hd_hols (hd_hols) wrote in hd_holidays,
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HAPPY H/D HOLIDAYS, KJP_013!

Author: badjujuboo
Recipient: kjp_013
Title: Small Spaces and Pantsless Potters
Pairing(s): Draco/Harry , Neville/Pansy
Summary: There were much better places that Draco could have hoped to be with Harry Potter. Locked in a cellar was not one of them. And yet, by the end of the night, it was.
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): a messy blowjob followed by a tiny bit of rimming (which constantly makes me think of Arnold Rimmer and his salute.
Epilogue compliant? No Weasley's were involved with any Potters, lets just say they went their separate ways and leave it at that yes?
Word Count:7199
Author's Notes: So you had plenty for me to work with and I think I grabbed all the good things and hopefully this makes for a Happy Holidays for you! Xx Also, my beta S is a godsend, her turnabout of HOURS made a into no stress at all! I of course had to retouch so any further mistakes are my own.




"This is all your fault."


Draco heard Harry sigh, and luckily the man didn't say a word, he didn't even look up to where Draco had been pacing for the past . . . well, at least an hour now. What he wouldn't give for his watch, or at the very least his wand.


"Out of all my friends, all of my friends, why did you have to go and make nice with the most conniving, unbearable, underhanded one of them all?" Draco kicked at a little something in his path, sending what was possibly a small stone skidding across the floor with a thunk where it hit something, probably the wall.


Thank the gods he wasn't the claustrophobic type.


"Are you hot? It feels hot." Draco paused from his walking circuit to pull at his tie, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. "It is hot, isn't it? It's not just me?" he asked, finally turning to give Harry a look over. Just to check if he was as unsettled as Draco now found himself becoming.


Prat was just sitting there, legs hanging over the edge of the bench, bottle of wine between his legs, using his short bloody nails to pull at the cork wedged in the top.


"It's a cellar, Draco. These places are dank and dark," Harry said, somehow prying what looked to be half an inch from the top. "You're always hot. Maybe if you stopped walking around so much you'd feel better."


Hot? Had Potter just said he was always hot?


That was it, then. He was obviously losing the plot being stuck down here with the man he'd had a crush on for far too long (and shared a bed with once, but neither of them ever talked about that particular party experience).


Were hallucinations part of being claustrophobic?


It sounded plausible.


"Fuck it," he heard Harry mutter, and then the cork was flying out of the bottle and whizzing past Draco so fast it left a disturbing ringing noise in his left ear.


"Potter!" Draco squawked, holding his hand up to quell the noise but in reality making it worse until it was almost echoing against his palm. Harry had the decency to look a little sheepish. His ruddy magic had been all over the place lately—according to Pansy—especially if he used wandless spells. There may have been a slight incident at Gringotts a few days back involving Harry yet again having to pay for a new chandelier in the foyer. Harry's magic may have gone a teency bit wild when, yet again, they wanted extensive ID just to let him into his vault.


Goblins had long memories and weren't exactly happy about one of their own being hit with an unforgiveable by the so called "Saviour of the Wizarding World."


Even if that one spell had been just a small part in what was needed to save all Magical kind.


Again, Goblins, long memories and even less happy thoughts about Wizards.


At least this time there wasn't a dragon involved, and from what Draco had overheard Harry telling Pansy over the Floo, he wasn't going to be storing his money within Gringotts' dark tunnels for much longer. As it was, Draco had had to really push for Harry to be let back within the building after he'd refused to go and find them a new dragon to use as a security measure.


The things one had to do as one Harry Potter's accountant cum financial aide, all unpaid and usually interrupting his paid position at WWW.


Draco just added it to the ever-growing list of why he and Potter were a bad idea, only to hear Pansy's voice in his head list the multitude of reasons why they were.


Bloody Pansy Longbottom.


Just because she was happy with her lot in life, making children and working off what she felt was her life debt to Harry as his assistant/manager/agent sort of thing. Harry had needed someone to say "no" to things instead of the crackle and spit that had been palpable around him back after the war. Pansy, who had turned the rebuilding of Hogwarts into a rebuilding of Hogwarts into – well what that weirdo Lovegood had called a rebuilding of herself. When somehow she'd taken up with Longbottom, she'd also made it her mission to get back on Harry's good side. Really, offering him up in the Great Hall with all the little Potter acolytes around had been such a bad move – so organising his availability for charity functions, when he was a Ministry figure head and even his grocery list was suddenly all up to her. Why did she also feel it was her job to mess with Potter's private life? Or Harry the version that included Harry with Draco, in particular.


For the millionth time since being magically entombed in this bloody cellar he cursed Pansy and her meddling ways. He really should have noticed something was up when she'd invited them over here for Harry to check out the possibility of a boggart in the cellar. Longbottom was away on a field trip with his little Hogwarts charges in some random out of the way place and Pansy was stuck at home with their two children, so he hadn't thought at the time that she was plotting out his and Harry's tenuous friendship's demise. She'd given them a lantern, virtually shoved them down the stairs, Accio'd their wands, and then proceeded to cast as many locking, silencing, and a few other spells that weren't exactly on the Ministry's approved list just to keep them in. All finished off by her smug voice mentioning something about the spell not dissolving the locks until they'd admitted the truth to one another.


The mere mention of truths had both men awkwardly pulling at too-long fringes and straightening cuffs of perfectly pressed shirts and looking anywhere but at each other.


Draco had obviously been hanging around far too many Gryffindors to forget just how Slytherin Pansy was.


"You want?" Draco looked up from where he'd been surreptitiously checking out Harry's long fingers wrapped around the bottle neck and noticed that Harry was actually tilting the thing towards him.


"Straight from the bottle, Potter? I'm not a heathen like you."


Harry's mouth quirked at the corner of one side. "Suit yourself," he muttered before taking what could only be described as the world's longest and most shamefully arousing pull on the bottle. Draco watched, entranced by the man's Adam's apple bobbing up and down, as Harry tilted his head further and further back.


Did he even knowwhat that looked like?


Perhaps Potter was nothing more than a hopeless flirt? Whatever it was, his behaviour did nothing to quell Draco's infatuation with him or the vain hope that Potter would be interested in more than just the friendship they'd built up over the past year of living together.


Another plot by the nefarious Pansy Longbottom to prove that Draco and Harry were meant for each other. "Gods, the way you two fight it seems only fair you should get the great makeup sex afterwards!


He'd hexed her hair Weasley-red that day, only to send her a bunch of her favourite flowers once Harry had popped around to George's shop to ask Draco to move in. Hadn't George found that hilarious, too? Draco had just finished waxing philosophical on the eminently bad reasons why he could never live with Harry (the first five being related to old House prejudices, something about Draco giving Harry a broken nose, the dancing ferret incident, and a little spell called Sectumsempra that caused Draco to wear undershirts constantly because he hated the look and feel of the scars it had left, not only on his chest but on the inside of him, too) when the prat had walked in the back door and asked to see Draco alone.


It wasn't as if Draco didn't have anywhere else to stay. After he'd helped with the rebuilding of Hogwarts, and strangely enough bonded over charm work with George one very late, very drunk Christmas Eve, he ended up working for a Weasley and sleeping most nights in the back room on a pile of boxes he'd Transfigure into a somewhat comfy bed each night. He did have the option of returning to the Manor; what with the Auror department having finished taking its reparations and more or less leaving the empty house with one or two pieces of furniture in every room, it was an option. But Draco didn't want to go back there, had avoided it at all costs really, apart from escorting his mother there after his trial and then his father's so she, too, could say goodbye to the place before heading to France to stay with her sister and her grandson. He had stayed with Pansy for a few nights, but seeing Longbottom's arse one too many times in a public place and their displays of raunchy, X-rated affection was enough to make him really want a space of his own.


Longbottom's apparent love of open air love-making was what had endeared him to Pansy in the first place. Gods, how that repeat seventh year had changed them all. Some more than others.


Pansy, of course, mentioned Potter was looking for someone, but Draco laughed in her face. All five times she mentioned it. And then found he could laugh no more when Potter actually asked him himself to come and stay. "Let bygones be bygones, mate. You need a place, I've got space, and honestly, it's part yours anyhow seeing as it was 'the most noble house of Black,' if you listen to what Kreacher goes on about. Not that I'll have any of that cruelty towards elves in my home. For one I don't like it, and two, Hermione would have my head and make me turn in my S.P.E.W. badge if she found out."


It was about then that Draco interrupted and made some vague vote of appreciation and thanks. It was also about then that he realised it was probably the world's worst idea, because it turned out he was left quite aroused by the bumbling sentences Harry seemed to expound whenever they were around each other. Draco had stupidly thought living with Harry would cease that line of thought—living with someone usually cleared out any sort of romantic notions about them when you saw piles of their stained underpants, or how they left gunge in the kitchen sink instead of washing it out after doing the dishes, or how they had no concept of what a coaster was bloody for and obviously no idea of the value of antiques, either.


But it didn't. If anything, living with Harry had made Draco's crush even worse.


The man walked around half-naked after a shower, constantly on the lookout for clean clothes, and for some reason thinking they'd be located in Draco's bedroom. Which a few times they were, but that was only because Harry had snuck his underthings into Draco's dry cleaning, not at all because Draco may have hidden them there. Harry also had this disturbingly cute morning rumpled look that Draco made sure to poke fun at although he couldn't help admiring the line of Harry's spine when he stretched up of a morning, holding onto the top of the door frame and yawning loudly.


Honestly, how could he not stare and drool over that? The man only wore sleep pants all year round and when he stretched like that, Draco discovered he was also in the possession of arse dimples.


Oh, to lick, touch, taste, tongue-fuck those little divots, and then maybe push those gorgeous cheeks open and paint a stripe over Harry's pucker and dip his tongue in . . . .


All it would take would be a look from Harry—one word, even—and Draco would do it. He'd sacrifice himself on that particular pole over and over and over again. But Harry never showed interest beyond a few drunken fumbles that neither of them ever spoke about the next morning, just one or other of them gave his fellow sufferer a vial of Pepper-Up and some Muggle concoction involving tomato juice, jalepenos, and possibly acid that Harry insisted was the only cure for feeling like shite for the rest of the day.


It really was sad how hard Draco held onto the hopes that the Boy Who Lived could also be the Boy Who Forgave His Childhood Enemy And Fucked Him Six Ways From Sunday . . . and Liked It.


Gods, he was pathetic.


Thankfully Draco's parents weren't around to see this. He was quite happy that Mother had taken up residence in their apartment in Paris, close enough to owl but far enough away that she didn't just pop by and visit. Father had nothing more than a view of the misty ocean from his cell in Azkaban, not that he would be impressed that Draco was living with, let alone lusting after, Potter—then again, Lucius was never too pleased that his only son was a shirt-lifter anyhow.


"Fine, give it here," Draco said, taking the few steps over to where Potter was now wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Uncouth wanker (and damn if it didn't turn Draco on a little more). Draco padded across the cool stone floor, pulling himself up to sit on the bench beside Harry. His long legs dangled over the edge, heels tapping one-two, one-two on the cupboards. Harry handed him the bottle and snorted when Draco made a show of wiping the opening with his sleeve before taking a perfectly acceptable swig himself. Harry really laughed then, shaking the somewhat sturdy bench they were sat on and causing Draco's heart to beat a little faster—purely because the wood could collapse at any second, not that Harry was being rather endearing. No, not at all.


They sat there silently passing the bottle between them, not saying much but enjoying each other's company. Soon the bottle was empty and Harry just reached behind him for another, muttered the spell this time—which gave a slightly tipsy Draco the giggles—and little did they realise, but the second bottle had become the fifth, and now—well, now Draco wasn't entirely sure whatbottle they were up to. The conversation had started somewhere before the third bottle—simple conversation on how well England would do against Spain on the weekend, and then it was friends and how funny "baby brain"-affected Granger was, forgetting everything and just what the sprog would be and when she'd finally had it.


The chatter became easy, like it had been between them ever since Draco had moved into Grimmauld Place with Harry, and for a while Draco forgot where they were and why they were down there. Until Harry mentioned something about his "wild magic problem," and then Draco remembered just where he was and why he was there. Well, the who behind the why, but that didn't exactly matter right that second because all he could focus on was the sparks lighting his side simply from sitting beside Harry Potter.


The whole side of Harry that Draco was sitting near tingled with energy that could have been Potter's magic. They'd had to replace the micro wavey thing Granger bought them for a housewarming gift four times before they figured out the short-circuiting had nothing to do with the brand—something that should have been obvious but had them returning frequently to Dixon's, with that creepy, oily-haired, prepubescent teen glaring at them each and every time. Harry said he reminded him of a young Snape. Draco may have sent a Jelly-Legs Jinx Harry's way over that.


"Give it here, you wine hog," Harry muttered, almost slurring as he grabbed at the bottle in Draco's hands. Draco must have been staring off into space for too long, as he was a little more startled than the occasion called for at how close Harry's voice was, and the feel of his fingertips on Draco's skin.


"Draco," Harry started, tugging again, and it was the softness in Harry's tone that must have caused Draco to let go of the bottle just as Harry was pulling it back. Then there was a quiet moment when all that could be heard was the sound of a quite nice drop of vintage splashing over Harry's shirt and chest. Then there was a soft sigh from Harry and the sound of him attempted to loosen buttons before there was another curse and Harry ripped his shirt over his head, his glasses bouncing with a metallic tinkle on the floor, followed by another sigh from Harry.


"I liked that shirt, wanker." Draco couldn't focus on any of what Harry was saying. If he glanced to his right he could see Harry bloody Potter's belly button. How could a person's belly button be so erotic? Draco itched to run his finger around the rim, to dip the tip of his tongue inside and swirl it around, to nibble on the surrounding skin and then travel further south, nuzzling the fine trail of hair that led to—


"—clean it up for me?"


Draco's head snapped up. His pale features felt flushed with warmth as Harry's green eyes twinkled down at him. Fucking prat.


"I just meant you're the king of stain removal, or whoever you get to do your washing is, so maybe after we figure out how to escape from here you could fix your mistake." Harry knocked into Draco's shoulder with a friendly bump and another of his wicked grins, all white teeth bright in his gloriously olive skin tone. Wanker.


Fuck, even the name-calling inside his head wasn't taking the edge off any more. Why couldn't Potter just be gay and into blonds?


Potter was still chuckling as he reached one arm around the back of Draco, his fingers tapping lightly on the stone top and as a result pressing Draco's face into Harry's chest and oh, gods, did the man smell good tonight! If Draco pressed his face forward he'd have his lips near one flat little brown nipple. His teeth could scrape slowly over the little nub, his ears could listen for the sound of pleasure hissed from above. So close!

"So what is it you think Pansy wants us to sort out?" Harry said, running a hand over his chest as if to clean up whatever wetness was still there. Draco couldn't take his eyes from Harry's movements. He found himself turning, leaning in, and then . . . well, then Draco's body took matters into its own hands. Poor, sexually frustrated, sinfully gorgeous body that it was.


Nipples, belly button, that scar just to the left of Harry's ribs, the slightly odd-shaped burn mark in the centre of his chest that no hair would grow in—all of these things Draco had witnessed from a distance, seeing as Potter hardly ever wore a shirt. Now—now, he was so close he could count the few hairs poking out around the edge of Potter's left nipple. Or tug on them with his teeth . . . his lips pressed the faintest of touches against warm, golden skin and the world ceased its turning. It must have, because there was no way if he were in his right mind Draco would have just kissed Harry's chest.

Fuck, what was in those bottles?


Minutes stretched into eons and neither of them moved. Harry was at least breathing; Draco could feel the man's chest moving in and out as it forced his lips into repeated contact with Harry's skin. What the fuck had he done?


"Draco?" Harry's voice was ragged, as if he too had lost the ability to breathe (much like Draco was now doing—all harsh panting sounds to even his own ears).

Draco's hand lifted slowly, halting midway between heading towards Harry's bare chest and closing in on his knee if he went one way or the other. Down or up, it didn't matter as long as he finally got to touch.


"D-Draco, what are you—" A hand came to rest gently on Draco's shoulder, a calloused thumb pausing to sit right on the bare skin of his neck above his collar. Harry's hand was on his skin, Harry was touching him and it was divine and it was only a thumb! "What are you doing?"


"Shh," Draco managed to hiss. "I just. I can't. I have no idea</em>," he finished, the words rushing from his mouth as his hand finally decided to alight on Potter's knee.


Touching, so much touching!


The fingers at Draco's neck slid into his hair, exploring almost tentatively as was Draco's, drifting up the top of Harry's thigh. Hard, he was so hard under Draco's hand and Harry wasn't stopping him. He hadn't said a negative word. Potter's grip on Draco's hair tightened but Draco didn't resist, just raised his head and closed his eyes at the same time. This was it. His stomach dropped and all the strange braveness he had somehow gained before disappeared, leaving ice in his veins and a bizarre need to swallow back the little dinner he had managed to nibble on hours before. Why the fuck he'd thought he should try kissing a half-drunk, happy Gryffindor was beyond him. Obviously Draco had spent far too much time around former members of that House. Their so-called bravery was bloody catching, that had to be the only answer.


Not that he was horny beyond fuck, what with Potter looking like that, and being trapped in a room together for long enough to nearly finish, what—this had to be their fourth bottle by now? Maybe fifth? But Potter wasn't . . . Potter never brought a lad home, or even a bird for that matter. Rumour had it he was an equal opportunity shagger, but Draco had never seen it, and now—now, here he was with Harry Bleeding Potter—the Boy Who Could Shag Anyone Even a Goat and No One Would Bat An Eyelash, and Draco was terrified. Not a good look for his pale skin, or one with his ex-Slytherin tendencies.


"Draco." Potter's tone softened to sound almost as if he were pleading just by the use of Draco's name alone. There was no way he could look at Potter now and see rejection. There was no way he could look into those hauntingly beautiful green eyes and see disgust or remorse or pity.


"Look at me," Potter began, almost commanding in the clipping off of his words. "Draco, please." Draco shook his head as best he could, his heart pumping away nineteen to the dozen inside his chest. "Fuck it," he heard Harry whisper, and then Harry's hand swept down past his ear to cup his neck and his lips . . . well, his lips were softer than Draco had ever imagined, and forceful to boot.


The kiss was awkward but Draco didn't care, because Harry was kissing him. Harry's tongue was caressing his own as he paused momentarily to seek entrance, tentatively tracing the seam of Draco's lips. Harry could kiss. Draco's hand, meanwhile, had formed quite an attachment to Harry's thigh, soon to be joined by his other free hand in sliding up and down on the other leg as he slid off the table, only to move between Harry's legs. All without a pause in snogging. Merlin, Harry's thighs were ridiculously toned, probably from all the pickup games of Quidditch he played every other Saturday down at the local pitch where Weasleby lived. Draco had gone to watch one match and had to leave twenty minutes in after his hard-on wouldn't dissipate. Bloody Potter had to play in dragonhide leathers, didn't he? Snug things they were, in all the right places.


Potter finally pulled back, taking Draco's bottom lip between his own and stretching it out as if he couldn't bear to let it go. His hands gripped either side of Draco's face, forcing Draco to finally look at the man in front of him. All red lips, flushed skin, and his eyes—damn, his eyes were as bright green as Floo flames, or maybe the darkest of Dark curses. Draco couldn't have looked away even if he'd wanted to.


"Waited so long for this," Harry whispered, his tone all thick and husky, then without further ado his lips were once again assaulting Draco's and Draco was lost. He slid off the bench, somehow never losing contact with the wonder that was kissing Harry and manoeuvred himself between Harry’s legs. Potter tasted like the dark red of whatever they'd been drinking, remnants of the curry they'd had before popping over, and something else that was just Harry.Then there was the added sweetness of those silly sugar mice Harry was always munching on. There was no way Draco would ever be able to taste those again without thinking of Harry, of this moment. Draco's hands shifted further up over the warm flesh of his hips and sliding around to his back. He couldn't touch enough, now that he was obviously allowed to. Wanted to, even.


Draco whimpered as Harry's tongue followed every hurt he'd just given. "I've wanted you for so long, but you never—there was never any indication. Why didn't you say?"


"I couldn't. You're—we're—" A long moan escaped Draco's lips, stalling him even more from admitting exactly why he hadn't been honest with Harry before now.


Harry pulled back, his eyes once again in front of Draco's, openly questioning, demanding some sort of answer.


Bugger.


"Draco . . . ."


"Harry . . ." Draco said back, his tone just as stubborn as Harry's had been.


Harry's hands cupped Draco's face, a light but tender touch that said more than anything they'd verbally admitted to this far.


"Look, I've liked you for a long time. Probably longer than I even could admit to myself. But the thing is, you're Harry Potter and I'm Draco Malfoy."


Harry just looked at him, no change in his expression, just looked.


"You're good, I'm not very . . . I don't know, I just didn't think you'd be interested! You haven't said anything either, you know!" Draco finished pulling back away from Harry's touch, even though he didn't really want to.


The silence stretched between them as Draco focused on one particular tile on the floor that had a chip in it in a shape vaguely similar to that of the Sorting Hat. Or it would do by the time Draco had finished staring at it and imagining it to be so.


"Come here."


Draco didn't move. His insides had turned from fiery lust into ice in the few words he'd spoken to lay bare to Harry his true feelings. The quiet that had passed between them spoke volumes to Draco, and he truly didn't want to look Harry in the eyes while the man crushed his secret desire for something more than friendship.


"Draco, please."


Against his better judgement—which was seriously flawed at the moment from the weight of being turned down after one bloody snog—Draco stepped back into the space between Harry's legs and slipped his hands onto Harry's outstretched ones. He still didn't look up. There was only so much pity Draco could take, and the form of it in endless green eyes really would be the veritable straw that broke the camel's back, of that he was sure.


Harry's thumbs rubbed slowly over his skin. More pity, more you're right this could never work.


"I didn't say anything because I was foolishly waiting for a moment like this." Draco's snort interrupted Harry, but he waited and carried on once Draco settled. "I didn't know what the etiquette was for blurting out that I liked you. That I'd probably liked you since sixth year, when my need to know where you were every single second of the day had more to do with following your gorgeous arse than seeing what nefarious plans you were up to."


"You do realise you could have just asked me out?" Draco said with a lift of his brow.


Harry's face turned serious, the smiles from before replaced by the look of someone attempting to gain control of his faculties. "Draco Malfoy, will you go out with me for a curry and a pint to watch the England match on Saturday?"


Draco bit his lip to stop from laughing. "I'm a Malfoy, Potter. You're going to have to try a lot harder than that to woo me."


Harry gripped Draco's face with both hands. "Woo you, must I?"


"Well, yes. I think I deserve a little wooing after you—"


Draco didn't have a chance to say anymore because Harry's mouth was back on his, and Harry's tongue was exploring and making Draco feel like he never wanted to stop kissing Harry. Until Harry's hands dropped Draco's and slid down his front, grasping at the button- down Draco was wearing and pulled him even closer. Draco's knees hit the cupboard doors as Harry's legs wrapped around Draco's thighs awkwardly, and he could feel Harry's heels pressing into his flesh, wanting closer and closer. To be honest, Draco wanted exactly the same. His own fingers scratched and scraped over Harry's bare chest, the round of his shoulders, anywhere he could reach really. He wanted more.


Every touch felt like sparks lighting between them. Then Harry's mouth left Draco's, only to press against his jaw, gliding down his throat, and all the while the scratchy feel of Harry's scruff-covered chin grazing Draco's skin. The whole time, Draco could only focus on how that same rough stubble would feel on his stomach, his thighs, the line of his spine, and lower still.


He was so hard, so hard it ached, and there was nothing to relieve him except the wood of the cupboard door, and that wasn't appropriate or enough. He had to have more.


Yet he also wanted more of Harry. He gasped as Harry's teeth nipped over his collar bone, Harry's hands roamed Draco's bare back, blunt (and most likely dirty) nails scraping over Draco's pale skin, destined to leave bright red lines in their wake. Draco shivered, his gasps and grunts filling the kitchen just as much as Harry's pleasure-filled moans and hums of content. Draco didn't like that; he couldn't be the only one to come undone here. He wanted Harry to fall apart too. He needed to show Harry that his part in wanting more between them was just as important and big as Harry's earlier words.


His hand twisted into the soft curls at the nape of Harry's neck, tugging lightly and bringing the man's face into focus and away from what was sure to be a dark bruise on the pale flesh of Draco's neck come morning. Harry's eyes were dark, the pupils blown with lust which made the green at the edges stand out all the more. There was a fire there that Draco had seen before, when he had thought it was anger, jealousy even—but now he knew it was want, and need, and now. His hand slipped onto Harry's shoulder, then down to his chest, resting over the strange square-shaped burn mark as he pressed firmly, encouraging Harry to shuffle backward. Harry did, and Draco ate up the near-naked man in front of him. The body that was not too muscled but not flabby either, the warm, tan skin that glowed with a sheen of sweat (the house was always too hot for, but Draco was always cold and Harry never did turn the thermostat down even though he threatened to time and time again). Then there was the stupidly ruffled jet-black hair and bright green eyes unfettered by frames that now studied Draco's every move.


With one finger he drew a line down Harry's chest, his breath deep and panting almost as he circled the tiny brown nubs that made Harry shiver when Draco pressed them with a fingernail. Down again to the waistband of his trousers, pausing only to skirt around the stupidly erotic belly button that still called to Draco's tongue. His eyes caught Harry's; the man's lips were open and swollen, bruised even, from their earlier kisses and his appreciation of Draco's almost lily-white skin. Harry's cheeks were flushed a pretty pink under the black stubble that Draco now knew the feel of. Harry's hands had fallen beside him and propped him up as he watched Draco and Draco watched him. Draco slowed right down now, wanting to give Harry ample opportunity to change his mind, to take back what he'd admitted and to say he was joking. Gods, Draco hoped he wouldn't—didn't really think Harry would from the wanton look he was throwing Draco's way.


The neediness of each stuttered breath that filled Harry's lungs echoed in the twitching of his stomach as Draco's fingers flirted with the waistband of Harry's trousers. The metal buckle clinked in his palm for a second before he drew out the offending leather belt, its clatter on the tiles loud when Draco dropped it. The air between them crackled with magic as Draco slowly slid his hands up Harry's cloth-covered legs, closely skirting the obvious line of his arousal which elicited a sharp gasp from Harry. Draco didn't hesitate any further but deftly slipped the button loose and then toyed with the tiny zip before—with another gasp and a bit lip from Harry—he eased the metal tag down. Draco didn't stop then; there was no way he could, not now that his every fantasy was about to be realised, the one question answered that he'd had in mind ever since Harry had sauntered about the flat earlier, shirtless and barefoot, in only those bloody black trousers. Draco's grey stare held Harry's wild green eyes as his hand dipped under the black fabric, only stopping when he met bare flesh.


No pants, then.


Fuck, that was insanely hot. Harry had wandered around that party tonight for the past two hours, and before that around their flat for a good two more, and in all that time he had nothing on under those damn figure-hugging trousers that were so snug Draco couldn't help but stare at Potter's arse an obscene amount?


He quirked an eyebrow, a silent "Oh really, Pantsless Potter?" to which Harry did nothing but lift the corner of one lip, his breaths harsh in the quiet, disturbed only by the harsh sounds of two people way out of their depth. Draco's fingers slid down and found hard, heated flesh that was virtually throbbing in his hand as he pulled Harry's prick out from beneath the cloth covering.


Short and thick but pretty—if a prick could be pretty, then Potter's definitely was. Draco's hand slid down slowly, his fingers wrapping lightly around it, tugging the foreskin back to reveal a shiny red head that already had a bright pearl of pre-cum beading at the top. Draco squeezed his way back up, entranced as yet another bead of white joined the first. Fuck, he wanted to taste, he wanted to lick and suck and moan around Potter's pretty prick.


He must have been staring for too long, if Harry's stuttered plea to get on with it was anything to go by. "All in good time, Potter," Draco managed before he leant forward and pressed his tongue to the tip. His vision blurred, eyelashes fluttering as he heard Harry breathe in sharply, only to let that same breath out in a loud whoosh as Draco licked a stripe down the underside of Harry's prick, his tongue laving over the soft flesh of Harry's bollocks.


Gods, he tasted . . . amazing.


Draco pressed open-mouthed kisses up the shaft and swirled his tongue around the head once more, noting the way Harry's thighs quivered under his touch. He paused, looking up through his lashes at Harry's dark, lust-filled eyes, and whispered Harry's name.


"I'm going to suck you now. It's going to be loud and messy because I've wanted to do it for so long and I really don't think I can control myself. Is that all right?" He rubbed his thumbs over the hollow of Harry's hip bones and smiled when the only answer was a whine and a nod of assent from the man in question. "Right, then."


Oh, this was going to be good. Very fucking good.


With one last thought for his own aching arousal between his legs, Draco spread his fingers over Harry's hips in preparation for holding the man down. He licked his lips twice, made sure his teeth were covered, then slowly proceeded to take Harry's cock into his mouth as far down as it would go. He felt Harry's hand at his shoulder, blunt fingernails leaving crescent-moon shapes as the blunt head nudged Draco's throat. Experience had Draco breathing calmly through his nose as he relaxed his throat muscles, only satisfied when his nose was right there in the short, dark curls at the base. He was overcome with sensation, the taste, touch, and smell of Harry was all around him and in him, and as he shifted up and down with slow, timed precision it was all he could think about. His jaw ached as his tongue pushed against the thick vein on the underside of Harry's prick and then Draco took him down further, swallowing each and every inch.


Harry was moaning something unintelligible above him. His hand wandered over Draco's skin—his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the hollow of his collarbone—leaving fiery trails in their wake. Then there were fingers in Draco's hair, massaging his scalp, and Draco released Harry's prick with an audible pop, a long line of spittle stringing from his battered lips to the now angry red, near-purple head. Harry's chest was heaving in and out, his eyes nearly closed, and the muscles in his stomach jumping every few seconds. Draco's hand slid from its place on Harry's thigh and curved around the base of Harry's prick as he groaned himself; seeing how badly Harry wanted this, wanted him, was a ridiculous turn-on. His mouth returned to the shiny, wet head, his tongue slipping around inside the foreskin as his hand pumped Harry's cock with swift, sure movements. He kept his eyes on Harry, watching every twitch of his lips, every flutter of lashes, and listening for sighed word that signalled his enjoyment.


And Draco wasn't done yet.


Draco's mouth took over where his hand had been, the combination of Draco's spit and the endless stream of Harry's precum providing excellent lube while Draco focused his affections elsewhere. He pushed and tugged and pulled at Harry's legs, setting the man's feet atop his shoulders as he pulled Harry forward to give Draco greater access to the next part of Harry he couldn't wait to feast on.


Finally, when Draco managed to prise Harry's cheeks apart, his tongue painted a warm, wet stripe over the pink pucker of Harry's arsehole.


It was here, too, down here between Harry's legs with Draco's nose nuzzling against the soft, almost peach-like fuzz of Harry's bollocks, that he could smell Harry. That manly musk, and still the clean soap smell stuck to his skin here. Draco wanted to taste it all, to hold as much as he could in his mouth for his own pleasure, let alone Harry's. He dived right in, slicking his tongue between Harry's cheeks before darting the tip into Harry's hole. He pushed and prodded with his tongue, loving that slow build-up of Harry's muscles relaxing, letting him in more as Harry's hand sat on Draco's head, guiding him gently. Draco's hand shifted and tightened on Harry's cock with the aid of Harry's free hand. Gods, Draco felt like he could come from pleasuring Harry alone, and with every hissed word (was that Parseltongue?) and every mumbled moan, he knew Harry was coming closer. Draco circled Harry's pucker with the very tip of his tongue, loving the feel of every crease, almost shivering in anticipation.


"Gods, please . . . please, Draco, I need—ohmyfuck, I need—n-need more. Please," Harry begged, his fingers tangled in Draco's hair, and then it was more unintelligible gibberish followed by Draco's name running together so fast it was like some sort of prayer.


Must be a Muggle thing.


Draco sped up his efforts, letting one hand drop to his own hard dick and palming the hard flesh over the outside of his pants as he felt the beginnings of Potter completely coming undone. Gods, he wanted Harry to come with Draco's tongue so firmly entrenched in his arse Draco would be able to feel the muscles pulse around him. His tongue was like a tiny prick as it stabbed and swirled over Harry's hole, their joined hands fisting Harry's prick faster and faster, tugging down the foreskin so Draco could rub his thumb into the little slit that was streaming viscous liquid and hope that Harry wouldn't lift his body completely off the bench as he gave a shout that he was close. Draco took his tongue from Harry's arse and sucked and licked three of his fingers before shoving them hard into Harry, just as his mouth enclosed the tip of Harry's prick. Harry came with a shout, his arse a vise grip on Draco's fingers, as Draco swallowed down rope after rope of Harry's semen.


Harry fucked Draco's mouth slowly, with hardly any effort, really more just something to do as he rode out the last of his high. Draco didn't forget about himself in all of this, though. Now that he'd witnessed Harry losing it firsthand, he sped up his actions, pushing the heel of his palm firmly against his aching dick until, while kissing random patterns over Harry's spent and sated prick, his vision filled with white starbursts and his knees were knocking in an all-too-familiar rhythm against the cupboards as he grunted out his own release. When he looked up at Harry a few moments later, the man looked radiant—flushed cheeks, his neck covered in red, nearly purple bites. His hand met Draco's cheek, the touch was so filled with trust and tenderness that it nearly brought Draco to tears.


Not that Draco would have cried, because a) he was a Malfoy, and b) he would not cry after the most amazing orgasm of his life with the man he'd had a crush on forever.


He would not.


Then Harry's thumb brushed away whatever the wetness was on Draco's cheek and his legs slid from Draco's shoulders as he leaned in closer to where Draco was performing a serious study in not crying.


"Why are you—"


"I'm not. You got some of your spunk in my eye, that's all."


Harry snickered, then leaned even closer, and before Draco could comprehend what he was doing, the tongue that had shut him up with its games inside Draco's mouth now pressed against his cheek, cleaning up the few rivulets that had formed there.


"I suppose Malfoy's don't cry then, either? Even if they've been properly wooed?"


Draco huffed (half a huff, really, considering he was still bloody out of breath from the intense blowjob he'd just given Harry, not to mention how long he'd had his head between Harry's arse cheeks).


"You just won't let it go about the wooing thing, will you?" Draco asked, knowing full well that if he'd had the perfect ammunition to use on the man who admitted to liking him and wanted to date him, then no, he probably wouldn't let it go, either.


Harry smiled a little lopsidedly as he pressed his lips to Draco's, their kiss lazy and wet as most kisses are when shared by two who've just had fantastic orgasms.


"Probably not. Just wait till Pansy hears about this."


Draco would have said something about leaving his ex-best friend out of it, but as Harry's tongue was busy reacquainting itself with the caverns of Draco's mouth, he found he didn't care to speak again for a long time.


Words were for wooing with, after all.


Neither man noticed when the wards finally fell. Though Pansy did when her silent house was suddenly filled with grunts and groans and screaming of names worthy of one of those porn movies Ginny Weasley had made them watch at her hens' do.


Well, if that's what it took to finally get them together. It was a price worth paying.

Tags: [fic], rated: nc-17, round: winter 2011
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