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At The Edge of the World
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,581
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,581
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.
At The Edge of the World
Title: At The Edge of the World
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Summary: You know things will have to catch up with you, sometime.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter.
Challenge word:
bivouac BIV-wak, BIV-uh-wak, noun:
An encampment for the night, usually under little or no shelter.
intransitive verb:
To encamp for the night, usually under little or no shelter.
They’d been walking for hours: sticky with sweat, trudging tiredly though the hot, musky damp of stagnant-water pools left festering in dirty clusters after the storm.
They didn’t Apparate. They didn’t dare. Not even a simple drying spell was safe—they couldn’t risk it.
For all intents and purposes, they were muggles. Anything else was out-of-the-question—too dangerous, too likely to get them caught.
The countryside was soggy and quiet, and stretched out for ages and ages, past line-of-sight. They could have walked a million years, out here, and never reached the horizon; they could have been the only two people alive in all the world. But they knew better.
They knew better, they knew better, they knew it wasn’t true, knew that far too well.
One spell and Voldemort would track them down and kill them. Harry Potter was a fugitive of fate.
Their time would run out; it was inevitable. But Harry had to keep trying, he had to; what else could he do?
They set up a modest little bivouac under the trees and a dazzling drapery of stars, huddling together and eating tasteless processed food out of dented aluminum cans.
They laid together side-by-side on a single sleeping-bag spread out over the grass, not speaking; then Draco was unzipping his trousers—how strange he once thought these muggle clothes were! But that was a long time ago, and he’s used to them, now—and Harry did the same, wriggling out of his trousers to the knees and turning over on all fours, and Draco was fingering him with one spit-slippery digit—that’s all they needed; Harry has gotten used to some things, too—and then the crown of Draco’s cock was pressing into Harry’s tight heat, sinking into Harry’s body until they were as close to one another as two people could ever possibly be, and then they were moving: rocking and thrusting and fucking with Draco’s hand pumping Harry’s length, his mouth pressing dry kisses to the sweat-salty flannel shirt covering Harry’s shoulders—licking his neck and mouthing the frayed fabric at the collar—and Harry was moaning and meeting Draco’s hips and clenching himself around Draco’s cock and coming, coming all over himself with a throaty, startled “Ah—!”, and Draco picked up the pace—pushing and pushing and pushing more, more, more, so he sort of wondered how he wasn’t going right through the other boy, he really did—and then he came.
Draco’s spunk leaked lazily out of Harry’s pink, puckered arsehole—so lovely, so used, and that was Draco’s, only Draco’s—and rolled down Harry’s thighs, and Draco dug up a dirty rag from his traveling sack and wiped it off (sometimes he wants to leave it there, wants Harry to wake up one morning aching with the memory of Draco’s cock, Draco’s hands, Draco’s mouth—Draco’s semen dried onto him, into his skin and inside of him so he could never wash it away, never forget that it happened, never want to forget. Sometimes Draco doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him—why he thinks these odd, unbelievable things, but, it’s just—Harry is his. He couldn’t bear it if either of them ever forgot; he needs this, needs him, he does. They are each other’s. That’s all they have, all they can have; Draco would like to think that that’s enough).
He ran the rag over his limp cock—a cursory cleaning—then handed it over to Harry, who wiped it vigorously over the white mess staining his shirt.
“Fuck,” said Harry.
“This shirt’s done for, then.”
They wouldn’t worry about it. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened; they’d buy another once they reached the next town.
Harry pulled his wrinkled trousers back up and zipped them, turning over and resting his head against Draco’s shoulder.
“How long can we keep living like this?” he asked in a whisper, breath soft against Draco’s neck.
“As long as we need to,” said Draco, curling his arm around Harry too tightly: holding him close, keeping him safe.
And they would.
The alternative was unthinkable.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Summary: You know things will have to catch up with you, sometime.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter.
Challenge word:
bivouac BIV-wak, BIV-uh-wak, noun:
An encampment for the night, usually under little or no shelter.
intransitive verb:
To encamp for the night, usually under little or no shelter.
They’d been walking for hours: sticky with sweat, trudging tiredly though the hot, musky damp of stagnant-water pools left festering in dirty clusters after the storm.
They didn’t Apparate. They didn’t dare. Not even a simple drying spell was safe—they couldn’t risk it.
For all intents and purposes, they were muggles. Anything else was out-of-the-question—too dangerous, too likely to get them caught.
The countryside was soggy and quiet, and stretched out for ages and ages, past line-of-sight. They could have walked a million years, out here, and never reached the horizon; they could have been the only two people alive in all the world. But they knew better.
They knew better, they knew better, they knew it wasn’t true, knew that far too well.
One spell and Voldemort would track them down and kill them. Harry Potter was a fugitive of fate.
Their time would run out; it was inevitable. But Harry had to keep trying, he had to; what else could he do?
They set up a modest little bivouac under the trees and a dazzling drapery of stars, huddling together and eating tasteless processed food out of dented aluminum cans.
They laid together side-by-side on a single sleeping-bag spread out over the grass, not speaking; then Draco was unzipping his trousers—how strange he once thought these muggle clothes were! But that was a long time ago, and he’s used to them, now—and Harry did the same, wriggling out of his trousers to the knees and turning over on all fours, and Draco was fingering him with one spit-slippery digit—that’s all they needed; Harry has gotten used to some things, too—and then the crown of Draco’s cock was pressing into Harry’s tight heat, sinking into Harry’s body until they were as close to one another as two people could ever possibly be, and then they were moving: rocking and thrusting and fucking with Draco’s hand pumping Harry’s length, his mouth pressing dry kisses to the sweat-salty flannel shirt covering Harry’s shoulders—licking his neck and mouthing the frayed fabric at the collar—and Harry was moaning and meeting Draco’s hips and clenching himself around Draco’s cock and coming, coming all over himself with a throaty, startled “Ah—!”, and Draco picked up the pace—pushing and pushing and pushing more, more, more, so he sort of wondered how he wasn’t going right through the other boy, he really did—and then he came.
Draco’s spunk leaked lazily out of Harry’s pink, puckered arsehole—so lovely, so used, and that was Draco’s, only Draco’s—and rolled down Harry’s thighs, and Draco dug up a dirty rag from his traveling sack and wiped it off (sometimes he wants to leave it there, wants Harry to wake up one morning aching with the memory of Draco’s cock, Draco’s hands, Draco’s mouth—Draco’s semen dried onto him, into his skin and inside of him so he could never wash it away, never forget that it happened, never want to forget. Sometimes Draco doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him—why he thinks these odd, unbelievable things, but, it’s just—Harry is his. He couldn’t bear it if either of them ever forgot; he needs this, needs him, he does. They are each other’s. That’s all they have, all they can have; Draco would like to think that that’s enough).
He ran the rag over his limp cock—a cursory cleaning—then handed it over to Harry, who wiped it vigorously over the white mess staining his shirt.
“Fuck,” said Harry.
“This shirt’s done for, then.”
They wouldn’t worry about it. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened; they’d buy another once they reached the next town.
Harry pulled his wrinkled trousers back up and zipped them, turning over and resting his head against Draco’s shoulder.
“How long can we keep living like this?” he asked in a whisper, breath soft against Draco’s neck.
“As long as we need to,” said Draco, curling his arm around Harry too tightly: holding him close, keeping him safe.
And they would.
The alternative was unthinkable.