Current mood:	annoyed
Current music:	ryan adams, gonna make you love me

touch beneath the sheets
Three things today. First, fun was had with the high school friend last night (we went and saw TTT!), but. Long story, but he briefly stalked me in high school, and I thought it was over, but he was giving out those 'I'd really like to be with you' vibes, so I was kind-of worried. But, you know, kept conversation neutral, and brought up my boy, and thought it'd be all right. Then, this morning I wake up to an email from him, 'I really had fun last night, we should get together next time I'm in town, I'll be there this and such date, etc.'

Argh. Dammit. He's such a cool cat, but I don't want to be with you, man. We established that like seven years ago. Get over it and, by the by, you have a girlfriend. Whom you're supposed to love, and she, like, worships the ground you walk on.

Whatever. Trauma, trauma.

Second, I love Moby. Lots. Go here to find out why.

And third, the promised smut. I wrote this for Liss and Eb, but, upon recieving permission, I've decided to share it with the masses.



[Potter, 'In Front of the Light']

Come here
Stand in front of the light

Staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror has always helped you before. Staring into your own eyes, gathering your thoughts, practically seeing your mind working, gears grinding, thoughts spinning; it’s always helped. The brown of your iris melding with the gold flecks, pupils dilating, gaze unfocusing has always helped before. You sometimes talk to yourself too, whispering encouragement or reprimands, anything you felt you needed at the time.

You’re not sure it’s helping this time, though. You’ve been in here for about ten minutes, and no thoughts are forthcoming. You’ve just been staring at yourself; your wild hair, your flushed cheeks, your dilated pupils. No thoughts are forthcoming because the only thing you can think of right now is the sight that you know will greet you when you open the door back into your bedroom. You try to think, but your brain insists on running a slide-slow, a strange stop-motion perspective on what you’ve just done. A flat chest and brown nipples. His hand on your breast. Your head buried in a pillow. His tongue, licking a clean line down the sweep of your back. Your hand wrapped around his cock. Wonderful buttocks, fitting right into your hands and made for squeezing. His eyes, staring at you from across your stomach and chest; his tongue buried inside you. His rough, calloused hand on your inner thigh, spreading your legs. Looking over his shoulder and seeing arms and legs for miles. Sucking on his tongue, tasting yourself. His groans as you traced the vein on the underside of his cock with your tongue. The wet sound of your bodies slapping together. His thumb and forefinger, pinching your nipple. The black mole at his hip, licking over it on your way to his belly-button. Staring at the head-board, your back arching impossibly; his tongue running flatly over your clit, over and over and over and over. His weight, resting comfortably between your legs. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, grasping his back, feeling his muscles working. His hands on either side of your face. Biting his earlobe. His sighs in your ear. That moment of phenomenal stillness when he buried himself inside you for the first time.

The fact that he’s still lying in your twisted sheets, his torso framed against the white, his head resting on his arm, one leg hanging of the side of the bed.

The fact that *he* - he of the black mole and brown nipples and calloused hands and tongue that was on you and in you and pulsing, twitching cock and long legs and wonderful buttocks; that he, he is Harry. Your best friend.

Oh, God. What have you done?

Stand still
So I can see your silhouette

You wish that you had some excuse. It was the alcohol, officer, I swear. I plead temporary insanity. I was woozy and light-headed and he offered to help me back to my flat and took advantage of my weakened state.

Right. One glass of wine over two hours does not a legitimate drunk excuse make. The woozy and lightheaded bit was more from the smell of him than anything and unless grabbing him and pulling him into the bedroom with you counts as his taking advantage of you, that’s not going to fly either. Temporary insanity, then. If you count being in love with him as insanity and eight years as temporary.

And that, that fact, the fact that you’ve been in love with him for practically half your life, that is the real problem.

And the fact that this is something you swore to yourself that you’d never do. You swore to yourself long ago that you’d never sleep with him, not unless it was forever and he loved you back. Because this is going to make loving him so much worse.

You groan and slide to the floor, resting your head on your knees and lacing your fingers together at the back of your neck.

You know you’re in love with him, that’s not in any doubt. You remember when you first realised it; such a bloody cliché, you think, seeing him lying in the hospital wing at the end of sixth year. You were sitting there, scared to blink, thinking that he would surely vanish if you took your eyes off him for a moment when he opened his eyes. His eyes fluttered open and he groaned and you laced your fingers with his and he muttered, ‘Hermione?’ and squeezed your hand. And that was it; stick a fork in me, you’d thought, I’m done.

You sigh and lift your head up and rest it against the door.

Maybe it’s all a bad dream; a figment of your imagination, a consequence of being in love with him so long. Maybe you’re still asleep, alone in your bed and this is your subconscious’s way of telling you something. Maybe this is all a psychological conceit and if you concentrate hard enough, it’ll evaporate into the nothingness that it truly is. And maybe if you wish upon a star you’ll turn into a fairy princess and fly away from here to a land of chocolate rivers and castles made of flowers. Oh God.

Or maybe you could stop being such a coward and go out there and face the music, you think, taking a deep breath.

You have faced worse, you think. Badies and beasties and nasties of every variety and a few you had name as you went. Surely, your best friend is nothing to be worried about. Even if it is your very naked best friend, looking like he’d just been dropped in the spin cycle.

And you’re the one that did it.

Oh, God.

I hope that you have got all night
Cause I’m not done looking

Straightening up, you take a deep breath and run your hands through your hair. You are an adult after all. You’ve made your bed, now you have to lie in it. Or unmade it, as the case may be.

You look down at yourself and feel the tattered remnants of your shit slip from your grasp. The stop-motion perspective was bad enough. The tingling all over your body and especially between your thighs was bad enough. You were well aware of what you had done, thank you very much. But this, this is a bit much to handle. You had just grabbed the first thing that had come to hand as you’d slid from the bed. Now, you realise it was Harry’s shirt. His nice, green ringer t-shirt that was one of the first things he’d bought besides robes. You remember him showing up at your flat, bags in hand, beaming. He and Ron had just braved Camden Market by themselves and were extremely proud of their purchases. Or bargains, as they’d said.

Ron had bought this hideous, absolutely hideous, red velour trenchcoat. First, it was red. Second, it was velour. And third, it was a trenchcoat. It was hideous, and clashed horribly with his hair and, wearing it, he drew even more attention to himself than his height normally did. However, he had loved it; come to think of it, he still loves it and wears it on more than a few occasions.

Harry had done somewhat better, you remember. Much better, actually. He’d been very sedate, steering clear from things of the red velour variety, and had picked up a few white t-shirts with different colour rings around the necks and arms. ‘Ringers,’ he’d told you proudly, holding them up for your inspection, ‘that’s what the guy at the stall said. Said chicks dig ‘em, too.’

You hadn’t said anything, but you’d pictured Harry in them and thought that the guy at the stall sure as hell knew what he was talking about. And now one of those ringers, the green one, is hanging off your body, with a huge, gaping hole exposing most of your breast to the air. It’s seriously torn, the material pulled away from the neck at the hem; seriously torn and in such a way that no explanation other than ‘fit of passion’ seems adequate. You can feel your face heat up, remembering trying to pull it directly off his body and only stopping when you’d heard the wrenching sound of tearing fabric.

Staring at the hole and your still-red nipple, the memory actually gives you some hope. He hadn’t seemed mad, bursting into giggles that made his lips vibrate against yours and had pulled the shirt over his own head. ‘Fuck it,’ he’d said, still giggling, and tossing his glasses on top of the shirt, ‘I’ll fix it later.’

Smiling yourself now, you stare at the door once more. So, maybe he won’t be horrified and disgusted at what you’ve just done. Maybe he’s not pulling his hair out and prostrating himself in disbelief and horror.

Maybe it’ll be okay.

Steeling yourself, feeling like you’re mounting the lion in its den, the dragon in its lair, you turn the handle and come face to face with that vision that was just haunting you. Harry, twisted up in your white sheets. His lashes resting against his cheeks, one arm thrown above him and the other reaching across the bed, stretched across the empty space where your body was.

Oh, God.

No
I'm not done looking yet

And this, this, is why you swore you’d never sleep with him unless it was forever. Because this image will haunt you forever. You’ll always see the indention in your pillow where his head rested. His smell will seep into your sheets, into your mattress permanently and it’ll drive you crazy, having the smell and not him, and you’ll have to end up burning or selling your own bed. Probably your entire flat, too. Because you won’t be able to look at the entryway without imagining him pressing you to the wall, one of his legs trapped between yours. Or the den, where you almost broke your necks falling over one of the couches. Or the stairs, trying to get your shoes off and his trousers unbuttoned at the same time. Or the hallway leading to your bedroom, his hand already snaked down your pants. You’re going to have to sell your entire flat. You could probably get a transfer at work, you think; leave the country. This island won’t be big enough for the two of you, and your memories, now.

Get a grip, you tell yourself, closing your eyes. You feel like you might fly apart at the seems; your hands clenched into fists by your side. Get a grip; you’re an adult, you can handle this. You have to.

‘Hey,’ you hear his scratchy voice, breaking your thoughts. ‘You’ve got clothes on.’

This statement jars you out of your almost manic state and your eyes snap open. He’s blinking groggily, raised up on one arm. Momentarily stunned, you just stare at him.

‘I…umm…I had to go to the bathroom,’ you say, still staring at him. You’ve been friends for thirteen years, friends, just friends you’ve insisted over and over and over, no matter how fervently you’d wished differently, just friends and now you’ve slept together. You’ve just had biblical knowledge of each other, three times if you remember correctly, and *that’s* all he’s got to say? You’ve got clothes on?

His expression doesn’t change as he reaches out his hand, palm up. ‘Well, get it off and come back to bed.’

You just stare at him, unable to move. Well, he’s certainly not horrified. He’s not running out the door and away from you. He’s just staring at you; eyes wide open. He’s looking right at you, beseeching, straight at you. You can feel something in your chest tightening, like a hand around your heart; his hand, either snatching it or putting it back, but you’re not sure which.

When he sees you still not moving, he scoots along the bed, the sheet forgotten as he swings his legs over the side, close enough to touch you now. Still staring at you, he reaches out a hand and caresses your thigh with his thumb. You bite your lip, afraid to open your mouth; afraid the sob that’s building somewhere in the depths of your being will fall out and you’re not sure you’d be able to stop the ones that would surely follow. So you bite your lip and feel your throat working as his other hand comes up and tugs on the hole in his shirt. You want to smile or apologise, but you’ve still got that same problem with opening your mouth out of fear of what might come out, your chest still tightening as he continues to stare at you. His hand slips inside the shirt, his fingers ghosting along your ribs, then up, circling your nipple gently, then down, around your waist, pulling you towards him. You almost stumble, your legs feeling like they’re made of lead, but, luckily, he’s there to catch you.

He’s there to catch you and you melt into him, feeling the tightness in your chest warm and expand until it fills you up, leaking from your closed eyes. You feel like all your fear and uncertainty, your mania and doubts are being expelled, exorcised along with those tears. His arms are wrapped securely around you, like he’s afraid you’re going to want to run, like you’ve ever wanted to be anywhere else. His face is pressed into the curve of your neck and you can feel his tears wetting your skin.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that, not moving, not speaking; just holding each other. Your tears have stopped, but your chest still feels like it’s expanding, warming you. You pull back simultaneously and before you can even reach down, Harry’s grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up. You lift your arms and he drops the shirt to the ground, his hands running up your arms and the fingers of his right hand tracing along your collarbone. One of your arms is wrapped around his shoulders and the other is resting at his hip, ghosting over that mole.

He leans forward, kissing where his fingers have just been.

‘Come back to bed.’

You nod as he scoots back. By some unspoken agreement, you reach down and grab his glasses as he points his hand towards your fireplace. Flames spring up, bathing the room in light as you climb on the your bed, handing him his glasses.

You sit down, cross-legged, mimicking his posture as he slips on the frames. He blinks and smiles at you, his eyes crinkling up behind his glasses. You’re not sure what to say and your face isn’t cooperating enough to smile yet, so you remain silent. He doesn’t say anything either, just looking at you.

You feel like you’re seeing him for the first time, that this is the important Harry, this is the Harry that no one has ever seen, that no one else will ever see. The Harry that maybe only you can see, the Harry that he may not even know himself. Your eyes are locked with his and before you realize you’ve moved, your hand is caressing his cheek. Along his cheek and temple, into his hair and the ridges of his ear, down to his mouth; you feel like you’re blind, trying to memorize him through touch. Imprinting him forever in your fingertips, even if you forgot everything else, you’d never forget this, forget him.

He looks so familiar and so new; everything you’ve ever wanted and things you never knew you did. His face is familiar, as familiar as your own, and much-loved, but the look in his eyes is new. It may have been lurking about before, but it’s never been shining at you like now. His face is familiar and so is the shape of his body; slender, strong but slight with strong shoulders and long legs. But the light covering of hair on his chest is new and so are his buttocks. So are his cock and the mole on his hip.

Looking at him, you think that he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. This Harry, all of him, is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen and you feel like the luckiest person in both of your worlds. Looking at him, you think you could look at him forever; you hope that he’s got all night because you’re not done looking yet. You don’t know if you ever will be.

His hands have been tracing your body, memorizing, the same as you, you think, starting at your waist, running up your sides before briefly cupping your breasts. One of his hands dropped down to rest on your knee while the other ran up your neck before tracing the lines of your face. You don’t know whether to smile or cry at the look on his face. You think you’re doing a little of both, tears filling your eyes as you smile. You blink, clearing your vision, his eyes so wide and green, like he never wants to look away. You don’t want him too.

You still don’t say anything, but you lean forward and place both of your hands on his face. Your eyes flutter closed as you kiss him, his hands resting at your hips, thumbs on the crease of your pelvis. First, a small kiss at the corner of his mouth before moving to the other side. You barely raise your lips from his as you move from the corner of his mouth to properly kiss him, your mouth just open. His is open slightly as well and you’re just breathing into each other. You kiss him, tugging briefly on his bottom lip with yours as you sit back slightly.

When you open your eyes, his are open as well. He’s still got the same look on his face, but now you just want to smile. You can only think of one thing to say, a question and an answer.

‘Yeah?’

You can feel his cheeks twitch under your hands as his face breaks out into a grin. You can feel an answering smile spill across your face as his hands come up to grip your wrists.

‘Yeah.’

And that’s all you need to hear.

You can feel something building in the depths of your being, but this time it’s not a sob, it’s a laugh and you open your mouth and let it fall out. You laugh and grin at him, that same light shining in his eyes and you can feel it in your own. There’s nothing you can say, so you don’t say anything as his arms wrap around you and pull you into his lap. His arms are tight around you and he’s murmuring into your hair, something that sounds like ‘finally. finally.’

You’re not sure what you were so afraid of, why you were so worried. You feel like you’ve always known now; it was inevitable, in the best way possible. You can feel the tension bleeding from your body, running from you, seeping into your mattress and you don’t have to worry about his smell haunting you because he’ll be there with you.

END



Harry/Hermione - And this, this, is why you swore you’d never sleep with him unless it was forever.