#333 words

Potter’s lips made a wet sound as they released tortured-red skin; he blew over it gently, like an absolute fiend, and Draco choked on a moan. It was all too—sticky-close and uncomfortably hot; itchy under his skin, this buzzing, thrumming thing, a current running through his insides. Every breath was half-gulp, half-whimper. There was no space for air in him anyway.

It shone from underneath his tightly-squeezed eyelids, bright-bright and sizzling, all this Potteriness all around him. Like he grew an extra set of hands, or eight of them, touching everywhere: fingers skimming under Draco’s loosely-kept-together shirt, nails catching delicately, maddeningly not-enough; behind his head, pulling on his hair, keeping his neck open for ceaseless attacks, a thumb pressing gently on his Adam’s apple; tickling his sides and undoing his zip and tracing his bottom lip, incongruently reverent, distracting.

All of it was—

“Potter,” Draco cried, back arching into tightening hold, cresting a tiny peak with every broken inhale. Lightheaded and trembling with it. With, “Potter,” biting the whimper, unsuccessfully, and Potter laughed, because he was a fiend, and Draco couldn’t, truly, could not, for a moment longer.

“Fucking—touch me,” he said, nonsensically, as though there weren’t at least a million hands on him already, “Potter, please,” and the noise Potter made, between a growl and a wail, and—clutching at him to bring him closer, gods, closer, so that Potter was crushing him and the kiss which Draco barely noticed deepened, sharpened, teeth and soothing tongue and, shattering, breath-stealing—

“Ah,” Draco said, helpless, “ah, ah, Po, tter,” not really quite words into Potter’s mouth, bucking and mewling, sticky and uncomfortably hot; Potter switching this chain reaction within him, a million-trillion fairy-lights buzzing into a sudden, brilliant flare.  

Potter was endless, on top and everywhere around him; all hands and wet mouth and scorching eyes and heavy panting. Stupefying. Draco kissed him, fizzing with constant sparks, mad with it. Potter was magnetic, electric, and Draco was more than ready to burn.

~message @elisalromagnoli to join!~ 

Optional Dare: Use the word uphold. 

15 minute sprint starting at :05

“You can’t expect me to just take care of your family! I am not a mother! I am not a maid! I’m not in charge of feeding your children nor am I in charge of preparing their meals! I am 16! I am your fucking daughter!” Tears streamed down her face and she wiped them away with the sleeve of her sweater. She was crying, but her voice didn’t crack, it stayed strong and accusatory. “You can’t go out for days at a time to drink and gamble and leave me here alone with two 3 year olds and a 6 year old! I have to work too. I have to go to school! I can’t bring them to daycare because I don’t have money to pay for it! You are irresponsible and unfit to be a mother. You don’t know how many times I have debated whether to pick up the phone and call child protective services. This is so pathetic,” tears continued to stream but she was strong. Her eyes searched her mother’s tired face for any sign of regret. It was stone cold, not an ounce of apology in her eyes. “You are 16 Elisa. You can take care of a couple children for a little bit. I had you at 16 and I took perfect care of you. You turned out wonderfully. So why don’t you quit complaining and get your shit together. You can take care of the kids, I have to go to Milwaukee for a bit. I should be back in a few days.” Elisa’s eyes were cold. “You are a fucking bitch. I’m not in charge of your children that you had with another drunk idiot!” her mother had no regrets and grabbed her suitcase. “I’ll be back.” She walked out the door. Elisa collapsed, crying. Her mind raced with thoughts that were so demeaning she almost couldn’t stand it. “Your mother doesn’t love you,” her mind whispered, “She wishes you didn’t complain so much.”

The next time I woke up, the world was warm. And I did feel better. Less tired.

Over me? The noise of a page turning.

And a hand was still in my hair, but only stroking lightly.

I yawned. And then opened one eye to look up.

We didn’t know that the luxuries weren’t over yet. The tables were cleared to the music and 3 albi sues (white pigs) were brought in. They were adorned with tintinnabulis (bells) and capistris (muzzles). The nomenculator (keeper) said that the first was 2 years old, that the second was 3, and that the third was 6.

With all the entertainment so far, we were expecting petauristarios (acrobats) to appear or that the pigs would perform portenta (tricks). The anticipation was shattered though when Trimalchio spoke up. 

“Which of the 3 would you want to be cooked? Any country folk can cook a gallum gallinaceum (rooster), Pentheus hash, or trifles of any kind. My cooks are accustomed to making vitulos (calves) even in a aeno (cauldron).”

A cook was immediately called in as well as the third and oldest pig being chosen without consulting anyone else. When the cook arrived, he was asked what faction he was in and whether or not he was sold to him or was born in his household.

 “Neither. I was left to you in a will” The cook said to Trimalchio. With a threat to be moved to the position of messenger if he cooked the pig wrong, the cook left with the pig chosen. Trimalchio then turned to us and offered us better wine. Hallelujah!

“Everything that makes your mouth water tonight was grown on one of my estates. I don’t know which one. I think it is on the boarder of Terricina and Tarentum. I wish I could join Sicily with my properties so that if I wanted to go to Africa, I could do so without leaving my property.” Trimalchio told us.

He then turned to Agamemnon and asked him about gossip in the are of law that Agamemnon practices. He claimed he could keep up with the conversation because he had three bybliothecas (libraries). One was in Greek and the other was in Latin...what?

3. Drunk/sloppy kiss

There you go :)

(hope you like it!)

He's sitting at one of the tables, watching the others laugh, dance, talk with grand gestures. He's just worn out. And slightly drunk. No, completely drunk. His drinks is empty in his hand now that he looks at it. He considers getting up but just the thought, just the thought makes all energy flee his body. Not that he had much left.

And all of a sudden, he's up, lead down halls and corridors, up stairs and through a door. His room. That's his bag right there, his number is on it, he’s sure of that. He's sat down and a beer is pushed in his hand. Bed dips by his side. He turns his head and his eyes fall on a very happy, very beautify grin. Teddy. That is Teddy's smile. And Teddy's face. His hair that he's wanted to touch for so long. His fingers itch at the thought. And they're in Teddy's hair now and he is most probably smiling a 10 years old kid right now.

Fingers join his, but they're not his, they're Teddy's. And they gently pry his hand away. But they stay on his hand.

The -thankfully unopened- beer is forgotten on the bed when Teddy leans forward. His face is incredibly close. He smells good. That's what hits him first. And his lips. Very... Very- very inviting. He licks his own. Swallows. Has a hard time. Anticipation, desire, all mixed up in his brain. (and groin)

He closes his eyes, and the sudden dark makes his heart beat faster. Or maybe it's the heat coming off Teddy's body (that is so close), his fingers digging into his thigh for support, his invigorating smell.

And then, the gap is closed. Lips meet. Soft tender lips, tasting of mint -oh, clever boy.

He’s standing at the pisser and this is what he sees, printed on the subway tile in crude red sharpie:

“michel FoUCault is cRap??”

This is the philosophy library john, on the third floor of Doolittle Hall, on the campus of a mid-sized Midwestern…