By darkmosmordreheart

Summary: D/H. He only visits me when it rains. After Hogwarts.

Warnings: Slash and sex. Wet, wet sex.

Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling and I will never own her characters, no matter how badly I want her life.

Author's Note: I know, I know, I'm on this site way too much, but anyways . . . I was looking around at the saved stuff on my computer and I found this story. I had written it long before I discovered this site and way long before I discovered Harry and Draco, so originally this narrative was written from a female's perspective about her married lover. However, because of the sick twists and dips of my mind, I edited this to be more slash-like. Please, enjoy. -DMH

He only visits me when it rains.

He only wants me when it rains and that's the only time I'll ever admit to wanting him. I hear the cold drops hitting my window pane and my knees almost buckle. I know he's coming. It usually only takes him twenty minutes to get here once the sky begins to cry. Sometimes he comes, sometimes he doesn't, but I always wait for him no matter what. He comes to me; he's used no umbrella---he couldn't have, his broom is in his hand---so he walks in, dropping tears throughout my living room. He usually doesn't speak and this time is not an exception, so he just drops his transportation, holds his arms out and, like a mindless slave, and I run into them.

I lift my mouth up to his, almost having to stand on the tip of my toes. He's actually taller than me now. No matter what, if we've been going through a drought or if it's rained every time this week, I always forget how tall he is until I have to reach up to kiss him.

He mumbles my name softly, like old times. Not old, old times when he snapped out my name in poisonous tones, but the good times, when we were together. I smile against his mouth and he feels it and pulls away. We have a staring contest. His emerald eyes, fruitlessly warring against mine, send messages back and forth.

Lead me.

You know where to go.

Lead me.

I reach my hand out and lead. I don't want to. It makes me feel like I asked for this. I feel his calloused palm rub sensuously against my own. I want him so bad, even his rough palms are making me hot. I'm already in my pajamas---well, my tank top and boxers---so I sit on the bed and wait. I silently watch as he pulls long arms from the sleeves of his wet jacket, then uses those arms to drape said jacket across my desk chair. My eyes narrow, he knows how much I dislike it when he puts his wet things near my work papers, but I say nothing.

It must have been raining hard; he's soaked to the bone. His t-shirt presses against the skin of his chest, tight and transparent so I can see the perfect little nipples that I would soon spend hours licking and biting. The shoes go next, I don't even look down; just hear the double thump of boots hitting the leg of my bed. Next the belt, then the shirt, the jeans, the socks . . .

And as if he's taunting me, he leaves the boxer briefs, wet and barely staying up on his slippery wet hips, and saunters toward me. I still don't move, just watch silently as each incredible muscle on his body ripples in unison with every step he takes.

He finally touches me again. I'm flat on my back, my hands roaming his wet one, and my legs wrapping around his waist without my permission. I moan his name over and over until he finally shushes me against my lips. He has stopped moving and he's breathing softly against my mouth. What is he doing? My eyes close in frustration when realization hits.

He's listening for the rain.

Please, don't let it have stopped raining. Please, not another unfulfilled night. Please, don't let him leave me again.

A tear trails down my face a moment before I hear the light pitter-patter of my liquid saviors. He finds the tear and licks at it, then uses the tip of his tongue to follow the salty trail back to its origin. His soft lips brush against my closed eyelid so gently that I almost didn't feel it.

I moan when his fingers find their way into my tank to pinch my nipples, but he quiets me once again for the sake of the rain. More tears come as the shower outside picks up.

He sips in my salty drops almost mindlessly, without a word and focuses, instead, on directing my hands to the places he wanted them to go. His chest. His chin. His hip. His arm. Every time I get comfortable, he jerks my arms in a new direction. I release myself from his loose grip and moved both hands to where I want them.

His boxers came off oh so slowly.

He arches into my touch.

And he moans. God, he can moan. I bet he doesn't moan like that for her.

I pressed my lips to the hard muscle of his stomach and licked around his naval. He moans again and again and again as my mouth roams lower and lower and lower. Finally, with what seemed like all the strength he possessed, he pulled me up and into his lap.

Suddenly, my tank is gone and flying across the room. My boxers follow, well, not follow---they flew off in the other direction---and then . . .

He's inside me.

No warning, no precautions, he just flicks the wand I didn't notice in his hand and I'm filled with slick liquid, then the next thing I know, he's inside me. All strength and warmth and size inside me, in and out of me, up and down in me as I rub against him at different angles.

I cry out his name. I dig my fingers into his back. I push my hips faster, grind them in harder, anything just to increase the sensation of what he's doing to me because I'm not sure when this is going to happen again.

And then the promises come and I cry. He gives me each and every word I want to hear. He gives me every hope and dream I've ever had and he hands me my fantasy on a silver platter. He tells me how much he's missed me and how she's not like me and how he'll be with me and how he loves me and how he needs me. And I cry because he always conveniently forgets his words when all is said and done.

I come, hard and long like always. He follows. I cry and he wipes my tears.

"Why do you cry every time?" he asks softly as the pitter-patter on my window dies.

I say nothing for a while; just nuzzle my face into the damp crook of his neck. Then I ask a question of my own.

"Why can't it always rain?"

Author's Note: Tell me what you think, please. -DMH