xsmeowzz

[xsmeowzz]

the point of fanfiction is that you can write whatever the fuck you want forever and no one can stop you. #thepower

[xsmeowzz]

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy microfic. Happened during a Quidditch match at Hogwarts.

For @drarrymicrofic prompt expect (425 words).

I’m back, finally. Today I saw a life-changing fan art, and it sort of inspired me to get out of my writing slump;)

The fall to the ground knocked a sharp, throaty gasp out of Malfoy. Potter landed on top of him, his eyes lingering on the opponent beneath him for only a fleeting moment — until he heard a buzz just inches from his reach.

Malfoy must have spotted the same golden glint — if only Harry’s curly head hadn’t acted as an improvised solar eclipse. Malfoy thrust his hips forward, and a disgruntled Potter reversed their positions; his fingers closed over thin air as the startled Snitch flitted a few inches away, spooked by the sudden flurry of motion.

Potter growled through gritted teeth, claw-like fingers aiming for Malfoy’s wrists. But Malfoy was already towering over him, straddling Harry with his knees pressed to either side, effectively caging him in. His head jerked around against the clear sky, and a sly smirk spread all the way to his crinkled eyes as the Snitch, almost as if charmed, began flying toward him. Malfoy was poised to catch it.

Harry wrapped both arms around Malfoy’s waist and, with all the strength of his upper body, managed to press the stubborn-as-a-mule Slytherin Seeker against his chest. He let out another involuntary croak when Malfoy’s pointy chin slammed into his sternum. One hand lunged for Malfoy’s sweat-damp hair, gripping tight to hold the squirming other in place, buying himself a few precious seconds of upper-hand control.

The Snitch darted again — fast, tracing what Harry noted to be a jagged, almost quadratic path. He hooked his leg over Malfoy’s, struggling to shift beneath Draco’s weight — who had a good two or three inches of height on him — his spine arching at an unnatural angle.

Then, in a few seconds, Harry managed to close his fingers around the golden ball, its wings still flapping frantically in the air.

“POTTER CAUGHT THE SNITCH!” the commentator roared, and the stadium erupted into wild cheering. “Well — not that it was unexpected.”

Malfoy finally broke free from Harry’s hand pressing down on his head. White-hot fury twisted his features; the fine muscles in his neck pulled taut like strings. He looked like he was about to spit straight into Harry’s eye. Good thing Potter wore glasses.

Harry’s face, meanwhile, broke into a relieved smile. His grip loosened, and one hand slipped down Malfoy’s back lightly as he started to push him off. Their noses brushed — yet nothing followed. Malfoy yanked at Harry’s Quidditch robes so suddenly that the fabric at his shoulder gave a scary, rending sound — but didn’t tear. Thankfully.

[xsmeowzz]

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley — muggle AU, teen and up audiences.

! note: contains alcohol mention and suggestive physicality.

The front door clicked shut.

Harry watched Hermione’s once-gracious figure dissolve into the double darkness beyond the tinted car window. His sharp elbow rested on the plastic armrest, which felt like sandpaper against his skin, leaving blooming marks and little bumps in its wake. He slid down into the back seat, his cherry-red T-shirt riding up as he stretched out. His Sambas slipped off, and he lazily slung his calves over the top of the driver’s seat. The oversized denim pooled at his knees, exposing pale skin.

Ron’s lips pressed softly, nipping and sucking at Harry’s skin with an open mouth, letting out hot breaths that made the light fluff on Harry’s body stir and tighten.

Harry’s eyes fluttered shut, exhausted by the blurry glimmering lights outside. His fuzzy head rolled to the side, temple falling against the soft fabric of the seat — it reminded him of Ron’s shirts. He let himself drift, sinking into the warmth of alcohol coursing through his veins.

The way you flip your hip, it always makes me weak,

'Cause you're my babe,

Yes, you're my love...

It was the first time Harry had heard the song, but it sounded like something Ron would burn onto a CD and loop for days like a lunatic.

Harry gasped suddenly as Ron’s mouth traveled up toward his calves. Harry’s fingers curled around the edge of the back seat like claws. Ron’s hand drifted to his knee, tracing slow circles over the bone before squeezing gently — then pulling away, leaving Harry suspended in the absence.

“Why?” Harry puffed out, his jade-green eyes lit in the dimness.

He saw Ron grinning at him in the rearview mirror, running a hand through his copper hair.

“Not done yet,” Ron murmured, and before Harry could quite register it, Ron’s head popped out between the two front seats.

He leaned in as close as he could, the lemon scent of his cologne — probably stolen from Bill — catching in the space between them. He slid his knee between Harry’s thighs, burying his nose in Harry’s black curls, their sheen catching hints of blue.

Ron’s fingers skimmed down the lines of Harry’s sculpted arms, pinning him softly against the back of the seat. He cupped Harry’s cheeks, tracing the soft curve of his jaw, and pulled him into a passionate kiss—a lazy one on Harry’s end, more dazed than eager. His knee slid forward, pressing against Harry’s groin as he shifted closer, fitting against him like pieces of a puzzle, drawing a deep sigh from Potter.

Their noses brushed; the frame of Harry’s glasses dug into Ron’s cheek—more freckles than skin. Harry’s mind was blank, but his body reacted just right. He hooked one arm around Ron’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just slightly to pull him closer—to feel their chests rise and fall in sync, to the distant beat of the song, to melt into the comfort of Ron’s warmth.

Harry couldn’t tell when Ron’s hand drifted to his lower back, fingers teasing the waistband of his underwear. The touch was lighter than a feather, but it burned like ink on skin. His lips parted, his breath coming out in short, ridiculous pants. With his hand still pressed to the back of Ron’s head, he guided his mouth along his jaw and down his throat, letting Ron’s tongue skim across the smooth skin, tasting the salt.

A dull knock on the window rang in his ears. Ron jolted, pulling away.

“Shit,” he hissed, raking a hand through his red hair. He reached for the handle and cracked the door open, letting in a breeze, then stumbled outside.

Harry heard voices, but they were muffled, just far enough that he couldn’t make them out. A moment later, the door he was leaning against swung open, and he barely managed not to fall out of the car. Slowly, he dropped his legs from the top of the driver’s seat, the square pattern of the floor mat cool against his feet.

“He’s just bit tipsy, but I’m driving him home,” Ron said, his voice tight with alarm as he fumbled in the glove compartment. When he found what he needed, he practically shoved the papers toward the cop’s face. “Here you are…”

The officer skimmed them, nodded. His eyes swept over Harry, who tried to arrange his face into a neutral expression—one that turned out quite crooked, as he later noticed in his reflection in the window when the door shut in front of his nose, ruffling his bangs with a gust of air.

Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes like hours. Harry thought to glance at his wristwatch before remembering he’d left it at home—right before he could start panicking that he’d lost it at the bar. When Ron finally slid into the driver’s seat, Harry couldn’t see his expression, but he hoped—guessed—it was relief, as Ron’s head sank into the headrest.

Harry tucked his feet under himself, rising onto his knees and leaning forward to wrap an arm around Ron’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to the base of his neck. But Ron twisted the key dangling in the ignition, the engine starting with a low rumble—a quiet signal to leave everything behind.

A frustrated sigh slipped from Harry’s lips as he dropped back, sprawling across the back seat. He decided to stare up at the night sky through the stained pane on the ceiling.

P.S. Ronarry fans rise. By the way, I still love Romione with my whole heart.

[xsmeowzz]

Harry, Hermione and Ron (muggle AU, actually)

“Nothing really mattress, 'Mione,” Harry lets out a deep sigh as his back meets the sheets, cooled by the November breeze slipping through the open window.

He peers over the rim of his cherry-red glasses, registering the subtle shift in the blur of Hermione’s expression.

“You meant matters?” she asks, swirling her woollen colourful scarf tighter around her neck, as if trying to choke herself rather than listen to Harry.

“The mattress is shit too,” Harry admits, rolling on it to demonstrate its lack of bounce. It feels like buloke hardwood when you sleep on it.

“Sure — if you can’t convince them, confuse them,” Ron chimes in suddenly from behind Hermione, leaving the door slightly ajar to let a streak of corridor light spill into the room.

P.S. My friend randomly said “couldn’t chair less,” and, well, I ended up writing something because of it. I’m not even sure if it’s for one of my WIPs. :/

At least I’ve been posting for three days in a row, I guess.

[xsmeowzz]

Harry Potter muggle AU.

Tomorrow is my birthday and, well, I wanted to post anything that has been rotting in my notes app for the last few months :/

The weather wasn’t the point — it made no difference whether it was pouring lakes or birds chirping louder than the music banging in one’s headphones. Harry shot an unimpressed glare in Draco’s direction. Draco, however, didn’t notice, and if he did, he wouldn’t lift a finger anyway. His chin was set straight at the fifteen-degree royal lift, the core of his headphones dangling against his hot, iron-pressed shirt. Harry wondered whether Draco avoided the only free seat near him on the full bus because he didn’t like him or was too afraid to wrinkle his white shirt, rolled to his elbows with perfect effortlessness.

“I could practically say anything and you wouldn’t give a flying fuck,” Harry muttered under his breath, not bothering to look at Draco for the second time that morning. Or maybe it was the fifth time his eyes roamed over the other’s figure that morning.

Harry, by the way, was pristine right — some professor would have given him points for such tender accuracy. Draco kept walking, his lower lip caught between his teeth. To Harry’s disdain, Draco didn’t look like he was about to make Harry feel like a four-leaf clover itself by unplugging his headphones once again, like he did on Friday morning. Maybe Draco experienced weekends like they were long, unlike Harry, who, though he rotted in his bed day and night and didn’t even manage to finish his presentation, thought that two days passed as quickly as a fly’s flight — no, he told himself, grinning a crooked grin — as quickly as Draco glanced at him. Now Harry knew what he was going to do.

His fingers lightly curled over the headphone cable — a hundred-eighty contrast to the way he fiercely ripped one earplug out. Draco’s posture tensed, his hand curling into a white-knuckled fist. He couldn’t grasp the cord in time; his fingernails dug into his palm, leaving crescent marks.

Harry’s grin never faltered as he quickly put the earplug into his own ear before Draco could grimace at the sight or use his cunning and simply stop the song.

I hate the way that you are so sarcastic,

And you're not very bright.

Sure. It might be telling Harry something.

Harry gaped dumbly at Draco, whose forehead creased as his brows furrowed down. Harry wondered, yet again, whether it was the gnashing sound of the melody or the other guy’s clenched teeth.

“I swear,” Draco breathed out. His cheekbones already bloomed with rosy color. “I’m going to swirl that wire around your bloody neck, Harry.”

Harry huffed, mastering his expression to remain as sleek as a glacier. Probably failed, because Draco’s eyes narrowed dangerously and he did wind the wire around Harry’s neck.

P.S. Yay that’s my second post 💥

[xsmeowzz]

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are Aurors.

"Potter, we are not clowns in a little box, waiting for them to open the cupboard so we can jump out unceremoniously." Malfoy turned to face him, their noses mere inches apart, his aggressive breath tickling Harry’s skin.

"You could’ve at least painted your face white if you wanted to fit the role precisely, golden strategist."

Harry muttered a small “piss off” that came out entirely unconvincing, his frown deepening. But when Malfoy flinched toward the wobbly door, Harry discovered that his mouth was, in fact, capable of curving downward into a parabola.

"No,” Harry hissed, his words lingering in the heavy silence. “Where are you going?"

"Where am I going?" Malfoy’s voice echoed flatly against the thin cupboard walls. He watched Harry with disbelief written across his features — the crease of his brow, the glint in his squinted eyes reflecting the narrow beam of light coming from the slit in the door, one that threatened to open farther than Malfoy had already dared to push, as if he had nine lives.

By the way, his cat Patronus was privileged enough to get nine lives — though it would drop dead competing with Malfoy over who dies first. Out of sheer embarrassment, probably. The animal must have been just as posh as Malfoy was — or maybe Harry was just a prejudiced dog-lover?

"I’m going insane," he snapped, rubbing his cheek with the heel of his hand. "You are too terrible to be true."

“It’s supposed to be you’re just too good to be true..." Harry shot back, his voice rising into a growl too rounded to be a bark.

“Don’t get nostalgic about the Muggle world around me,” Malfoy groaned, pressing two slender fingers to his temples—not so much like a wand as a pistol—rubbing slow, circular motions. He nudged Harry unwittingly, his pointy elbows spread in a way pianist’s never should be.

Harry predicted a bitter ache would start to prickle under his forehead if he spent two more minutes listening to Malfoy’s… whatever it was. But well, it was better than Malfoy being silent. Silent meant plotting.