#fluff(?)

“Scared, Potter?”

“You wish.” Draco grins as Harry answers with as much confident that he has, even though it’s crystal clear that the Chosen One is quite nervous.

“Then kiss me.”

Harry settles gingerly on Draco’s lap, face basically two inches from the blond boy, his knees digging into the sofa as Draco’s hands move to circle Harry’s waist. The grey orbs, once again, captivate the green, not challenging, for once Draco strives for reassuring. Harry can’t quite move his gaze from the boy in front tof him –the sharp jaw, the high cheekbones, the pointy chin, the slender long pale throat, sharp grey eyes, pink lucious lips –they are just another feature to add to his good look, another thing that sharpen his beauty. Harry sighs softly, his breath warming Draco’s cupid bow. Draco looks gorgeous from the close distance.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks quietly, wanting to make sure Draco knows what he’s doing, and yet at the same time wanting to pull himself out of this awkward, embarassing situation. Harry drops his gaze to Draco’s chest, refusing to look at him as he can feel his cheeks and ears redden immensely. Suddenly he can feel fingers on his chin, forcing him to once again stare at Draco.

“I have never been more certain about anything in my life.” Draco says just as quiet. “You’re the one in control. Kiss me.” He closes his eyes, relaxing his body into the sofa, giving Harry the complete control of his vulnerable state. Harry can leave, of course, but then, Harry can also stay and kiss Draco like he has been imagining for quite a long time. Merlin, help him. This is his first kiss, Draco’s the one that’s supposed to teach him on what to do, right? Oh Merlin’s tits, screw it, let’s just do this.

And so Harry lets his eyes flutter shut as he leans forward slowly, cautiously.

Wait. No, this won’t do. What if he leans and he can’t capture Draco’s lips? What if he closes his eyes and kisses Draco’s nose instead? Oh God, he’s going to be sick. Fuck, he can’t do this, not on his own. Draco can feel how the body above him goes so tense and rigid, and so he pops his left eye open.

“You okay?” Draco asks, a tinge of concern colors his voice. “We can stop, you know. It’s okay if you’re not ready.” Draco’s fingers that stays on Potter’s waist start making a soothing, calming circle.

“No, no, it’s okay. I’m fine. I can do this.” Draco rolls his eyes with a small smile.

“Ever the Gryffindor, Potter.” then he goes back to his relax stance, eyes closed, hands slotting home at Harry’s back.

This time Harry puts both of his palms on Draco, covering his jaw, neck, and some part of his cheeks. His thumb instinctively caressing Draco’s cheek softly, trying to convince himself that this will turn out not so badly. He wants to kiss him, this is his chance. He leans forward once again, letting his lips ghost over Draco’s lips for a few moment, collecting all the courage that he got in his body, until finally he closes his eyes and leans forward a little bit more, covering the lips of the other boy with his own. Harry kisses him gently, softly, cautiously. Draco’s lips move to kiss him back, just as soft, just as sweet.

Harry can feel what Draco wants him to understand. This is Draco Malfoy, as vulnerable as he can be, lying bare under the control of Harry Potter’s lips. Harry can feel Draco’s heartbeats gradually speeding up under his palm, he can feel how soft Draco’s blond locks sliding between his fingers, he can feel the fuzzy warmth blooming from the pit of his stomach, slowly wrapping him inside this warm cocoon that make him tingles from head to toe. The kiss is gentle, almost heart wrenchingly sweet as Draco’s lips moves leissurely under Harry’s, pliant as ever.

He can feel the smile blooming on Draco’s lips. He can taste the residue of firewhiskey just beneath his lips. He can feel the way their body melts into each other, just simply existing, just two souls simply imploring each other for something more.

But then suddenly he moves.

And then suddenly Draco moves, and so Harry’s world tilts on it’s axis, forcing Harry to understand that it was never gravity that holds him to his world.

The kiss suddenly take a sharp halt and then the table is turnt.

It is consuming. It feels like there’s a fire consuming Harry’s body, and Draco’s the only relief he can get from the heat. It feels like the world is fading into blurred lights, rapidly changing and yet the time never moves forward. It feels like being onslaught, rapidly assaulted by emotions that Harry might combust. It’s so overwhelming that Harry feels like he might not survive from the kiss and every emotions that attacks him right now. It feels like suddenly nothing else matter beside kissing Draco’s lips –not even breathing, Draco is his oxygen. Harry can feel Draco’s hands trapping his jaw, his fingers settling at the nape of Harry’s neck. His glasses fogs up and squeezes deep into his face, until suddenly it’s gone, being thrown somewhere on the floor. Harry can feel Draco’s lucious lips beneath his–demanding, coaxing, teasing, relentlessly taking everything that Harry can give and at the same time giving more than what Harry can take. Draco kisses like he flies –firm, strong, elegant. He’s graceful, he’s relentless, he’s free as a bird when he flies. That’s what kissing Draco feels like –free. So free that Harry can no longer differentiate reality as Draco’s kisses keep blurring the edge of Harry’s pheripheral vision, making Draco as the only concrete object for Harry to hold on.

The heady feelings, the divine taste of Draco’s lips, the shy pleads from his tongue, the warmth he emanates from his body just completely consume Harry as he tries to cling to reality, as he tries to not lose himself under the mere spell of Draco’s lips. And yet, little did he knows that Draco is not in a different situation. They are both consumed by their passion, they are both just a mere particle that will combust into nothingness in each other hand, a collateral beauty, a sight to behold as they collide and dissolve in raw passion. And so they try their hardest not to lose themselves under the wrap of each other fingers.

But the world just keeps spinning faster.

And time keeps fading into an abstract concept.

And so Harry, for once, gives in to the boy underneath him.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Just a short snippet to my own personal AU and Head-cannon, gosh I adore Dottolone so much!

Pantalone had always found Dottore interesting, sure as the 2nd of the Fatui Harbingers, the Doctor had to be interesting. But that wasn’t what interested him specifically.

Dottore’s experiments were both unhinged and insane, completely uncaring for how it affects others and that had earned the ire of many of their colleagues. But there were also those soft instances as well.

He would notice how calm Dottore would become when surrounded by various avians, more specifically, ravens and crows. He would notice how Dottore would show a spark of interest in small things like food. And he would notice Dottore’s adoration for the silence.

Pantalone couldn’t ignore how beautiful Dottore would be when in such a calm and gentle state. He glanced out the large window of his office, sight locked onto Dottore, who was feeding the birds that flocked to him. He could see the slight curve of Dottore’s pale but plump lips when the birds nuzzled into him.

Pantalone was honestly grateful that his office was just by where Dottore would relax, if not for this, he would have never seen Dottore like this. He paused from his watching, his body becoming tense when he saw Dottore coughing out blood, that clear blue blood that showed that Dottore was no human.

He didn’t waste a single moment as he took his coat and made his way to the garden. “Doctor, are you alright?” He asked, hand holding onto Dottore’s shoulder.

“Regretor?” Dottore spoke under his breath, blue blood spilling from his mouth but soon wiped it away once it stopped spilling from his mouth. “I’m fine, just… tired.”

“Come.” Pantalone took Dottore’s hand. “You may rest in my office, if you do not have any urgent matters.”

Dottore lowered his head, a tad annoyed that he was getting coddled by Pantalone, this wasn’t the first time this had happened and he couldn’t refuse. Pantalone might get on Dottore’s nerves at times, but Pantalone still respected his boundaries so he let it slide.

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

Harvey Dent can't decide whether to stand or sit for his portrait.

He has to have one, of course - everyone else does, for press reasons, and he had his photo taken when he became ADA, but now he's no longer just an assistant. Nobody gives a rat's ass how an assistant looks. The DA, on the other hand, gets a significantly large amount of press.

Should he sit or stand? Smile or look stern? He looks over the previous attempts and doesn't particularly like any of them.

In this one, he had an itch he couldn't scratch. In that one, he looks unmistakably irate.

The photographer is losing their patience, and he understands, but he simply can't decide what kind of face Gotham wants to see.

Should he look properly prosecutorial, or benevolently just? Should he be liked, or feared?

It's not until his wife stops by that things start to resolve. His shoulders relax, the tension in his neck eases away, and Gilda leaves a brown bag lunch on his desk.

"You're an artist." he points out, to his well-renowned artist wife, who nods at him like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "What do you think would make a good portrait for a district attorney?"

She quietly thumbs over his options, and while she thinks they're all perfectly fine, she can tell Harvey doesn't feel comfortable.

"Would it be all right if I held the camera?" she asks, and the photographer rolls their eyes before handing over the camera - clearly with some reservations, but some relief is in sight. Soon, they'll be free of Harvey Dent and his hand-wringing.

She points the lens at him, and gives him a gentle smile.

He loves her.