hackthis_archive | For your continued amusement - HP

In an e-mail to

serialkarma I said:

…I bought this banana at the commissary and it's like a mutant banana. When the woman gave it to me, I thought 'damn, that's a big banana' and then I peeled [it] and it my brain was like, dude 'that banana is fucking huge, it's, like, bigger than a penis.'

So then I had to measure the banana. It's nine inches long and two inches wide.

This is a HUGE fucking banana. I would not want to have sex with anything this size. It'd fucking hurt.

Not that I’m fucking a banana. C’mon. Bananas are for practicing rolling on condoms and blatant phallic imagery, nothing more.

Moving along...

According to

circe_tigana and JKR:

Theodore Nott is canon’s Blaise Zabini. So really I should go Neville/Theodore/Draco instead of Neville/Blaise/Draco. Does anybody even *know* anything about Theodore? Can I make him Cillian Murphy?

I think I’ll write some porn now or something. Oh, nuts. I’d promised

switchknife Neville porn, didn’t I? I'm not one to welch.

Harry Potter
Harry/Neville/Draco (NC-17ish)

Maybe Next Year Will Be Better Than The Last

31 December 1997

His face is pressed against weathered wood, and he’s getting splinters in his cheek. There's dirt and timber underneath his nails from scrabbling against the barn wall, and he bites off a sneeze when dust from the rafters wafts into his nose. His nipples ache, his arse is sore and the ramshackle building shakes with every thrust of their bodies against it. Harry’s knees are going raw from being rubbed against the side of the barn, and he can feel sweat – his sweat, his lover’s sweat, doesn’t really matter – rolling down his back and slipping into the crease of his arse.

He shivers between thrusts, trying to shut out the coldness of the weather and focus on the body behind him. There are lips on the nape of his neck and long fingers grasping Harry’s hips, and he grits out the standard things ‘harder’ ‘more’ ‘faster’ and ‘c’mon already, Neville’ since he’s already come twice.

His cock aches, trapped between his body, the wall and the folds of his robes, and he pushes back insistently to move the process along.

When Neville finally comes, Harry collapses backwards and lets out a long-repressed sigh. “Next year,” he says, “when all this war business is sorted out, we’re doing this in a proper bed, right?”

Neville plants a kiss right below Harry's left ear. "Right."

31 December 1998

There are bruises on Draco’s hips the size of fingerprints and greenish-yellow marks dot the inside of his thighs; even when he’s on his back in a Muggle church, he’s just as bossy as ever.

“Some time this year would be nice,” he says, stroking himself leisurely and contemplating the vaulted ceilings above him.

His eyes narrow as Neville pushes his legs back, towards his ears, and he arches up when the tip of Neville’s index finger breaches him dry.

“One would think you’d never heard of lubrication,” Draco gasps even when Neville withdraws his hand, and when Neville’s fingers return, they’re coated in a slick, slightly cool substance.

“You talk too much,” Neville says, working two fingers in without preamble.

Draco can feel his spine lengthening as he arches into Neville’s hands. “It’s why you love me.”

Draco’s smirk never fully materialises under the pressure of Neville’s fingers, and Neville just shakes his head. “Right,” he says, withdrawing his fingers and wiping them on Draco’s thigh. “Ready?”

Draco rolls his eyes. "Always."

31 December 1999

The linen is Egyptian cotton and the duvet is climate-controlled. The mattress is charmed for ‘Happy Dreams Only or Your Money Back!’ and in the end table there are lubricants and condoms of every variation.

Everything anyone could want is at their disposal, and this is why they fuck on the floor where there is dirt and grit and grime and everything that’s uncomfortable and real.

Their reality isn't comfort, and maybe they can find peace from ghosts here if they look hard enough.

The sex is pleasurable in the way that most physical contact is, full of sweat and sound and brute force to achieve certain ends. They push and shove and impale with abandon, and the thrusts are ragged and erratic instead of long and drawn out. They continue their song and dance for hours, wrenching out hidden noises and sounds until nothing is left but primal grunting and dark, wet spots on the floor.

When at last he’s had enough, Harry rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. His elbow knocks his glasses further under the bed, and he can feel dirt in places it doesn’t belong. He doesn’t need perfect vision to know Draco Malfoy is staring at him dead on.

He looks at the fuzzy blur before him and tries to think of Malfoy with dark hair.

“I didn’t want you,” Draco says, frowning between heaving breaths.

Reaching under the bed blindly for his glasses, Harry shrugs.

“I didn’t want you either," he says, "but it’s what we’ve got.”

-end-

Current Mood: sore
Current Music: Modest Mouse ‘Float On’