Dramione Drabble Christmas Challenge
Title: A Bit Drunk On It, Actually...
Author: scarysnapey
Rating: R
Word Count: 742
Notes/Warning: My prompts were angel and drunken.
She’s wearing his shirt. Yes, the one that she gave him for Christmas. The one that she gave him a mere two hours ago.
The one that she is wearing absolutely nothing under, and she happens to be getting it all wet in the snow.
Draco watches from the door, scowling out over the small backyard of their new home, shivering in the cold.
“Your not funny, you know,” he calls, but she just laughs harder, her sides quivering with the force of her breath, which leaves her in hot, perfect clouds.
She smells like whiskey, and Draco likes it.
He’s getting a bit drunk on it, actually, just the smell, and the way it rolls off of her in hot, sweet waves.
“I’m drunk!” she cries, and she falls on her bum in the snow.
“The neighbors will hear,” Draco warns, stepping out into the snow himself. It is soft and fluffy and crunches under his feet. He doesn’t really care if the neighbors hear; they probably won’t anyway. It’s Christmas night and spirits are high. Hermione Malfoy is not the only woman on the block who’s had a bit too much to drink.
“Don’t you get it?” she hollers, though the snow must be freezing. She stretches out the fabric of that shirt so that Draco can see the bold, green letters. And then she explains the joke yet again.
“You see,” she says slowly, as though she’s talking to a child, “It’s a joke.”
“Is it?” Draco asks, taking another few steps toward her. She’s explained this fives times, ever since his lip curled at the sight of the stupid shirt.
“Yes,” she breathes. He’s close enough to feel it now, warm and wet on the wind before it cools in the frosty air. “Ronald is selling them at George’s shop now. Because... because, you see, we were in the war, you know. And this- it could refer to killing, you know. But... but it’s actually about...” she lowers her voice, “sex.”
“Is it?” Draco repeats, eyebrows arched. She reaches her hands toward him.
“My arse is freezing,” she whispers, suddenly doe-eyed. Draco rolls his eyes and takes her hands.
“Silly girl,” he breathes, just as she pulls him face-first into the snow. He flounders, thrashing in the slight five inches as she laughs.
When he gets his bearings, he’s between her legs, face inches away from the hem of the t-shirt, which just barely covers her most private bits.
It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the green text clouding his vision.
SLYTHERINS DO IT FROM BEHIND.
Hermione sees him looking. “Because Slytherin’s don’t like a fair fight, and when we,” she dissolves into a fit of giggles and lowers her voice again, “have sex, you like to... you know, do it from behind.”
Draco scowls. “That is obscene,” he says. “And you’re drunk.”
Hermione blinks at him, but her eyes widen suddenly. “Oh my gosh,” she squeaks. “I have to show you something.”
And without another word she lies back in the snow, despite the cold and her nudity, and begins waving her arms and legs around wildly.
Each time her arms and legs go out, the hem of the shirt lifts and Draco can see absolutely everything. He can see the pink skin of her-
“What are you doing?” he blurts out. Hermione laughs.
“Snow angels, stupid,” she cries, and Draco could not be more done with this insanity. He’s cold.
“Let’s go, silly girl,” he whispers, pulling her up by the hands, leaving her snow angel carved into the frost of their lawn.
She clutches the dripping shirt to her body, shivering as Draco pushes her through the door.
He kisses her then, and her mouth is burning hot and her breath tastes like whiskey and her hair smells like eggnog and snow.
She looks like an angel, albeit one dressed in a vulgar t-shirt and not much else. Her lips are all over the place, wet and frantic and not at all coordinated. But Draco picks her up and carries her to the bedroom.
“You know what,” he breathes into her eggnog hair, shucking the wet t-shirt into a corner. “Tonight we’re not doing it from behind.”
“We’re not?” Hermione gasps, as though that has ruined the entire legitimacy of the t-shirt.
“We’re not,” Draco repeats, silencing her with another kiss. “And you’re going to look at me the whole entire time.”
Author: scarysnapey
Rating: R
Word Count: 742
Notes/Warning: My prompts were angel and drunken.
She’s wearing his shirt. Yes, the one that she gave him for Christmas. The one that she gave him a mere two hours ago.
The one that she is wearing absolutely nothing under, and she happens to be getting it all wet in the snow.
Draco watches from the door, scowling out over the small backyard of their new home, shivering in the cold.
“Your not funny, you know,” he calls, but she just laughs harder, her sides quivering with the force of her breath, which leaves her in hot, perfect clouds.
She smells like whiskey, and Draco likes it.
He’s getting a bit drunk on it, actually, just the smell, and the way it rolls off of her in hot, sweet waves.
“I’m drunk!” she cries, and she falls on her bum in the snow.
“The neighbors will hear,” Draco warns, stepping out into the snow himself. It is soft and fluffy and crunches under his feet. He doesn’t really care if the neighbors hear; they probably won’t anyway. It’s Christmas night and spirits are high. Hermione Malfoy is not the only woman on the block who’s had a bit too much to drink.
“Don’t you get it?” she hollers, though the snow must be freezing. She stretches out the fabric of that shirt so that Draco can see the bold, green letters. And then she explains the joke yet again.
“You see,” she says slowly, as though she’s talking to a child, “It’s a joke.”
“Is it?” Draco asks, taking another few steps toward her. She’s explained this fives times, ever since his lip curled at the sight of the stupid shirt.
“Yes,” she breathes. He’s close enough to feel it now, warm and wet on the wind before it cools in the frosty air. “Ronald is selling them at George’s shop now. Because... because, you see, we were in the war, you know. And this- it could refer to killing, you know. But... but it’s actually about...” she lowers her voice, “sex.”
“Is it?” Draco repeats, eyebrows arched. She reaches her hands toward him.
“My arse is freezing,” she whispers, suddenly doe-eyed. Draco rolls his eyes and takes her hands.
“Silly girl,” he breathes, just as she pulls him face-first into the snow. He flounders, thrashing in the slight five inches as she laughs.
When he gets his bearings, he’s between her legs, face inches away from the hem of the t-shirt, which just barely covers her most private bits.
It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the green text clouding his vision.
SLYTHERINS DO IT FROM BEHIND.
Hermione sees him looking. “Because Slytherin’s don’t like a fair fight, and when we,” she dissolves into a fit of giggles and lowers her voice again, “have sex, you like to... you know, do it from behind.”
Draco scowls. “That is obscene,” he says. “And you’re drunk.”
Hermione blinks at him, but her eyes widen suddenly. “Oh my gosh,” she squeaks. “I have to show you something.”
And without another word she lies back in the snow, despite the cold and her nudity, and begins waving her arms and legs around wildly.
Each time her arms and legs go out, the hem of the shirt lifts and Draco can see absolutely everything. He can see the pink skin of her-
“What are you doing?” he blurts out. Hermione laughs.
“Snow angels, stupid,” she cries, and Draco could not be more done with this insanity. He’s cold.
“Let’s go, silly girl,” he whispers, pulling her up by the hands, leaving her snow angel carved into the frost of their lawn.
She clutches the dripping shirt to her body, shivering as Draco pushes her through the door.
He kisses her then, and her mouth is burning hot and her breath tastes like whiskey and her hair smells like eggnog and snow.
She looks like an angel, albeit one dressed in a vulgar t-shirt and not much else. Her lips are all over the place, wet and frantic and not at all coordinated. But Draco picks her up and carries her to the bedroom.
“You know what,” he breathes into her eggnog hair, shucking the wet t-shirt into a corner. “Tonight we’re not doing it from behind.”
“We’re not?” Hermione gasps, as though that has ruined the entire legitimacy of the t-shirt.
“We’re not,” Draco repeats, silencing her with another kiss. “And you’re going to look at me the whole entire time.”