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The jumper was an indulgence, for sure. But the moment Draco saw it modeled on Gucci’s runway in Milan he knew he must possess it. The cashmere is exactly the right weight and softness, and the color — the precise shade of teal blue as the Lalique crystal perfume bottle Mother kept on her dresser — is the perfect complement to Draco’s alabaster skin tone.
The jumper is, in a word, exquisite.
And currently crumpled on the floor of Draco’s bedroom next to Harry’s jeans and pants.
He should really pick it up and fold it — it cost a month’s rent on his London flat — but he is too content and sated tucked into bed next to Harry to bother to lift even a finger.
Harry shifts, hugging Draco closer into his bed-warmed nakedness. Draco runs his toes over the top of Harry’s foot, “Coffee?” he asks.
“Sure, I’ll take a pumpkin spice latte,” Harry says, breath tickling Draco’s nape.
Draco pinches Harry’s foot with his toes. Harry bites his shoulder playfully and slides his hand down Draco’s abdomen, lower still, to caress delicate skin. Despite their evening’s multiple activities, it only takes a few strokes and Draco’s half-hard.
“Hold that thought,” Harry murmurs. He kisses Draco’s ear and gets out of bed.
Draco adjusts himself and watches Harry step into his jeans, giving himself a little squeeze as the denim slides up over Harry’s bare arse. He stills when Harry picks up the jumper.
“This turquoise jumper is nice,” Harry says.
“Nice?” Draco scoffs. “It’s Gucci. And it’s teal, you clown.”
Harry shrugs and puts it on. Draco’s protest rises to his lips, a sharp barb ready to tumble off his tongue... until he fully registers Harry Potter in designer Gucci.
The cashmere, while artfully loose on Draco’s lean frame, hugs Harry deliciously, highlighting every muscle’s curve. His eyes shine a deeper emerald, enhanced by the blue hue.
“I must look pretty good,” Harry grins and leans down to peck Draco’s lips, “you've tented the sheets.” He ghosts his fingers over Draco’s erection, fully hard now, and moves to leave.
Draco grabs him and hauls him back into bed.
Harry’s jeans come off but the jumper stays on.
It stays on all damn day, in fact, and Draco can’t keep his hands to himself.
He strokes Harry’s arm and cops a feel of his bicep at the corner coffee shop.
At the Muggle record store, he hugs Harry from the front, and from the side, and from behind, all the while palming the toned muscle beneath soft cashmere. It was so bad, apparently, the pimple-faced brat behind the counter told them to get a room already.
When he’s so enamored by Harry in teal at afternoon tea with his mother that he allows Harry to tickle his bollocks with a sock-clad foot under the fucking table, he decides something must be done.
So he sucks Harry off in his Manor bedroom with the jumper rucked up to Harry’s chin — a teenage fantasy come true.
“I think I really like this jumper,” Harry says that evening. He pulls the thing off over his head and strokes the soft stitches.
“Yes, well, it is mine,” Draco adds, sputtering when Harry jams it over his head. He threads his arms through the sleeves, inhaling Harry’s spicy musk still embedded in the fibers. He smooths out the wrinkles and Harry accosts him, taking him in his arms and sliding his lips along his jaw. “Harry, wha-- “ His words are smothered by a kiss so deep and sensual he feels it in his knees.
Harry draws a moan from Draco with his tongue. “Fucking incredible,” Harry growls. “Get in the goddamn bed.”
The next morning, Harry slides on his jeans. Draco lays in the mussed up sheets, eyes half-open, liquid and strung out, his body aching brilliantly. Harry stoops to pick up the jumper crumpled again on the floor and glances at Draco.
“Where did you say you got this jumper?”
“House of Gucci,” Draco croaks.
“Wizards,” Harry says reverently. He holds Draco’s gaze, his lips curling into a slow grin that Draco mirrors.
Harry pulls on the jumper.