Lines, Signs, and Roads
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,993
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,993
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Lines, Signs, and Roads
oy, i was trying to write porn and this is what came out instead of pure smut...damn the plotiness or lack thereof!
Title: Lines, Signs and Roads
Author: ClarySage
Pairings: Ron/Draco
Rating: probably a rough R for language and absentminded smut?
Warnings: not a lot of friendliness
Disclaimer: I don't own, you don't sue.
Reviews: i like them ^_^
sidenote: sorry about the weird experimental writing style...
A gesture.
It was a gesture that started it, not even a rude gesture or one that could be taken as such. Just a movement of fingers, a twitch of the lips, and everything it shouldn’t have implied was all laid out before him in a fit-inducing way.
They say love is a thin line, hate is a thin line, and that between lays the thinnest line of all, like. To say that Ron liked Draco Malfoy would be like saying bread was in fact water, it just wasn’t so, and it probably never would be. What Ron felt was a decided loathing, a painful scabbing itching wound that never quite healed. It was always a raw emotion, blunt and spiteful. It would be nice to say that one day it changed, that it became a lust, or a love, that somehow his feelings were capable of shifting into lighter forms. But no, it didn’t happen.
Yet at the same time, something did shift, the line of loathing was crossed, and a wonderful hatred ensued. It was the kind that made Ron grit his teeth upon mere sight or mention of Malfoy. It was intense and hot. It was painful and beautiful. Ron liked the hate, loved the hate, and in that, hate was crossed over as well.
Hate became a need.
Bent over.
That phrase had never met much to Ron before, as neither had words such as, ‘fucked’ or the ever so naughty ‘screw’. Bent over had become to mean dominance to Ron, people bent over when you ordered them to, and usually nothing good ever came from it as far as he could see. Which of course, he was wrong about.
What shocked and astonished Ron was that he wanted Malfoy to bend over. Would it not be submissive? Would it not prove Ron’s betterment? It would, he was certain. Also certain was he to never, ever examine his reasoning too closely, as it was sure to lead to clarification of his needs and wants. Reality was not allowed to intrude upon Ron’s meandering daydreams involving ropes, ecstatic screams, and a rather passive Draco. Reality was not allowed to so much as put a toe on the inner doorstep of the darker dreams of Ron, the ones that woke him, leaving him covered in sweat and a decidedly wet spot on his pajamas.
He didn’t think that way about Harry, couldn’t bring himself to draw that line and step over it. Something about it was too wrong. So instead he focused on his loving hatred of Draco, pinpointing with a daring accuracy his need to dirty Draco’s countenance and poise.
If he had examined this feeling closely he might have found the need buried within decades of older brothers and always being the last in line. The urge to be on top seemed stronger when thoughts of his brothers came to him. It wasn’t fair, life had never been fair. And so, Ron wouldn’t be fair either. Why bother?
Mouth open.
That was what caught his attention and brought it all to the fore. Draco had opened his mouth, and tumbling out had come not the same and usual litany of repressed boyhood, but instead a sweetly mocking mutter in a moment. “Blatant, aren’t you, Weasley?”
And oh yes, he had been, he couldn’t help it anymore. Somewhere in his roads and lines of hate and loathe he’d come across a tiny path marked only as ‘entrance’ and had taken that one instead. Now in his glares there was a spark, and an idea just behind his blackened pupils that spoke of dark hollow depressions he could insert his non-verbose tongue into.
It was incredibly hard to come up with a reason for this, to justify his reactions in the face a mere barmy statement. Still, his response had come out hissed and harsh, and a little bit on a high note of desperation. “No I wasn’t.”
Then there was the gesture.
That had done it, that twitch of fingers indicating that in the due fullness of time they should definitely get together and beat the crap out of one another. How could he resist such an offer? It spoke to his very soul, it sang inside his liver and danced on his testes in tap shoes of lead. And that smirk had crossed Draco’s features, the one that made Ron absolutely mad with unnamed desires, and they’d at once marched off to somewhere more private to finish their delightful gunfight.
Three paces.
They took those steps apart and Ron turned before counting could commence, not uttering a word but merely tossing his wand to one side with a soft crack against the stone floor. He didn’t want to magic his way through this, didn’t need a spell for what he wanted to do to Draco.
There was something about touching that seemed so much more personal. Which was why the first thing he touched Draco with was his fist instead of a spell. And it was so much more satisfying that way.
His body tingled as if they’d kissed, and his legs felt the same wobbly tension. The sounds differed, certainly, a cracking slap of meat hitting bone, did not sound in the least like the pleasant whispers of lip to lip and a tongue duel on the side. Just the same it stirred his libido into a frothy mix of vinegar, and he proceeded to touch Malfoy with feet and hands and once an elbow. But for every good blow, there was one in return, and the end it seemed would be a bloody mess.
All good things must come to an end, and all is well that ends well. And so the fight ended well indeed as it did with the slowing of the fists and the meandering of the fingers. Hate did not suddenly change to like or lust but instead to gratification and ego fulfillment. Here was an opportunity to change but they would not take it, both heading down the road marked ‘savage’.
Kissing was good.
Kissing was grand, and in retaliation Ron slapped Malfoy and received a return slap with an additive of fingernails. Then they did it again, because kissing and slapping could possibly become the next big thing. But of course, kissing slowed the slapping, and no one could step on the bandwagon after that.
“I hate you,” Ron felt the need to hiss in between his wandering hands and chasing lips.
“It’s mutual,” Draco muttered through his teeth that clamped upon a rather red earlobe.
Ron couldn’t take the time to utter anything else; he had to ignore all the voices that cried in his head at that moment, including the one that sounded suspiciously like Harry.
It was the best thing in the world that they’d wandered into a room with a lock, and better that they’d locked it before the fight had commenced. Now with lock in place and a lack of hitting, new things could happen, interesting, terrifying things. Such as the hand that Ron slid into Draco’s pants and gripped around a rather nice hard, heat filled erection. Really he shouldn’t have liked that feeling so much, and he definitely shouldn’t have enjoyed the nearly silent grunting moan from Draco. Certainly he shouldn’t have silenced Malfoy with his mouth, which was perhaps the worst idea he’d ever had - as it led to a relocation of hands, and a much more appealing stance.
Yes, he hated Draco, which was why he took such great care in removing articles of clothing. It’s definitely why he stopped biting, or slapping, and instead moved on to tasting and lapping. Evil shouldn’t taste so good, he was sure of that. Neither should unpleasant monsters like Draco be able to make sounds like a bag full of kittens in ecstasy. Nor should he so enjoy giving pleasure to one he’d much rather strangle the life from with his belt.
Decidedly not.
Perhaps that was why it all felt so right and good when it could be nothing more than wrong, wrong, and then wrong again. It was perfect, to have this newfound control over a most hated enemy. To know that, oh yes, despite all asides of abhorrence, Draco could writhe and come in a heartbeat with a mere touch of his hand. That was power.
Ron doubted not for a moment during the leisurely hour he spent upon the floor, against the wall, and then on the floor once more. The doubts came after, when he’d dressed and watched as Draco did the same. Then, and only then did he question himself on what he’d done.
Afterwards.
He couldn’t look Harry or Hermione in the eye, he ignored his family, he spent days alone with his bed curtains closed reliving each moment and testing it for soundness. In conclusion he came to the idea that he’d done nothing wrong, it had been almost expected. Which is why he did it again later that week.
Draco didn’t protest. There was less slapping. There was a lot more mess on the floor afterwards. And Ron, with his sweaty, sated body hovering above Draco did the one thing he’d never thought he’d do and went down the road marked ‘unknown’.
And that.
Was the end.
Title: Lines, Signs and Roads
Author: ClarySage
Pairings: Ron/Draco
Rating: probably a rough R for language and absentminded smut?
Warnings: not a lot of friendliness
Disclaimer: I don't own, you don't sue.
Reviews: i like them ^_^
sidenote: sorry about the weird experimental writing style...
A gesture.
It was a gesture that started it, not even a rude gesture or one that could be taken as such. Just a movement of fingers, a twitch of the lips, and everything it shouldn’t have implied was all laid out before him in a fit-inducing way.
They say love is a thin line, hate is a thin line, and that between lays the thinnest line of all, like. To say that Ron liked Draco Malfoy would be like saying bread was in fact water, it just wasn’t so, and it probably never would be. What Ron felt was a decided loathing, a painful scabbing itching wound that never quite healed. It was always a raw emotion, blunt and spiteful. It would be nice to say that one day it changed, that it became a lust, or a love, that somehow his feelings were capable of shifting into lighter forms. But no, it didn’t happen.
Yet at the same time, something did shift, the line of loathing was crossed, and a wonderful hatred ensued. It was the kind that made Ron grit his teeth upon mere sight or mention of Malfoy. It was intense and hot. It was painful and beautiful. Ron liked the hate, loved the hate, and in that, hate was crossed over as well.
Hate became a need.
Bent over.
That phrase had never met much to Ron before, as neither had words such as, ‘fucked’ or the ever so naughty ‘screw’. Bent over had become to mean dominance to Ron, people bent over when you ordered them to, and usually nothing good ever came from it as far as he could see. Which of course, he was wrong about.
What shocked and astonished Ron was that he wanted Malfoy to bend over. Would it not be submissive? Would it not prove Ron’s betterment? It would, he was certain. Also certain was he to never, ever examine his reasoning too closely, as it was sure to lead to clarification of his needs and wants. Reality was not allowed to intrude upon Ron’s meandering daydreams involving ropes, ecstatic screams, and a rather passive Draco. Reality was not allowed to so much as put a toe on the inner doorstep of the darker dreams of Ron, the ones that woke him, leaving him covered in sweat and a decidedly wet spot on his pajamas.
He didn’t think that way about Harry, couldn’t bring himself to draw that line and step over it. Something about it was too wrong. So instead he focused on his loving hatred of Draco, pinpointing with a daring accuracy his need to dirty Draco’s countenance and poise.
If he had examined this feeling closely he might have found the need buried within decades of older brothers and always being the last in line. The urge to be on top seemed stronger when thoughts of his brothers came to him. It wasn’t fair, life had never been fair. And so, Ron wouldn’t be fair either. Why bother?
Mouth open.
That was what caught his attention and brought it all to the fore. Draco had opened his mouth, and tumbling out had come not the same and usual litany of repressed boyhood, but instead a sweetly mocking mutter in a moment. “Blatant, aren’t you, Weasley?”
And oh yes, he had been, he couldn’t help it anymore. Somewhere in his roads and lines of hate and loathe he’d come across a tiny path marked only as ‘entrance’ and had taken that one instead. Now in his glares there was a spark, and an idea just behind his blackened pupils that spoke of dark hollow depressions he could insert his non-verbose tongue into.
It was incredibly hard to come up with a reason for this, to justify his reactions in the face a mere barmy statement. Still, his response had come out hissed and harsh, and a little bit on a high note of desperation. “No I wasn’t.”
Then there was the gesture.
That had done it, that twitch of fingers indicating that in the due fullness of time they should definitely get together and beat the crap out of one another. How could he resist such an offer? It spoke to his very soul, it sang inside his liver and danced on his testes in tap shoes of lead. And that smirk had crossed Draco’s features, the one that made Ron absolutely mad with unnamed desires, and they’d at once marched off to somewhere more private to finish their delightful gunfight.
Three paces.
They took those steps apart and Ron turned before counting could commence, not uttering a word but merely tossing his wand to one side with a soft crack against the stone floor. He didn’t want to magic his way through this, didn’t need a spell for what he wanted to do to Draco.
There was something about touching that seemed so much more personal. Which was why the first thing he touched Draco with was his fist instead of a spell. And it was so much more satisfying that way.
His body tingled as if they’d kissed, and his legs felt the same wobbly tension. The sounds differed, certainly, a cracking slap of meat hitting bone, did not sound in the least like the pleasant whispers of lip to lip and a tongue duel on the side. Just the same it stirred his libido into a frothy mix of vinegar, and he proceeded to touch Malfoy with feet and hands and once an elbow. But for every good blow, there was one in return, and the end it seemed would be a bloody mess.
All good things must come to an end, and all is well that ends well. And so the fight ended well indeed as it did with the slowing of the fists and the meandering of the fingers. Hate did not suddenly change to like or lust but instead to gratification and ego fulfillment. Here was an opportunity to change but they would not take it, both heading down the road marked ‘savage’.
Kissing was good.
Kissing was grand, and in retaliation Ron slapped Malfoy and received a return slap with an additive of fingernails. Then they did it again, because kissing and slapping could possibly become the next big thing. But of course, kissing slowed the slapping, and no one could step on the bandwagon after that.
“I hate you,” Ron felt the need to hiss in between his wandering hands and chasing lips.
“It’s mutual,” Draco muttered through his teeth that clamped upon a rather red earlobe.
Ron couldn’t take the time to utter anything else; he had to ignore all the voices that cried in his head at that moment, including the one that sounded suspiciously like Harry.
It was the best thing in the world that they’d wandered into a room with a lock, and better that they’d locked it before the fight had commenced. Now with lock in place and a lack of hitting, new things could happen, interesting, terrifying things. Such as the hand that Ron slid into Draco’s pants and gripped around a rather nice hard, heat filled erection. Really he shouldn’t have liked that feeling so much, and he definitely shouldn’t have enjoyed the nearly silent grunting moan from Draco. Certainly he shouldn’t have silenced Malfoy with his mouth, which was perhaps the worst idea he’d ever had - as it led to a relocation of hands, and a much more appealing stance.
Yes, he hated Draco, which was why he took such great care in removing articles of clothing. It’s definitely why he stopped biting, or slapping, and instead moved on to tasting and lapping. Evil shouldn’t taste so good, he was sure of that. Neither should unpleasant monsters like Draco be able to make sounds like a bag full of kittens in ecstasy. Nor should he so enjoy giving pleasure to one he’d much rather strangle the life from with his belt.
Decidedly not.
Perhaps that was why it all felt so right and good when it could be nothing more than wrong, wrong, and then wrong again. It was perfect, to have this newfound control over a most hated enemy. To know that, oh yes, despite all asides of abhorrence, Draco could writhe and come in a heartbeat with a mere touch of his hand. That was power.
Ron doubted not for a moment during the leisurely hour he spent upon the floor, against the wall, and then on the floor once more. The doubts came after, when he’d dressed and watched as Draco did the same. Then, and only then did he question himself on what he’d done.
Afterwards.
He couldn’t look Harry or Hermione in the eye, he ignored his family, he spent days alone with his bed curtains closed reliving each moment and testing it for soundness. In conclusion he came to the idea that he’d done nothing wrong, it had been almost expected. Which is why he did it again later that week.
Draco didn’t protest. There was less slapping. There was a lot more mess on the floor afterwards. And Ron, with his sweaty, sated body hovering above Draco did the one thing he’d never thought he’d do and went down the road marked ‘unknown’.
And that.
Was the end.