![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title:You, Harry, and All Your Flaws (seriously it’s the best I can think of)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
crazyparakiss
Rating:NC-17 or R, there is sex but it’s not like super graphic (I suck at that)
Pairing:Harry/Draco
Disclaimer:Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and all her various publishing companies. Warner Bros studios(the bastards) and all that.
Warnings:It’s a little angsty with a happy ending. Oh and it’s slash ;P
Summary: Another quick scarring wound across both your hearts, and another shot of whisky to numb the hurt; it’s an old routine by now.
Author’s Note:This was originally started for Speedp0rnz but I didn’t finish it before last night and I worked on it a little bit longer than two hours anyways. I decided to dedicate it tobgreenwivy for her birthday. Even though I am a bit late...
You’re a spoilt worthless prat!
Yeah well that’s the pot calling the cauldron black Potter!
I’m not the one who called Ginny an ugly barren cow!
Not my fault the cow was snivelling all fucking night! So I didn’t like the fucking table! You’d figure she’d know my tastes better by now!
It’s hard for her because you never like anything she tries to help with! I should go check on her she’s probably still crying!
Then by all fucking means Potter, run back and take care of your pining slag! I hope the bitch likes sloppy seconds!
Fucking hell Draco stop it!
Well I did fuck you first! What would you call it, eh?
Crack
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
He comes back the fourth day, eyes guarded and posture tense as he walks to the hall closet to drop his duffle. In the kitchen, he grabs a beer and comments about England’s pathetic arse kicking. His eyes, deep green and emotionally charged, find yours; seeking an apology or some sort of acknowledgement. Yet, you choose to stand in cautious silence, avoiding the elephant, or better yet that hideous pale oak dining table, in the room at all costs.
A day later, the words are settling under the rug, dying an un-mourned death.
Fuck you! What the hell would you know? You haven’t got any parents you orphaned sod!
Always pulling that fucking card aren’t we? God you’re such a worthless piece of flesh!
I’m not the filthy half-blood of this relationship! That’s you Potter! Born from the tainted gash of a worthless mudblood!
Slap
Fuck you and your narrow minded ideas! I’m glad your father is dead! Rotting at the bottom of the ocean I hope! He didn’t deserve a proper fucking burial, and I’ll have you know one day neither will you!
Crack
One.
Two.
Three.
The front door looks the same; dented and discoloured from years of protecting your family’s Noble house. Seeing it causes a lead weight to settle in your stomach, makes you want to turn and run as far from here as possible. Yet, you cannot. You have to re-enter. Have to see Harry standing at the stove, making his morning tea. You need the satisfaction of seeing the guilt in his eyes, even though you know it mirrors your own.
Again, the conversation comes easily; a word or two about the weather, and an offering of oatmeal biscuits.
Another quick scarring wound across both your hearts, and another shot of whisky to numb the hurt; it’s an old routine by now.
Even though the hideous muggle box taunts you with its presence every time, you happen to see the damn thing.
Just don’t fucking start! Please!
Why shouldn’t I? You were mocking me!
And you don’t ever mock me I suppose? When’s the last time you’ve listened to the shit you say to me in front of audiences? I think I deserve a fucking metal for not throwing it back at you before now!
The shit I say is true! You do have atrocious hair! You let a mudblood pick out a tacky bronze couch for us along with an ugly muggle box! Then you let your ex-cow pick out my dining table! The table I have my auntie and cousin eat with me at! And now you’ve stooped low enough to accept a stuffed ferret from Weasel to hang above my mantle!
God just shut up! You’re complaining about things that don’t matter! I wasn’t really going to keep it, and Ron fucking knows it! It was a joke! You’d do well to remember that you’ve done worse!
And that makes it okay?
It certainly fucking does! Don’t give me that bitchy look, it’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?
Zip
Where are you going?
For a walk! Is that o-fucking-kay with you?
I supp-
Crack
One.
Two.
There are still snowflakes clinging desperately to his dark choppy hair, and his cheeks are still rosy from the cold. His hands pale from forgetting his warming charm, as usual, and you want to smack him for neglecting magic. He’s at the fire, wearing that shirt you bought him last Christmas and rubbing his arms. Ignoring you as he often does when he returns. It doesn’t matter anymore, you tend to do the same thing.
The kitchen is warm, and the food wonderful, you’re talking of the Ministry’s pathetic new regulations. Forgetting what caused the damage to start with, and pretending it is a memory long since passed. He has the wine, is pouring you a glass, and you both drink the edge away.
Pain, pain, go away, come again another day, please let me forget Weasley’s ferret today.
I don’t give a sodding damn! We don’t need any of Little Miss Muddy’s charity organization, or whatever the hell it is! She wants to parade us around like a bunch of lovesick queers! Don’t you find that humiliating?
I think it’s a great idea, why do you have to be so fucking negative?
Because I don’t like being the main attraction at her Goddamned freak show! Unlike you I don’t need attention to survive!
Snort
I find that fucking hard to believe Malfoy! I think the problem is you’re afraid to admit who you are! Why not be the proud little ponce that you are?
You think that’s funny? I’m a fucking disappointment!
To who, your parents are dead for fuck’s sake!
To myself! You don’t get it do you Potter? We’re freaks! No one wants to be as twisted and perverted as we are, not even you do!
As hard as it is for you to believe, I am actually perfectly fucking fine with being bent! And if you’re not then I think you should fucking leave!
Fine I will if you fucking feel that way!
Crack
One.
He’s standing at the sink, looking in the mirror with a towel wrapped tightly about his waist. The cheap plastic toothbrush he insists on keeping in his hand, cleaning away the sour morning taste. He sees you in the reflection, and his eyes darken. You comment about the weather; he spits the chalky paste in the porcelain bowl, and turns to face you.
Sometimes twenty-four hours can be a small eternity; causing you to forget all the things that are beautiful, and making you dwell on the things that aren’t so perfect. He is perfect now, yesterday he was as flawed as your great Auntie Black’s sun spotted skin. Physically he has his faults; the small lightening shaped blemish on his forehead for one, the dark red scar on his left shoulder blade from a hex gone wrong at work, and the way he always seems to scowl. Yet, you know that blemish made him the Harry you know. You know it’s Weasel’s fault he has the red mark, and that he has the most amazing smile anyone could ever hope to see.
You say that aloud, and a small hint of it appears. That little sign gives you hope, and you step closer. He smells of aftershave, the one you bought him for his birthday and you feel your mood lift.
The kiss you share is gentle, and somewhere along the way, you lose your winter clothes. The only thing between you is the towel. His tongue traces the shell of your ear, a tingling sensation radiating out from that point. Vibrating down your spine, all the way to your toes, and it doesn’t stop because his hands are always moving. Caressing and loving, he speaks as he hugs you to him. Yet, you’re not sure exactly what he’s saying. His sermon a litany of half-words and hisses, you moan your ‘amen’ against his ear.
Atop him you glide, up and down, one rough palm on your hip and calloused finger pads dancing on the curve of your ribs.
Nuugh
Like that-ahh-ssessha-shhh-Ahhh!
He tenses beneath you as you come between your bodies. His sweaty forehead rests against your damp shoulder, and you think that this is how it should be. You, Harry, and the smell of come.
The shower is warm and you think of all the ugly things you’ve said and have heard over these past five years. Rubbing a soapy flannel along your spine, he speaks, and you tense slightly at his question.
Still ashamed to be a ponce?
His tone isn’t accusing, nor is it judgemental; it is light belying the loaded content of his words.
There are still scars, there is still alcohol, and there will always be the fights, but I wouldn’t want them to be with any other person than Potter. Than Harry
Murmurs
I used to be ashamed of what I was, am. He breaks me out of who I pretend to be, and forces me to deal with myself. The way I truly am.
Glance
I don’t know what Mrs. Granger-Weasley hoped to accomplish by having an ex-death eater, with bigoted ideals, speak to you. I don’t honestly believe that you will take all of the things I have talked about to heart, nor do I expect your sympathy. I am still a creature of evil in the simple mind of man, and not just for being an ex-death eater.
Sneer
I would thank you for your time, but I am not that polite.
Snicker
Pass the law, don’t pass the law; it honestly doesn’t matter to me. However, Poncy Saint Potter might not be so pleased if you don’t pass the damned thing. And being the nasty ex-death eater that I am I will go to any lengths to see that my love has everything that pleases him. After all, we still have that ghastly table, the muggle box, and the sodding ferret.
Fin
Author:
crazyparakissRating:NC-17 or R, there is sex but it’s not like super graphic (I suck at that)
Pairing:Harry/Draco
Disclaimer:Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and all her various publishing companies. Warner Bros studios(the bastards) and all that.
Warnings:It’s a little angsty with a happy ending. Oh and it’s slash ;P
Summary: Another quick scarring wound across both your hearts, and another shot of whisky to numb the hurt; it’s an old routine by now.
Author’s Note:This was originally started for Speedp0rnz but I didn’t finish it before last night and I worked on it a little bit longer than two hours anyways. I decided to dedicate it to
bgreenwivy for her birthday. Even though I am a bit late...You’re a spoilt worthless prat!
Yeah well that’s the pot calling the cauldron black Potter!
I’m not the one who called Ginny an ugly barren cow!
Not my fault the cow was snivelling all fucking night! So I didn’t like the fucking table! You’d figure she’d know my tastes better by now!
It’s hard for her because you never like anything she tries to help with! I should go check on her she’s probably still crying!
Then by all fucking means Potter, run back and take care of your pining slag! I hope the bitch likes sloppy seconds!
Fucking hell Draco stop it!
Well I did fuck you first! What would you call it, eh?
Crack
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
He comes back the fourth day, eyes guarded and posture tense as he walks to the hall closet to drop his duffle. In the kitchen, he grabs a beer and comments about England’s pathetic arse kicking. His eyes, deep green and emotionally charged, find yours; seeking an apology or some sort of acknowledgement. Yet, you choose to stand in cautious silence, avoiding the elephant, or better yet that hideous pale oak dining table, in the room at all costs.
A day later, the words are settling under the rug, dying an un-mourned death.
Fuck you! What the hell would you know? You haven’t got any parents you orphaned sod!
Always pulling that fucking card aren’t we? God you’re such a worthless piece of flesh!
I’m not the filthy half-blood of this relationship! That’s you Potter! Born from the tainted gash of a worthless mudblood!
Slap
Fuck you and your narrow minded ideas! I’m glad your father is dead! Rotting at the bottom of the ocean I hope! He didn’t deserve a proper fucking burial, and I’ll have you know one day neither will you!
Crack
One.
Two.
Three.
The front door looks the same; dented and discoloured from years of protecting your family’s Noble house. Seeing it causes a lead weight to settle in your stomach, makes you want to turn and run as far from here as possible. Yet, you cannot. You have to re-enter. Have to see Harry standing at the stove, making his morning tea. You need the satisfaction of seeing the guilt in his eyes, even though you know it mirrors your own.
Again, the conversation comes easily; a word or two about the weather, and an offering of oatmeal biscuits.
Another quick scarring wound across both your hearts, and another shot of whisky to numb the hurt; it’s an old routine by now.
Even though the hideous muggle box taunts you with its presence every time, you happen to see the damn thing.
Just don’t fucking start! Please!
Why shouldn’t I? You were mocking me!
And you don’t ever mock me I suppose? When’s the last time you’ve listened to the shit you say to me in front of audiences? I think I deserve a fucking metal for not throwing it back at you before now!
The shit I say is true! You do have atrocious hair! You let a mudblood pick out a tacky bronze couch for us along with an ugly muggle box! Then you let your ex-cow pick out my dining table! The table I have my auntie and cousin eat with me at! And now you’ve stooped low enough to accept a stuffed ferret from Weasel to hang above my mantle!
God just shut up! You’re complaining about things that don’t matter! I wasn’t really going to keep it, and Ron fucking knows it! It was a joke! You’d do well to remember that you’ve done worse!
And that makes it okay?
It certainly fucking does! Don’t give me that bitchy look, it’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?
Zip
Where are you going?
For a walk! Is that o-fucking-kay with you?
I supp-
Crack
One.
Two.
There are still snowflakes clinging desperately to his dark choppy hair, and his cheeks are still rosy from the cold. His hands pale from forgetting his warming charm, as usual, and you want to smack him for neglecting magic. He’s at the fire, wearing that shirt you bought him last Christmas and rubbing his arms. Ignoring you as he often does when he returns. It doesn’t matter anymore, you tend to do the same thing.
The kitchen is warm, and the food wonderful, you’re talking of the Ministry’s pathetic new regulations. Forgetting what caused the damage to start with, and pretending it is a memory long since passed. He has the wine, is pouring you a glass, and you both drink the edge away.
Pain, pain, go away, come again another day, please let me forget Weasley’s ferret today.
I don’t give a sodding damn! We don’t need any of Little Miss Muddy’s charity organization, or whatever the hell it is! She wants to parade us around like a bunch of lovesick queers! Don’t you find that humiliating?
I think it’s a great idea, why do you have to be so fucking negative?
Because I don’t like being the main attraction at her Goddamned freak show! Unlike you I don’t need attention to survive!
Snort
I find that fucking hard to believe Malfoy! I think the problem is you’re afraid to admit who you are! Why not be the proud little ponce that you are?
You think that’s funny? I’m a fucking disappointment!
To who, your parents are dead for fuck’s sake!
To myself! You don’t get it do you Potter? We’re freaks! No one wants to be as twisted and perverted as we are, not even you do!
As hard as it is for you to believe, I am actually perfectly fucking fine with being bent! And if you’re not then I think you should fucking leave!
Fine I will if you fucking feel that way!
Crack
One.
He’s standing at the sink, looking in the mirror with a towel wrapped tightly about his waist. The cheap plastic toothbrush he insists on keeping in his hand, cleaning away the sour morning taste. He sees you in the reflection, and his eyes darken. You comment about the weather; he spits the chalky paste in the porcelain bowl, and turns to face you.
Sometimes twenty-four hours can be a small eternity; causing you to forget all the things that are beautiful, and making you dwell on the things that aren’t so perfect. He is perfect now, yesterday he was as flawed as your great Auntie Black’s sun spotted skin. Physically he has his faults; the small lightening shaped blemish on his forehead for one, the dark red scar on his left shoulder blade from a hex gone wrong at work, and the way he always seems to scowl. Yet, you know that blemish made him the Harry you know. You know it’s Weasel’s fault he has the red mark, and that he has the most amazing smile anyone could ever hope to see.
You say that aloud, and a small hint of it appears. That little sign gives you hope, and you step closer. He smells of aftershave, the one you bought him for his birthday and you feel your mood lift.
The kiss you share is gentle, and somewhere along the way, you lose your winter clothes. The only thing between you is the towel. His tongue traces the shell of your ear, a tingling sensation radiating out from that point. Vibrating down your spine, all the way to your toes, and it doesn’t stop because his hands are always moving. Caressing and loving, he speaks as he hugs you to him. Yet, you’re not sure exactly what he’s saying. His sermon a litany of half-words and hisses, you moan your ‘amen’ against his ear.
Atop him you glide, up and down, one rough palm on your hip and calloused finger pads dancing on the curve of your ribs.
Nuugh
Like that-ahh-ssessha-shhh-Ahhh!
He tenses beneath you as you come between your bodies. His sweaty forehead rests against your damp shoulder, and you think that this is how it should be. You, Harry, and the smell of come.
The shower is warm and you think of all the ugly things you’ve said and have heard over these past five years. Rubbing a soapy flannel along your spine, he speaks, and you tense slightly at his question.
Still ashamed to be a ponce?
His tone isn’t accusing, nor is it judgemental; it is light belying the loaded content of his words.
There are still scars, there is still alcohol, and there will always be the fights, but I wouldn’t want them to be with any other person than Potter. Than Harry
Murmurs
I used to be ashamed of what I was, am. He breaks me out of who I pretend to be, and forces me to deal with myself. The way I truly am.
Glance
I don’t know what Mrs. Granger-Weasley hoped to accomplish by having an ex-death eater, with bigoted ideals, speak to you. I don’t honestly believe that you will take all of the things I have talked about to heart, nor do I expect your sympathy. I am still a creature of evil in the simple mind of man, and not just for being an ex-death eater.
Sneer
I would thank you for your time, but I am not that polite.
Snicker
Pass the law, don’t pass the law; it honestly doesn’t matter to me. However, Poncy Saint Potter might not be so pleased if you don’t pass the damned thing. And being the nasty ex-death eater that I am I will go to any lengths to see that my love has everything that pleases him. After all, we still have that ghastly table, the muggle box, and the sodding ferret.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-10-25 02:04 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-10-25 02:08 am (UTC)From:I wanted it to be spotty yet loving, and I am very glad that came through to you.
Thanks for being a wonderful beta, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY...again :D
no subject
Date: 2009-10-25 03:44 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-10-25 04:08 am (UTC)From:Thanks, you flatter me darling. Really glad you liked the speech, I wasn't sure about it at first.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-25 04:14 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-10-25 10:03 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-10-25 12:23 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-12-24 05:50 pm (UTC)From:http://shadowwolf13.livejournal.com/788144.html?thread=3329200
Please feel free to stop by and read the comments, add your love to others, or spread the word to your friends.
Blessings,
Shadow