reverie: pg, drabble

You know just what to say. Kill me like you did the first time–come on now. 

Harry knows what lies in wait behind the door, and he grips his wand just a little more tightly. His nails dig into the flesh of his palm, leaving faint half-moons that hurt just enough to remind him what he’s here for. The pain at least, is a constant in this strangely shifting emptiness. The silence whispers to him, promises him finality, and he’s almost tempted to turn around, walk away from the Manor, from this familiar door that mocks him with memories of sticky sheets and sweat-slick bodies. 

He is so caught up in reverie that he never notices someone sneak up from behind until he hears the sound of gravel hitting the step. Harry whirls around, his wand out and ready, but it is only Malfoy, pretending his still owns the place, his long hair tickling his neck and his back proud and erect. Malfoy has never been beautiful, his features too sharp and his lips too thin, but Harry’s heart has started pounding an unsteady tattoo against his ribcage and his mouth suddenly feels dry. He curses himself, but the low mutter fails to escape Malfoy’s sharp ears.

don’t ask: r, drabble

Edward has always thought of Roy as a man of contradictions. But when Roy touches him, all his thoughts go out of the window.

It never fails to amaze him; that Roy’s lips can be so hot when his demeanour can be so cold and aloof. Roy always laughs when he tells him that, the corner of his mouth crooked in that characteristic smirk which frustrates Edward and yet makes him want to cover that mouth with kisses all over again.

He loves the expanse of Roy’s fair skin. It has obviously seen war; it holds far too many scars and attests to far too many atrocities. It is a soldier’s skin. Edward hates those atrocities but he loves those markings. Or the person who bears those scars. Roy is particularly sensitive at those ridges and Edward likes to run a rough tongue over these blemishes (as if that could erase them), pausing to suck on a particular spot on Roy’s collarbone which never fails to elicit a moan. Edward is careful to not let his automail scrap against that smooth skin – he doesn’t want to one of the nameless, faceless people who have hurt Roy. He desperately wants his hands clean but knows that someday they’ll be soiled; he just doesn’t want his lover to be the first to bleed.

Roy is a different person in bed and in the office. He is such an arrogant bastard at work that Edward takes pleasure in making him lose his legendary control. It pleases him to make Roy writhe in ecstasy under him, moaning his name. SaymynameRoysayit. Seeing Roy’s usually neat hair plastered wetly along his forehead and his keen, sharp eyes lost in sensation is enough to make Edward come. And he does, every time. Roy jokes that he is predictable, but Edward knows he doesn’t mind, not when he stands to gain from it. Not when he knows it’ll be his turn to make Edward scream the next time.

When it is all over; when they lie in a sticky tangle on the bed, Roy likes to twine their hair together, blonde against black. Edward hates the way his face is always in shadow – he would like to know what Roy is thinking when he does that, but he lets Roy do it all the same. After all, to gain something, you must give something in return, and the line between alchemy and life – sex, is blurred. He wished it wasn’t.

And when Roy finally falls asleep – how can the man be tired by just sitting around in an office for the whole day he would like to know – Edward finally looks into the shadows, searching for an answer that he doesn’t know if he’ll find, and doesn’t dare to ask for –

Because ignorance is bliss, and he’ll rather not know.