Work Text:
It’s different this time.
When Draco makes a joke, raising his voice to be heard above the din of the pub, he glances at Harry afterwards, as though checking to make sure that he heard it. When he brags, he does it with a smirk, tilting his head to the side and staring Harry down. He takes up more space than usual, stretching his legs under the table until they tangle with Harry’s own. He hooks an ankle around the leg of Harry’s chair and refuses to let up until Harry says please. Then he rests his chin on his palm and tells Harry to say it again.
Blaise stares at them all night with an exhausted look on his face. His eyes grow even warier when Draco demands that Harry get him a drink – something with a straw, he doesn’t have a preference otherwise.
“Merlin alive,” Blaise mutters. He nudges Neville’s shoulder and nods in Harry’s direction. “What do you make of that?”
“Harry’s gone,” Neville replies, shrugging. “Not unexpected, is it?”
He’d protest, but it wouldn’t do much good, not when Draco looks like he does, and Harry can’t help but react. He’s worn his best shirt, is the thing. It’s green silk with golden buttons and he’s wearing it open all the way down to his navel. As it turns out, yes, Draco’s scars do run all the way down to his waistband; they’re thin and silvery, like tiny spider webs dragged across his torso by the delicate hands of a creator.
“Draco,” Blaise had said when Draco walked in, “we’re in a pub, not the red light district. Fuck off over to Soho if you’re wanting to be a slag.”
“Don’t be jealous,” Draco shot back, “it’s not a good look on you.”
Now he’s sitting across the table from Harry, flicking at the straw in his cocktail with the point of his tongue. It’s driving Harry absolutely spare watching it. He’s half-hard in his jeans and he’ll need a piss soon, but he can’t stand up without risking being booted out the front door by the pub’s law-abiding management.
Not that he can piss with a stiffy anyway. And he’s not nearly desperate enough to wank over the toilet so that he can break the seal.
“Alright, Potter?” Draco asks. He runs his tongue over his lower lip suggestively.
Harry’s cock twitches. He nods.
“Do you like my outfit?” Draco asks. There’s a glint in his eye, the utter wanker. “I thought you might.” He makes to scratch at his neck, splaying his fingers across his throat and sliding them across the expanse of pale skin. His palm spans the entire width of his throat, his fingers curling around the sides. When he drops his hand to the table, smirking at the way Harry’s breath hitches, he runs it down his chest first. It drags his open shirt to the side; his nipple is hard, pink and pebbled.
Harry’s mouth goes dry. In a fit of single-minded arousal, he bypasses his own empty glass and reaches for Draco’s cocktail. It’s fruity – strawberry and something syrupy that tastes like passionfruit. He licks the taste of it from his lips afterwards, watches as Draco’s eyes track the movement.
“Where will you be going after this?” Draco asks. He rubs at his neck again, though it’s more distracted than intentional this time.
“Home?” Harry replies.
“Alone?” Draco asks innocently. His eye twitches as he says it, face screwing up with disgust. “Merlin alive, I’ve turned into the very thing I hate the most. Look what you’ve done to me. It’s incredible what impacts fingering the Chosen One has on your psyche.”
Abruptly Blaise stands, grabs his and Neville’s pints, and moves to another table. When he gets there, he pauses to assess the situation, before taking his wand out and Accioing Parkinson’s handbag. It’s an absolute monstrosity with purple and black interlocking stripes and enough peacock feathers sticking out in every direction that from a distance it appears that she’s taken to lugging around a Pygmy Puff.
Evidently, Parkinson pays more attention to her accessories than to her best mate, because the sudden thievery of the item is the only thing that makes her stop snogging the bloke that she’d picked up in the line outside. With a squawk, she jumps up and rounds on Blaise with her hands on her hips.
“Blaise Zabini, you cow. Just because your mother’s pissed away her latest round of alimony doesn’t mean you get to steal–”
“Darling,” Draco says, rubbing his forehead with two fingers. “Your lipstick’s smudged.”
“Doesn’t matter,” the bloke says. He slides a hand up her skirt and Draco kicks his chair out from under him.
While the commotion sorts itself out – meaning that Neville arrives back from the loos and stops Parkinson from sticking her booted foot into Draco’s stomach – Harry takes the time to look his fill. Not that he’s been doing much else since the evening got properly underway.
Alongside the green silk shirt of Harry’s dreams, Draco’s also got on a pair of tight black jeans that he all but certainly borrowed from Blaise’s wardrobe. Likely without asking, given the track record of that half of the group. His fingers are adorned with extra rings this evening, with a number of silver bands clicking against the Malfoy signet ring, competing for space. There’s one with a dragon on it that keeps dipping its head in Harry’s direction; though he’s no Hermione, he does remember a bit from Care of Magical Creatures and he’s fairly sure that it’s doing a mating dance. Which, cool if Draco’s intentions have somehow become embedded into his jewellery, less cool if it’s going to try and take a bite out of his cock later.
“Well,” Draco says, turning back to face Harry. He reaches up to fix his own hair, which is in a state of disarray after Parkinson took revenge for his ‘all out assault on … what was your name again?’ and hexed him with something that Neville countered wordlessly. “That’s enough excitement for the evening.”
“Going home, are you?” Harry teases. “Off to bed … without me?”
Draco points a finger at him. “Do not even start. I can’t be held accountable for the things I say when I’m trying to get a leg over.”
“Is that your intention here?”
Draco rolls his eyes. He leans back in his chair, letting his shirt fall open further. “Don’t play coy, Harry, you’re far too naughty looking for it to come across well.” He glances at something over Harry’s shoulder and lifts four fingers into the air.
For a brief moment, Harry thinks he’s asking how many he can take.
The answer is yes, but before he can respond to a question that has decidedly not been asked, one of the bartenders leans over Harry’s shoulder and places four shots of red liquor on the table.
“Ta,” Draco says, smiling. “Pop it on Blaise Zabini’s tab, yes? He’ll agree, no need to check. More money than sense, as they say.”
“Rich, coming from you,” Harry says. He takes one of the shots, holding it to his nose to smell. The scent of cherries and dark chocolate wafts up to meet him, though there’s something else lurking underneath.
“Don’t drink it yet.” Draco sets two of the shots down in front of himself and levels Harry with a cheeky look. “First, a game.”
“We don’t need a game,” Harry replies. “I’ve made it very clear that I’d like to get buggered by you. What more do you want?”
“Oh, Potter.” Draco curls his fingers into a fist before relaxing them, splaying them wide on the tabletop. “There’s so much that I want. Shall we begin?”
Harry shrugs. “Sure.” He mimics Draco’s posture, leaning back in his chair and elongating his torso. Draco’s eyes track the movement, lips curling into a smirk.
“First question,” he says. “We both have to say something that we’d like to do with the other in bed. You can start.”
“Generous of you,” Harry replies sarcastically. “Aside from the obvious?”
“Don’t be boring. You’re anything but that.”
It’s an honest admission – almost too honest, but Harry will take whatever he can get. He tips the shot back, letting the taste of cherry and dark chocolate wash over his tongue. It’s followed up with the fiery taste of tequila, warming his throat and settling in his stomach.
“Fuck,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Answer the question,” Draco says. “Go on. What do you like?”
“Uh,” Harry says, blinking through the sudden rush of heat. The shot is working exactly as intended, no doubt, scrambling his brain and leaving him unable to formulate a lie quickly enough. Not that he’d need one; he’s got no desire to lie to Draco at this point. “I want you to wank into my mouth again. But take one of those potions beforehand that makes you come more. I want it to fill up my mouth until I have to ask you to stop. Then I want you to put your fingers in and spread it around.”
There’s a pause before Draco lets out a long, steadying breath. He’s gripping the table, the bones on the backs of his hands standing out.
“Fuck,” he mutters, breathy. He clears his throaty and grabs hold of his own shot, lifting it toward Harry in a mock ‘cheers’. “I,” he says, “want to finger you until you come dry. Then I want to slick up your arse so effectively that I just slide in and out. Then I’ll make you come again.”
Harry’s been hard in his jeans for the better part of the evening – Draco’s made sure of that, showboating across the table – but his erection makes itself known anew, leaking in his pants. Much more and he’ll have a visible patch there for everyone to see. Probably that’s just what Draco’s after.
“Take your shot,” Draco says, voice strained. “Next question: how long have you wanted this? Me, my hands, whatever. I asked you the first time we did this, but we were both a little preoccupied.”
As Harry knocks back the shot, he considers his answer.
He doesn’t know exactly when Draco turned from a derisive Malfoy to an anticipatory Draco. The name changed certainly preceded it, as a polite request from Neville. But he’s not certain what the catalyst was, what drove him properly over the edge from I hate you to I hate that your body isn’t on mine right now.
The next shot goes down easier, the heat more manageable. Harry stacks the empty shot glasses atop each other and says, “A few years.”
Draco’s eyes seem to bug out a bit. “Pardon – did you say years?”
Harry shrugs. “Probably. Is that fine?”
“Uh…” Draco turns to glance at the table with their friends for a moment, but none are looking their way. When he turns back, his cheeks and neck are flushed pink. “Yes. Rather, it’s exceptionally fine. Your turn.”
“Last time we played a game you started to say something about me – something that you thought. What was it?”
Draco’s eyes widen dramatically as he registers Harry’s words at the same time that he swallows the shot. When he puts the glass down, he stares for a moment, clearly debating whether or not to lie.
Evidently, he decides against it.
With a deep swallow, Draco says, “I was going to tell you that I might be a little bit in love with you. In part.”
“You what?”
“In part. Do pay attention.”
“No.” Harry holds his hands out to the sides. “That deserves an explanation.”
“Well,” Draco says. He turns up his nose and sniffs haughtily. “You didn’t use your questions effectively enough. And I said in part, Merlin alive.” He stands, brushing a non-existent speck of dust from his bare chest. “Now, are you coming back to mine or not?”
*
Draco’s flat is vastly superior to the Earl of Windsor’s dingy basement bathroom.
But only partially, since he shares it with Zabini, Parkinson, and a German witch named Anja. The fact that it’s in Notting Hill does them absolutely no favours, considering the clashing interior design choices. It’s very apparent who selected each piece of furniture – pink is Parksinson, black is Zabini, yellow is Anja, and silver is Draco. The green, Draco explains as he fumbles with a literal ring of keys to unlock the door, is from Greg, who rents out the attic room every second quarter.
“You’re living in uni halls,” Harry says, sidestepping a pair of Parkinson’s sky-high heeled boots that lay abandoned by the front door. “You work in a proper adult job for the Ministry and you still live in uni halls.”
“There’s no university here,” Draco hisses. “And it’s quaint. We thought we’d give it a go before we all bugger off and get married and lock ourselves away in those big country estates that you certainly don’t have, so put away your jealousy.”
“Oh, yeah,” Harry says, following Draco down the hallway, “I can smell the crisp, country air from here. Could’ve fooled me. Might have to—”
He’s stopped in his tracks when Draco turns and presses him against the wall. He splays a hand at the base of Harry’s throat, over his collarbone. The weight of him is delicious and Harry spreads his legs just a little in order to get him closer.
“Stop,” Draco says, his tone low, “being a wanker. Not before I’ve got my cock in you.” He rubs his thumb over Harry’s lip, dipping it inside to rest on his tongue. “Good. Just through here.”
Draco’s room is bigger than Harry might have expected, given the smaller size of the communal living room. It’s dominated by a fourposter bed with a blue and silver duvet and an ornate set of carvings on each of the corners. Off to the side is a chair, sitting alone and facing the bed.
Glancing between it and Draco, Harry raises a teasing eyebrow.
“Do not start,” Draco says, though he’s grinning, “unless you want to sit over there and not participate for the rest of the evening.”
“If I can watch, I’ll call that a win.”
“Oh, you’ll do more than watch. Clothes off.”
It’s a dizzying transition, going from fully clothed in the hallway to standing naked beside Draco’s bed in less than two minutes.
An appropriate distraction from that fact is Draco’s hand on his hard cock, stroking up and down as he watches Harry’s face for a reaction.
“This is yours,” Draco says, gesturing to his body and then his bed. “Tell me what you want, and we’ll do it.”
Tongue thick in his mouth, Harry says, “I want to watch you wank.”
With a sharp nod, Draco’s on the bed. He pats the spot next to him, smirking as Harry rushes over.
“And what,” he says, wrapping a hand around his cock, “should I think about?”
It’s not a hard decision.
Without saying a word, Harry lies down on the bed next to Draco. He’s a little lower, level with Draco’s chest rather than his face, but it gives him a much better view of his fingers moving over his cock. Without difficulty, Harry Conjures a handful of lube into his own palm; his wand is tucked into the pocket of his discarded jeans, but he’s not needed it for simple spells in a long time.
There’s a sharp intake of breath when Draco realises what he’s doing. His movements falter, palm resting on the side of his crown, as he watches Harry spread his legs.
“Fucking hell,” Draco mutters and he begins to move his hand.
“Watch me,” Harry says, sliding the first finger inside himself.
A muffled whimper gets caught in Draco’s throat. His cock is getting wetter with his arousal, his fingers gone slick. The Malfoy family crest winks at Harry as it moves in and out of his direct line of sight.
As Harry presses a second finger into himself, he grabs for Draco’s hand and pulls it towards his mouth. The signet ring is metallic, though not unpleasant when he rests it on his tongue. Draco doesn’t push, leaving his finger when Harry guides it, not sliding it in further. The skin on his first knuckle shifts under Harry’s tongue, the point catching in the lines on Draco’s skin. He moans, forcing his eyes to stay open so that he can watch Draco wank, though they beg to slip closed.
“Fuck,” Draco whimpers. He stops the movement of his hand, reaches down to roll his balls in his palm. “Take your fingers out.”
Harry does, resting his wet hand on his stomach. He avoids touching his cock, the memory of Draco’s earlier confession still fresh in his mind; he’ll try to make Harry come on just his fingers.
Draco swallows. He grabs his cock again and begins wanking it quickly. “Do you feel empty now, Harry? Squeeze your legs together for me.”
There’s a dull ache there, between Harry’s legs, like something’s missing. He’s stretched himself, but he hasn’t come yet – a fact that his body is very well aware of.
“That’s it.” Draco rubs his finger gently over Harry’s tongue, taking care not to catch his teeth with the signet ring. “I’m going to give you a choice here, but you’re going to have to make it quickly – would you like for me to hold off until I fuck you, or come in your mouth?”
Harry turns, opening his mouth wide around Draco’s finger. He gets a swear in response, a number of muffled curses as Draco shifts closer. He moves his finger, dragging Harry’s bottom lip down to make way for his cock.
“All of it,” Harry says. He feels Draco’s wetness on his lips, sticky and earthy. “Every last bit. Don’t waste it.”
When Draco comes, he curls his entire body over Harry’s. He rests the head of his cock on Harry’s tongue, stimulating the crown with the rougher spots further back towards Harry’s throat. He whimpers, staring down at Harry with eyes full of wonder, as he streaks the insides of Harry’s cheeks white. When Harry swallows, he taps Draco’s thigh to ensure that he’s paying attention. He shows him first, lets Draco rub his thumb over the corner of Harry’s mouth to catch what he’d missed.
“Merlin,” Draco says, letting his hand drop to Harry’s shoulder. He grips it, grounding himself. “Fuck, maybe it’s not only ‘in part’.”
“I’m not taking anything you say in here to heart,” Harry says, leaning up on his elbow and kissing Draco soundly, “so don’t pretend like you’ve actually done something there.”
“Fuck off,” Draco replies, pressing Harry back against the duvet. “What do you know? You’re just the Boy Who Lived to Suck Cock.”
“Is that supposed to be insulting? Sounds like you’re complimenting me.”
“It’s not. It’s an insult in part. Leave me be, I’ve just come.”
Harry grins, takes Draco’s hand and guides it between his legs. “Now who’s the stupid one after they’ve come?”
“You,” Draco says, sliding his finger into Harry’s wet hole. “Definitely still you.”
“I want to come like this.” Harry rests his head against Draco’s arm, inhaling the natural scent of him. “Just your fingers, like you said.”
“You’re going to kill me,” Draco replies. He stops to refresh the lubrication charm before sliding two fingers back inside Harry.
“You deserve it,” Harry says with a smile.
“Well, if I could choose how to go…” Draco curls his fingers, rubbing them over Harry’s prostate and Harry’s vision whitens.
“God,” he moans, pulling his legs up towards his chest and holding them.
“Just lie back for me, darling,” Draco says. He kisses the corner of Harry’s open mouth, then the side of his neck. “That’s it, squeeze around me. There you go.” He rests his free hand against the side of Harry’s neck; he caresses the skin there with light, barely-there touches. “Is it good?”
Harry nods. He turns his head, presses his open mouth against Draco’s skin.
“I’m going to fuck you after this,” Draco says. “You’re going to come on my fingers and then you’ll be relaxed enough that I can push right in. Oh, do you like that?”
“Faster,” Harry says. “Fuck, Draco, go faster.”
Draco does, thrusting his fingers in and out quickly. His knuckles stretch Harry’s rim wide, his fingers pressing deep inside, his thumb rubbing the seam of Harry’s tight balls. He whispers into Harry’s ear words about how soft he feels inside, how tight, how well Draco’s fingers fit exactly where they are, where they were always meant to be.
“You’re so close,” Draco says. “I can feel you squeezing. Let go whenever you’re ready, darling, I’ll keep touching you. Focus on my fingers, how deep they are. How good they feel stretching you open, pressing inside, how – oh, darling, that’s it.”
Harry pants as he comes, mouthing at Draco’s skin. He holds his legs to his chest and shakes as Draco fucks him through it, moving his fingers in and out at a rapid pace. He begins to slow his movements as Harry’s body relaxes, legs lowering to the bed.
“Good boy,” Draco says and kisses him, all teeth and tongue. He moves down Harry’s body, wrapping a hand around his own hard cock. It’s slick from lube, Harry’s spit, and his previous orgasm, wetness coating the head. He fucks between Harry’s thighs for a moment, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation.
“It’s going to be too much,” Harry says, watching him. “For you, I mean.” He feels his lips turn up in a grin as Draco raises a challenging eyebrow.
“I’ll be fine, thanks ever so. You, on the other hand, might as well call off work tomorrow.”
“We’ve not got work tomorrow, it’s a Gringott’s weekend. What did I say about you being the—” Harry gasps as Draco pushes inside in one thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
“You were saying?” Draco asks, cockily, and then he starts to thrust. He avoids hitting Harry’s oversensitive prostate head on, choosing instead to brush past it. His stomach rubs against Harry’s balls, stimulating them with every press inside.
“Nothing,” Harry moans. “Fuck, I didn’t say anything.”
“Good.” Draco falters in his movements, his mouth dropping open. When he regains his rhythm he shifts his position, freeing up one of his hands. He rubs the pad of his finger over Harry’s lips, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth when Harry opens eagerly for it. “I’m going to come with both my fingers and my cock inside you.”
Harry nods, sucks on his fingers and lets his eyes slip closed. He lets his tongue drag up the side of Draco’s finger, tasting the remnants of lubricant and come and chocolate-cherry.
“Squeeze around me,” Draco says. Harry does, tensing around Draco’s cock and sucking firmly on his finger. “That’s it. Fuck, that’s it.”
When Draco comes, it’s with a low groan that he muffles against Harry’s neck. He shudders in Harry’s arms, his thrusts slowing as Harry’s body milks him dry. Even as he pulls back, his hips continue to move, twitching toward Harry as though not wanting to go. Then he makes Harry come again with his hands, telling him to watch, asking what he likes.
There’s no answer that Harry can come up with that isn’t this. What you’re doing right now. That’s exactly what I like.
After, once Harry’s stopped shaking and his brain has come back down to earth, Draco props himself up on one elbow and smirks down at him like the Niffler that got the gold.
“You like me,” he says, eyes full of mirth. “And my hands. You really like my hands.”
“Obviously,” Harry says, “you fucking wanker.”
“I’m going to remember this.” Draco flops onto his back, smirking up at the ceiling. The edges of him soften as Harry shifts closer, resting his head on Draco’s shoulder.
“Hope so,” Harry replies, “since I’ve not forgotten what you said earlier.”
“Ah,” Draco says, “that. Suppose that warrants a proper conversation, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
“Lovely. Might I get drunk first? I should hope that’s agreeable.”
“It’s not. Explain yourself sober, or not at all.”
“Right. Drat.” He turns his head to press a kiss to the top of Harry’s. When he smirks into Harry’s hair, it’s obvious. He lifts his fingers in front of Harry’s face and wiggles them. “Might I distract you with my best feature?”
Harry whacks them playfully, sending them back towards Draco’s pillow. “They’re not your best feature, you git.”
“Oh?” Draco moves, letting Harry’s head slip from his shoulder to the pillow. He hovers over Harry, hair messy, lips swollen, and eyes bright. “What is?”
Reaching up, Harry drags Draco down by the hair to kiss him again. Against his lips he says, “Let’s have that conversation, and maybe I’ll tell you.”
And that, evidently, is agreeable.