes to his feet and palms the bulge of his erection through his boxers, lashes fluttering.   “I need you, Draco.”   The words make everything within Draco tighten. He whirls, shoving Harry backwards. Harry’s eyes widen. He stumbles as he shoves the blue boxers down his legs and kicks them off.   His cock hangs between his muscled thighs, heavy, thick, flushed a deeper crimson than his cheeks. The fat crown peeks from his foreskin, wet with pre-come. Dark curls crowd the base of his shaft and tight sack of his bollocks.   Draco pushes Harry again, harder, propelling him down onto the chair behind him.   The tiny gold snitch bounces against Harry’s chest as Draco climbs onto his lap, straddling his waist. Harry’s hands grip Draco’s arse, pulling him down as he thrusts upward, rubbing their cocks together clumsily. The friction and pressure is good, sending spirals of pleasure into Draco’s gut, but it’s not enough. He undulates restlessly.   Draco grasps the leather cord around Harry’s neck, pulling him up as he bends until their mouths meet. The kiss is frantic, wet, deep. Ravenous. As if it hasn’t been months of nearly daily encounters. As if they are back at the beginning, when they avoided each other until they couldn’t anymore. Until one of them had to drag the other into the nearest semi-private place to touch, taste, consume.   Their hands are everywhere, gliding over every inch of available skin like new territory.   He tastes the stubble on Harry’s cheek, the salt of sweat on his throat. He bites the tendon there, growling at the pliancy of Harry’s flesh. Harry’s blunt nails rake down his back, drawing lines of heat. His fingers dig into Draco’s hips, bruising, pressing him so close it feels as if his skin will give and let Harry in.   Sweat collects between them despite the early morning chill. They slide against each other, eager and breathless and out of rhythm.   Draco thrusts his fingers into Harry’s hair, fisting the thick locks. He kisses him again, hard, sucking at his lower lip. He curses when Harry pulls away, barely conscious of the mumbled Accio before he takes his mouth again.   The cool glide of lube dripping into the crease of his buttocks is a surprise, but a welcome one.   “Yessss.” He hisses the word against Harry’s jaw, gasps at the delicious sting of Harry’s fingers probing him again.   He only gives him a second before pushing up onto the balls of his feet, angling his hips. He tugs at Harry’s hair.   “ Now, Potter.”   “So bossy,” Harry says through a grin, but a moment later he presses the broad head of his cock to Draco’s hole.   Draco lowers himself until he rests on Harry’s thighs, the hair there scratching pleasantly against his buttocks. His aching prick pokes against Harry’s abdomen with each rise and fall of his breath. For a moment, they stare into each other’s eyes.   Harry’s are bright green with desire and amusement. Draco doesn’t know what Harry sees in his. Whatever it is, he lifts his hand to Draco’s face and strokes his thumb along Draco’s lower lip. His smile softens.   “Draco—”   “Shut up. Shut up and let me ride your cock, Potter, or so help me I will hex you into next week and then go take care of myself.”   Harry barks a sharp laugh and drops his hand back to Draco’s hip.   “As you wish, Malfoy.”   As always, the way Harry says his last name sends a little spike of adrenaline through his veins. Draco keeps his gaze steady as he rises, daring Harry to say so much as a word. He remains silent, but for a rumbling moan when Draco drops himself back down into his lap.   Neither of them speaks again after that. Draco fuses his mouth to Harry’s, his kisses hungry and demanding as he works himself on Harry’s cock. He doesn’t release Harry’s hair, but Harry’s hands skim over his shoulders, down his back. They grip his arse and stroke his straining thighs.   He arches up to meet every one of Draco’s downward thrusts, slamming them together in a collision of eager flesh.   Draco’s muscles burn from the exertion. Sweat snakes down his neck and belly. He only stops kissing Harry long enough to take small, gasping sips of air before plunging his tongue back between Harry’s lips.   He feels so much, bubbling in his gut and his chest and just beneath his skin, nearly ready to boil over. It is pleasure beyond pleasure, too many sensations to register them all. The scent of tea and sweat and old leather. The softness of Harry’s hair between his fingers, the wet rasp of Harry’s tongue against his, the hard thrust of Harry’s cock inside him.   When Harry’s callused fingers wrap around his shaft, he is lost.   Draco’s orgasm overtakes him like a wave breaking on the shore, pouring through his body and churning him into a froth. He is barely aware of his moan vibrating his lips or Harry’s fist still stroking along his length as he rocks with pleasure.   But he knows when Harry follows him a moment later, hand clenching on Draco’s hip as he bows upward. He buries himself as deep within Draco as he can possibly get and holds there for a long, shuddering moment as his cock throbs and fills Draco with new heat.   Draco can’t help but swivel his pelvis, draw a last, straining gasp from Harry’s swollen lips.   Harry finally slumps back into the chair, red and panting, eyes blinking and dazed. Draco would like to say something clever or teasing, but he can barely catch his breath and tremors of bliss still echo through him.   All he can do is lay his head on Harry’s shoulder and relax into his chest.   Between them, the wings of the snitch flutter almost as fast as their heartbeats. It tickles and Draco shifts a little with a breathy chuckle. Harry grazes his palms up and down the muscles on either side of Draco’s spine.   They rest like that for awhile, until the position becomes uncomfortable and Draco shivers.   Harry wraps his arms around Draco’s waist and stands, drawing a cry of shock from Draco. He clings to Harry’s neck awkwardly, frowning. This close, he can see the ring of darker green around the outer edge of Harry’s irises.   “What are you doing, Potter?”   “Going back to bed,” he says, with a tip of his chin. “It’s still early.”   He curves an arm under Draco’s arse, hefting him upward, and grabs his wand from the table with his free hand. With a flick of his wrist, he sends the tea things floating up the stairs ahead of them.   Draco scowls but hooks his ankles behind Harry’s back and lets himself be carried, trying not to notice how impressive the bulge of Harry’s biceps are. The trip up the stairs is inelegant, bumbling, not entirely comfortable, and not at all romantic. His heart doesn’t flutter a bit. Draco is sticky and chilly and now a little disgruntled.   The feeling doesn’t last long after Harry deposits him gently on the bed and returns with a warm, damp cloth to clean them both off. He crawls beneath the covers beside Draco and scoots close, wrapping his arm around Draco’s shoulders. They drink their tea in silence, watching the neighbor’s lights blink in the growing light.   Harry sets aside his cup and yawns. Draco smothers one of his own. It’s barely past sunrise on Christmas Eve day, and he has nowhere to be for hours. The comforter is warm, and Harry is warmer. And they just expended a rather lot of energy.   Draco finishes the last of his tea. For a moment, he considers glancing into the cup and seeing what the leaves might tell him about his future, but he hands it to Harry to place on the bedside table instead.   He scoots down, tugging an unresistant Harry with him. As usual, Harry allows Draco to arrange their positions to his satisfaction. He merely blinks sleepily as Draco tucks himself against Harry’s side, head on his shoulder, and throws his arm and thigh across Harry.   Harry’s fingers trace ticklish patterns on Draco’s back. They are both still completely naked, but for the leather cord around Harry’s neck. Draco toys with the charm and yawns. Now that he is sleepy and sated and his guard is down, his foggy brain tries to insist he acknowledge the reason he chose Incolumitas for the incantation, the reason he tied the portkey to Rose Terrace.   Safe and sound. Whole. And here.   Draco sighs, shoving the thoughts away and pulling the comforter up around his shoulders. He can’t deal with any revelations in his current state. Maybe, maybe when he sees his mother later, he can talk it over with her. But that is practically a whole day away, and at the moment all he wants to do is sleep. He resists the urge to press himself even closer to Harry. Which is ridiculous. He wriggles his cold toes against Harry’s calf instead. Harry turns his head, presses his lips to Draco’s temple.   “Merry Christmas, Draco."   Draco closes his stinging eyes and brushes his mouth against the curve of Harry’s throat.   “Merry Christmas, Harry."