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Jan. 22nd, 2004 10:53 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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bottom_dracoI'm pretty sure this is Bottom!Draco, so I thought I would post it here. Yes yes, it's a rip off of the No Doubt song, but its not a songfic. I just liked the concept so so so much; I thought the idea of soaking in someone else's bath water was beautiful, so I made a fic out of it!
Also, this is rather romantic, so to those of you that hate seeing H/D being romantic with each other I would advise you to skip this one! *snerks*
Title: Bath Water.
Author: Danya.
Pairing: H/D
Rating: Hard R. Borderline NC-17.
Category: Futurefic. Fluffy Angst. Angsty Fluff. Whatever...
A/Ns: Stole the idea from No Doubt's "Bath Water" song.
~~~
Harry likes to bathe in the mornings instead of taking showers at night.
He goes to bed late, but he wakes up early. It used to be that he went to bed early and woke up early, but you always ask him to hold you and he can’t fall asleep to human touch. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it just makes him nervous. Even three years after the downfall of Voldemort and more importantly, three years after Hogwarts graduation, he still hasn’t physically matured into who you thought he would be.
The sex is normally sensual and smooth, full of slow crescendos and his whiplash climaxes. You notice that he makes these half-panicked sounds, as if halfway through taking a breath he decides to reverse the airflow. His gasps are syncopated ‘ha’s instead of ‘oh’s, and on some nights his skin smells like motor oil from working with Weasley number Six. They claim that someday flying cars will be the vehicle of choice for the Wizarding World, and after days when Harry puts around in the shop, you can taste skin-soaked gas fumes when you lick his fingertips.
You spend your days with vials of illusions and pain-killing elixirs, but on some days you brew yourself a nice version of a Lunar Eclipse. Granger says it’s a nasty business, making your own moonshine by means of your work, but sometimes she’ll add to your pouch of galleons if you leave a shiny bottle outside her door.
Harry spends his doing whatever is necessary to help keep your world clean of fear. You both know he could’ve been whatever he wanted to, but he chose to become an Auror like you knew he would. And now he files papers and crunches petty crime-list numbers in the absence of a looming shadow. You watched him snatch that dirty black blanket from the sky and even helped him pinch the corners together. He folded it up into a black square small enough to fit into his left robe pocket, and then you watched him clean his glasses and lead the world into a newly laundered Pax Britannica.
But he’s still the same skinny four-eyed boy that he was when you were both eleven, and you try to understand him. You lost your father and your money, and it changed your world. He lost his life and he hasn't changed one bit.
Granger got you Hogwarts: A History for Christmas last year. You always fell asleep through History of Magic, so you figured you might give it a try. You’ve got a lot of time on your hands, so you kick back while the potions simmer and flip through your lifetime in a matter of seconds.
But you’re disappointed though, because the one time you’re not interested in yourself you fail to find any decent information under Harry Potter’s miniature biographical section. It gives his stats and his famous background story, but little else that you don’t already know. It talks of the importance of his green eyes – Lily’s green eyes – and you smirk to yourself because you have their attention on a daily basis.
One morning you wake up to find Harry soaking in the bath, but he rises to kiss your eyelids the moment you sidle inside. He brushes his knuckles across the indentations of your hip grooves, and you let your head fall forward against his shoulder. You could rest like that for days and days, and you wouldn’t mind the crick in the neck it would give you once you moved either. You would hold the pain in your mind and relish it on the nights when he works late and sleeps on the couch. He knows that you’re a light sleeper, and he insists on never waking you, even though you tell him time after time that you want him to.
He licks the corner of your mouth and your left pinky twitches; he likes to bathe you with his tongue. You stare at the full, hazy tub over his shoulder and think to yourself that it’ll look far more inviting after he sits you on the edge of the hard bathroom sink and lets you wrap your legs around him. You sleep in silk pajamas, and he soaks them with soap water, but you don’t mind because the way he grinds your hips together drenches them anyway.
It is slow and drawn out, just like your cries, as you clutch his shoulder blades. Your inner thighs burn from clenching against his wet sides, but his cock his heavy and full as it presses into your slacks. His body pinches them into crinkly folds that trap your cock along your stomach, but the added, sustained pressure only makes you squirm. His thrusts cause you to clench your hands around his upper arms until they whiten to an unnatural color.
And the pleasure flies by like a soothing dream.
He ‘ha’s along the shell of your ear and the tension cracks like a bullwhip; then it is over with a stain spreading at your groin. You let the tension go with a muscle-loosening sigh and allow your heels to fall to the back of his legs as he cups your liquid ligaments in the palms of his hands.
“Morning, Draco.”
“Morning.”
He rinses the mess of dark black curls away with water from the sink, and grabs a towel to wrap around his waist. Water droplets from his hair drip down your collarbone because he’s always messy after he comes. You squeeze water from chunks of his hair and tangle it around your ring finger. The bath water should still be warm, and the soapy color reminds you of the tea you always have in the mornings. Sugar and condensed milk with the ginger spices of a teabag, it’s your morning ritual.
You watch him as he dresses, leaning sharply against the wardrobe. He tells you that it’ll be a long night for him, but he wants to bathe with you tomorrow morning.
When he’s gone you remove your pajamas and slip into his old bath water. You want to soak in the remnants, absorb the skin he sheds each day. You know why he does it, why he soaks himself and he soaks for hours while you are sleeping. Soaking makes it easier for him to scrub himself clean. He's trying to mature, and you know it; he needs to be clean to grow. Layers and layers of skin drip down that drain, and you make sure to taste them all each night before they go. You want every bit of him that you can have. You want his gifts, his wastes; you want to bask in everything he wants to be rid of. It makes him Harry and it makes you yourself, because when all is said and done, when everything is over, you want to keep who you are and you must keep him to do so.
The water is chillier than you expected. You must’ve held him longer than you thought, but you never minded the cold before, so you won’t start now. The smoky water swirls against your skin and swallows you whole. You disappear up to your neck, the ends of your hair vanishing as well. Neck resting against the porcelain rim, you search for yourself along the hazy surface of the water and find that you can’t see a thing below. You can’t even see your reflection; it’s that soapy and dirty.
You soak in his old bath water for hours and fall asleep in the cold caress. It’s not his touch, but its close enough. You want his history and his magic; you want his awkward beauty and you want to shed some of yourself in his water too. You want to pull the plug and watch part of him drain away in ease, and you want to let some of yourself go with him.
Also, this is rather romantic, so to those of you that hate seeing H/D being romantic with each other I would advise you to skip this one! *snerks*
Title: Bath Water.
Author: Danya.
Pairing: H/D
Rating: Hard R. Borderline NC-17.
Category: Futurefic. Fluffy Angst. Angsty Fluff. Whatever...
A/Ns: Stole the idea from No Doubt's "Bath Water" song.
~~~
Harry likes to bathe in the mornings instead of taking showers at night.
He goes to bed late, but he wakes up early. It used to be that he went to bed early and woke up early, but you always ask him to hold you and he can’t fall asleep to human touch. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it just makes him nervous. Even three years after the downfall of Voldemort and more importantly, three years after Hogwarts graduation, he still hasn’t physically matured into who you thought he would be.
The sex is normally sensual and smooth, full of slow crescendos and his whiplash climaxes. You notice that he makes these half-panicked sounds, as if halfway through taking a breath he decides to reverse the airflow. His gasps are syncopated ‘ha’s instead of ‘oh’s, and on some nights his skin smells like motor oil from working with Weasley number Six. They claim that someday flying cars will be the vehicle of choice for the Wizarding World, and after days when Harry puts around in the shop, you can taste skin-soaked gas fumes when you lick his fingertips.
You spend your days with vials of illusions and pain-killing elixirs, but on some days you brew yourself a nice version of a Lunar Eclipse. Granger says it’s a nasty business, making your own moonshine by means of your work, but sometimes she’ll add to your pouch of galleons if you leave a shiny bottle outside her door.
Harry spends his doing whatever is necessary to help keep your world clean of fear. You both know he could’ve been whatever he wanted to, but he chose to become an Auror like you knew he would. And now he files papers and crunches petty crime-list numbers in the absence of a looming shadow. You watched him snatch that dirty black blanket from the sky and even helped him pinch the corners together. He folded it up into a black square small enough to fit into his left robe pocket, and then you watched him clean his glasses and lead the world into a newly laundered Pax Britannica.
But he’s still the same skinny four-eyed boy that he was when you were both eleven, and you try to understand him. You lost your father and your money, and it changed your world. He lost his life and he hasn't changed one bit.
Granger got you Hogwarts: A History for Christmas last year. You always fell asleep through History of Magic, so you figured you might give it a try. You’ve got a lot of time on your hands, so you kick back while the potions simmer and flip through your lifetime in a matter of seconds.
But you’re disappointed though, because the one time you’re not interested in yourself you fail to find any decent information under Harry Potter’s miniature biographical section. It gives his stats and his famous background story, but little else that you don’t already know. It talks of the importance of his green eyes – Lily’s green eyes – and you smirk to yourself because you have their attention on a daily basis.
One morning you wake up to find Harry soaking in the bath, but he rises to kiss your eyelids the moment you sidle inside. He brushes his knuckles across the indentations of your hip grooves, and you let your head fall forward against his shoulder. You could rest like that for days and days, and you wouldn’t mind the crick in the neck it would give you once you moved either. You would hold the pain in your mind and relish it on the nights when he works late and sleeps on the couch. He knows that you’re a light sleeper, and he insists on never waking you, even though you tell him time after time that you want him to.
He licks the corner of your mouth and your left pinky twitches; he likes to bathe you with his tongue. You stare at the full, hazy tub over his shoulder and think to yourself that it’ll look far more inviting after he sits you on the edge of the hard bathroom sink and lets you wrap your legs around him. You sleep in silk pajamas, and he soaks them with soap water, but you don’t mind because the way he grinds your hips together drenches them anyway.
It is slow and drawn out, just like your cries, as you clutch his shoulder blades. Your inner thighs burn from clenching against his wet sides, but his cock his heavy and full as it presses into your slacks. His body pinches them into crinkly folds that trap your cock along your stomach, but the added, sustained pressure only makes you squirm. His thrusts cause you to clench your hands around his upper arms until they whiten to an unnatural color.
And the pleasure flies by like a soothing dream.
He ‘ha’s along the shell of your ear and the tension cracks like a bullwhip; then it is over with a stain spreading at your groin. You let the tension go with a muscle-loosening sigh and allow your heels to fall to the back of his legs as he cups your liquid ligaments in the palms of his hands.
“Morning, Draco.”
“Morning.”
He rinses the mess of dark black curls away with water from the sink, and grabs a towel to wrap around his waist. Water droplets from his hair drip down your collarbone because he’s always messy after he comes. You squeeze water from chunks of his hair and tangle it around your ring finger. The bath water should still be warm, and the soapy color reminds you of the tea you always have in the mornings. Sugar and condensed milk with the ginger spices of a teabag, it’s your morning ritual.
You watch him as he dresses, leaning sharply against the wardrobe. He tells you that it’ll be a long night for him, but he wants to bathe with you tomorrow morning.
When he’s gone you remove your pajamas and slip into his old bath water. You want to soak in the remnants, absorb the skin he sheds each day. You know why he does it, why he soaks himself and he soaks for hours while you are sleeping. Soaking makes it easier for him to scrub himself clean. He's trying to mature, and you know it; he needs to be clean to grow. Layers and layers of skin drip down that drain, and you make sure to taste them all each night before they go. You want every bit of him that you can have. You want his gifts, his wastes; you want to bask in everything he wants to be rid of. It makes him Harry and it makes you yourself, because when all is said and done, when everything is over, you want to keep who you are and you must keep him to do so.
The water is chillier than you expected. You must’ve held him longer than you thought, but you never minded the cold before, so you won’t start now. The smoky water swirls against your skin and swallows you whole. You disappear up to your neck, the ends of your hair vanishing as well. Neck resting against the porcelain rim, you search for yourself along the hazy surface of the water and find that you can’t see a thing below. You can’t even see your reflection; it’s that soapy and dirty.
You soak in his old bath water for hours and fall asleep in the cold caress. It’s not his touch, but its close enough. You want his history and his magic; you want his awkward beauty and you want to shed some of yourself in his water too. You want to pull the plug and watch part of him drain away in ease, and you want to let some of yourself go with him.
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Date: 2009-10-14 09:12 pm (UTC)if someone doesn't do an art I'll be PISSED!!!