Title: Jet Black Humour
Author: Elladora Ketteridge
Summary: Draco has a 'little accident.' Ron doesn't react the way he'd hoped. Okay, maybe he does, later on. "Laughter is the language of the soul." -Pablo Neruda
Rating/Warning: It's an R, but a pretty strong one, I think. I don't know, I don't understand American ratings all that well. Slash, don't like, don't read. Feedback welcome.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Altogether now - "Duuuuuh!"
Archive: Ask first, and the fics will come.
Oh, God ... No ... no more ... Hurts soo ... ooo ... much ... Twisting, writing pain ... Tearing me apart ... Ripping at my being ... Ripping me apart ...
'Stop,' he growls fiercely. One anger-laced word; manages to intensify the pain five-fold.
Ripping at me ... Ripping ...
'Can't,' I whisper, or try to. I'm not sure what escapes my quivering lips.
I claw at my tie, desperate to pull it loose, yearning for the oxygen that won't come to me no matter how hard I gasp. My lungs are collapsing in on themselves; my chest is so, so tight ...
'Stop laughing,' he snarls again and again it only serves to make me rock harder, long since doubled over and collapsed to the floor.
'Can't,' I choke. 'So, so ...'
Another fit of agonising mirth overtakes me. My normal laugh, (a snort, followed by boyish chortles, occasionally finished with a rather effeminate giggle), has long since vanished; it seems I've used it up. Now I can only bark out pained peals, mixed with gasps, between shaky, laboured breaths. Tears stream in random patterns down my face from where I keep rolling around on the floor, making my hair damp as it falls around my face.
'Weasley ...' He's realised anger is only making me worse; he's now using a voice that's low and threatening, that can only be described as a warning.
A fresh wail, half amusement, half pure torture, is ripped from my throat.
'It's NOT FUNNY!' he bellows, finally losing his patience.
He doesn't yell a lot. He doesn't need to; he can do far more damage with quietly spoken words. The shock causes me to catch my breath long enough to look up at him.
Even through the tears still freely spilling from my eyes, I can see his anger pouring from him. Hell, I can feel it, radiating from him, filling the room with a thick tension that struggles to be noticed over the obvious astonished amusement I experienced when he walked into the room.
It hits me how odd it is that he came to me. My thoughts have been unfocused until now, unable to be heard over snorts and chuckles, but they are suddenly crystal clear.
We've been together over three months; the first relationship of any kind we've both been in, for different reasons. I'm inexperienced. He's certainly not. However, he's not one for commitment. Not that I've ever asked for it from him.
Maybe that's why I'm surprised he came to me. We don't share problems. We don't share feelings. Hell, we don't even share conversations. Yes, we talk, but there's a different between idle chats, mostly pillow talk, and actually conversing.
The expression on my face, which I'm sure can only be described as a shit-faced grin, changes momentarily to a softer smile. I'm flattered. He came to me.
Maybe I should have reacted a bit differently.
Oh well, too late now.
I allow my eyes to sweep over him, hoping he will and praying he won't notice the affectionate glimmer in them as I do.
Clad in expensive robes, but I would expect no less from him. I used to scold myself for my attraction to him, on those days when I was forced to look at him but couldn't touch him. It took me a long time, much longer than him, to come to terms with the fact that I wanted him. Naturally, I blamed his robes. It was easier to accuse them than myself. After all, if you spent that much money on an item of clothing, it would be guaranteed to be the most exquisite cut, flattering every curve and angle. At one point I suspected his school trousers might be enchanted to do just that. It was only for a matter of seconds, a quick thought, when the bastard bent down to retrieve something from the floor in Potions, (that he later revealed he dropped on purpose, smug git), and I almost fell off of my seat.
I dread to think how much those patent leather shoes cost. Probably more than everything in my bedroom.
Hands on hips, fists clenched tightly in his fury. Shirt pushed up at the sleeves to reveal pale, flawless skin on slender forearms. Both blessedly free of any black, soul-sacrificing tattoos.
Flush creeping up from his chest, across his collar bone. Up his neck, spreading over his cheekbones. Eyes flashing indignantly. Storming with emotion, mask that naturally falls into place not quite hiding the hurt there.
Or maybe it is, but I've learnt to see past it.
Eyebrows arched for the ceiling. And hair ...
God, I wish they wouldn't fight like this.
Why couldn't Harry have reacted the way Hermione did?
She simply nodded and asked if I was quite finished interrupting her. Looking back, I don't think she actually looked up from the book she had spread on her lap. She must have the Inner Eye or something, even if she insists she doesn't believe in it. She sees everything coming.
But Harry ...
For a while he just sat on his bed, staring up at me, blinking rather a lot more than necessary. Then he lightly shook his head and simply muttered 'Plonker,' an obviously pained but still accepting smile on his face.
He teases me. All the time. Relentlessly. Loudly questions where I'm going whenever I try to slip out to another late night rendezvous, draws attention to my flushed face and dishevelled hair when I return. He loves making me squirm. I've begged Hermione to make him stop but she just says she'll intervene when I get Draco to stop calling her Mudblood. I retort that it's impossible. After all, I can't get Harry to stop referring to Draco as my 'One True Love.' Complete with dramatic hand-to-heart gestures and love-sick sighs. If I can't control my best friend, how am I supposed to control the guy I'm not even sure I can refer to as my boyfriend.
She just grins smugly at me and says I shouldn't have picked such a 'Challenge.'
She calls him 'Challenge.' (Cue smirk and patented I-know-all Hermione glare.) Harry calls him 'One True Love.' (Cue hand raised to his chest and eyes cast dreamily to the ceiling.) I think I preferred it when we all called him Malfoy and had done with it.
Yet, somehow, I managed to cope with all of that.
Then the pranks began ...
Harry started it. Little bastard won't even deny it. He insists he has every right to pick on Draco; he made our lives hell, to the best of his abilities, for years. In a way, I agree with him.
But when one or the other of them comes to me bitching about how so-and-so tipped over their cauldron, or stole their Quidditch gloves, or charmed some obscene comment into the back of their robes, I'm rather tempted to strangle the both of them.
Draco taunts Harry, saying that I might decide I prefer spending time with him if Harry keeps playing his 'juvenile little jokes.' Harry taunts Draco, saying that if he does anything wrong Harry will run and tell me and 'you'll be in the doghouse then.'
I turn to Hermione, and she just shrugs and says it's better than when they were trying to get each other expelled.
This though ... This takes the biscuit.
It won't wash out for at least three weeks, he informed me in the stunned silence, seconds before I burst into giggles; giggles that quickly escalated to rolling around wheezing like Neville after a cross-country run.
Poor Draco. He primps and pampers his hair like nobody I've ever seen. Even Lavender Brown's beauty schedule comes nowhere near his.
It's really gonna be screwed up by him suddenly having jet black hair!
Another thought hits me and escapes my lips before I can stop it, a habit of mine that's gotten me into a lot of trouble through the years.
'You look like Snape!'
I feel more laughter welling up in throat, struggling to break loose, but he effectively kills it with the complete and utter fury that underlies his next words.
'I DO FUCKING NOT!'
He turns gracefully on his heels and storms towards the door and pulls it sharply. It doesn't move. He's obviously forgotten the Locking Charm he cast on it when he first entered the room, presumably to keep out all the taunts and open-mouthed stares that I'm sure followed him all through the castle on his way to find me.
I drag myself to my feet and over to his side before he can find the wits to produce his wand and curse the door, or me, into oblivion. I needn't of worried. He slumps against the door, his forehead resting against the worn wood. I gently grip his shoulders and guide him, turning him to face me. And my breath is stolen away when I see tears glistening in his eyes.
I kiss him. Instantly. Instinctively. Not a sweet and reassuring kiss; gentle and compassionate. My manner is harsh and possessive and he hesitates for only the briefest of moments before responding, drinking in the message I know he understands. I'm sorry. We fight. Near constantly. But I never, never, ever want to see him hurting. He is mine to protect, although he will never allow for me to do so, and the frustration this fact inspires in me aggressively leaks its way into the kiss; he seems to be sending me near identical signals as he circles his arm around my waist in an almost painful grip.
I push him back against the door, gripping his hips tightly, nails digging into those oh-so-expensive trousers, holding him firmly in place as I push against him, quickly finding a frantic, almost irratic, rhythm. He reaches up to cup my face, fingers wrapping so tightly in my hair it stings, and I can't help but suspect it's so I won't pull away long enough to see the tears now spilling down his cheeks.
It doesn't stop me being able to feel them though.
As his chest pushes against my own, as one hand slips down my face, certain to leave scratch marks, I fight the urge to be inside of him, to have him inside of me. I know, somehow, that it's wrong. Not what he needs.
I consider kissing my way down that stomach I always find myself fantasising about in History Of Magic and taking him into my mouth but I cannot bring myself to part my lips from his own.
Instead I manage to snake a hand between us, (difficult when he's wrapped one leg around my waist in a manner that can only be described as crushing and malicious), and worry at his fly. I slip my hand under his waistband with practised ease and, although our kisses remain fierce, I am gentle as I run my hand across his length, gripping him at the base and working my way, with slight twists and seemingly random squeezes, up and down in a slow tempo.
He begins to make small pleading noises that are all but drowned out in my mouth. He wants more but, somehow, I know he needs this. Even if I did give in to his requests, the tightness of his trousers is restricting my movements. I could tug them down, but he is vulnerable enough already and I have a feeling the exposure of his flesh, when I am still fully clothed, would only serve to make him feel worse in the long run.
I know he curses himself when he lets go completely. He enjoys it at the time, my God, how we both enjoy it, but afterwards doubt settles into his overactive mind and he will force himself to be more reserved, may even cancel our next meeting, to assure himself he is still in control. He likes to be on top, even when it is me inside of him. He likes to make me cum before him, although I suspect he may just enjoy watching me. Although we both chose when we will meet, and for how long, he likes to pick where.
I am not submissive. There is no domination in our relationship, only personality quirks.
He whimpers as I wrap my fingers tighter around him. I keep the pace sweetly slow, even as he grinds against my pelvis and hisses into my mouth. My hand is moist with sweat and pre-cum and slides easily over his skin but I try to create as much friction as possible, twisting and turning and rubbing my thumb along the underside of his arousal, all the while maintaining that tempo.
After three months I think I have learnt all there is to know about his body, inside out, completely, but I am surprised when he cries my name into our never-ending kiss and all but throws himself forward into me as he orgasms, explosively and passionately, biting down on my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as I continue to milk him, one arm struggling to hold him upright.
If I find this surprising, nothing compares to my shock when he breaks away from my lips with an angry howl and buries his face in my neck, tears running down his chin and under my collar, his entire form shaking and his hands twitching at my arms, torn between gripping me tightly and trying to escape me.
We sink slowly to the floor, one of my arms guiding him gently, the other's hand still down the front of his trousers. He keeps his head hidden from my view, what must be a first for us after any sexual encounter, (he appreciates my post-coital blush as much as I appreciate his), nuzzling his nose into my neck and hair, one hand moving to wrap around my waist limply.
I want to tell him that I'll make Harry pay, make him regret it. He must have known how much this would hurt Draco, he calls him a vain twat all the time. Although it may be unfair to assume he knows just how much Draco loves his hair.
Then again, maybe this wasn't about hair at all. Maybe it was something else, something we've needed to confront for a long time ...
I shake that thought from my head as soon as it threatens to haunt me. There's no point swearing vengeance against Harry on his behalf, besides the fact he knows I would never do anything to hurt my best friend. He would only be offended. And he can take care of himself. I have a feeling Harry may be waking up with fluorescent pink hair sometime in the near future. All over.
I look down at my sticky hand, still wrapped loosely around him. I exhale loudly through my nose.
Draco stops nuzzling against my neck but doesn't look up.
'Cuffs and collar don't match any more,' I smile.
And he laughs.
Author: Elladora Ketteridge
Summary: Draco has a 'little accident.' Ron doesn't react the way he'd hoped. Okay, maybe he does, later on. "Laughter is the language of the soul." -Pablo Neruda
Rating/Warning: It's an R, but a pretty strong one, I think. I don't know, I don't understand American ratings all that well. Slash, don't like, don't read. Feedback welcome.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Altogether now - "Duuuuuh!"
Archive: Ask first, and the fics will come.
Oh, God ... No ... no more ... Hurts soo ... ooo ... much ... Twisting, writing pain ... Tearing me apart ... Ripping at my being ... Ripping me apart ...
'Stop,' he growls fiercely. One anger-laced word; manages to intensify the pain five-fold.
Ripping at me ... Ripping ...
'Can't,' I whisper, or try to. I'm not sure what escapes my quivering lips.
I claw at my tie, desperate to pull it loose, yearning for the oxygen that won't come to me no matter how hard I gasp. My lungs are collapsing in on themselves; my chest is so, so tight ...
'Stop laughing,' he snarls again and again it only serves to make me rock harder, long since doubled over and collapsed to the floor.
'Can't,' I choke. 'So, so ...'
Another fit of agonising mirth overtakes me. My normal laugh, (a snort, followed by boyish chortles, occasionally finished with a rather effeminate giggle), has long since vanished; it seems I've used it up. Now I can only bark out pained peals, mixed with gasps, between shaky, laboured breaths. Tears stream in random patterns down my face from where I keep rolling around on the floor, making my hair damp as it falls around my face.
'Weasley ...' He's realised anger is only making me worse; he's now using a voice that's low and threatening, that can only be described as a warning.
A fresh wail, half amusement, half pure torture, is ripped from my throat.
'It's NOT FUNNY!' he bellows, finally losing his patience.
He doesn't yell a lot. He doesn't need to; he can do far more damage with quietly spoken words. The shock causes me to catch my breath long enough to look up at him.
Even through the tears still freely spilling from my eyes, I can see his anger pouring from him. Hell, I can feel it, radiating from him, filling the room with a thick tension that struggles to be noticed over the obvious astonished amusement I experienced when he walked into the room.
It hits me how odd it is that he came to me. My thoughts have been unfocused until now, unable to be heard over snorts and chuckles, but they are suddenly crystal clear.
We've been together over three months; the first relationship of any kind we've both been in, for different reasons. I'm inexperienced. He's certainly not. However, he's not one for commitment. Not that I've ever asked for it from him.
Maybe that's why I'm surprised he came to me. We don't share problems. We don't share feelings. Hell, we don't even share conversations. Yes, we talk, but there's a different between idle chats, mostly pillow talk, and actually conversing.
The expression on my face, which I'm sure can only be described as a shit-faced grin, changes momentarily to a softer smile. I'm flattered. He came to me.
Maybe I should have reacted a bit differently.
Oh well, too late now.
I allow my eyes to sweep over him, hoping he will and praying he won't notice the affectionate glimmer in them as I do.
Clad in expensive robes, but I would expect no less from him. I used to scold myself for my attraction to him, on those days when I was forced to look at him but couldn't touch him. It took me a long time, much longer than him, to come to terms with the fact that I wanted him. Naturally, I blamed his robes. It was easier to accuse them than myself. After all, if you spent that much money on an item of clothing, it would be guaranteed to be the most exquisite cut, flattering every curve and angle. At one point I suspected his school trousers might be enchanted to do just that. It was only for a matter of seconds, a quick thought, when the bastard bent down to retrieve something from the floor in Potions, (that he later revealed he dropped on purpose, smug git), and I almost fell off of my seat.
I dread to think how much those patent leather shoes cost. Probably more than everything in my bedroom.
Hands on hips, fists clenched tightly in his fury. Shirt pushed up at the sleeves to reveal pale, flawless skin on slender forearms. Both blessedly free of any black, soul-sacrificing tattoos.
Flush creeping up from his chest, across his collar bone. Up his neck, spreading over his cheekbones. Eyes flashing indignantly. Storming with emotion, mask that naturally falls into place not quite hiding the hurt there.
Or maybe it is, but I've learnt to see past it.
Eyebrows arched for the ceiling. And hair ...
God, I wish they wouldn't fight like this.
Why couldn't Harry have reacted the way Hermione did?
She simply nodded and asked if I was quite finished interrupting her. Looking back, I don't think she actually looked up from the book she had spread on her lap. She must have the Inner Eye or something, even if she insists she doesn't believe in it. She sees everything coming.
But Harry ...
For a while he just sat on his bed, staring up at me, blinking rather a lot more than necessary. Then he lightly shook his head and simply muttered 'Plonker,' an obviously pained but still accepting smile on his face.
He teases me. All the time. Relentlessly. Loudly questions where I'm going whenever I try to slip out to another late night rendezvous, draws attention to my flushed face and dishevelled hair when I return. He loves making me squirm. I've begged Hermione to make him stop but she just says she'll intervene when I get Draco to stop calling her Mudblood. I retort that it's impossible. After all, I can't get Harry to stop referring to Draco as my 'One True Love.' Complete with dramatic hand-to-heart gestures and love-sick sighs. If I can't control my best friend, how am I supposed to control the guy I'm not even sure I can refer to as my boyfriend.
She just grins smugly at me and says I shouldn't have picked such a 'Challenge.'
She calls him 'Challenge.' (Cue smirk and patented I-know-all Hermione glare.) Harry calls him 'One True Love.' (Cue hand raised to his chest and eyes cast dreamily to the ceiling.) I think I preferred it when we all called him Malfoy and had done with it.
Yet, somehow, I managed to cope with all of that.
Then the pranks began ...
Harry started it. Little bastard won't even deny it. He insists he has every right to pick on Draco; he made our lives hell, to the best of his abilities, for years. In a way, I agree with him.
But when one or the other of them comes to me bitching about how so-and-so tipped over their cauldron, or stole their Quidditch gloves, or charmed some obscene comment into the back of their robes, I'm rather tempted to strangle the both of them.
Draco taunts Harry, saying that I might decide I prefer spending time with him if Harry keeps playing his 'juvenile little jokes.' Harry taunts Draco, saying that if he does anything wrong Harry will run and tell me and 'you'll be in the doghouse then.'
I turn to Hermione, and she just shrugs and says it's better than when they were trying to get each other expelled.
This though ... This takes the biscuit.
It won't wash out for at least three weeks, he informed me in the stunned silence, seconds before I burst into giggles; giggles that quickly escalated to rolling around wheezing like Neville after a cross-country run.
Poor Draco. He primps and pampers his hair like nobody I've ever seen. Even Lavender Brown's beauty schedule comes nowhere near his.
It's really gonna be screwed up by him suddenly having jet black hair!
Another thought hits me and escapes my lips before I can stop it, a habit of mine that's gotten me into a lot of trouble through the years.
'You look like Snape!'
I feel more laughter welling up in throat, struggling to break loose, but he effectively kills it with the complete and utter fury that underlies his next words.
'I DO FUCKING NOT!'
He turns gracefully on his heels and storms towards the door and pulls it sharply. It doesn't move. He's obviously forgotten the Locking Charm he cast on it when he first entered the room, presumably to keep out all the taunts and open-mouthed stares that I'm sure followed him all through the castle on his way to find me.
I drag myself to my feet and over to his side before he can find the wits to produce his wand and curse the door, or me, into oblivion. I needn't of worried. He slumps against the door, his forehead resting against the worn wood. I gently grip his shoulders and guide him, turning him to face me. And my breath is stolen away when I see tears glistening in his eyes.
I kiss him. Instantly. Instinctively. Not a sweet and reassuring kiss; gentle and compassionate. My manner is harsh and possessive and he hesitates for only the briefest of moments before responding, drinking in the message I know he understands. I'm sorry. We fight. Near constantly. But I never, never, ever want to see him hurting. He is mine to protect, although he will never allow for me to do so, and the frustration this fact inspires in me aggressively leaks its way into the kiss; he seems to be sending me near identical signals as he circles his arm around my waist in an almost painful grip.
I push him back against the door, gripping his hips tightly, nails digging into those oh-so-expensive trousers, holding him firmly in place as I push against him, quickly finding a frantic, almost irratic, rhythm. He reaches up to cup my face, fingers wrapping so tightly in my hair it stings, and I can't help but suspect it's so I won't pull away long enough to see the tears now spilling down his cheeks.
It doesn't stop me being able to feel them though.
As his chest pushes against my own, as one hand slips down my face, certain to leave scratch marks, I fight the urge to be inside of him, to have him inside of me. I know, somehow, that it's wrong. Not what he needs.
I consider kissing my way down that stomach I always find myself fantasising about in History Of Magic and taking him into my mouth but I cannot bring myself to part my lips from his own.
Instead I manage to snake a hand between us, (difficult when he's wrapped one leg around my waist in a manner that can only be described as crushing and malicious), and worry at his fly. I slip my hand under his waistband with practised ease and, although our kisses remain fierce, I am gentle as I run my hand across his length, gripping him at the base and working my way, with slight twists and seemingly random squeezes, up and down in a slow tempo.
He begins to make small pleading noises that are all but drowned out in my mouth. He wants more but, somehow, I know he needs this. Even if I did give in to his requests, the tightness of his trousers is restricting my movements. I could tug them down, but he is vulnerable enough already and I have a feeling the exposure of his flesh, when I am still fully clothed, would only serve to make him feel worse in the long run.
I know he curses himself when he lets go completely. He enjoys it at the time, my God, how we both enjoy it, but afterwards doubt settles into his overactive mind and he will force himself to be more reserved, may even cancel our next meeting, to assure himself he is still in control. He likes to be on top, even when it is me inside of him. He likes to make me cum before him, although I suspect he may just enjoy watching me. Although we both chose when we will meet, and for how long, he likes to pick where.
I am not submissive. There is no domination in our relationship, only personality quirks.
He whimpers as I wrap my fingers tighter around him. I keep the pace sweetly slow, even as he grinds against my pelvis and hisses into my mouth. My hand is moist with sweat and pre-cum and slides easily over his skin but I try to create as much friction as possible, twisting and turning and rubbing my thumb along the underside of his arousal, all the while maintaining that tempo.
After three months I think I have learnt all there is to know about his body, inside out, completely, but I am surprised when he cries my name into our never-ending kiss and all but throws himself forward into me as he orgasms, explosively and passionately, biting down on my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as I continue to milk him, one arm struggling to hold him upright.
If I find this surprising, nothing compares to my shock when he breaks away from my lips with an angry howl and buries his face in my neck, tears running down his chin and under my collar, his entire form shaking and his hands twitching at my arms, torn between gripping me tightly and trying to escape me.
We sink slowly to the floor, one of my arms guiding him gently, the other's hand still down the front of his trousers. He keeps his head hidden from my view, what must be a first for us after any sexual encounter, (he appreciates my post-coital blush as much as I appreciate his), nuzzling his nose into my neck and hair, one hand moving to wrap around my waist limply.
I want to tell him that I'll make Harry pay, make him regret it. He must have known how much this would hurt Draco, he calls him a vain twat all the time. Although it may be unfair to assume he knows just how much Draco loves his hair.
Then again, maybe this wasn't about hair at all. Maybe it was something else, something we've needed to confront for a long time ...
I shake that thought from my head as soon as it threatens to haunt me. There's no point swearing vengeance against Harry on his behalf, besides the fact he knows I would never do anything to hurt my best friend. He would only be offended. And he can take care of himself. I have a feeling Harry may be waking up with fluorescent pink hair sometime in the near future. All over.
I look down at my sticky hand, still wrapped loosely around him. I exhale loudly through my nose.
Draco stops nuzzling against my neck but doesn't look up.
'Cuffs and collar don't match any more,' I smile.
And he laughs.