Draco rolls his eyes, another thing to add to his List of Affronts Suffered at Potter’s Incompetent Yet Bizarrely Strong Hands. He moves a bit, getting his knee inside Potter’s and forcing his legs wider open. “Where’s my wand?”
Potter rolls his hips. “Feels like it’s—”
Draco pulls his hand out of Potter’s hair long enough to swiftly apply his palm to the top of Potter’s head.
Potter glares. “Oh, that wand. Git. Over there, I assume.” He waves a hand to to the right, toward the pile... well, more of a spread, really... of discarded clothes. “Probably. Why?”
Draco resists another ignoble facial expression. “They can’t get in if the door’s blocked, can they? And unless you are volunteering to get up and conveniently rearrange some of this clutter....”
Potter lifts his head and looks around, though Draco doubts he’s seeing much past the end of his nose. “Uh, locomotor rack.” He flicks a finger vaguely toward the door.
Draco watches with dull resignation as the largest of the unorganized broom racks slides a good two metres to the left.
He looks down at Potter, who’s grinning up at him now. “I hate you, you know,” he says conversationally.
Potter’s grin widens, stretching the purpling bruise on his skin as his own jaw twinges in answer and reminds Draco very much what he’s doing on the filthy broom shed floor with a disheveled Potter beneath him. “I know.”
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branchandroot
Re: The Indignity of It All - Light R, the most minor of bloodplay, 3/3
Date: 2012-05-31 06:21 pm (UTC)Potter rolls his hips. “Feels like it’s—”
Draco pulls his hand out of Potter’s hair long enough to swiftly apply his palm to the top of Potter’s head.
Potter glares. “Oh, that wand. Git. Over there, I assume.” He waves a hand to to the right, toward the pile... well, more of a spread, really... of discarded clothes. “Probably. Why?”
Draco resists another ignoble facial expression. “They can’t get in if the door’s blocked, can they? And unless you are volunteering to get up and conveniently rearrange some of this clutter....”
Potter lifts his head and looks around, though Draco doubts he’s seeing much past the end of his nose. “Uh, locomotor rack.” He flicks a finger vaguely toward the door.
Draco watches with dull resignation as the largest of the unorganized broom racks slides a good two metres to the left.
He looks down at Potter, who’s grinning up at him now. “I hate you, you know,” he says conversationally.
Potter’s grin widens, stretching the purpling bruise on his skin as his own jaw twinges in answer and reminds Draco very much what he’s doing on the filthy broom shed floor with a disheveled Potter beneath him. “I know.”
- fin -