16.11.01 - "harry potter" night.
upon getting home, i decided
there was no good ss/dm on ff.net.
there still isn't.
but i gave it a shot.
-morningstar
ps: "ghosts" will be up some day.
as well as "grasp," which is what
"ghosts" was supposed to be.
***
~Second Nature~
***
It is always the same.
***
"Come in." Draco reaches for the door handle, unsurprised when it turns
itself, as unsurprised as he had been when the voice came before he even
knocked.
"Take a seat, Malfoy." He walks across the room to the corner chair, drapes
himself across it, away from the fire. Towards the desk.
"Don't look at me like that." Draco shakes his head, blinks; he hadn't even
realized he'd been staring. "Sorry," he whispers, turning to stare into the
flames. He hears the familiar sounds of papers being put away, the clink of
glass, the swish of a wand casting a subaudible spell. Footsteps, making
their way across the room. The feel of contradictary fingers, long and
delicate and gentle, yet somehow rough, in his hair, on his face, his
shoulders.
He sits up, moves over; he needed to be told, before, but now it's second
nature, to curl up into his teacher's arms, to let himself fall apart, fuse
together....
He wonders if anyone else in the world knows how warm this body is.
***
"Come in," with a flick of his wand to open the door. Still grading papers,
Severus doesn't look up, hears him walk in.
"Take a seat, Malfoy." Footsteps, again: walking towards the chair in the
corner, the one Severus never uses when he's alone. He wonders if the boy
knows that, often wonders what he knows.
"Don't look at me like that." He barely hears the whispered "Sorry." He
puts away his papers, walks across the room. Slowly. He can hear breathing,
a heartbeat not his own. He twines his fingers in silky blond hair, runs them
over face, shoulders. For a moment, silence.
The creak of skin on leather, and there is room for him, without command.
He sits down, feels the instantaneous warmth of contact. Contact, no longer
strained by fear, by tension. Contact, now second nature. "I love you," he
whispers....
He feels warm, again.
***
It is always the same.
Second nature.
***
upon getting home, i decided
there was no good ss/dm on ff.net.
there still isn't.
but i gave it a shot.
-morningstar
ps: "ghosts" will be up some day.
as well as "grasp," which is what
"ghosts" was supposed to be.
***
~Second Nature~
***
It is always the same.
***
"Come in." Draco reaches for the door handle, unsurprised when it turns
itself, as unsurprised as he had been when the voice came before he even
knocked.
"Take a seat, Malfoy." He walks across the room to the corner chair, drapes
himself across it, away from the fire. Towards the desk.
"Don't look at me like that." Draco shakes his head, blinks; he hadn't even
realized he'd been staring. "Sorry," he whispers, turning to stare into the
flames. He hears the familiar sounds of papers being put away, the clink of
glass, the swish of a wand casting a subaudible spell. Footsteps, making
their way across the room. The feel of contradictary fingers, long and
delicate and gentle, yet somehow rough, in his hair, on his face, his
shoulders.
He sits up, moves over; he needed to be told, before, but now it's second
nature, to curl up into his teacher's arms, to let himself fall apart, fuse
together....
He wonders if anyone else in the world knows how warm this body is.
***
"Come in," with a flick of his wand to open the door. Still grading papers,
Severus doesn't look up, hears him walk in.
"Take a seat, Malfoy." Footsteps, again: walking towards the chair in the
corner, the one Severus never uses when he's alone. He wonders if the boy
knows that, often wonders what he knows.
"Don't look at me like that." He barely hears the whispered "Sorry." He
puts away his papers, walks across the room. Slowly. He can hear breathing,
a heartbeat not his own. He twines his fingers in silky blond hair, runs them
over face, shoulders. For a moment, silence.
The creak of skin on leather, and there is room for him, without command.
He sits down, feels the instantaneous warmth of contact. Contact, no longer
strained by fear, by tension. Contact, now second nature. "I love you," he
whispers....
He feels warm, again.
***
It is always the same.
Second nature.
***
