#this angle looks like Ron has a cigarette on his lips

[a-forbidden-detective]

Chapter 85, The Tragic Cruise Serial Murders Part 10

[romioneficfest]

Right Here, Right Now

Title: Right Here, Right Now

Prompt/Day: Rooftop (Day 10)

Tumblr Name: 

Rating: T

Brief Summary: Ron and Hermione share a tender moment under the stars during the summer following the Battle.

Any possible triggering/warning tags: Mild language

Word Count: 1,229

--

It was a dry, clear summer night and just chilly enough for Hermione to remember to pull on a jumper before she went outside. The jumper itself was thick and cozy, maroon in color, and had a large “R” printed on the front.

She sat with her knees tucked up against her chest, body tilted forward from the precariously steep angle she was sitting. She left the window to her bedroom unlatched, always fearful that she'd unintentionally lock herself out on the roof without her wand in tow. For good measure, she patted the back pocket of her jeans to ensure that her wand was still in place.

Hermione relaxed her muscles and tightened her hold on the wool blanket that was draped around her shoulders. She was grateful that she had conjured up a second blanket to provide a cushion of warmth between her bum and the coarse shingles on the slanted roof.

The sun dipped below the horizon, and the city darkened, taking on a blue hue as the world exploded into a plethora of stars that looked like scattered moondust across the sky.

Hermione basked in the peace and quiet, appreciating that her parents lived far enough out of the city to avoid the massive light pollution.

It had been a little over two weeks since her family had returned from Australia, and she had spent the majority of that time earning their trust back and making up for what they had lost. They worked hard to restore her childhood home to its former glory, removing all traces of destruction from the last year.

She wasn't sure if the restoration would've been possible without Ron.

Ron. Her boyfriend.

"Ron," she whispered aloud.

She couldn't get enough of saying his name, and she closed her eyes, picturing her ginger-haired best friend turned romantic partner with his deep azure eyes and lazy grin that she adored so much.

"Hey, you."

Hermione's eyes snapped open, her head turning sharp in the direction of the familiar voice. Ron was perched on her windowsill, poking his head out through the small opening.

"Ron." There she goes, saying his name again. "What are you — how are you here?"

Ron held up a small device in his hands that resembled a silver cigarette lighter, and comprehension dawned on her.

The deluminator.

"I heard you — your voice. In here.”

Hermione couldn't mask the smile that spread across her lips. "I should’ve known.”

Ron crawled fully onto the roughly arched tile, taking the open spot next to Hermione on the blanket after she scooted over to make room. She held one end of her blanket out for Ron, inviting him into her warmth. Although she wanted him to be comfortable on this cool night, she also wanted him closer for her own selfish reasons.

"Nice jumper," he remarked with a smirk.

Hermione’s cheeks turned a deep shade of red, almost matching said clothing item. In an effort to retain some composure, she kept her eyes trained on the pattern of stars in the unobstructed sky. The distant, glittering sparks spoke to her in different ways over the years, providing a sense of calm during her summers at home in between the chaos of her years at Hogwarts.

Hermione loved stargazing. No singular experience was the same, and this one was the best because she finally got to share it with Ron.

“What were you thinking about when you said my name?”  Ron questioned, tossing the device once into the air and catching it.

Hermione laughed and gave him a funny look. “I would’ve thought that was obvious.”

He nudged his shoulder with hers. “Doesn’t mean I still don’t want to hear it from you.”

Her eyes gleamed up at him, his own shining with the ambient sky glow, before leaning her head against his shoulder. She felt him wrap the blanket tighter around their connected bodies. "I was thinking about how much I wished you were here with me right now."

"How come you never mentioned that you liked to, quite literally, live on the edge out here?" Ron teased.

"You didn't ask."

"It's hard to ask about something you didn't know existed."

After all of these years of knowing each other, it was amazing that they still had things to learn about each other.

"I don't think you have any idea what this spot has meant to me over the years.”

In the next moment, Ron hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her head. His eyes flickered at her with a different emotion, and a serious expression crossed his face. "Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?"

Happiness streaked through Hermione like a shooting star, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. "If it's anywhere near as much as you mean to me, then...yeah. I do."

He leaned closer, almost so close that she could taste his lips. "Can you promise me something?"

Hermione’s eyelids were already fluttering closed. "Anything.”

"Next time you feel the urge to whisper my name, send me a Patronus, yeah? I'll be here faster than a Firebolt."

Hermione barely had time to nod before pressing her lips against his, surrendering herself to bliss. His hands were sliding up her shoulders, cupping her cheeks, before finally tangling in her mass of curls. He felt so warm and gentle, and this moment was perfect. It was as if all of the previous moments she spent out here on this rooftop had served a greater purpose — to allow her to unearth a joy unlike any she had ever known.

Right here, right now.

When Hermione pulled back from his embrace, a set of words escaped her lips, with so much ease that she wasn’t quite sure why she had never said them before. "I love you, Ron."

The look of pure adoration he sent back to her was enough to make her heart melt. His eyes glistened with tears, and she could see him visibly gulp as he processed her words.

Ron furiously wiped his tear-stained cheeks, ducking his head before speaking roughly. "Fuck, I don't know why I'm crying."

"Ron Weasley..." she quipped, astounded by the vulnerability she was witnessing.  

"Oh, shut it."

Hermione only grinned in response, her eyes once again finding the awe-inspiring constellations, soothed by the silence that surrounded them.

"Hey." Ron’s whispered voice diverted her attention back to her ginger-haired man.

He brushed a single curl from her face, his mouth curving up into a brilliant smile. "I love you too, you know."

A thrill of joy rippled through her, and she made an incredulous ask before she could stop herself. "Really?"

Ron harrumphed, looking mildly dissatisfied with her response. "Always the tone of surprise."

To avoid Ron seeing her flushed cheeks, Hermione flattened her palm against the back of his neck and crashed her lips to his, allowing nothing but happiness to consume them.

When they broke apart for a second time, Ron chuckled with a candid smile. "Do you realize how mental we are? We spent how much time not doing this?"

Hermione giggled, only snuggling closer to him as they settled in for a night under the stars, sharing mutual moon-kissed faces.

Nothing meant more to her than sitting on a rooftop with her best friend, her lover, her forever.

[howling-harpy]

Spoils of war

Pairing: Speirs/Lipton Rating: Explicit Warnings: Exhibitionism

Word count: 4105 Summary: There was a perfect amount of space between Ron and the table, and Carwood wondered what would happen to that drowsy atmosphere of the room if he were to get up now, round the table to Ron and straddle him.

[Ao3]

*

The evening was even slower than usual, and Carwood could barely make himself focus. Gambling might have held some excitement before, but after countless rounds of poker and shuffling the same pile of money, cigarettes and looted treasures back and forth all glamour was gone. Even the fancy room with a big, shiny mahogany table that the officers were gathered around didn’t improve the mood much. It was all just passing cards, drinking slowly and chatting aimlessly about meaningless topics – politics, women, looting, company gossip, the sorts.

Carwood dealt another round. Harry and Nix were playing, but Dick who had joined them only for their company and not the activities sat behind Nix on a small couch. Harry and Nix had both downed impressive amounts of alcohol and wondrously were both still coherent, Harry even focusing on the game more than anyone else even though his cheeks were ruddy. Nix on the other hand had given up on tactics and was easily distracted from the game, often missing his turn by leaning back to chat with Dick.

On the opposite side of the table and altogether too far away from Carwood sat Ron, who was on his fourth glass of whiskey and more focused on airing his thoughts about the war and politics than his cards. Carwood looked at him there, casual and a bit tipsy, and in his boredom thought of great many things he’d rather do than sit there across from him.

Ron was loosened up a bit. He was a sight at the officer’s club, off duty but still with that edge he possessed that kept him gritting his teeth about politics even when no one was returning his fire. Not even Carwood was really listening to what he was saying, he just looked at his lips and the serious fire of his eyes, his neatly combed hair and the crisp collar of his shirt.

Carwood picked up his cards and looked them over without really seeing them, then returned to watching Ron.

The atmosphere was sluggish, the game mostly stagnant even though there were several dollars in the pot on the middle of the table. A light curtain of cigarette smoke swirled in the air as Nix and Harry kept idly smoking their winnings, both with their own ashtrays they had picked up somewhere next to their glasses.

Ron was quickly losing interest in the current round. He traded a few cards, scoffed at them and folded. When he threw his cards on the table, he leaned back on his chair and picked up a cigarette for himself. He slumped back in his chair, tipsy enough to give in to the urge, his head lolling back against the high backrest of the chair and his hand falling down onto his lap.

Carwood watched his lips closing around the filter and then when he inhaled admired the white stretch of his neck, recently shaved clean of any stubble, and felt a yearning throb inside his chest. There was a perfect amount of space between Ron and the table, and Carwood wondered what would happen to that drowsy atmosphere of the room if he were to get up now, round the table to Ron and straddle him.

They’d all look up for sure. Nix would frown and snicker into his glass, thinking it a very inappropriate joke, and Harry would soon join him. But Dick, who was paradoxically both the most decent and yet the most perceptive of them all, would know immediately. He looks from his couch, stunned and rapidly colouring, and just in the right angle to see Ron’s hand reach up from under the table and naturally land on Carwood’s backside.

Carwood smiles down at Ron, who has forgotten what he was about to say about the British and the radio speeches of their royalty and is instead looking up at Carwood with inquiry in his eyes. Only Carwood can see that look, hungry and shameless, dangerous in a whole another way.

When Carwood slips his arms around Ron’s neck and leans in to kiss him, their audience still thinks it’s just an unusually dirty joke. Harry laughs nervously and turns his eyes away, and Nix whistles and reaches back to nudge Dick, who wishes he were anywhere else even though at the same time can’t look away.

Ron lets Carwood place kisses on his unmoving mouth and feigns disinterest even when Carwood starts to grind down onto his lap. Ron doesn’t return the kiss, just keeps his hand possessively on his ass and with the other one reaches for his drink, taking a sip of whiskey while Carwood nuzzles into his cheek, begging for his attention and lets out the tiniest whine.

“Hey, it’s your turn!” Harry interrupted his daydream, and Carwood jumped on his place. He had forgotten that the game was still on and that he was in it, and turned hastily his eyes to his cards. He had a moderate hand and could perhaps bluff that it was higher and hope to intimidate Harry into folding, but right then he was much more interested in the tingling place in his mind than the modest pile of crumbled dollar bills and silverware on the table.

Carwood made his play, then Harry, and finally Nix. Nix raised the stakes, and Carwood called it without a second thought. Nix took the round but pushed most of his winnings back into the pot and demanded a new round after standing to go and fetch a new bottle.

Dick rolled his eyes on the couch but refrained from commenting.

Harry had lost the round so he dealt the cards. Carwood glanced towards Ron who looked more interested in his cards this time around, and his thoughts wandered again.

Ron downs his drink while Carwood lays pleading kisses on his neck, then sets the glass aside. He turns to Carwood and pets his cheek with a single finger, a scrap of attention that Carwood desperately wants.

Then Ron pushes him off his lap and stands up, and something relaxes in their audience who think the joke has run its course and is about to be put to rest. Only Ron doesn’t let go of Carwood but keeps him close, and there’s no denying the fire in his eyes. He stands up with all the calm and grace, but there’s no trace of it when he suddenly lunges at the table and throws everything on it off with a single wipe of his arm. He sends cards, silver and money flying, Harry manages to barely catch his ashtray before it’s flung to the floor but before he has a chance to protest, Ron’s turning back to Carwood, grabs him by his thighs and throws him up on the table, and deafening silence falls into the room.

Nix laughs, but it’s uncertain and confused. Carwood doesn’t care, because Ron spreads his thighs and pushes him down on his back on the mahogany tabletop and starts doing away with his clothes.

He finds himself almost fully naked save for his shirt remarkably fast, easier in the fantasy than is really possible, his open shirt trapped under his back but not covering him a bit. For a moment he is painfully embarrassed, laid bare on a table by a man, and his gaze bounces here and there, taking in his audience.

Dick is bright red and shocked but stares unblinkingly, his eyes never leaving Carwood.

Nix has half a grin on his face and is shamelessly drinking in the sight along his whiskey, dark eyes gleaming with lust and amusement. It is impossible to tell who he is favouring, but there is no mistaking the way he shifts on his chair to make room between his legs.

Harry is mostly confused. Shocked and blushing almost as much as Dick is, but unlike Dick without a clear idea of what is happening right before him. Carwood is giddy thinking that he doesn’t know what they are about to do, or if he does, he could never imagine how good it will feel –  

“Don’t look at them,” Ron orders him, and Carwood’s eyes snap to him. “They can look at you, but you keep looking at only me.”

It floods Carwood with deep, shimmering love and devotion and he nods frantically, stares up at Ron and opens his legs for him. It’s obvious that this is not their first time, this is something they do a lot, often and with great abandon.

Ron reaches to caress his cheek briefly, head tilting when he inspects the object of his adoration, but his eyes darker than the gentle touch of his hand should allow. “Good boy,” he croons.

Something about the thought shocked Carwood out of his fantasy and back into the moment. Ron was never that domineering in bed, and Carwood didn’t know what to think of his own mind offering him a picture of this version of him. He swallowed and found his throat dry. He reached for his glass of water he kept with the whiskey, folded his cards and downed the whole glass.

Subtly he glanced around his buddies in the room, still bored and getting more and more drunk. Still, Carwood felt the tell-tale burn on his cheeks and for a moment was irrationally afraid that the others could someone hear his thoughts. The pleasant heat that had been pooling in the pit of his belly suddenly coiled in shame when he really looked at the others and remembered that he was really in their company.

Then his gaze happened across the table and his heart skipped a beat at the sight of Ron, who was looking at him. His expression was just a slight frown like he had noticed Carwood staring into space and was considering if he was too drunk, but still Carwood felt himself blushing furiously when meeting his eyes. He had to hide his sudden awkward smile behind his glass and averted his eyes, but not before he saw Ron raising a brow at him.

“Should we change the game so that Dick can join too?” Harry suddenly suggested.

“Or we could just stop gambling,” Ron said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nix huffed, “poker without stakes is pointless. But another game might work, if Major feels like it.”

Nix turned to Dick, who smiled from his place with a teacup in hand and a crossword puzzle over his knee. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said.

Thus they weren’t relieved from their boring activity, but another round was once again dealt. Ron huffed even when he accepted his hand.

“As repetitive as our poor luck with battles lately,” he said, maybe at his hand or at the whole game.

“Oh, come on, Sparky, don’t say you miss combat,” Harry chuckled, pouring himself another drink. Unlike Nix, he wasn’t too picky about what he was drinking and probably didn’t even know what he was sloshing into his glass.

“Speirs has a point,” Dick commented from his place, and Nix groaned, hating it when Ron and Dick agreed.

Carwood smiled at the banter and let it wash over him. He got to steal another long look at Ron, who was suddenly more animated despite being a lazy drunk when he got to argue for a better plan of action for the American troops, and Dick joined him gladly in putting the world to right.

There was a fire to Ron, and even though Carwood was only happy that he didn’t have to risk him in combat, he admired the fire and how it tugged at his core.

That fire burns so good, Carwood knows. It’s in Ron’s eyes when he properly displays him on the table, on his back and naked, and then takes a grip utterly confident that he’ll be allowed and spreads Carwood’s legs. He’s fully erect, has been for some time now, so hot that even the cosy warm room feels cool. He knows that his audience is looking at him, perhaps shying away from his obscenely eager cock but still aware of it, and they all know that it is a man that makes him like this.

Carwood is eager and excited for a man, and the man handling him can have him any day, any way, and he’ll love it. He’ll love it, and he says so.

“I need you,” he whispers, still a bit shy, his body aflame with more than his own desire, “I want you, come on, I want you to… To…”

“To fuck you? Is that what you want me to do?” Ron asks, his voice louder and more confident, and Carwood loves the way he says fuck, he only says it when he means it.

Carwood can feel the shock in the room, the uncomfortable, hyper-focused silence, but also the curious hunger that can’t be denied. They want to see even when they also know they shouldn’t. “Yes, please, please fuck me,” he keens, his voice hoarse but clear in the room that is holding its breath.

Ron grins down at him, and then looks about like a wolf proud of his prey, and Carwood knows he’s staring down everyone in the room for a second before turning back to him.

Carwood hums in delight when Ron reaches down to touch him, only angles his hips better to allow him, almost delirious with desire and too far gone to feel self-conscious anymore. Ron doesn’t need to do anything except to have him too, because Carwood has done everything else for him, and he finds him already butter-soft and slick for him. It’s evident that he’s been wanting and waiting for this for a long time, and Ron realizes it when he easily pushes two of his fingers inside him, their drag slow and delicious.

He smiles down at him, pleasantly surprised. There’s that keen look in his eyes and his parted lips bare some of his teeth, and Carwood knows it’s a look that terrifies other men and sends them running out of his way. To Carwood though, that’s a look that draws him closer, a look that he loves and responds to with almost embarrassing certainty.

Carwood is obedient and won’t glance away, but he knows he’s being watched. He is on display, his love for Ron in all of its carnal glory is bared to everyone, and Ron is showing everyone exactly what kind of a lover he’s claimed. Carwood is shameless, proud and daring, and all for him. Others can look but never touch, he’s only for Ron and only Ron can make him this way.

Ron leans back just enough to open his belt and fly and pulls his cock out, and Carwood shivers, trying to inch towards him on the table, impatient. Ron hums a small laugh and holds him still by his thigh.

The mental image of Ron otherwise fully clothed in his perfectly neat uniform except his fly down and his hand around his cock is so strong it jolted Carwood out of his fantasy again.

He shifted on his seat and subtly glanced around the room and wondered how long he had stared into space this time, but even if it had been long he had dropped out of this round of the game and no one was waiting on him.

He was painfully hard in his trousers and suddenly really embarrassed. He knew he’d have to stay seated and keep his crotch hidden under the table for a while now, a predicament he hadn’t paid a single thought when he allowed himself to slip into the tempting fantasy. He glanced across the table at the star of his private dirty movie and guessed from the concentrated look on Ron’s face that he had a good hand and a fair chance at the pot on the table.

Carwood shifted on his place again and wished there was a subtle way to reach under the table to arrange himself a bit more comfortably. He wished in vain, and pulling away from the fantasy at such an intimate turn had left him with some lingering embarrassment, once again fearing he was giving himself away, so he took a moment to cool down a bit.

Without getting up Carwood reached for the tall glass bottle of water on the table and poured himself a glass. He admired the perfectly smooth dark wooden surface of the table, a product of fine craftmanship, and raised the glass to his lips. He considered in passing if he’d actually rather suck Ron off than be screwed on the table.

The cool water did little to calm him and he felt a wave of heat on his face again, thinking such thoughts. It was another fantasy of his, one he entertained alone in the dark of his bunk, where he sank on his knees before Ron in the middle of a briefing or at the officers’ club and sucked him off in front of everyone who just happened to be there, while Ron kept petting his hair and perhaps casually smoked a cigarette.

He glanced to Ron again and jumped on his seat when their eyes locked. His captain was looking straight at him in a way that suggested he had been studied for a while now, and there was a definite spark of interest there. Carwood couldn’t help but blush and knew that whatever Ron had suspected of his condition before, he was definitely on the right track now.

Harry chose that moment to loudly remind Ron that it was his turn again and reach to kick him under the table. Ron jolted and glared at the grinning Irishman, but returned to the game while Carwood returned to the best part of his fantasy.

Ron is always diving head first into whatever he’s decided to do, and once he’s decided something there’s no stopping. He is the same in bed – or on a table, it turns out.

Carwood knows that their audience believes until the last moment that it’s not going to happen, that even though it’s gone this far Ron is not actually going to fuck him, that it’s the one line they won’t cross. Carwood keeps his promise, couldn’t look away from Ron even without his order, but also knows that their fellow officers are still holding their breaths. Even Harry, as heterosexual as they come, is looking at him and wondering at his ecstasy. Nix is leaning forward, drinking the sight in as greedily as any vice he desires, and even Dick, as decent and good as he is, can’t tear his wide eyes from them either, can’t stop himself from wondering what that might feel like, if it’s really that good…

Ron looks smug, and Carwood melts at the sight of that. It’s perfection to be his.

To the shock of everyone watching, Ron takes him. There’s a gasp and a thrill in the room, the final boundary broken and the act sealed, there’s no explaining it away. Carwood cries out when Ron fills him, the feeling as all-consuming as it always is, he’ll never get used to it and never wants to.

They can see what Ron gives to him, see how he gives it to him, and how well he takes it. Ron takes him swiftly with his hands holding him by his hips, and Carwood cries out again and again, his voice rising to the ceiling.

Ron is talking to him and only to him, and their shocked to silence but still nailed to their seats audience learns his other names. He’s not ‘Lieutenant Lipton’ to Ron like this, he’s not even just ‘Carwood’, not when he sighs and moans his pleasure when Ron fucks him. His name is ‘darling’, his name is ‘sweetheart’, those are Ron’s names for him when he’s taking him hard enough to rattle the table, making Carwood hold on to its edge with a white-knuckled grip to stop himself from being pushed away.

In his lust-filled thoughts he knows he does belong in the middle of that table though, in the heap of silver and jewels and dollar bills, among other precious things Ron’s stolen.

Carwood barely remembers their audience though he can feel their gazes on his skin like hot wax dripping all over, can hear their shivering, harsh breathing and how they shift in awkward, reluctant arousal and perhaps envy. Carwood is feeling so good, so full and so electrified with how Ron knows exactly how to handle him, how to thrust deep and grind and find that spot that makes heat bloom inside, so strong and sweet that Carwood has to sob. He shivers, his arousal throbbing and aching, he arches his back every time Ron rubs against him just right or just a bit too long, and he lets his head tip back as he gasps and cries his way through the ride.

Ron is a carnal lover, passionate like he is with everything in life, and single-mindedly focused. He’s wild but not erratic, more like a predator mid-chase, and Carwood sees the flush on his face that matches the heat in his eyes. His hair is dishevelled with a strand of it falling over his forehead, and Ron tosses his head to shake it back.

He's gorgeous and positively burning with life when Carwood has him like this, between his thighs and on him. In him. It’s only in his fantasy when that’s all he needs, Ron inside him, parading him to all but refusing to share, here with him in the middle of this shameless display of the most beautiful sin there is, and with that he’d sink into pure bliss.

Back in reality though, Carwood had trapped himself into a rather awkward position. The plot of his fantasy having run its course he was left without a dream to entertain him and with only the aching, embarrassing need between his legs.

He was suddenly self-conscious and regretted letting his mind wander so. He felt slightly guilty about having made his friends part of his fantasy and kept his eyes down at the table, not daring to look even towards Ron. He quietly cleared his throat and tried to think something less incriminating to make himself decent again.

Luckily both Harry and Nix had finally drunken themselves into a condition where it was hard to muster up an attention span long enough for a single round of poker, and perfectly in tune with his friend Dick finally folded the crossword puzzle and suggested they’d all turn in.

As many rounds as they had played that night, when Carwood counted his winnings he concluded he was leaving with pretty much as much money as he had entered with, and with amusement supposed the others were the same.

Dick pulled Nix up from his chair, and with a grin the man slumped at his friend’s side. Dick sighed in exaggerated frustration and dragged Nix up and towards the door. Carwood rested his chin against his hand and watched them with gentle amusement that only grew when Harry joined in on bothering their sober friend.

He was so keen on watching them and hoping they’d leave the room soon that he didn’t even notice when Ron sneaked up next to him.

“What were you smiling about?” Ron asked him in a low murmur while scraping his spoils into a pile before him.

Carwood startled at first but soon settled. Ron had a curious look in his eyes, like he had sensed something hidden that he wanted to get his share of. Carwood smiled up at him, his flushed cheeks probably a good hint. “Nothing,” he replied.

“Right,” Ron said and clearly didn’t believe him. He was stuffing his pockets with what he’d won tonight but kept his inspective eyes on Carwood, who lightly worried his lower lip between his teeth and squeezed his thighs together, his cheeks glowing with colour.

Ron glanced to Harry and Nix hanging onto each other for support and Dick herding them out, perhaps worrying about the staircase that would prove a very embarrassing way for such fine officers to fall in the war, and declaring the coast clear Ron leaned closer to Carwood.

With his pockets filled with loot and cigarettes, Ron leaned his hip against the table, his head slowly tilting like he was considering what else he’d like to take with him. “Come to my room,” he requested quietly, his lips barely moving.

Carwood smiled and lowered his eyes, his blush deepening. “Yes,” he whispered back, and finally his frustration blossomed into anticipation.

[dewitty1]

Heart Of Silver/Heart Of Gold

lettersbyelise @lettersbyelise

Chapters: 25/25 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Minerva McGonagall, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Gregory Goyle, Narcissa Black Malfoy, Andromeda Black Tonks, Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, Jeff the Niffler, Other Characters Additional Tags: Demon Draco Malfoy, Human Harry Potter, POV Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Unresolved Sexual Tension, First Time, Angst, Enthusiastic Consent, Bathroom Sex, Mutual Masturbation, First Time Blow Jobs, Non-Penetrative Sex, Intercrural Sex, (kinda), Christmas Miracles, Happy Ending, Getting Together, Advent Calendar, Complete

Summary:

Draco Malfoy, a young demon specialising in school bullying, has lived hundreds of uneventful lives. Until his world is turned upside down by his newest assignment a few days before Christmas: to get rid of 8th year classmate Harry Potter, Defeater of Dark Lords and thorn in the side of all things evil. Trouble is, Draco’s world has been upside down for a while… ever since he started having very human feelings for a certain bespectacled Gryffindor.

Excerpt:

Harry’s cheeks were pink, the blinking fairy lights randomly highlighting his hair with pink, blue, yellow and green. His grin had turned slightly embarrassed, as it always did when he was the centre of attention for too long. Draco used to think it was false modesty. Right now, he wasn’t so sure. Now that he was starting to see Harry for who he really was... it felt like a Bludger to the face, every time, realising how utterly, how deeply good Harry was.

Draco wondered how a demon like him didn’t burst into flames just by being in Harry’s vicinity.

The first players made room for new ones, Granger, Weasley, Finnigan and Blaise this time. Draco felt someone sit next to him on a free cushion, a friendly shoulder brushing his.

“Fun game,” Harry said, very close to Draco’s ear. “You should play.”

“Not sure I’d be good at Muggle games,” Draco admitted. Harry’s face tightened. Draco, realising his mistake, backpedaled quickly. “I mean... not because they’re Muggle, obviously. I have nothing against... that.” Harry watched him silently, as if taunting him to say it, so he did. “I have nothing against it anymore. You know that... Don’t you?”

“I think I do,” Harry murmured, eyes pulled back to the loud players again. “Still think you should play, you know? You’re so... serious. So grave, all the time. You should loosen up a little.”

“I am serious because I want to be serious, Potter,” Draco muttered. He didn’t know why he was telling him this. With the surrounding noise, he was certain only Harry would hear him. “I’ve been a little shit for far too long. I’m making amends now. At least, i’m trying to.”

Harry nodded, still watching the game. “I believe you.” He canted his head to glance at Draco. There was a crooked little smile on his lips that Draco did not care for. “And if you don’t know how to relax, perhaps I should give you a hand.”

Draco froze, unable to look away from Harry, his little smile, the impish glint in his beautiful green eyes.

“I—” he said. He was humiliatingly interrupted by his own throat, contracting to swallow a gulp of air. Harry laughed.

“Hold that thought,” he said. He stood to his feet, fairy lights dangling from around his neck. He ran to his dormitory room.

Harry came back as a fourth round of Hungry Hungry Hippos was finishing, Longbottom as the winner this time. He shyly yet proudly punched the air in victory. Pansy clapped and whistled loudly.

“Oi, Harry, what ye got in there?” Finnigan greeted Harry. Harry opened his fist to show everyone its contents: a small, flat packet and a transparent plastic pouch containing what looked like dried, crushed Gillyweed. He grinned mischievously.

The Muggleborns and half-bloods in the group burst into laughter. Thomas clapped Harry on the back while Granger crossed her arms with a disapproving huff. “What? What is it?” Weasley kept asking, still sitting on the floor, pulling at the hem of her robe. “It’s Harry pretending to be cool but really being a stupid, predictable teenager,” Granger scoffed. Her admonition had the opposite of the desired effect on her boyfriend. Weasley stood to have a better look at the pouch.

“McGonagall let you in with this?” Thomas enthused. “There really is such thing as a ‘Boy Who Lived’ privilege!”

“Shove it, Thomas, or you won’t have any,” Harry laughed. “What McGonagall doesn’t know can’t get me in trouble.” He looked around. His eyes fell on Draco who was still seating where Harry had left him, too bewildered by the scene to move. “Wanna try?”

Someone moved the board games aside. Slowly, the students arranged themselves in a loose, lounging circle on the floor. Hannah Abbott brought something that looked like a large silver box riddled with buttons, opened a round compartment on top and placed a small silver disk in it before closing it with a click. Strange music started playing—definitely Muggle—and Draco tried to pay attention when he noticed Harry nodding approvingly at Abbott. The song was upbeat yet melancholy, hopeful yet happy. The singer was asking her lover to kiss her repeatedly beneath the twilight. Pretty lyrics, Draco thought. As he looked over to Harry, he thought they were quite fitting.

The lights dimmed. Harry, still wrapped in fairy lights, shone as enticingly as a Christmas present. Wouldn’t he look just perfect, surrounded by multi coloured lights, naked in Draco’s bed—

Oh, sweet Lucifer. That was new.

Draco had never allowed his mind to go there before.

And now that it had been, he couldn’t think of anything else.

Harry naked. In his bed.

He watched Harry bend over and lick a stripe along rolled-up cigarette paper, and his mouth watered.

Around the circle, a few students looked utterly at ease, as though what they were about to do was normal and not completely foreign. A few others, like Granger, appeared to be battling to keep the disapproval from their faces. The majority, though, just followed the proceedings curiously. Harry lit the tip of the cigarette with a muttered ‘Incendio’ and took the first puff, closing his eyes briefly before passing it to Thomas on his right.

He leaned on his left to murmur to Draco, “You don’t have to try it if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t even know what it is, Potter,” Draco whispered back.

Harry suppressed a giggle. “It’s a marijuana cigarette.”

Draco had never heard the term before, but he wasn’t stupid. He could read the context. As a demon, he had a knack for sensing illegal shenanigans when he saw them. He felt a little frisson of excitement mixed with circumspection at the thought.

“Drugs?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Kind of.”

“What’s kind of a drug? It either is, or it isn’t.”

“You’re right,” Harry rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. Around the circle, their classmates were passing the joint around with lazy smiles. “I just meant it’s light and recreational. It helps with... relaxing, or sleeping. Among other things.”

Harry’s face was thoughtful. No innuendo of any kind here. Draco reflected on all the reasons why Harry would need help relaxing or sleeping. So he said, “I want to try.”

Harry glanced at him. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Draco clasped his hands in his lap, looking at them instead of at Harry.

“You never tried it before?”

“No,” admitted Draco.

“Oh. Of course. Yeah.”

“Why would you say ‘of course’?”

“No reason!” Harry lifted his hands. “It’s just that—you’re so... upper-class and all. I assumed—” He glanced at Draco and saw something in his expression that made him stop in his tracks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s okay if you’ve never done it before, or if you don’t want to do it now.”

Draco wanted to be offended—Harry seemed to think what he’d just said was insulting although Draco couldn’t fathom why—but he chose to move away from that particular attitude. After all, in the past, it had done him no good when it came to Harry.

“Will you show me?” He asked.

In the dim shine of the fairy lights, Harry’s face lit up.

“Of course.” He took the cigarette when it came back his way. He looked Draco in the eyes. Draco stood very still, his hands trembling, his whole body buzzing with the nearness of Harry. “I’m going to make it easier for you,” Harry explained. “I’m going to take a pull, and I’m going to exhale in your mouth.”

Draco felt his eyes go wide as saucers. “Beg your pardon?”

Harry looked as though he wanted to laugh, but not at Draco’s expense. “It’s... softer that way. You will still get a high, only slower. Nicer. For your first time,” he added, and Draco blushed.

Around them, a hush had fallen, as though their classmates had noticed the joint hanging from between Harry’s thumb and forefinger, his body fully angled towards Draco’s, Draco still as a bird caught in the line of vision of a snake.

Someone hooted, “Show the posh boy how to live, Harry!” and several people giggled. Harry paid them no mind. He just smiled at Draco.

He brought the cigarette to his lips.

He took a pull, his cheeks hollowing, his eyelids drooping slightly. His green eyes shone in the fairy lights, their gaze trained on Draco, insistent, unwavering.

Draco saw him lift his hand as if in slow motion, Harry’s strong, blunt fingers making contact with his jaw, the calloused tips sliding along his cheek, into his hair, fisting lightly, bringing his face closer. Harry’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and Draco angled his head, opened his mouth, and let Harry blow a cloud of grass-scented smoke into his mouth, the hint of his soft lips and his hot breath a thousand times more heady than the drug.

Around them, Draco was aware of people cheering and wolf-whistling.

With a smile just this side of smug, his eyes never leaving Draco’s, Harry pulled away, his fingers caressing Draco’s cheek as he retreated.

Draco swallowed.

With it came the smoke, and he burst into a coughing fit.

Everybody laughed. Draco was still coughing, but he didn’t care. Less than a foot away, Harry sat prettier than the Christmas tree, his gaze soft and facetious. He smiled at Draco before taking another puff of the cigarette for himself.

What a sweet irony, Draco thought, smiling at him, mind and body loose.

He was the demon, and Harry was the tempter.

[hrjmspttr-blog]

and it all breaks down at the role reversal | Luna, Draco, October 19

In the week since Harry's last episode and his night spent with Luna, Harry has seen Draco Malfoy every day. They have transfiguration together three days a week. He does not make Mr. Blake smile again, but he does transfigure a marble into a delicate glass horse that spends the entire lecture prancing around the table he shares with Pansy Parkinson. Potions twice, and Malfoy has finally managed to work his way into the good graces of Professor Slughorn, who adores his perfectly cut dragon's talons and his precise measurements. Harry finds himself scowling at Malfoy's hands when he's not looking. In their three hour Herbology class on Friday afternoons, he gets a smudge of dirt on his cut-glass sharp cheekbone and Harry thinks about how good it feels to see him look imperfect. Basically, Harry's fucked. So Harry spends his Saturday night in the Ravenclaw Common Room, tucked under and eave and pressed against a tall, lean sixth year, his blonde hair reflecting the gold in the tapestry behind him. His mouth is warm, supple and sure as he reaches for the fly of Harry's jeans and Harry finds himself shivering, at the way his hands are sure, positioning Harry where he wants him. Except, all that Harry can do is think about what it would look like if Draco Malfoy was the one tilting his jaw up to kiss him at the right angle, pulling his tongue over the bow of Harry's lips. Harry decides, walking back to the Gryffindor Common room as his glamor charm wears off, that experimenting was a stupid idea and that he still hates Draco Malfoy for ruining his life. Hermione tries to talk to him when he wanders back into the common room, cigarette between his lips, because Harry hadn't shown up to the game or to drinks after. And she's concerned. Harry tells her he was studying and gives Ron a curt nod before trudging up the stairs to try for sleep. Sunday morning, Harry takes the same place he's taken every day at breakfast this week - next to Luna on the end of the Ravenclaw table. By now, her housemates have stopped staring, but Blonde Quidditch Boy looks at him a beat too long and Harry feels his ears heat, a panic running through him when he realizes that his glamor charm might've failed.