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The telltale whistle of a bludger echoed behind him and Draco dropped into a barrel roll just in time. Righting himself, he swooped up angrily over the action, speeding around the perimeter. Sometimes when a match was slow, the beaters liked to get frisky with the media.
Even when it wasn’t slow, some of them still liked to get frisky with Draco.
He was quick though, and he ducked and dodged with unflappable composure, and afterwards they mostly left him alone. It was an arrangement that Draco was normally content to bear. Today, though, Draco’s patience was wearing as thin as the faded weatherproofing charms on his robes. He was ready to get his feet on the ground and his body under the spray of a hot shower. Maybe he would have time to pick up a steaming pot of phở on his way home—the thought sent a shiver of warmth through his belly.
He shifted low over his broom as he brought the camera slung round his neck up to his eyes. He fiddled with the zoom lens, telescoping in and out, panning the length of the pitch, searching out the action, looking for—there.
A flicker at the edge of the field. A streak of a body, tearing across the periphery of his perception—Draco whipped around, zooming in and focusing on the figure hurtling past the stands. He steadied his broom, took a deep breath in, and let it out slow. His finger rested tense and ready on the shutter as he made himself still, let his breath run out, lungs hollowed, waiting for Potter to reach out his hand.
Potter dropped into a sharp, short dip, darted to the side and then, there it was—Potter’s hand leaving his broom, his moment of victory. Draco started clicking madly as Potter’s fingers flexed out, then snapped shut. An old obsession, a sick fascination turned lucrative: Potter catching the snitch, and Draco catching the moment when his palm closed around it, held it aloft as he turned, flushed with triumph, a fierce, euphoric light in his eyes, knuckles going pale as he pumped his fist in the air.
Draco made his approach as the dogpile around Potter sank to the ground and disentangled. He hovered around the edges, snapping photos of the victorious Wasps players as they patted each other on the back and shook the hands of the opposing team.
“Oi, Potter!” Draco called out, “Can you get everyone together—” he gestured at the quickly-dispersing crowd of athletes.
Potter rolled his eyes and called back his teammates who had already started for the showers, slinging his arms around the shoulders of the Beaters, everyone huddling in and grinning for Draco’s benefit—or rather, for the benefit of the readers of Seeker Weekly. The players didn’t care much for Draco. Potter, though, turned back as he slung his broom over his shoulders and headed toward the locker rooms.
“Exclusive victory party coverage if you buy us a round at The Broomstick and Balls,” he winked, and strode off.
Three hours later, Draco was on his knees in the loo of the tackiest Quidditch bar in London, swallowing Potter’s cock.
“Fuck,” Potter rumbled above him, “Yeah, that’s so— fuck—”
He threaded a hand into Draco’s hair and Draco shuddered and moaned. He loved the feeling of Potter’s hands on him. It was embarrassing, really, how strongly he reacted whenever Potter touched him. Potter tightened his fingers and Draco pressed a hand down to his own crotch, trying to tamp down his arousal, be less obvious about it, although he feared it was a lost cause. They’d been fucking around like this for a couple of months, a quick fumbling of hands or mouths in the loos or the locker rooms after Draco worked at one of Potter’s games. Each time, the barest touch of Potter’s hands sent Draco in paroxysms. So naturally, Draco lived in constant fear of the moment Potter figured him out. It was inevitable. After all, Draco had figured out that if he looked straight up at Potter as he let his jaw go slack and sank all the way down…
Then he was swallowing, savoring the feeling of blunt nails on his scalp, before Potter was dragging him up and pressing him against the opposite wall, dropping down to return the favor. For a fleeting moment, Draco considered telling Potter he didn’t have to, he could just use his hands instead, but he shut his mouth around it—who asked for a hand job, when they were about to get their cock sucked? Sure, he could admit to himself that he was humiliatingly, maybe disturbingly fixated on Potter’s hands, but Potter certainly did not need to know the full extent of it.
Anyways, Potter loved sucking cock and excelled at it nearly as much as he did at catching the snitch. So Draco didn’t protest; he just sank his own hands into Potter’s hair, and looked down at Potter’s panting mouth stretched open.
But then, Potter did something he had never done before.
He slipped two fingers back against Draco’s perineum and pressed. Draco gasped, torso curling off the wall, and then Potter moved his fingers further, brushing gently—and Draco’s spine snapped back, his skull slammed into the wall, his entire body pulsed.
Shivering, Draco tried to get ahold of himself, head throbbing, knees still weak at the promise of Potter’s fingers inside of him. He felt the crisp tingle of a cleaning charm and opened his eyes to a smirking face behind smudged glasses, tucking himself back in and righting his clothes.
“Wow,” Potter threw him a smug glance. “That was fast.”
“Fuck off.”
“No, I’m flattered,” Potter grinned, pushing out through the stall and making his way to the sinks. He threw Draco a look over his shoulder as he washed his hands. “Are you going to fix your hair before we get back out there?”
Draco grimaced. “I’ll probably be heading home. I don’t think your teammates have warmed up to me yet.”
“They would if they knew you gave blow jobs like that,” Potter’s lascivious grin split his face.
“Oh please, Potter,” Draco snorted as he approached the sink. “Don’t act as if you’ve warmed up to me either.” He stuck his hands under the tap and met Potter’s eyes in the mirror. “You’ve gotten off, and now you can go right back to smiling for the cameras and otherwise pretending I don’t exist, same as everyone else.”
It wasn’t true—sure, Potter wasn’t angling to be Draco’s best mate, but he was a fair sight friendlier than most of the league; had been even before they started sucking each other off. But the prospect of slinking back out into the shadows at the edge of the bar had Draco feeling petty.
“What—” Potter rounded on him. “I invited you here!”
He actually looked affronted, and Draco couldn’t help chuckling as he slid the soap between his fingers, “Ah, that’s right—you never could be like everyone else, could you? Alright then…you can go right back to scowling at the cameras and pretending you don’t want to fuck me, is that better?”
Potter barked out a laugh. “D’you think I pretend I don’t want to fuck you, out there?”
Draco considered that for a moment, remembering the heat of Potter’s hand on his thigh under the table. “I think you attempt it,” he smirked, “But you’re not exactly a master of subtlety.”
Potter just laughed again.
“I’m quite subtle—Slytherin, you know—I could give you some pointers. Otherwise, they’re all going to figure it out.”
Potter frowned. “You seem to think I’m concerned about that.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Obviously. You wouldn’t be caught dead—"
Potter held up a hand. “Woah, I like my privacy, yeah, but do you honestly take me as the sort of image-obsessed prick that would sneak around just because you’re…” his eyes flitted briefly to Draco’s left arm, “Unpopular?”
Draco snorted. “Bit of an understatement, that. But yes, despite being well acquainted with your particular brand of flagrant disregard for your public image, sneaking around is exactly what I’d expect. Honestly Potter, no need to put on the noble act—"
“Wow, are you—” Potter stared at him for a second, open mouthed and shaking his head slowly. Then he flung the sodden towel he’d been clutching into the bin and shrugged. “Fuck it. What are you doing next Friday night?”
“What?”
“Have dinner with me.”
“You—” Draco froze with his hands under the towel dispenser, dripping all over the floor. “Are you asking me out just to prove you’re not embarrassed to be seen in public with me?”
“Yeah,” Potter grinned again. “You’ve insulted my honor.”
“Your honor? Potter, we’ve just exchanged blow jobs in the toilets of an establishment best known for wall décor of quidditch equipment arranged to look like male genitalia, I hardly think your honor is—”
“You can probably call me Harry, don’t you think?”
“Excuse—"
“On account of the aforementioned cocksucking, it feels appropriate, yeah?” He lifted one shoulder, careless, “And now that we’ve got a date.”
“A date,” Draco repeated weakly.
“Yeah,” Harry grinned, shouldering the door open. “Owl me your address, I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.”
He strode out, leaving Draco standing by the sinks with his hair still disheveled and his mouth gaping open.
At 7:38pm, Draco answered the brisk rapping on his door to find Harry standing outside, breathless and shivering a little, running a hand through his damp hair, saying, “Sorry I’m a minute late—”
“Eight minutes,” Draco interrupted smoothly.
Harry threw his head back, barked a laugh, shoved his hands into his pockets. “Should have known you’d be the punctual type.”
“The punctual type? What type is that? Reliable? Considerate?”
“Oh, for the love of—” Harry shot a hand out, seeker-fast, clasping Draco’s wrist mid-sputter and apparating them away.
Draco stumbled on the landing, catching himself on the rough stone wall closing in the narrow alleyway they had appeared in.
“What the fuck, Potter—”
“Two minutes into our date and you’re already back on last names?”
“We ought to have been ten minutes in by now,” Draco sniffed. “And yes, you’ll find that old habits die hard when you’ve just been yanked through the fabric of space and time with no warning at all—”
“Oh my god,” Harry said, “You’re really going to be like this.”
“Like what?”
Harry waved a hand up and down Draco’s form. “All insufferable, and—and, clever.”
“Ah,” Draco cocked his head to the side, “You mean, my personality?”
“Oh my god,” Harry said again, as he wound his fingers back around Draco’s wrist and dragged them out of the alley.
“Come on,” he said. “I hope we don’t have to wait for a table, I’m starving.”
“Excuse me,” Draco wrenched his arm away, “Did you just imply that you haven’t made a reservation? For seven thirty? On a Friday night?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Are you going to scold me about that, now?”
“I’m not going to scold you. I shall merely radiate smugness when you inevitably can’t get us a table.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Whatever,” he said.
They stopped in front of an unassuming shopfront adorned with a carved wooden sign reading Asmara in bright red letters. Harry swept the door open, and Draco became abruptly, uncomfortably aware that Harry hadn’t told him what sort of restaurant they were going to, and he hadn’t asked. And whatever sort of restaurant this was, Draco didn’t think it was any sort he’d been to before. It was definitely muggle; the ochre walls were hung with colorful woven baskets, and dark wooden tables crowded the space. The air felt close and warm, fragrant with spices and buzzing with conversation. And the customers—well, Draco was used to being the palest person in the room, but his own lack of melanin had never stood out quite like this before.
“What kind of food—” he began, but was interrupted by the arrival of a tiny middle-aged woman with dark skin and darker eyes, her hair braided tightly back against her skull to the crown of her head and then spilling in tight curls down her back.
“Harry!” She exclaimed, drawing him into a hug.
Draco felt even more wrong-footed as the woman immediately launched into a fond yet thorough chastising of Harry for the amount of time he had let pass since he’d last stopped by. Harry bore it with a long-suffering sort of good grace, blushing and smiling out a sheepish apology as they wrung each other’s hands. She patted down his arms in a maternal way before turning her sharp gaze toward Draco, drawing him forward to press their cheeks together in an approximation of a kiss, once on each side.
“And who’s this?”
“Nazret, this is my friend Draco, we went to school together,” Harry said. “Draco, this is Nazret, she and her husband Yoel own the restaurant. We go way back—they’re close family friends with the Grangers.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, still holding Draco’s hands in her own, “So you were friends with our Hermione too? Why haven’t I met you yet, hm?”
Draco cleared his throat. “Ah, well, I wasn’t exactly nice, in school…” he faltered under her steady gaze, “Bit of a spoiled brat back then, so I wasn’t— I didn’t deserve—” he swallowed, “Hermione’s—friendship, or anything.”
She regarded him another moment. “Well, you’re here now,” she said, squeezing his hands sharply in her own. “And you’ll eat.”
“Yes,” Draco felt his smile spread, warm and genuine. “I’m here now. And I’m quite hungry.”
She grinned, dropping his hands and spinning around on her heel.
“Come on then,” she called over her shoulder, “Your favorite table, Harry, right this way.”
Harry nudged him as they walked, “Did you hear that? My favorite table’s ready. Who’s radiating smugness now?”
Draco turned his nose up, and didn’t respond.
When they got to Harry’s favorite table (tucked into the back corner, next to a small window framed in gauzy red curtains) Nazret paused with her hand on Harry’s shoulder and said, “The usual? Or—” turning her head to Draco, “—does he want anything special?”
“The usual,” Harry replied, with confidence.
Draco started to sputter a protest at being ordered for in a restaurant like a child, but Nazret had already whirled away, and Harry was looking at him with undisguised amusement.
Draco smoothed his face over. “Really? Do you always order for your dates? No wonder you’re chronically single, that’s like, the most well-known dating faux pas—”
“I’m chronically single because everyone who wants to date me is a boring sycophant or a psycho stalker superfan.” Harry interrupted flatly.
“Didn’t know you knew the word sycophant,” Draco muttered.
Harry barked out a laugh. “Come on,” he said, “I eat here all the time. I know what’s good. Trust me.”
“Well—” Draco felt himself flushing, “I suppose it’s too late now, anyways. And you didn’t even tell me—what kind of food is this?”
Harry grinned. “Eritrean. Hermione’s Eritrean, did you know? They always went here growing up—Nazret and Yoel are like family to Hermione.”
“Oh,” Draco managed a small smile. “I suppose I didn’t know that.” He took a breath, reminded himself that it had been years since he had tormented Granger, that he wasn’t a cruel child anymore. “It’s lovely that she brought you here. I assume the food must be delicious if you all come so often.”
“Oh yeah, it’s bloody fantastic. Have you eaten Eritrean food before?”
“No, I can’t say that I have,” Draco mused. “I’m quite keen to dig in, though, I love trying new cuisines.”
“Do you really?” Harry snorted. “I’d have thought you grew up eating only posh shit like lobster and filet mignon every night, and—” he waved an imperious hand, affecting an over-the-top French accent, “—foie gras, if you ever wanted a quick snack—” he broke off, laughing.
Draco narrowed his eyes. He did love trying new cuisines; he always had. It was something his upbringing had encouraged, in a way—a certain type of culinary adventurousness was always useful as cultural currency, in the right circles. And so, growing up, Draco had slurped raw oysters from the half shell, eaten frog legs and swordfish and caviar of all sorts (which was rather daring when one thought about it, eating fish eggs). He had eaten snails for goodness sakes—of course, when the French dressed it up and called it escargot it was easier to forget you were eating snails. So yes, Draco had always enjoyed unfamiliar foods. Only, as Harry had so indelicately pointed out, culinary exploration for the Malfoy family had always been yet another status performance.
Draco had been rounding out his education, though. He had been making all sorts of forays into muggle London since he moved back, trying things his parents would have shuddered at. He was most recently proud to report that, while he had long been adept with chopsticks when it came to handling fresh sashimi, he had finally mastered the art of using them to slurp Szechuan noodles from a takeaway container.
“Well,” he attempted to affect a haughty demeanor, “I certainly grew up eating, as you so eloquently put it, posh shit, and many of my adventures in food have been on the aristocratic side. But—” he stabbed a resolute finger in the air, “—I’ve been branching out since I’ve moved back. I’ve just discovered bành mí—there’s a hole in the wall Vietnamese place a couple of streets down from me and it’s simply delectable, and—” his voice rose excitedly, “Did you know that muggles sell kebabs right out of little carts on the street? Just skewers of meat, cooked up right there on the kerb! It’s mad; I certainly never would have been allowed to try that, growing up. But—” he leaned forward conspiratorially, “—they’re positively delicious!”
Harry threw back his head and laughed outright. “Yeah, I’ve had kebabs.”
Draco felt himself going pink. Of course, Harry would be familiar with all sorts of muggle foods. He hoped he hadn’t gotten foolishly overeager about the kebabs. And perhaps bringing up kebabs had been a mistake, because Draco was suddenly assaulted by a vision of Harry tearing into the meat with his sharp white teeth, the fresh juices dripping down his fingers and over his wrists, and Draco wanted to lick them—
“Sambusas!” Nazret was back, placing a platter of triangular pastries on the table in front of them.
“Sam—what?”
She laughed, “Sambusas—you’ve never had them?”
“I’ve never had any of this,” Draco admitted.
“Oh!” She clapped her hands together. “Go on then—try, try!”
Draco reached instinctively for the table next to his plate before clocking that there wasn’t any silverware. His eyes shot up to Harry, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed.
“No forks,” he said. “Just pick it up with your hands like someone who wasn’t raised in a Manor.”
Draco huffed and grabbed a hot sambusa, biting into it under Nazret’s watchful eye.
“Oh,” he said. “This is incredible.”
Nazret let out a delighted little cackle, clapping Harry on the arm, eyes crinkling as she smiled wide, “I like him,” she said, and then, turning back to Draco, “You can come back anytime, you know, even without Harry—”
“No, no, no,” Harry cut in, “Don’t come here alone Draco, it’s dangerous business—took me a while to learn how to say no to Nazret—she’ll feed you until you can’t get up out of your chair, and then once you’re good and trapped she’ll keep feeding you until you pass out right on the table—”
Nazret swatted him fondly on the arm and bustled off to attend to another customer.
“Merlin,” Draco said, “What’s in these? I wasn’t just trying to get in Nazret’s good graces; they’re delicious.”
“Yeah, can’t fake that noise you made,” Harry winked, and Draco felt his insides go hot. “It’s lentils, inside. And spices and other stuff too, but mostly lentils.”
Draco peered into the steaming pocket that he had taken a bite of. “Oh yes, of course. I love lentils—so much return on investment, nutrition-wise. I ate a lot of legumes when I was a starving art student.”
Harry’s brows shot up. “You were starving?”
“Not literally, it’s a common expression,” Draco rolled his eyes and took another bite of sambusa, chewing and swallowing slowly. “But I was quite poor, as art students tend to be. Beans were a staple food in my kitchen,” he shrugged.
“You know how to cook?”
Merlin, but Harry was relentless.
Draco grimaced, “I didn’t always, but I learned, when I had to. It’s a bit like potions, you know, with recipes. I’m still developing my intuition. I’ve always been more for following directions, whereas great chefs have that instinctive touch, you know—you should have seen some of my friends in Florence, they’d take half a crust of bread and a single tomato and make a meal you’d sell your firstborn for. Never a recipe in the house. They grew up like that, you know...”
Draco trailed off. Harry was watching him intently, with mirth and—dare Draco even think it—something approaching fondness in his eyes.
He wasn’t done with the questions though.
“So, art school in Florence, eh? How’d you get into Quidditch photography?”
“How’d you get into Quidditch playing?” Draco retorted, “I liked it. I was good at it,” he shrugged. “I mean, I wasn’t planning on Quidditch photography when I went to art school. I just knew that I liked the arts and I had to get out of England. But I enjoyed my photography classes, and obviously I love Quidditch.” He sniffed, “We can’t all be professional athletes, you know.”
Harry snorted, and Draco glared at him. “But I was a good enough flier to photograph professionally, so here we are.”
Harry made a sort of grunting noise around a mouthful of sambusa, then swallowed laboriously.
“You’ve been back what—three years now?”
Draco nodded.
“God,” he shook his head ruefully, “I remember when I heard Seeker Weekly had hired you, I threw a right strop—Hermione had to give me this whole speech about tolerance and forgiveness,” he rolled his eyes.
Draco’s throat suddenly stopped working, so he had to exhale slowly around a sip of water, coaxing the constriction out of his esophagus to let the icy liquid slide down his chest cavity and spread through his intestines.
Harry barreled right on, “I told her though, I have to draw the line somewhere, and if you ever set fake dementors on me during a match again, forgiveness would be a foreign word—”
Harry was chuckling—he was joking. Draco unclenched his fingers, jaw, and spine, and reminded himself that Harry had invited him out, after all.
“I’ll have you know I made those cloaks by hand,” he drawled. “Even then, I was clearly destined for a career in the arts…”
Harry’s smile opened across his face, teasing and intimate, and Draco breathed in and out, slow.
But Harry continued to grill him, asking whether he still saw anyone from school (yes), or had any contact with his parents (no), or whether he had ever reached out to Andromeda (of course). He asked why Draco had felt he needed to go aboard for his art studies (wasn’t it obvious?) and why he had chosen Florence (also obvious). He asked about wizard-muggle relations in Italy (laxer than England), and then about how Draco had started eating at muggle restaurants (he lived in a muggle part of town). That seemed to stop Harry in his tracks, and he paused for a moment, visibly gearing up before blurting,
“So, erm, muggles then? How do you feel about them now?”
Draco stared at him.
“I mean—” Harry floundered, “You don’t still, er, buy into all that pureblood, wizarding supremacy stuff anymore?”
And just like that, it all snapped into place. Draco fisted his hands under the table. “What is this, the fucking Inquisition?” He spat. “Why did you bring me here, to see whether I would refuse to eat muggle food, or hex the staff? To grill me about whether I’m still a Death Eater? What are you, trying to dig up dirt, trying to get me fired?”
“Oh fuck, sorry, no—I mean, I did sort of—”
Draco sat back and folded his arms.
“Look—I was upset at first, when I had to see you around at games, alright? But you didn’t act a prat. You grew on me. And then we started messing around, and that’s been brilliant.” Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath in. “But it’s recently come to my attention that perhaps I might—” he grimaced, “fancy you, a bit.” He held up his hands, “Just a bit! And I think you’re better, now—I want to get to know you better. I want to give you a real shot. But I don’t want to pretend that everything that happened didn’t happen. That’s rubbish. I needed to make sure—” he looked at Draco imploringly.
Draco raised his best unimpressed eyebrow. “And you thought the best way to make sure was to come straight out with not still a Death Eater, are you, old chap?”
Harry scrubbed his hands over his face. “Er, yeah? I guess I didn’t really think it through—"
“Clearly, or you would have attempted to simply get to know me, like a sane person—”
“Yeah, well clearly I’ve never been great at being sane around you—” Harry grumbled. “I was just trying to get it all out of the way! And now I’ve somehow both cocked that up and admitted to maybe having feelings for you like a complete twat.” He huffed. “You bring it out in me, you know, you’re infuriating, you’re—” He took in a quick breath, “You’re even better than I’d hoped, alright?”
Draco sniffed. “For what it’s worth, I understand. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen either. And I have tried, desperately, to be better. So I suppose I can forgive your unbelievably blunt approach.”
“Thanks,” Harry grinned, sheepish. “Sorry I didn’t go about it with the most tact…”
“No, you didn’t.” Draco drew himself up. “So to sum up: I was a blood supremacist and you were a bit tactless—let’s call it even shall we?”
Harry snorted out his water. “You’ve just got extra points for that. I definitely fancy you now.”
Draco preened in his chair.
And then, all of his highest hopes for the evening imploded.
Nazret came and dropped off a platter covered in something that looked rather like a spongy crepe. It was heaped with different mounds of meat and vegetables in thick sauces. The whole thing smelled mouthwatering. She pointed at each portion, rattling off names that Draco couldn’t hope to remember. Then she was gone, and Draco was left alone with Harry, a table full of food, and a distinct lack of silverware. He looked up warily.
“Is this still a pick it up with my hands like I wasn’t raised in a Manor situation?”
Harry laughed, “Here, I’ll show you. This stuff—” he picked up a roll of the same spongy crepe that the rest of the food had been placed on, “—is called injera. You use it to eat the rest. Like this—”
He tore off a strip of the injera and held it up. Draco fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose as he focused on taking in a deep, calming breath. Harry was cradling the injera in the swoop of his palm, between his thumb and two forefingers, and he was going to eat like this, coaxing the food into his grasp, touching his fingers to his mouth. A harpoon of desire shot through Draco’s gut, pinning the base of his spine to the back of his chair. He watched Harry use the injera to scoop up a bite of mushrooms in a dark red sauce, delicate and nimble.
Draco’s throat went thick.
Harry brought the morsel up to his lips and popped it in.
“Easy enough, yeah?”
Draco managed a jerky, panicked nod. He was fucked. There was no way he could make it through an entire dinner like this. His mind fuzzed blankly as Harry passed him a roll of injera, barely comprehending his explanation of how it was made, the fermentation process that gave it it’s spongy texture and slightly sour taste. Draco tore off a corner and chewed thoughtfully, wondering whether he could fake some sort of emergency and leave now before he inevitably got a hard-on at the table from watching Harry eat.
But Draco had never been good at self-control, and when it came down to it, he would follow the urge to stay and watch Harry’s hands dip into the waiting banquet. He would stay, squirming in his seat, and when he got home, he would Pensieve the entire evening and wank over it for years to come. Merlin knew he was liable to behave so oddly for the remainder of the meal that Harry probably would never ask him out again. Resigning himself to his fate, he followed Harry’s lead and dug into the mushrooms.
They were heavenly—richly flavored, spicy and a little bit smoky. He hummed happily, taking another bite and asking Harry to explain the rest of the foods on the platter.
“This one is shiro, a chickpea stew, and these are some beef tibs, here, the crispy onions are divine—” he broke off and scooped some up. “Oi, I’ve got the perfect ratio of beef to onion, wait, open up—" he reached his hand across the table.
Draco blinked. Quite possibly his brain had just short-circuited and produced an impressively lifelike auditory simulation. Surely Harry wasn’t offering to feed him. From his hand. Draco did not open up.
“What, are you shy?” Harry cocked his head, eyes crinkling. He dropped his voice to a low whisper, “You’ve let me put things in your mouth before…”
Draco opened his mouth to protest, but instead found himself croaking, alright then, and letting his mouth hang open like a half-witted mountain troll.
Harry closed the distance and Draco, for all his efforts, could not tamp down on the strangled squeak that left his throat as Harry’s fingers touched his lips. Only a lifetime of etiquette lessons at the formidable hand of Narcissa Malfoy saved him from sucking those fingers into the wet cave of his mouth and swirling his tongue around them.
He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about it though, as he accepted the food from Harry’s hand, felt it hot on his tongue, the roof of his mouth, between his teeth. He was hard, there at the table, and he shifted in his seat, not daring to look up, knowing that Harry had heard the noise he had made, could see the heat on his face—mortification swept over him in a dizzy rush and Draco wanted to fold himself up, a paper creasing over and over until he was something so small he couldn’t be folded again, couldn’t respond to the ministrations of even the most nimble fingertips. He focused on chewing slowly.
“Well?” Harry’s voice was uncertain. “Do you like it? You’ve got a bit of an odd face on—"
Draco made another strangled, high-pitched noise of alarm and hastened to assure Harry that it was delicious—and it was—piquant and salty, the juicy beef paired perfectly with the crisp, browned edges of the fragrant onions.
In his panic, Draco cast about for some explanation of his initial lack of enthusiasm that wasn’t I’m terrified you’re going to notice the raging boner I’ve got going on under the table, and, once again showing a disturbing likeness to a mountain troll, came out with, “I was just wondering what exercises you do to keep your hands in shape?”
“What?” Harry looked, understandably, confused as to how in the ever-loving fuck that would be relevant, and Draco, wild-eyed and desperate, kept talking, his mouth like a Rube Goldberg machine chugging inexorably toward increasingly impressive feats of self-destructive humiliation.
“I mean—you’re very dexterous with the food, which I suppose can only be expected, given your line of work—that is to say, seekers always have dexterous fingers, exceedingly well-developed flexors and extensors; your hands are of course a prime specimen—” he nodded maniacally, horror clawing up his throat, “—and I notice these things, you know, given my line of work, and then just now of course, your hand was right there, and I remembered that I had wondered about that in the past—you know, on account of my work—” Draco forced himself to take a deep breath, hold it in, and shut the fuck up.
Merlin, he deserved the lonely life ahead of him, with nothing to keep him warm at night besides his own sorry hand and the memory of Harry Potter feeding him beef and onions.
Harry was looking at him like he was completely off his rocker, which of course he was.
“You’ve wondered about my hand exercises?”
If they had not been in a muggle restaurant Draco might have simply apparated away on the spot, owled his resignation to Seeker Weekly, and moved back to Italy. As it was, he called upon his deepest reserves of pride and propriety and casually helped himself to another bite of beef tibs, as if he had not just come dangerously close to admitting a perversity that had best remain private.
“A purely professional interest,” he said. “I am a Quidditch photographer, after all. I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about the mechanics and performance of various human body parts. Hands often take center stage.”
By the grace of Circe, Morgana, and all the lesser goddesses, Harry accepted that utter tripe with a bemused shrug and proceeded to describe his full regimen of hand and finger exercises at a level of detail in which even Draco had no interest. That was fine, though, as it allowed Draco to avoid the risk of further humiliation by simply nodding along while focusing most of his attention on watching Harry eat.
It was torture. Draco hadn’t been completely lying about his professional interest, which had only fueled his personal one. Hours spent poring over photos of hands had left Draco unable to ignore his desires, unable to turn away from the beauty—the proud, stark lines of the metacarpal ridges along the back of a palm, the power in the curve of a knuckle, the precise bend of a finger—he had developed a massive fixation.
Unfortunately for Draco, Harry Potter had always managed to make himself first among Draco’s obsessions. And Harry’s hands were a true work of art; Draco simply did his best to preserve a poor imitation. Harry’s hands were an altar at which Draco offered his humble devotionals. Harry’s hands were strong, the backs tanned and windswept and the palms callused and dewy with sweat. His wrist bones were sharp and unyielding, his fingers quick and ruthless. Draco could remember with perfect clarity exactly how it had felt the first time Harry had wrapped his warm, rough palm around Draco’s cock, curled his perfect fingers into a firm grip, pressed the pad of his thumb into the slit. Months later, Draco could still feel sweat prick under his arms when he recalled the noise he had made—something low and worshipful, so raw, so painfully obvious in his yearning. There at the dinner table, Draco felt it again, a sweltering flash of shame. He wanted so much, too much, it was abnormal, it was perverse—
He took another bite of the tsebhi dorho, a spicy chicken stew with boiled egg, hoping the heat of the dish could explain the flush on his cheeks, the sheen on his forehead. Harry had finished explaining his hand exercises and was looking at Draco expectantly. Draco surreptitiously adjusted his trousers under the table.
“Fascinating. Excuse me—I’m just going to pop off to the loo,” he choked out, fleeing with as much dignity as he could muster.
Inside, Draco turned the tap water as cold as it would go, splashing his face and laying his freezing fingers on his neck in an attempt to cool down, to fight off his burgeoning erection. He admonished his reflection to get it together. He would not be incoherent on his first date with Harry. He would not. Draco was witty, and clever, and although Harry had said he found Draco’s personality infuriating, he also seemed like he had liked it. So. Draco was going to get his dick under control, get back out there, and lay on the charm until Harry had no choice but to reconsider his perpetual singledom.
Decided (and no longer erect), Draco squared his shoulders and sauntered back out, weaving between the tables and sliding back into his seat, shaking out his napkin and looking up to see Harry with two fingers in his mouth, loudly sucking off and smacking his lips as he withdrew them. And just like that, Draco was half hard again.
He gaped at Harry for a moment, and then blinked and busied himself preparing another bite of shiro. Gods, he was doomed.
Harry would have to be single forever, because Draco certainly couldn’t survive another date with him. If tonight had gone well, Draco had been planning to suggest that quaint new Italian place in his neighborhood, but that was out of the question, now. Because Draco would have to recommend the cacio e pepe, and then Harry would order it, and Draco would have to bear witness to the flex of his knuckles as he deftly twirled the noodles, fork cradled in the crest of his palm as he raised the bite to his lips. Surely, Draco would never recover from the sight of Harry’s fingers twined around the delicate stem of a wine glass. And when they finished the meal with something sweet, Harry might pluck up a wedding cookie and suck the powdered sugar off his fingertips, or—good god—he might order cannoli. What if he bit into it, and the sweet ricotta spilled out the other end and Draco was forced to endure the sight of Harry licking cannoli cream from the long line of his index finger? Oh no. That would not do, at all. Was there some sort of fad restaurant where diners ate in the dark? That would be good. That would be exactly what Draco needed—
“What are you thinking about?”
Shit, he was caught.
“Ah,” he felt himself flush. “I’m enjoying this meal so much, I’m just…wondering where your culinary sense of adventure might bring us next?”
Fuck, why did he say that?
Harry leveled him with a cheeky grin, “Confident, eh?”
Yes, why not jump the gun on proposing a second date, when Draco had already acted like such a moron so far, totally foolproof plan—
“Oh! Well, of course I don’t mean to presume—"
“Relax, I absolutely want to do this again.” Harry smiled, and Draco wondered just how horrible his previous dates had been. “Only, since I picked this time, the next one is your go? I know I sort of threw you into the deep end tonight,” he winced. “So don’t show me any mercy! You can take me somewhere terrifyingly posh—”
Ok, so maybe Draco hadn’t bungled the thing beyond repair.
He rolled his eyes, “Haven’t you been paying attention, Harry, I’ve barely graduated from starving artist status and I’ve recently had my mind blown by kebabs, I’m not going to take you somewhere posh.”
Harry beamed at him.
It was alright, after that, despite Draco’s persistent erection. His body refused to calm down at the sight of Harry continuing to eat with his fingers, but Draco managed to grit his teeth through it, hoping the hot flush across his face wasn’t too obvious.
He lost his composure once more, when Harry attempted a particularly ambitious bite of a beef and potato stew called dinich, and some of the sauce dripped down his pinky finger along the outer edge of his hand, and he unthinkingly licked it up. Draco choked so violently on his own bite of mushrooms that Harry had to send a surreptitious throat-clearing charm across the table, which Draco knew he did wandlessly and that only made him harder.
When they were both full to bursting, Nazret sent them off with a takeaway container of sambusas, on the house, and promises to return soon. Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and knocked his elbow against Draco’s as they crossed out the door and back into the frigid night. Draco allowed himself exactly two seconds to imagine slipping his fingers in between Harry’s as they walked.
“I had a nice time,” he said. “Thank you for taking me there.”
Harry knocked their elbows together again.
“Yeah, ‘course. It’s one of my favorite spots, I’m glad you liked it.”
Lulled into languid contentment at Harry’s side, Harry’s hands stowed safely in his pockets where they couldn’t pose any illicit distraction, Draco stopped watching his words. “I loved it. Despite my initial distress when I realized—"
He sheared off his words as Harry stiffened beside him.
“Realized what?”
“Just— It was only— I wasn’t expecting to be eating that way…" He wrung his hands.
Harry frowned. “So all that about exploring, eating kebabs and all, was that just talk?”
“No! No, it wasn’t, it was just— I just—”
They had turned the corner into the alley. Panic thickened Draco’s blood to sludge, beating a heavy thrum through his veins, clogging his head and leaving his mind blank and slack. Harry was standing in the alley with his arms crossed, and he had been so transparently delighted when Draco had talked about muggle food, teasing him about the kebabs— Harry had looked at Draco with fondness, with respect—
“It’s not what you think—” Draco’s voice was high and tight.
“What is it then?”
Draco squeezed his eyes shut and dug his fingernails into his palms.
“Draco?” Harry’s voice was soft, “Are you alright? I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything, I really did have a good time with you tonight, but—”
“It’s your hands, alright!” Draco burst out.
Harry frowned at him.
“I just— I think you have nice hands— and it was distracting, ok?” He muttered, eyes downcast.
“You think I have nice hands?” Harry repeated, nonplussed.
“Yes,” Draco huffed. “And it was distracting for me, during the meal, while you were—” he felt his face reddening further as he flapped a frustrated hand at Harry’s face, “—eating.”
“Oh,” Harry laughed with a shrug. “Alright then. That’s much better than thinks you’re too good to eat with your hands because you were raised in a Manor, eh?”
Draco nodded. Harry wasn’t looking at him with ridicule or revulsion in his eyes. He hesitated.
“You don’t think it’s weird?”
“What, that you think I have nice hands? What’s weird about that? It’s not like you said you wank over them or someth— Oh.”
All the blood rushed into Draco’s face as he stepped back, shaking his head desperately, “N-No— I don’t—”
Harry took a deliberate step towards him, and then another. Draco was backed up against the cold stone wall of the alley. Harry had stalked him in, cornered him, was staring at Draco now like he was about to say checkmate.
“But you do, don’t you?” Harry murmured, placing his palm on the center of Draco’s chest, just over his racing heart.
Draco squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head again, a weak protest that Harry ignored.
“So at dinner, when you said, what was it—that my hands are prime specimens?” He dug his fingers in, and Draco’s breath hitched, “That wasn’t just your professional opinion, was it?”
Draco shook his head again.
Harry hummed. He dragged his hand slowly down Draco’s torso, coming to rest on his waistband.
“So when you say you were distracted…” He moved his hand lower, brushing the bulge in Draco’s trousers. “Oh, Draco,” he said, his voice warm and pitying, “you’re hard.”
Draco whimpered, shamed, pressing himself back into the wall.
“Have you been like this all night?” Harry’s hand had moved to cup Draco’s crotch and was rubbing him off slowly.
“Y-yes,” Draco whispered, eyes shut.
“You poor thing,” Harry murmured, “We’re going to have to take care of that, aren’t we?”
And then his other hand seized Draco’s arm, and they were gone.
Draco barely had a moment to get his bearings before Harry was crowding him up against another hard surface, kissing him, hot and determined.
“Wha—” he panted, breaking away to take stock of the old Firebolt hanging from a hook beside a large casement window, the cherry wood chest of drawers and wardrobe, the king-sized bed nestled in a matching frame, the crowded collage of photos over a small hearth.
“Harry, what—is this your bedroom?”
“Yeah, is that alright?” Harry was busy toeing off his shoes and shrugging out of his coat, throwing it onto a chair in the corner.
Draco’s head spun as he leaned against the doorframe. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, that’s alright.”
“Great,” Harry spun around and pinned Draco with his gaze. “On the bed.”
“What?”
“Sit,” Harry gestured to the foot of the bed.
Draco sat.
Harry came to stand in between his knees.
“So,” he said. “You like my hands, huh?”
Draco flushed and bent his head.
“Come on,” Harry reached out, fingers grazing Draco’s cheekbone, catching on a strand of hair that had fallen forward, tucking it behind Draco’s ear. “You can say it, alright? It’s okay.”
“Yes, I—I like your hands,” Draco breathed.
Harry dropped to his knees. He placed his palms on Draco’s thighs and ran them up and down a few times.
Draco shivered.
“Thank you,” Harry said, and he reached down toward Draco’s left foot.
Unhurried, his fingers tugged the laces of Draco’s oxford loose, sidled under the tongue and levered it free, slipped around to Draco’s ankle, lifting his foot as he slid the shoe over Draco’s heel. Harry placed it neatly off to the side of the bed and removed Draco’s other shoe with the same deliberate attention. Then, he slid his hands up the opening of Draco’s trouser leg, grazing the tip of a finger along Draco’s Achilles tendon as he searched out the edge of Draco’s socks. He tugged them down one by one, nails scraping the sides of Draco’s ankle bones. Harry folded the socks neatly and tucked them into one of the shoes. Draco’s breath was shuddering.
Harry’s hands traced a warm path up Draco’s legs, spreading wide over his thighs. He brought his fingers to the last button on Draco’s shirt, paused, and undid it with perfect fluidity. He took his time moving up, coaxing each button free, his fingers trailing goosebumps in their wake. When Harry popped the last button he brushed his fingertips out across Draco’s collarbones, pushing the shirt off his shoulders. Draco couldn’t stifle his gasp.
Harry looked at him until Draco looked back, his breath shallow and all his skin flushed, and then Harry moved his hands to Draco’s belt. He kept his eyes on Draco, a steady question, and Draco nodded, but Harry only raised an eyebrow, waiting, until Draco whispered yes. He was unbearably hard, couldn’t suppress a soft moan at the feeling of Harry’s hands brushing against him as he clicked open Draco’s belt buckle and parted the leather.
“God,” Harry breathed, “You want me to touch you?”
“Yes,” Draco said again, his voice cracking.
He watched as Harry’s sure fingers slipped out the button and drew down the zip.
“Not yet,” he said, bringing his hands back to Draco’s waistband. “Up.”
Draco whined a protest but he obliged, lifting his hips so Harry could shimmy his trousers and pants down, letting his hands skate all down Draco’s legs as he drew his clothes over his ankles and sent them into a neatly folded pile with Draco’s shirt, on the dresser.
Instinct curled Draco’s spine, tucked his arms in close to his torso, bent him forward around his nakedness.
“Hey,” Harry murmured, levering himself upright with all the grace of a professional athlete to stand in between Draco’s knees, stooping down to tilt Draco’s chin up and kiss him, “Don’t get modest now,” he said. “I’ll even the playing field, alright?”
He stood back and flicked a careless hand toward the hearth, setting a blazing fire, then dimmed the lamplight low.
“Do you want to do mine?” He asked, “Or do you want to watch?”
Draco bit his lip, averted his eyes.
“Tell me if I’m wrong…but I think you want to watch, only you’re too shy to ask for it?”
Draco nodded.
“We’ll have to work on that,” Harry said, and started on his buttons.
Draco’s fingers fisted in the sheets as Harry’s lazily worked down his shirt. They’d always been rushed, Harry’s quick fingers fumbling to get them undressed as efficiently as possible. But now he took his time, all sinuous precision, while Draco sat, panting and transfixed.
Once he was naked, Harry stood in the bracket of Draco’s shivering thighs. He ran a hand over his own hip, taking himself in hand and indulging in a few languid strokes, right in front of Draco’s face. Draco let out a strangled groan.
“You want this?”
“Yes.”
Harry laughed and reached his hands out to push on Draco’s chest, tipping him back onto the bedspread.
“Too bad,” he said.
Draco’s eyes snapped up. “What? Harry— No— You can’t—”
“Relax,” Harry chuckled, nudging Draco’s knees to get him fully up on the bed, and then clambering up beside him. “I’ll fuck you properly in the morning, if you want my cock that badly,” he grinned. “But tonight… you’re just getting my hands.”
A violent shudder rippled across Draco’s spine, and he clenched his teeth against the aborted whimper in his throat.
“Okay?” Harry murmured, and when Draco looked at him, his eyes were soft.
Draco took a deep breath in. “Okay,” he answered.
Harry leaned in, cradling Draco’s jaw in his hand, and kissed him. Draco curled towards him, reaching, but Harry found his wrists and held them fast and gentle to the sheets on either side of Draco’s head.
“Can you keep your hands here for me?” he murmured, and Draco nodded.
Harry moved back then, lying on his side next to Draco with his chin propped up on the heel of one hand. He trailed the fingers of his other hand down Draco’s wrist, stroking over the quivering skin of his inner elbow. Draco shut his eyes and mouth hard as Harry’s fingers ghosted back and forth, over the tendons in his forearms, the curved muscle of his biceps, along the sensitive ridge of his underarm.
Harry explored Draco’s body like sunlight spreading slow across a floor, a widening pool of late-afternoon warmth. He traced across Draco’s chest, between his ribs, through the trail of hair on his abdomen. He lingered in the crevices of Draco’s hips, teasing the junction of his thighs, spreading his whole warm palm over the sharp crest of Draco’s hipbone. His fingers skated down Draco’s inner thighs, back and forth over the backs of his knees, along the arch of his foot, and back up the other side.
Patient and persistent, Harry touched him. Tracing the lines on his palms and the shell of his ear, touching Draco everywhere—except where he most wanted it—until his entire body felt like a livewire, like a pulsing nerve, like a cresting wave.
Draco didn’t dare crack an eye open. He knew how he must look, tossing his head and squirming, white knuckles gripping the sheets next to his head, red everywhere else. He had stopped trying to muffle the noises leaking out from between his doggedly pursed lips. It wasn’t a conscious choice; he had simply been quiet one moment and the next he was making the most helpless, pathetic sounds—shivering, clutching sorts of noises, feeble mewls and panting gasps.
Harry’s fingers skated dangerously close to Draco’s cock for what felt like the thousandth time, and Draco finally broke.
“Harry,” he whined, “please—”
Harry’s hand stilled.
“Please what?”
Draco gritted his teeth. “Touch me.”
“Haven’t you noticed? I’ve been touching you,” Harry chuckled. “Seems like you’ve noticed…”
“You know what I mean,” Draco hissed.
“You want my hands on your cock, is that it?”
Draco nodded, frantic.
“The thing is,” Harry murmured, right in Draco’s ear, “I want to give you what you want. But I need something from you first.” He settled a palm on the side of Draco’s ribcage, brushing his thumb slowly back and forth. “Come on, look at me.”
Draco opened his eyes.
Harry’s gaze was searing and steady, “You’re still being shy,” he said.
Draco bit his lip, his eyes darting away.
“It’s just— you’re not, I don’t know, freaked out by—” by the fact that I’ve wanked over photos of your hands like a deranged fetish stalker—
“Draco,” Harry said, his voice low, “Do I look like I’m freaked out right now?”
Draco looked at him.
Sweat was beading in his hairline, and his eyes were wide and dark. He was flushed too, flushed all over just like Draco, and—he was hard.
Draco’s eyes swept back up. He looked at Harry, chewed his lip, sucked in a breath.
“You—you like it?”
“Yeah, I fucking like it.” Harry growled. “Do you have any idea what you look like, right now? Do you have any idea how hot you are?”
Draco blinked. And then he surged up, burying his hands in Harry’s hair and pressing their mouths together, slick and desperate. Harry’s mouth was hungry on Draco’s lips, along his jaw, behind his ear.
“Up, up,” Harry urged, tugging Draco to sit and wrenching away from Draco’s body with urgency, stacking the pillows against the headboard and pushing Draco back into them so he was reclining upright and Harry was settled between his legs. Draco leaned back, looking down over his heaving chest to where Harry’s hands were on him, spreading his thighs open.
“So last week… when you came practically as soon I touched you here—” Harry brushed a finger across Draco’s perineum, “—were you thinking about me fingering you?”
Draco nodded, biting his lip.
“Say it, please.”
“Yes, I—yes, I was.”
“Do you want my fingers inside you now?”
Draco didn’t need to be told to say it. “Yes,” he gasped.
“Good,” said Harry. “Thank you for telling me.”
He whispered a charm and his fingers were suddenly slick, brushing over Draco’s hole.
Draco whimpered, bringing his hands over his face, and suddenly Harry’s fingers were gone, and then they were closing around his wrists.
“No hiding,” Harry said. And then, “Here, bring your knees up—” he fitted Draco’s hands in the creases behind his knees and pushed them apart, splaying Draco open like a ripe fruit. “Fuck, you’re a sight,” he muttered. “Can you stay like this? Can you hold yourself open for me?”
Draco nodded again and then, remembering that Harry seemed to like it when he talked, choked out a yes.
“And don’t close your eyes,” Harry said. “I want you to watch.”
He almost failed at the first press of Harry’s finger; almost let his eyelids flutter shut at the sheer pleasure. It was too much—feeling Harry’s finger slowly disappear inside him and seeing it too. It was too much, Draco couldn’t bear it, but Harry had told him to watch so he looked down at his own body, how he held himself like an offering, how hard that made him, how Harry’s finger looked, shiny and wet, pumping in and out.
Harry was looking too, looking at Draco’s body stretched open for him, looking like an old-world god—hedonistic and hungry, and Draco almost had to close his eyes again at that, but he didn’t.
“Do you want another?”
“Yes,” Draco gasped, and jerked his hips as Harry pressed a second finger in.
“You’re doing so well, telling me what you want,” Harry murmured. “Can you give me a little more? Can you admit it, that you got yourself off— I want to hear you say it— I want to know what you thought about, Draco—”
A fresh wave of shame poured down Draco’s spine, pooling low in his belly. He squirmed around it, around Harry’s fingers opening him up. God, he wanted it too, didn’t he? Wanted to debase himself completely before Harry—spreading his own legs open, spilling his own secrets. He shuddered at what Harry might think of him.
“Fuck, I can’t, I can’t—”
Even the way his voice sounded revealed the truth—ragged and desperate and pleading.
“Okay, it’s okay, you don’t have to…” Harry ran his other palm up and down the back of Draco’s thigh, soothing. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to, even when I ask, alright?”
Draco nodded.
Harry leaned forward to kiss the inside of his knee and looked back down at where his fingers moved in and out.
“Christ, though,” he said, “You’re gorgeous. Can I— Would it be okay if I told you what I’m thinking about? And if you want, you can tell me if you’d like it.”
Oh. As much as Draco was petrified of admitting his own filthy fantasies, he very much did want to hear Harry’s.
“Okay,” he breathed, “Yes—tell me.”
“Fuck, yeah, okay,” Harry said.
And then, “I’m thinking about milking you.”
Draco keened, the sound ripped right out of his chest with no warning.
“I’m wondering if I could make you come on just my fingers, just like this—” he pressed on Draco’s prostate and rubbed.
“Yes,” Draco cried, “I could— I’m close, Harry—”
“Jesus, already? Could you come for me right now?”
And when Draco said yes again, Harry relieved the pressure and said, “Not yet, baby, not yet—I’m still talking, hm?”
Draco wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. It didn’t matter though, because Harry kept right on.
“You look so good like this,” he murmured. “Staying still for me and taking it so well… But maybe next time I’ll make you do all the work, yeah? Put you on your hands and knees, sit back and watch you fuck yourself on my fingers.”
Draco whined.
“Would you like that?”
“Yes,” Draco cried, strung out.
“Would you—fuck, would you let me spank you? Would you like it? S’alright if you’re not into that—”
“No—” Draco panted, “I mean, yes, I am, yes please Harry—”
“Fuck,” said Harry, “You’re perfect.”
Draco squeezed his eyes shut at that, shaking his head, and Harry crooked his fingers and said, “Eyes open, baby. Come on, look at how gorgeous you are, you’re so sweet like this, I wanna give you everything—” He broke off, sliding a hand up Draco’s stomach, over his sternum, hesitating with his palm over Draco’s clavicle.
“Please,” Draco whispered.
Harry moved his hand up, fingers closing softly around Draco’s throat. He didn’t squeeze, just pressed his thumb in for a moment and said, “I want—”
Draco swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple bob against Harry’s palm. Draco wanted it too, wanted his breath held tight and safe in Harry’s hands.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Harry shook his head. “Not tonight,” he breathed, and his hand withdrew and settled on Draco’s chest, pinching a nipple and rolling it between his thumb and index finger.
Draco curled off the pillows, moaning, eyes open, looking at Harry’s hands on him, in him.
“Do you want another?” Harry asked.
“Yes,” Draco hissed, and Harry slid a third finger in. He brushed all three against Draco’s prostate, and then spread them out, stretching.
“Fuck,” Harry grunted, “You’re greedy, aren’t you? I bet you want even more—I want, fuck, I want to give you more—”
Draco wanted more. He wanted everything; he didn’t even know what he wanted. He whined, writhing on Harry’s fingers, panting yes, yes, yes, over and over, possibly the only word he knew anymore.
“Maybe I’ll give you four sometime, once I’ve got you all good and stretched out, hm? Would that be enough?”
Abruptly, Draco couldn’t speak.
“No?” Harry chuckled, low and appreciative, “God, I want to give you my whole hand—”
A hot shiver ran over Draco’s body, sweat prickling across his chest and down his spine.
He gasped and whined, “Harry, yes—”
“Goddammit,” Harry growled, “God damn it Draco.” He thrust his fingers in hard. “I want— I want you— You’re so—” He took a deep, steadying breath. “Look at you right now, you’re so wrecked.”
Draco looked. Harry’s fingers slid relentlessly into him. His cock was leaking, a sticky, glistening thread connecting it to the pool on his stomach. The tips of his fingers were white where they were digging into the flesh behind his knees. His thighs were spread wide—obscenely wide—so wide it sent a shudder of mortification straight to his cock, to be reminded that Harry was looking at him like this.
He liked it, though, he had already realized that hadn’t he? And he wanted more, wanted to show Harry more, spread himself open wider, feel the prickling rush of exposure. He wanted to be weak with it, mindless and shameless—
“Harry—” he gasped, “—I did it, I touched myself, I thought about—everything, everything— "
“Fuck.” Harry’s voice was hard and urgent, and he slid his free hand up to Draco’s jaw, tilting his face up. “Say it again. Please, Draco— Say it again, look at me—”
Draco dragged his eyes up to Harry’s face hovering over his own and felt that heady twist in the pit of his stomach, the rush up the back of his neck.
“I touched myself,” he whispered, “Thinking about you.” His face burned and his cock throbbed and he dug further down, wanting more. “Everything you said, Harry, I’ve made myself come thinking about it. All the time, even before— Harry please—”
Harry’s mouth was on him, kissing him feverishly, murmuring, “Yes, Draco yes, you’re so good, you’ve been so good for me, shh, you don’t need to say anything else, alright? I’ve got you, baby, I’m going to make you come, okay? Can I?”
Draco nodded, shaky and whimpering. Harry pulled back just enough to slip three fingers into Draco’s mouth.
“Get them wet,” he choked.
Draco sucked greedily, sloppily, uncaring about the spit leaking all over his chin as Harry thrust his fingers toward the back of Draco’s throat. Merlin, he had gotten himself off to the thought of this more times than he could count—Harry’s thick, strong fingers in his mouth, Draco’s tongue sliding over his knuckles.
“You love this, don’t you—both ends stuffed full with my fingers?” Harry asked, and Draco’s eyes rolled back. He made an urgent sound, hoping to convey that he was going to come imminently, whether Harry ever got around to touching his cock or not, and Harry seemed to get the hint.
He withdrew, trailing his fingers down Draco’s chest, shivers bursting in their wake.
“Come on, baby,” he said as he closed his wet hand around Draco’s cock. The three fingers still buried inside Draco pressed on his prostate. “How fast can you—oh god—”
Draco was coming already, every muscle contracting in towards that bright point of pleasure. He had been stretched taut for so long, hard since dinner, and he screamed as the pressure finally broke in thundering waves over his entire body.
When he came to, spent and soft and still shuddering, Harry’s fingers were at his lips again, sticky with come. Draco opened, pliant, and sucked lazily, watching Harry under heavy-lidded eyes as he slowly pulled the rest of his fingers out from Draco’s arse.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry muttered as he started stroking himself, fingers of his other hand still probing Draco’s soft palate. Draco spared a thought for the fact that Harry’s cock hadn’t been touched that entire time either; he wasn’t holding back now, squeezing himself tight, a litany of filthy praises still falling from his lips.
“That was—insane,” he grunted. “You’re fucking incredible Draco, fuck—”
And then he was coming too, on Draco’s stomach, over Draco’s own release.
Draco whimpered a little at the sight and Harry pulled his fingers out of his mouth, slumped over and kissed him, wet and messy. He pulled back and pressed their foreheads together, and Draco felt Harry’s fingers swipe through the mess on his stomach.
“I want—” Harry closed his eyes, shuddered, opened them. “Fuck, Draco, I want my come in you— Can I—”
“Yes,” Draco choked out, “Please, Harry.”
Draco had finally released his knees and his legs were slack and open now. Harry’s fingers moved again, gathering up their come and trailing back down to Draco’s hole, pushing it in, moving back up, over and over while whispering in Draco’s ear, I want to fuck you again tomorrow, fill you up again, and you’re still taking it, so perfect, until Draco was trembling. Then he summoned a warm flannel and wiped down Draco’s stomach and got them both under the sheets.
Draco curled into Harry’s chest, ducking his head. He still felt loose and warm, heavy-limbed and sated, but a tiny sliver of self-doubt had wormed its way in, a splinter under a fingernail. He brought his thumb up to his mouth and worried the skin there.
“Draco, are you alright?” Harry began, tentative, “That was intense. Did I push you too far? I’m sorry, I know I can be a lot—”
“No, no, it was—” Draco gulped, dredging up honesty again. “It was perfect. I’m just— I guess that’s what I’m worried about… I didn’t think you’d ever be into any of that. You don’t have to humor me, if you don’t want—”
“Draco. Look at me. I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do, just now. If it wasn’t obvious, I was extremely enthusiastic about everything that was happening. In fact, if it weren’t for the physiological limitations of the human body, I would do it all again, right now.”
Draco giggled.
Harry smiled down at him. “I mean sure, I wasn’t really expecting it—I haven’t spent nearly as much time thinking about all that as you—” he pinched Draco’s side, teasing. “But honestly… watching you, the way you reacted… It made me feel— It felt really good. So can you trust when I say that I enjoyed every minute of it, and you have nothing to be worried about?”
Draco nodded, burying his face in Harry’s neck.
“And let me be clear about one more thing—” Harry laughed, tipping Draco’s chin back up. “I had a fantastic time tonight—the whole night, not just the sex. I want to take you out again, and I want to fuck you again, repeatedly, for all the foreseeable future.”
He spread his hand out over Draco’s cheek and Draco hummed, bringing his own hand around outside Harry’s and lacing their fingers together.
“Okay.”
Harry quirked a brow.
“Yes,” Draco laughed. “Yes, Harry, I agree to go out with you and fuck you for the foreseeable future.”
“Brilliant,” Harry beamed at him. “On that note, do you have any dinner plans tomorrow?”
Draco tugged Harry’s hand around so he could press his lips to the palm, then he tucked both their hands together into his chest, over his heart.
“You’re in luck,” he grinned. “I’m free, and I know a lovely little Italian place.”