reenka

I just wrote this silly over-long drabble, initially for Aja's 1,000-commentathon, but then I realized I could post it and like, do that thing where I ask people to um-- fire away and request more drabbles. I'm in a writerly mood, but like... I don't want to write the things I -should- write.

So. Ask-- and like, gimme a pairing and/or kink and/or situation-- hopefully all three, since saying "H/D" isn't likely to inspire me-- and I'll do the best I can to comment back with a drabble-type-thing. I mean, I can't guarrantee anything, but.

Whee! Fun(?) Something like that.

Harry had never asked himself what he'd gotten into, because as long as they remained separate, he wasn't -in- anything.

As long as he didn't look back, Malfoy wasn't looking at him like he had a right to. And as long as he didn't fall asleep in the first place, he wouldn't hear the other's muffled whispers in the dark. "You're mine, Potter," he said, as if saying made it true.

Perhaps the first time Malfoy whispered this should have been Harry's clue to make a fast getaway, because Malfoys were notorious for clinging to what's theirs, but Harry wasn't a coward. What did he care about Malfoy's little fantasies? They'd never had any agreement; Harry could stop anytime he liked, and besides, the blond knew better than to make a peep during daytime.

Harry smirked at what Malfoy's reaction would be if he got him a soft toy to hold; maybe then he'd remember Harry needed space. He wasn't there to make Malfoy feel better or to pretend this was a "thing", because it wasn't. It just wasn't.

They didn't sleep together often, mostly because Harry was too busy spending most of his time with his real friends and working harder than he'd ever had before this year. A part of it, though, was because of just this: Malfoy held him too tightly when he slept.

He curled around Harry like a surprisingly strong little monkey, wrapping his arms and legs around him with an intensity he never quite matched while awake. Harry hated this. He hated the awkward bruises Malfoy's nighttime 'cuddles' left, he hated the feeling of entrapment, and he hated the soft, pathetic snuffles in his ear. Malfoy was soft and vulnerable and naked and Harry couldn't bring himself to hurt him, to throw him off, to shout him awake, and he probably hated that the most.

Harry hated getting absolutely no sleep those nights, watching the wind move Malfoy's too-pale hair back and forth over his closed eyelids. The pointy face still looked sour and uppity and smug all at once; there was nothing new. It felt more perverse than fucking Malfoy somehow, this watching.

Sometimes Malfoy would shudder and whimper in his sleep, pursued by imaginary demons. Maybe it was Harry who chased him through his dreams.

"What're you still doing here?" Malfoy would drawl sleepily at dawn.

"You won't let me go," Harry answered resentfully. He was a breath away from petulant and it didn't matter. "You're hurting me," he added as Malfoy's arms squeezed tighter. "Do you have to be so grabby?"

"Do you want me to stop?"

Harry's silence was damning.

"Thought so," Malfoy whispered, but he didn't sound smug the way he should have, and Harry thought he may have been surprised.

"You're mine, Malfoy," Harry said slowly. At this, Malfoy's arms unlocked like Harry had turned a secret key, and the blond actually paled. "Might as well use my bed next time," he smirked.