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firewhiskeyficTitle: Punkie Night
Author:maesterchill
I am of legal drinking age in my region: (yes/no) yes, by many years
Pairing(s)/Characters/Fandom: Drarry /HP fandom
Challenge/Prompts used: All of them, I think? No wait, all except Harvest Party. D'oh! Too late to shoehorn that in
Summary: Draco and Harry are far from perfect people. Which somehow makes them work. But it's Punkie Night this evening. And Draco's beginning to think he's the one who's been punked.
Rating/Warnings: Teen, I think or a very mild Mature. Implied sex but none described in any detail- sorry no pr0n!!, Annoyed Draco, Halloween stuff, West Country traditions, lucky omens, gratuitous use of the word 'fucking'.
Word count: 593
Author's Notes (if any): This was fun, and I hope what came out of my head and onto the page makes sense! Thanks mods for all you do, and hope your heads aren't too sore this morning!
Draco is very fucking irritated.
He stands sullenly by the window of their cottage in Godric's Hollow, looking out onto an entirely too cheery day. The sun is fucking shining. Starlings are fucking singing. There are cabbage-white butterflies flitting gaily outside the window. It's October, for fuck’s sake! He opens the window to shoo them away and the warm smell of woodsmoke comes wafting in. That won't do.
Potter, of bloody course, is still asleep—the bastard. Not only that, but he's sprawled himself right across their bed, so Draco couldn't even crawl back in if he wanted to. Which he does want to, rather badly. He won’t, though, because he's got important things to worry about. Though he does yearn a bit for the three more hours of sleep he's going to keep needing every night if Potter keeps insisting on doing that thing with his tongue that takes for-fucking-ever, but mother of fucking Merlin makes Draco just— Well anyway, Draco thinks, Potter better keep insisting on doing it. Salazar, he loves what a wild tumult this man is. His man. Loves how they clash and bicker and how they both fuck up now and then, but also how they comfort and soothe and care and how very, very fucking greedy they are for each other and how they respect and understand each other so very deeply. And gahhh…
He pulls the ring box out of his pocket, toying with the little clasp on the front. It springs open in an obnoxiously enthusiastic way, as if it just can't fucking wait one more second. The sunlight from outside glints off the gold band, sparkling brighter than a Lumos. Taunting him. Urging him.
He hears singing and looks out the window again. A group of children have started dancing around in circle on the outskirts of the graveyard holding jack-o-lanterns made from what look to be mangel-wurzels, and they're singing. At nine o’clock in the fucking morning! On a Sunday!
It's Punkie Night tonight
It's Punkie Night tonight
Give us a candle, give us a light
It's Punkie Night tonight
They're all dressed up in costumes, he can see one is a skeleton, one lad has cleverly managed to dress as Nearly Headless Nick, bloodied ruff and all, one girl is in full Auror regalia, and one child is just in a large black raggedy cloth which he assumes is supposed to be a Dementor. That takes him back. He’d spent ages making those sodding costumes in third year.
He almost chuckles, but he grits his teeth against it. It's all too appallingly cute—he can barely stand it.
A cat, black as obsidian, pops out of the hedge at the left of the front garden, swivels its ears, looks up at the window, and then slinks across to the right, disappearing behind a bin. Draco wants to scream at the barefaced omen of it. What next, will a rainbow appear in the sky? A four-leafed fucking clover flutter onto the windowsill?
He looks back to Potter, spread-eagled on the bed with his pyjama bottoms on inside out, hair an absolute tangled mess, looking more adorable than he really has a right to.
He feels set up, as if someone’s bewitched the day to be fucking flawless. Because it really is the perfect moment. Portentous, one might say.
Harumphing, Draco picks up his wand and clomps to the kitchen to make a strong coffee.
He obviously can't propose now.
It’s just too sickeningly perfect. And anything this perfect just would not be them.
Author:
maesterchillI am of legal drinking age in my region: (yes/no) yes, by many years
Pairing(s)/Characters/Fandom: Drarry /HP fandom
Challenge/Prompts used: All of them, I think? No wait, all except Harvest Party. D'oh! Too late to shoehorn that in
Summary: Draco and Harry are far from perfect people. Which somehow makes them work. But it's Punkie Night this evening. And Draco's beginning to think he's the one who's been punked.
Rating/Warnings: Teen, I think or a very mild Mature. Implied sex but none described in any detail- sorry no pr0n!!, Annoyed Draco, Halloween stuff, West Country traditions, lucky omens, gratuitous use of the word 'fucking'.
Word count: 593
Author's Notes (if any): This was fun, and I hope what came out of my head and onto the page makes sense! Thanks mods for all you do, and hope your heads aren't too sore this morning!
Draco is very fucking irritated.
He stands sullenly by the window of their cottage in Godric's Hollow, looking out onto an entirely too cheery day. The sun is fucking shining. Starlings are fucking singing. There are cabbage-white butterflies flitting gaily outside the window. It's October, for fuck’s sake! He opens the window to shoo them away and the warm smell of woodsmoke comes wafting in. That won't do.
Potter, of bloody course, is still asleep—the bastard. Not only that, but he's sprawled himself right across their bed, so Draco couldn't even crawl back in if he wanted to. Which he does want to, rather badly. He won’t, though, because he's got important things to worry about. Though he does yearn a bit for the three more hours of sleep he's going to keep needing every night if Potter keeps insisting on doing that thing with his tongue that takes for-fucking-ever, but mother of fucking Merlin makes Draco just— Well anyway, Draco thinks, Potter better keep insisting on doing it. Salazar, he loves what a wild tumult this man is. His man. Loves how they clash and bicker and how they both fuck up now and then, but also how they comfort and soothe and care and how very, very fucking greedy they are for each other and how they respect and understand each other so very deeply. And gahhh…
He pulls the ring box out of his pocket, toying with the little clasp on the front. It springs open in an obnoxiously enthusiastic way, as if it just can't fucking wait one more second. The sunlight from outside glints off the gold band, sparkling brighter than a Lumos. Taunting him. Urging him.
He hears singing and looks out the window again. A group of children have started dancing around in circle on the outskirts of the graveyard holding jack-o-lanterns made from what look to be mangel-wurzels, and they're singing. At nine o’clock in the fucking morning! On a Sunday!
It's Punkie Night tonight
It's Punkie Night tonight
Give us a candle, give us a light
It's Punkie Night tonight
They're all dressed up in costumes, he can see one is a skeleton, one lad has cleverly managed to dress as Nearly Headless Nick, bloodied ruff and all, one girl is in full Auror regalia, and one child is just in a large black raggedy cloth which he assumes is supposed to be a Dementor. That takes him back. He’d spent ages making those sodding costumes in third year.
He almost chuckles, but he grits his teeth against it. It's all too appallingly cute—he can barely stand it.
A cat, black as obsidian, pops out of the hedge at the left of the front garden, swivels its ears, looks up at the window, and then slinks across to the right, disappearing behind a bin. Draco wants to scream at the barefaced omen of it. What next, will a rainbow appear in the sky? A four-leafed fucking clover flutter onto the windowsill?
He looks back to Potter, spread-eagled on the bed with his pyjama bottoms on inside out, hair an absolute tangled mess, looking more adorable than he really has a right to.
He feels set up, as if someone’s bewitched the day to be fucking flawless. Because it really is the perfect moment. Portentous, one might say.
Harumphing, Draco picks up his wand and clomps to the kitchen to make a strong coffee.
He obviously can't propose now.
It’s just too sickeningly perfect. And anything this perfect just would not be them.