H/D Ficlet
Torchwood tonight, kiddies;)
Title: The Language of Love
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG13
Summary: Just a bit of Crack
Word Count: 494
“I’ve written a poem,” Malfoy said fishing a much-abused piece of parchment from his robes.
Harry was brave and noble; this was true, but right now fleeing seemed like a workable option. Unfortunately, Malfoy had him pinned to the floor rather effectively - that is to say, he was sitting on Harry’s stomach - and Crabbe and Goyle were standing next to the only exit looking like two well-fed, yet slightly bewildered sentinels.
Yes, Harry had been ambushed good and proper; no witnesses, and now Malfoy was going to commit poetry on him. Evil.
“I hope it’s better than Ginny’s ditties,” he said, morosely.
“Her what!?” Malfoy demanded looking very stern and suspicious.
“Ditties!” Harry screeched, his face pinking.
“Yes. That’s what I thought you said,” said Malfoy primly and rustled his parchment in a dramatic fashion before reciting:
“Ode to Scar-head, by Draco Malfoy
Your eyes are green;
We should have sex.
Your hair is black;
We should have sex.
You're not so repulsive;
We should have sex.
You’re a Gryffindor, but no one’s perfect (except me);
Why are we not having sex yet?”
Malfoy carefully folded the parchment and it disappeared within his robes. Then he looked down at Harry, his expression expectant.
Harry was no literary critic, but he was unfailingly polite.
“I like it,” he told the blond.
Malfoy tilted his head to one side. “Which bit?” he enquired. “The description, the subject, the language?”
Harry faltered. Five minutes ago he’d been walking through Hogwart's vaulted hallways minding his own business, and now he was being sat on, and a solemn looking Malfoy was asking him to critique poetry. Harry sighed; he thought everyone knew that he drifted off whenever anything remotely resembling education occurred.
“I like the bit about the sex,” Crabbe grunted from his post by the door.
Crabbe’s comment dragged Harry away from his self-pitying reflections.
“Sex?” There was sex?
Malfoy, who was starting to look a trifle gloomy, suddenly looked incensed. He gave a cry of frustration and pounced; pinning Harry to the floor with his entire body, not just his bottom.
“Were you even listening, Potter?”
“To poetry? Never!” Harry assured the Slytherin and wiggled nicely. This was much better than poetry and by far the most incredible thing to happen to him all year.
Malfoy didn't look so impressed. “I worked long and hard on that poem, you git.”
Harry heard, ‘blahblahblah long and hard blahblahblah’, and was inclined to agree. He pushed his hips up against Malfoy’s to express his agreement.
The blond’s pink lips formed a perfect ‘o’ of surprise and then a smile lit up his pointy little face. “You did listen.”
Harry was brave and noble and honest; this was true, but right now one small deception seemed like a workable option. So he nodded. He’d tell the truth later when the delicious rubbing ended.
“Now this is language I understand,” he panted and flipped the Slytherin onto his back.
Blah
Title: The Language of Love
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG13
Summary: Just a bit of Crack
Word Count: 494
“I’ve written a poem,” Malfoy said fishing a much-abused piece of parchment from his robes.
Harry was brave and noble; this was true, but right now fleeing seemed like a workable option. Unfortunately, Malfoy had him pinned to the floor rather effectively - that is to say, he was sitting on Harry’s stomach - and Crabbe and Goyle were standing next to the only exit looking like two well-fed, yet slightly bewildered sentinels.
Yes, Harry had been ambushed good and proper; no witnesses, and now Malfoy was going to commit poetry on him. Evil.
“I hope it’s better than Ginny’s ditties,” he said, morosely.
“Her what!?” Malfoy demanded looking very stern and suspicious.
“Ditties!” Harry screeched, his face pinking.
“Yes. That’s what I thought you said,” said Malfoy primly and rustled his parchment in a dramatic fashion before reciting:
“Ode to Scar-head, by Draco Malfoy
Your eyes are green;
We should have sex.
Your hair is black;
We should have sex.
You're not so repulsive;
We should have sex.
You’re a Gryffindor, but no one’s perfect (except me);
Why are we not having sex yet?”
Malfoy carefully folded the parchment and it disappeared within his robes. Then he looked down at Harry, his expression expectant.
Harry was no literary critic, but he was unfailingly polite.
“I like it,” he told the blond.
Malfoy tilted his head to one side. “Which bit?” he enquired. “The description, the subject, the language?”
Harry faltered. Five minutes ago he’d been walking through Hogwart's vaulted hallways minding his own business, and now he was being sat on, and a solemn looking Malfoy was asking him to critique poetry. Harry sighed; he thought everyone knew that he drifted off whenever anything remotely resembling education occurred.
“I like the bit about the sex,” Crabbe grunted from his post by the door.
Crabbe’s comment dragged Harry away from his self-pitying reflections.
“Sex?” There was sex?
Malfoy, who was starting to look a trifle gloomy, suddenly looked incensed. He gave a cry of frustration and pounced; pinning Harry to the floor with his entire body, not just his bottom.
“Were you even listening, Potter?”
“To poetry? Never!” Harry assured the Slytherin and wiggled nicely. This was much better than poetry and by far the most incredible thing to happen to him all year.
Malfoy didn't look so impressed. “I worked long and hard on that poem, you git.”
Harry heard, ‘blahblahblah long and hard blahblahblah’, and was inclined to agree. He pushed his hips up against Malfoy’s to express his agreement.
The blond’s pink lips formed a perfect ‘o’ of surprise and then a smile lit up his pointy little face. “You did listen.”
Harry was brave and noble and honest; this was true, but right now one small deception seemed like a workable option. So he nodded. He’d tell the truth later when the delicious rubbing ended.
“Now this is language I understand,” he panted and flipped the Slytherin onto his back.
Blah