Belly-Down in Spun Cotton
a tiny drarry fic (2.8k, rated E for sex) for my dearest @saintgarbanzo on his birthday. but very early, cause he’s impatient and so am I. so, a birthday-month gift!
many thanks to @cavendishbutterfly and @nv-md for the betas, @basicallyahedgehog for the cheering, and @shealynn88 for the garden/compost consult!! what a team, thank you all so much.
selected tags: animagus harry, devoted boyfriend draco, horny tboy harry, handsy draco, domestic fluff, harry in the garden, steam showers, enthusiastic blowjobs, cock means tcock henceforth, draco makes harry snack, harry eats with his hands
All Harry wants is to dive skin-first, belly-first, heart-first, into what he loves.
It's too far a journey from the kitchen door to the vegetable patch, so Harry leaves his clothes on the wooden slats of a chair he's pushed against the raised bed, perches his whole self, naked, on the seat, and transforms there.
This is his best system so far – the first time he barely made it down the three steps to the pathway before he entirely ran out of patience, and the time he tried to transform in the garden already, he squashed the pea tendrils, new and tender as they were.
From here, small in his shell, Harry can slowly ooze from the back of the chair to the edge of the garden bed, and then lower himself directly into the soil, into the soft, peppery overwhelm of the tomato patch. There's so much sensation down here.
It's a good day for this. Last night there was thunder, and the morning brought a high ceiling of pale grey sky. Harry's been waiting for the right weather, the right day, when he has as much time as he needs to soak everything in.
Mmm, the humus is so nice after a rain, Harry thinks, and then laughs to himself. It sounds ridiculous, this version of his inner monologue. What matters to him from this perspective. Humus-lover. Hummus-lover. He's both, he supposes.
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Jason Todd is used to violence. He’s a little less used to love.
The first time you give Jason a hickey, it’s bittersweet. For a man so used to violence and all its aftermaths, that small mark on the vulnerable reach of his throat leaves him shell shocked. He presses down at that fresh bruise and is astounded at the lack of violence. That the violently marred planes of his body can bear the evidence of affection just as well. It surprises him a little, how two such opposed things can end up looking so similar. He’ll take a thousand little bruises from you if they’re made of love.
Every morning after you, he stands in front of his bathroom mirror and catalogues the damages. Symmetrical purple blooms on each collarbone, a fading one overlapping an old bullet wound on his chest, more scattered along his pulse points. He presses careful fingers down on each one and wonders at how close your sharp teeth came to the fragile parts of him. Decides how he wouldn’t mind an imprint of your jaws if you chose to give it to him. Thinks abstractly about how he’d look decorated in ruby droplets and your grin.
Jason Todd is used to violence. He’s a little less used to love. Sometimes for him, the boundaries get a little blurry.
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walking around in public with a golden retriever is such a huge weight off my mind, bc I can always be assured that nobody is looking at me if they have the option to look at Hugo instead!!
edit: He Looks Like This
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