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The message had been as blunt and vague as always; Booking for 9pm, 2 hours. €500, already paid in full. It hadn’t bothered Draco—he’s used to not having much information about his clients—but now that he’s here, waiting for them to arrive, there’s a flutter of nervous anticipation in his stomach as he wonders who will walk through the door into his suite. His clients are a real range, no common thread linking them other than a desire for companionship for the night. The hotel he works for is good at vetting them, so he’s never worried for his safety, and he knows they’re good for the money. The anticipation comes instead from not knowing what they’ll want from him, what role he’ll have to play. He loves it all, has done ever since the post-war hostility made him turn to this career.
He’s leaning against the window frame, looking out onto the street far below, watching the Friday night crowds on the terrace of the bar opposite. It’s one of the things he loves best about Paris, the buzz that fills the city on warm summer nights like this, when the terraces overflow with people drinking and smoking and chatting and revelling in life. He hadn’t planned on staying for so long when he’d first fled here, after several years of hatred had driven him out of Britain. But he’d found his place, here in the city, and it’s home now. He’s happy here.
A knock on the door has him turning away from the street, leaving the crowds to their evening, his mind turning back to his. A quick check of the clock above the fireplace confirms that it’s just gone 9pm. He says nothing, wanting to see if his client is waiting to be invited in, or whether they’ll just come in anyway. It’s something he always likes to do—he finds it tells him a lot about a person. Over the years he’s developed these little ways of reading people. It’s one of the things that makes him so good at what he does—that and his impeccable oral skills, of course.
Draco smiles to himself as the door opens, and he adjusts his position against the window frame, stretching out his legs to make them look even longer than normal. He looks back out at the street as the door closes and his client enters the room. And then—
‘What the actual fuck?’ says a painfully familiar voice.
Draco looks up so quickly that his neck cracks.
Harry bloody Potter, of all people, is standing in front of Draco, in Paris, in the room where he fucks strange men for money. For a moment Draco wonders whether he’s hallucinating. There’s no way this is real.
But then Potter runs a hand through his hair. The movement is immediately recognisable after years of watching Potter, and Draco knows he isn’t imagining this.
‘Merde, Potter, what are you doing here?’
‘What are you doing here?’ Potter repeats, his tone testy.
‘I asked first,’ Draco says, internally cursing himself for the childish retort.
‘I—,’ Potter looks momentarily lost for words, his eyes darting about as he seems to search for an excuse for his presence.
It’s enjoyable, for a minute or two at least, to see Potter on the back foot. But Draco has in fact grown up over recent years and no longer takes pleasure in tormenting people—at least not unless they ask—so he takes pity on Potter.
‘I know why you’re here, Potter.’ Draco shifts, pushing up off the window frame, stepping closer to Potter. ‘You’re here to see me. To fuck me.’
Potter gapes at Draco, his eyes wild. He doesn’t deny it though, and that’s all the confirmation Draco needs.
‘Interesting,’ Draco continues when Potter says nothing.
His mind is racing at a million miles an hour as he tries to process the fact that Potter booked an appointment with a whore. He had no inkling of Potter’s preference for men—he’s apparently done a very good job of keeping that out of the press. But however confused and taken aback Draco might be by Potter’s sudden appearance, he can’t deny the small, flickering flame of interest that’s springing to life.
He hadn’t wanted to admit it at the time, but Draco had always been… intrigued by Potter when they were at school, something compelling him to try and get Potter’s attention by any means necessary. As the years passed and Draco escaped from under his father’s thumb, he’d become more comfortable with his sexuality and realised what his adolescent obsession had really been about. It didn’t help that Potter kept appearing in magazines in gym wear that did nothing to hide his Quidditch-honed muscles. He’d featured in more than one of Draco’s dirty dreams in the past few years, thanks to those photos.
And now Potter’s standing right in front of him, apparently willing to pay for sex. Draco doesn’t think he can pass up this opportunity to live one of his fantasies.
‘So,’ Draco says, taking another step closer to Potter. ‘What brings the Saviour to a whore in Paris?’
‘Fuck off, Malfoy.’
‘Eloquent as always I see,’ Draco replies, and then pushes further. ‘Surely you of all people don’t need to pay for sex?’
‘I don’t,’ Potter spits out, and Draco can’t help but smile. Potter’s in the game now, and experience tells Draco that Potter won’t back down without a fight.
‘And yet you’re here,’ Draco’s mere feet away from Potter now. He can smell mint in the air, and the very ends of Potter’s curly hair are damp—he’s clearly showered recently. It’s a deliciously tempting image, and Draco’s desire deepens further.
Potter doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t move either, apart from to cross his arms over his chest, his grey t-shirt highlighting the bulge of his biceps and tightening across his broad shoulders. Merlin, Draco wants him. Just this once, just to know what it’s like.
‘You’ve already paid, Potter,’ Draco says, closing the gap between them fully. Potter’s eyes are shockingly green up close.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Potter says, his voice low.
‘But you wouldn’t want to waste it, surely? Might as well get your money’s worth.’
Draco can see that Potter is wavering now. His face is more unsure than it was earlier, the shock and anger disappearing along with his frown, and although he tries to look away, his eyes keep flicking back to Draco.
‘What were you planning to do to me, Potter, before you knew it was me?’
Nerves flutter in Draco’s stomach as he waits to see if Potter will respond, unsure if he’s pushed too far. He hopes he hasn’t—he doesn’t want Potter to leave, not now they’ve come so close.
Potter opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again.
‘Go on,’ Draco urges. ‘Tell me what you’d get me to do for you.’
‘I’d tell you to get on your knees,’ Potter blurts out suddenly.
When Draco falls to his knees on the soft carpet, he thinks Potter might have a heart attack.
‘Fuck’ Potter breathes, almost completely unconsciously, his eyes wide with shock as he looks down at Draco.
‘Like this?’ Draco smirks, thrilling at the way Potter is looking at him. The bulge forming in Potter’s trousers hasn’t escaped Draco’s notice either, and his mouth waters as he pictures what’s hiding underneath the fabric.
‘Yeah, just like that,’ Potter says.
‘And then what would you want me to do?’ Draco has his ideas about what Potter might say next, but it doesn’t matter really—he’ll do whatever Potter wants.
‘I’d tell you to suck my cock,’ Potter says, his voice stronger, firmer. He’s standing straighter now, his eyes no longer shocked but instead darker, a hint of want in them. Draco doesn’t miss the way Potter says tell not ask, and the subtle dominance in his words sends a shiver of lust through Draco.
His own cock hard and aching in his trousers, Draco leans forward, towards the unmistakable line of Potter’s cock. He takes his time, giving Potter a chance to tell him to stop, but then Potter’s hand comes to tangle in Draco’s hair and his hips shift forwards slightly, bringing his cock closer to Draco’s mouth.
Potter lets out a groan as Draco begins to mouth the rough fabric of his jeans, his cock hot and hard under Draco’s lips. Draco unbuttons Potter’s flies tantalisingly slowly, letting the tension build as he gets closer to finally seeing Potter’s cock after many a teenage fantasy about it. Potter moans when Draco touches his cock, the skin soft and hot under his fingers. Draco licks a stripe up the vein pulsing on the underside, savouring the taste and smell of Potter, so heady and strong this close.
Potter’s fingers clench tighter in Draco’s hair as he starts to suck Potter’s cock in earnest, letting Potter’s moans and body language guide him to a pace that is just this side of not enough, teasing Potter with swipes of his tongue. Draco has years of practice doing this, but he’s never cared quite so much about making it good for someone.
He can tell Potter’s getting close—his thighs are shaking, the room is filled with Potter’s moans, and the hand pulling on Draco’s hair is just tight enough to be painful in the way that he loves. Part of Draco wants nothing more than for Potter to shoot down his throat, but he’s not ready for this to be over yet.
He pulls back, Potter’s cock throbbing and twitching slightly as he lets go of it entirely.
‘What the fuck, Malfoy? I was so close,’ Potter groans, his expression wild as he looks down at Draco. Draco has never felt as powerful as he does in that moment, when he sees the full effect he can have on Potter.
‘I know.’ Draco sits back on his thighs, smirking up at Potter, remembering all the times he’d provoked Potter with a similar expression back when they were younger. He never would have expected to be in this position years later, but he’s momentarily pleased that he spent so many years goading Potter—he knows exactly how to push his buttons, and that’s useful information to him right now.
‘Fuck you, Malfoy.’
‘All you have to do is ask.’ Draco shifts so that he can open his legs, gratified by the way Potter’s eyes darken. He still has his trousers on, but the bulge of his cock is obvious, and he can only imagine what he must look like to Potter.
‘Stand up.’ Potter’s voice is harsh, his tone commanding, and Merlin if that doesn’t make Draco’s cock leak. He’s always had a weakness for being told what to do, and when it’s someone like Potter, who radiates power and control? It’s intoxicating.
Draco does as he’s told and then waits for Potter’s next instruction. He wants to see how far Potter is going to take this, how much control he’s capable of wielding. That’s not to say Draco will let him get away with anything—Draco’s always been the type to push the limits—but he knows he’ll do more for Potter than he would for anyone else.
When Potter’s next command does come, it sends a shiver down Draco’s spine.
Strip.
Doing everything he can to hide the slight tremble in his hands, Draco begins to slowly undo the buttons of his shirt, watching the way that Potter’s intent gaze follows his fingers’ progress down his chest. When the final button is undone, Draco pauses for a moment, waiting until Potter’s eyes flick back up to his face, and then he shrugs the shirt off, revealing the pale expanse of his chest and stomach.
Potter takes a step forward, one arm moving as if to reach out and touch, and then he stops dead.
‘Potter,’ Draco says, warning clear in his tone. He knows what Potter has just seen, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t want guilt and memories and darkness to come between them just as they’ve finally found something good that connects them. ‘We don’t have to do this now.’
‘I—,’ Potter doesn’t seem to know what to say, scrambling for words even as his eyes are unable to stop tracing the thin white lines etched across Draco’s skin.
‘Potter,’ Draco says, sharper now. ‘I said, leave it.’
‘But—,’ Potter starts, as though he’s going to argue, but then he deflates, swallows the words, relents. ‘Ok, fine, we won’t talk about it.’
‘Good,’ Draco says, knowing that the topic is far from forgotten about but relieved to have the initial discovery over with.
Keen to move Potter’s attention away from his chest, Draco moves his hands to his belt, slowly unfastening it, the hiss of the leather pulling through his belt loops loud in the otherwise silent room. Potter’s watching him again, and Draco’s cock twitches as he feels Potter’s gaze on him like a brand. Draco doesn’t look away as he unzips his trousers, doesn’t miss the way the sound of the zip makes Potter shiver.
Draco pushes off his trousers, lingering for a moment, fully aware of how the dark red material contrasts with his pale skin, his erection tightly outlined, letting Potter know just how aroused Draco is by this, by them. And then he pushes his boxers down too, and he’s completely bare, with nothing to hide him from Potter’s hungry eyes.
For long minutes he just stands there, letting Potter look. It’s surprisingly erotic, and Draco’s cock hardens further under Potter’s scrutiny. His clients normally look at him, of course, but never quite in this way. When they look at him, Draco knows they’re seeing what they want to see, his body just the template for the fantasy they superimpose on top. With Potter, it’s different. Draco feels seen, properly, for the first time in years, and he knows Potter’s seeing the messy reality of him, tattoo-covered wrists, sectumsempra scars and all.
‘Fuck, Malfoy,’ Potter swears, voice rough, when he finally looks back up at Draco’s face.
‘What now?’
‘Get on the bed,’ Potter says. ‘On your hands and knees.’
Draco’s cock throbs and he complies, the expensive bedding soft under his knees. Once he’s settled, he stills, heart thumping loudly in his chest as he waits to see what Potter has planned next.
The touch, when it finally comes, is feather light and yet lights sparks under Draco’s skin. Potter’s finger traces a line down Draco’s spine, bouncing over each vertebra before slipping between his cheeks to stroke ever so gently over Draco’s arsehole. It’s enough to have him gasping with a need more intense than a single finger should provoke.
The bed dips under Potter’s weight as he joins Draco on it. Everything about this feels more intimate than Draco’s usual jobs—he’s never been so affected by being close to someone. He’s never wanted any of his clients this badly either, even the regulars who he knows will show him a good time. His nerves have never screamed out to be touched in the way that they are now, tense and eager for Potter’s next move.
When Potter licks a stripe up Draco’s crease, his tongue flicking over his arsehole, an unholy noise is ripped from Draco’s throat. Of all the things he thought Potter might do, that wasn’t one of them. But Merlin, it’s good.
‘Like that, do we?’ Potter chuckles as Draco pushes his hips back, chasing more of that delicious feeling.
‘Shut up, Potter,’ Draco replies, unable to keep his voice from giving away just how affected he is.
‘Oh, well, I’ll stop then,’ Potter says, his weight shifting, making Draco rock on the mattress.
‘Don’t you dare,’ Draco almost growls. If Potter leaves now, with him hard and dripping and desperate like this? Well, Draco doesn’t know what he’d do.
Potter doesn’t respond. Instead, he grips Draco tightly by the hips and pulls him back to meet his mouth, just rough enough. And then he’s devouring Draco. It’s the only way to describe how Potter goes at him, licking and sucking until Draco is swearing and nearly shaking with the need to come. He’s damn good at this, and Draco spares a moment to wonder just how Potter got so good—surely not with other whores?—before Potter’s skilled tongue has him reduced to just sensation.
Draco’s cock is aching, precome dripping onto the cover below him, and he thinks he could come from just this, from the feeling of Potter’s hands tight on his hips, so tight he’ll have marks there tomorrow, and the onslaught of Potter’s mouth. He’s inching ever closer to his peak—if Potter even just slightly grazed Draco’s cock he thinks it would be all over—but then Potter stops.
A noise of frustration escapes Draco, but Potter just laughs.
‘Oh, so you can give but you can’t take, Malfoy? Should have thought of that when you stopped sucking me off earlier.’
‘I’m very good at taking,’ Draco says, turning to wink at Potter. Potter’s cheeks are already pink, his hair dishevelled, his glasses tossed away who knows where, but at Draco’s insinuation the flush deepens.
‘I bet you are,’ Potter says after a beat, and his finger slides down to Draco’s arsehole again before pressing in slightly.
It’s so good, after Potter’s endless teasing, and Draco wants more. He drops his head onto his hands and arches his back, showing Potter how much he wants this. Potter takes the hint, and suddenly his fingers are slippery with lube, the crackle of magic hanging in the air from his spell. Draco’s always loved the sensation of magic, and Potter’s spell is so powerful that the lingering magic skitters along Draco’s skin, goosebumps appearing in its wake.
Potter starts to finger Draco properly, opening him up, and soon Draco is begging for more. He wants Potter inside him, wants to know what Potter’s cock feels like. Potter doesn’t give in to Draco’s pleas straight away though, continuing to torment him with his talented fingers.
Finally, finally, Potter slips his fingers out of Draco. Even though Draco wants nothing more than for Potter to fuck him properly, the momentary loss of sensation still has him crying out in dissatisfaction. But then Potter’s magic fills the room again, and the blunt head of Potter’s cock presses up against Draco’s hole. Potter doesn’t push in fully straight away, instead teasing Draco until he can’t take it anymore.
‘Merlin, Potter, are you ever going to actually fuck me?’ Draco snaps, need rendering him incapable of hiding his frustration.
‘Well, since you asked so nicely,’ Potter chuckles, and then he’s pressing in, his prick opening Draco up, and oh god.
In Draco’s fantasies, Potter had always been good at this—who would fantasise about bad sex, after all?—but this is different, better, more intense. Every nerve is aflame as Potter bottoms out, deep inside Draco. Potter’s still got his trousers on, and the denim rubs against Draco’s arse, sparking sensations that contrast with the gentle way Potter’s thumb is stroking Draco’s hip. Draco’s shaking already, and they haven’t even really started.
And then Potter moves. He takes it slow at first, but then his thrusts begin to pick up speed, and Draco loses it entirely. Everything reduces down to the drag of Potter’s cock inside him, to the bursts of pleasure when Potter hits his prostate. Draco’s vaguely aware that he’s talking, words escaping as he loses himself in pleasure, but he has no idea what he’s saying. He doesn’t care, not while Potter’s making him feel this good.
Potter’s hips are moving fast now, his strokes hard and perfect, and it’s everything Draco ever wanted. And when Potter shifts, his arms coming to bracket Draco’s and his chest pressing hot against Draco’s back, Draco can’t stop himself closing his eyes and letting himself imagine just for a minute that there’s no money involved in this, that it’s real rather than just a transaction. When Potter drops a kiss against Draco’s shoulder blade, Draco can’t hold back a moan. Potter seems to notice, because he does it again, and again, and then he’s nuzzling into Draco’s bared neck, kissing and licking and sucking and it’s driving Draco crazy, pulling him higher and higher into bliss.
And then Potter’s pulling out, leaving Draco gasping and empty.
‘I want to see you,’ Potter pants, before flipping Draco over, slipping one of Draco’s legs over his shoulder and pushing back in again.
Draco’s head is spinning from the rapid change of position and Potter’s words—he can’t even begin to process them properly, not while Potter is fucking him like this, bringing him closer and closer to his orgasm. It’s almost too much, being able to see Potter’s face. It makes everything so much more intimate, and Merlin, Potter looks good like this. His hair is falling into his eyes, curling even more as it dampens with sweat, and his eyes are bright as they look right back at Draco. Draco has a sudden urge to kiss Potter, but that’s not something he does with clients. It’s not something he should do with Potter.
When Potter’s hand wraps around Draco’s prick, it’s all over. With just a few strokes, Draco peaks, his legs stiffening as he shoots over Potter’s fist, stripes of come landing on his own stomach and chest. Draco’s eyes slide shut as he lets the rush of pleasure take him over, Potter still fucking him, his hand wringing the final gasps of Draco’s orgasm from him.
And then Potter moans, and Draco’s eyes snap open. He needs to know what Potter looks like when he comes, needs to be able to remember every detail of this so he can revisit it later. And Merlin, Potter is gorgeous in pleasure, his mouth falling open, his head tilting back to reveal the long line of his neck. Draco has a sudden urge to lick it. He knows the image of Potter’s face looking like this will be seared into his mind forever.
Potter stills, hips twitching as he spills inside Draco, his long low groan rumbling through Draco’s chest. He stays there for a moment, his arms trembling as he holds himself up, and then he flops onto the bed next to Draco, close enough that their arms touch.
‘Fucking hell, Malfoy,’ Potter chuckles.
‘Good?’ Draco says, trying to sound like he doesn’t care what the answer is.
‘Fuck, yes.’ Potter turns his head to face Draco, and the open, relaxed expression on his face makes Draco’s chest ache.
And then he adds, ‘Worth every Galleon.’
And Draco’s good mood vanishes.
Of course. He’d got too caught up in his own fantasy. Potter's just a client. Nothing more.
Draco mutters something about being pleased Potter had a good time, before getting off the bed, his afterglow well and truly vanished. He stands by the window, pretending to watch the outside world as he studiously ignores the sounds of Potter moving about, straightening his clothes and gathering his things. He doesn’t want to look over, afraid that his face will say something he’d rather keep hidden.
He only turns around when Potter clears his throat awkwardly.
‘Well,’ Potter says, one hand on the door knob, his clothes neater but his hair still a rumpled mess that immediately gives away what they’ve been doing. ‘Thank you, I suppose.’
‘Any time,’ Draco says, thankful that his tone sounds as casual and disinterested as possible.
And then Potter is gone, the sound of the door shutting behind him echoing in the silence of the hotel room, and Draco just stands there, naked, come drying itchily on his skin, a strange sadness creeping into his soul.
He won’t see Potter again, he’s sure of it, and that thought hurts more than he ever expected.
Draco goes back to his normal life, after that.
Or at least he tries to. It turns out forgetting Harry Potter is harder than he anticipated.
He works, seeing his regulars and a few new clients the hotel finds for him. He wanders the streets of Paris, sticking to the quieter neighbourhoods to avoid the hordes of tourists that swarm the city in the summer. He goes out with his friends, losing hours to lazy conversations over drinks and cigarettes on the terraces of bars in Le Marais.
And thinks of Potter the whole time.
It’s particularly bad when he meets clients. He doesn’t even know if he likes Potter as a person—they’d not exactly talked much, after all—but every moment of their encounter is etched in his memory, and it floods back every time he goes to the hotel. He knows his work is suffering—he just can’t get into it the way he normally does—but he doesn’t know what to do about it. He’d hoped that fucking Potter would get him out of his system, but he just seems to have wormed his way even further under Draco’s skin.
Three weeks pass this way, with Draco pretending that nothing is different and praying that time will wash away the memory of Potter inside him, all the while aching with the knowledge that he’s had as much of Potter as he’ll ever get.
And then Potter walks into his hotel room.
Draco had been waiting for a client. It was a Wednesday evening, 9pm, which always meant Jean-Luc. Draco has no idea how Potter persuaded Jean-Luc to give up his spot, but he only spares a moment to wonder about it. He’s far more intrigued by why Potter is here at all.
‘What—’ Draco starts, but Potter cuts him off.
‘I— I don’t want to talk about it—,’ Potter stutters, the control and certainty that he’d shown last time gone.
‘Alright,’ Draco says, giving Potter space to continue. He looks stressed, nervous maybe, his hair sticking up at all angles as though he’s been running his hands through it, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than before, his eyes wild.
‘I just—’ Potter gestures awkwardly before dropping his hands back down to his sides. ‘I need to fuck you.’
And that makes Draco gasp, need hitting him like a sledgehammer. He’s always known about the power of words—he’s a dirty talk aficionado—but none have affected him quite so much as those words coming from Potter.
‘Ok,’ Draco says simply.
And it really is that simple.
It shouldn’t be. They’re supposed to hate each other, supposed to have years of history between them that make something like this impossible, but that doesn’t matter, not when Potter is stalking towards him, making Draco step backwards until his back hits the long windows that line the room.
Potter’s hands move to bracket Draco’s face, trapping him against the window, the small flexes of his biceps catching the corner of Draco’s eye. There’s so much power, both physical and magical, hidden just below the surface of Potter and Draco loves it. He almost wants to try and move away, just to see how Potter reacts.
But then Potter leans in, and any thoughts Draco had of delaying this vanish. Potter’s close enough that Draco can feel his breath ghosting across his lips, can see the very faint smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. His eyes are flicking between Draco’s eyes and his lips, and Draco knows Potter is about to kiss him. For a brief moment he contemplates letting him, thinks about giving in to his desire to know how Potter’s lips would feel against his. But he can’t. It’s his one rule, and he can’t break it for anyone, not even Potter.
‘I don’t kiss my clients,’ Draco says, Potter’s eyes snapping up to meet his. ‘Not on the lips.’
‘Oh.’
And Draco doesn’t think he’s imagining the flash of disappointment on Potter’s face.
But then Potter changes target, and suddenly his lips are on Draco’s jaw, trailing down his neck to his collarbone. Draco’s suddenly glad that Jean-Luc likes him to be dressed casually—he wants the boyfriend experience—because the soft white t-shirt that Draco had chucked on over his grey joggers shifts easily out of the way of Potter’s mouth. Draco moans as Potter finds the extra sensitive spot just below his neck, and Potter picks up on it, redoubling his efforts and reducing Draco to a shaking mess just with his tongue and teeth.
Draco’s hard, and he knows the loose fabric of his joggers isn't hiding anything. But Potter’s mouth has him shameless, and he bucks up against Potter’s crotch, relieved to find that Potter is equally hard in his jeans. He doesn’t even know what he wants—Potter’s cock in his mouth? His cock in Draco’s arse? To rub up against Potter like this until they both fall apart? He’d take anything, do anything at this point to quell the urgent need taking him over.
But Potter’s control is back, even though his face is pink and his breathing is harsh, and he swiftly takes the lead. He pushes Draco’s t-shirt off, dropping it on the floor before bending to flick Draco’s nipple with his tongue. He doesn’t stop there though, licking his way down Draco’s stomach until he reaches the waistband of his joggers. Potter’s fingers slip just under the waistband, stroking the sensitive skin of Draco’s hips and stomach, and Draco doesn’t think he can take it.
‘Oh, Merlin, don’t tease me,’ he moans as Potter’s fingers swipe perilously close to his cock, near enough to be agonising without giving him the relief he’s craving.
‘What if I want to tease you?’ There’s a laugh in Potter’s voice, and part of Draco thrills at hearing it, knowing that he’s the one causing it. It’s not something he ever thought he’d be able to do.
‘Do I have to beg? Is that what you want?’
And suddenly the laughter is gone from Potter’s face, replaced instead by burning desire, and god, that’s even better.
‘Yes.’ Potter’s tone brooks no disagreement, and Draco is powerless to resist.
He lets the pleas fall from his lips, telling Potter just how much he wants him, how desperately he needs to feel Potter press into him, his cock opening him up and pounding into him until he’s mindless with pleasure.
Potter doesn’t speak as Draco begs, his fingers still idly tracing patterns on Draco’s stomach, but his eyes never leave Draco’s face, and Draco can tell he’s affected. Just when Draco thinks he can’t take much more of this, Potter takes mercy on him, tugging Draco’s joggers down before surging to his feet. Draco’s prick springs free—he never wears boxers beneath joggers, preferring the way the fabric clings to his bare cock—and Potter runs a fingertip through the liquid that’s pooled at its head.
‘You really want me to fuck you, then?’ Potter says, bringing his finger to his mouth and sucking on it. Draco moans at the sight, and Potter seems to take that as a yes. He hurriedly strips himself of his own clothes, and Draco gets a quick glimpse of Potter’s muscled chest and the dark hair that leads down tantalisingly to his hard cock. But then Potter’s turning him, arranging him so that Draco’s palms are pressed against the cold windowpane, his arse brushing against Potter’s cock.
Potter casts the spells—Draco normally prefers to do things manually but right now he’s grateful for anything that gets Potter in him quicker—and then he’s taking Draco, right there in the window, for all of Paris to see.
They’re too high up for anyone to actually see them, but it still sends a thrill through Draco, awakening an exhibitionist streak he’d not known he had. He looks down at the wrought-iron balconies and the passersby illuminated by streetlights, and wonders what they would say if they knew Harry Potter was up above them, fucking a whore for anyone to see.
But the thought vanishes as Potter picks up his pace, rendering Draco incapable of doing anything but feeling. His breath is fogging up the glass, his hands slipping as he gets hot and sweaty, and it’s absolutely perfect. Potter’s broader than Draco is, his body enveloping Draco’s, and Draco feels completely surrounded by Potter.
Potter starts to swear as he gets nearer his climax, biting down on Draco’s shoulder just enough to send a frisson of pleasure-pain through him, and Draco is so close to coming.
‘Touch me,’ he gasps.
When Potter complies, reaching a hand down to stroke Draco’s cock, Draco is done for. With a loud moan he comes, leaving streaks on the window, but he can’t bring himself to care because Potter is coming too, his spunk filling Draco as his stuttering hips coax out the last of Draco’s orgasm.
It’s brilliant, again, and Draco’s dazed brain has just enough energy to think that so far, Potter’s more than lived up to his fantasies. Typical of Potter, really, to be good at sex as well as everything else.
Potter moves away, cold air rushing in to cover Draco in goosebumps where Potter’s body was shielding him. He expects Potter to dress quickly and leave, but instead Potter flops down on the sofa, his head tipping back to rest on the cushion, his eyes closing.
Draco is cold and sticky and in desperate need of a shower, or at least a cleaning charm, but he can’t pass up this chance to look at Potter. The hair scattered across his chest is damp with both of their sweat, and Draco follows it down across his toned stomach, to where his cock nestles amongst more dark hair. Potter’s thighs are as toned as you’d expect from a Quidditch player, and Draco suddenly wishes he could watch Potter fly. He’d always been entranced by Potter in the air—he blames his many defeats to Potter on how distracted he’d been during matches—and he’s sure Potter has only got faster and more graceful in the years since they played against each other at school.
Draco’s gaze moves up to Potter’s face and catalogues every mark and freckle, every line of the scar that descends across the right side of his forehead and cuts through his eyebrow. It’s beyond strange, to see Potter like this, so relaxed and at ease. He never looks like this in the photos in the paper.
‘Are you going to stare all night?’ Potter says, without opening his eyes.
Draco jumps, caught in the act.
‘Not all night, no. You’re not that interesting,’ he says.
Potter just laughs, his eyes crinkling and a dimple appearing on his left cheek. And Draco absolutely refuses to examine the way his stomach lurches at the sight.
Legs still a bit wobbly after the way Potter had so thoroughly fucked him, Draco casts a quick cleaning charm before stumbling over to the other sofa, lying down on his back and staring up at the ceiling. If Potter’s not in any hurry to leave, well. Draco’s not exactly going to kick him out. They’ve probably got time for another round, and Draco definitely wouldn’t be opposed to that.
He assumes they’re just going to sit in silence until they’re both sufficiently recovered for another go, but to his surprise, Potter starts talking. He’s hesitant, his eyes still closed as though he can’t bear to look at Draco at the same time, but still, he’s talking.
‘I don’t really know why I came back here,’ Potter starts, and Draco prepares to be offended, but before he can say anything, Potter continues.
‘Actually, that’s a lie. I do know why. You got to me, and I couldn’t stop thinking about last time.’
‘Surely you’re not so hard up that you couldn’t go out and find someone to fuck away the memory?’
‘It’s harder than you’d think,’ Potter laughs ruefully. ‘Dating, casual sex, whatever,’ he waves a hand in the air, ‘it’s all hard in Britain. People watch me everywhere I go, and I never know if people are actually interested in me or just in the man they think they know.’
Draco is silent for a moment. He’s always assumed Potter was getting around a fair bit, even if he never sees any evidence in the papers. After all, a celebrity like Potter would know how to be discreet with their encounters. But maybe the reason he never sees photos of Potter on a date or taking someone home from a club was because it just didn’t happen. Draco felt a momentary pang of sympathy for Potter which was immediately tempered by his own memories.
‘I’m well aware of what the British public are like,’ Draco says, a hard edge creeping into his voice. ‘Why do you think I left?’
‘I—I don’t know. I never thought too much about it,’ Potter admits.
‘Of course you didn’t. Too busy being the Saviour to worry about a failed Death Eater getting a few death threats, I suppose.’ The instinct to pick at Potter, to press his buttons, is too strong to resist, years of habit not yet broken.
‘Too busy going to funerals and trying to get my head around the fucking war I’d just lived through, actually.’
Draco chances a look over at Potter. He’s got his eyes open now, and he looks cross. Draco backtracks hurriedly, not wanting a few badly chosen words to break the peace that he’d thought was building between them.
‘Well, anyway, it was hell for me too, so I left. I’ve not regretted it for a second,’ Draco adds, his tone softer this time.
‘You like it here, then?’ Potter’s voice is tentative, as though he too is trying to restore the peace.
‘It’s Paris, Potter. What’s not to like?’
‘And you like—you like what you do?’
‘Yes,’ Draco says simply. He knows what people think about his job, but he’s not about to be shamed for it, especially by someone who seems to have no issue paying for his services. ‘It pays the bills, gives me freedom, and I’m good at it. Plus, I like sex. This way I get to have as much as I want.’
‘I’m sure you could go and get as much sex as you wanted, without doing it for a job.’
There’s a wriggle of something like happiness and excitement in Draco’s stomach at Potter’s words.
‘Are you saying you think I’m hot?’ Draco can’t resist pushing his luck.
‘Well—you’re—you know,’ Potter sounds flustered, and Draco can’t help grinning.
‘I’m what?’
‘You know. Tall. Pointy. You’ve got that hair.’
‘Wow, Potter, truly a ringing endorsement of my attractiveness.’
‘You know you’re fit, Malfoy, I don’t know why you need to hear me say it!’ Potter bursts out, before murmuring something that sounds a little like oh god, shut up Harry.
‘That’s all you needed to say,’ Draco crows, before they both lapse into silence. It’s a comfortable silence, not like after the last time they did this, and Draco starts to drift, not quite asleep but not quite awake either.
The sound of Potter saying his name wakes him, who knows how long later.
Potter’s standing over him, fully dressed again, hair still a disaster but cheeks back to their normal colour, all other signs of their time together vanished. It makes Draco inexplicably sad.
‘I have to go,’ Potter says.
‘Ok,’ Draco replies, stretching his sore limbs and standing up. He feels better once he’s standing, less vulnerable than when Potter was looming over him.
‘I was, uh—I was thinking, maybe I’ll come back?’ Potter says, to Draco’s great surprise. He looks nervous, fiddling with his fingers, a line forming between his eyebrows as he frowns.
‘If you’d like,’ Draco says, sounding far calmer than he feels. ‘You know how to make an appointment.’
‘Yeah,’ Potter says. ‘Bye then, Malfoy.’
‘Goodbye, Potter,’ Draco says, and then Potter’s gone again. But this time, Draco knows he’s coming back.
True to his word, Potter does come back.
Again and again, in fact. He’s quickly becoming one of Draco’s most frequent clients—something Draco absolutely isn’t complaining about.
Every time he sees that Potter’s booked an appointment, excitement flutters in his stomach as he wonders what the night will have in store for them. Potter’s far more adventurous than Draco had expected, and weeks fly by in a blur of blindfolds, hands tied to bedposts, and more mind-blowing orgasms than Draco can count.
That first conversation had been like a dam opening, and now Potter barely shuts up when they meet. He’s far more vocal during sex than Draco would have guessed, a litany of moans and dirty talk filling the room whenever he’s inside Draco, but he talks afterwards, too. It’s like an orgasm removes his internal filter, and soon Draco knows more about Potter’s post-war life than he’d ever imagined he would. He knows all about Potter’s failed attempt to join the Aurors, and how he’d found something close to happiness in playing Quidditch. He hears more about Weasley and Granger than he would ideally like, and the slightly bitter tone in Potter’s voice when he talks about their happily married life doesn’t escape him.
Draco talks too, telling Potter things he’s only ever shared with Pansy. He talks about how hostile Britain was to him, after the war. About his father dying in Azkaban, and the Ministry refusing to release his body, stripping him and his mother of the ability to hold a proper funeral. He tells Potter about the life he’s built here in Paris, about the friends he’s made and the freedom he’s found in being able to live and love openly.
One evening, as they lie on the bed, the sheets in a heap on the ground and sweat drying on their skin, they even warily broach the subject of the war. They’ve skirted the topic multiple times—the war naturally encroaches on any discussion of their lives and shared history—but this time they don’t shy away. Draco listens, rapt, the setting sun making Potter’s skin glow golden, as Potter describes the loneliness of having the world’s hopes pinned on you, of being a scared child in a game controlled by adults. Of the grief that had followed the war, and the loneliness that had remained, even as the world celebrated his achievements.
Draco lets Potter talk until he’s done, the words flowing out of him as if they’d been right on the surface, ready to burst out, for years. He has the feeling that this is the first time Potter has said some of these things out loud, and he wonders why he hasn’t felt able to share them before.
Then it’s Draco’s turn, and it’s as though Potter’s confessions have unlocked his own. He’s never really talked to anyone about what it was like that year that the Dark Lord occupied the Manor, but he finds himself telling Potter about the fear that never left him during that time, about the spells he would cast on his bedroom door at night, about the way he struggled to sleep anyway, well aware that his attempts to protect himself wouldn’t help at all. He describes that terrible day when the Dark Lord had found him hiding in the library and told him exactly what he had to do if he wanted to ensure he and his parents survived the war. Potter doesn’t say much as Draco talks, just listens, occasionally nodding or making little noises of encouragement. It’s the most Draco’s ever talked about the war.
It’s dark by the time they fall silent, the room lit only by the pale, weak beams of the streetlights coming through the uncovered windows. They’ve shifted as they talked, and now they’re facing each other, bodies curled in mirror images of the other, close but not quite touching. It’s almost unbearably intimate, far more so than anything they’ve done with each other so far. Sex is one thing, but this is more than Draco’s shared with anyone.
It’s cosy, in the hotel room, and Draco doesn’t want to leave. He only comes here to see clients, holds no special love for the room, and yet when he’s here with Potter, it takes on a new significance. Usually he goes home straight after his clients leave, keen to get back to his own flat and life, but when he sees Potter, he lingers. He lies in the bed, basking in the warmth their bodies have left on the sheets. He showers in the marbled ensuite, remembering the time they’d fucked in here, laughing as they kept slipping against each other’s soapy skin. The room’s become their little hideaway, a secret spot where they can both drop the weight of the expectations they carry, where they can give themselves over to pleasure and idle conversation. It feels more like home than Draco’s flat does, and he can almost pretend that it’s real.
But then Potter moves, as he always does, sitting up and running a hand through his hair, and shatters all of Draco’s hopes with his careless words.
‘God, it’s late—I should go. Do I owe you extra for going over time?’
‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it.’ Draco’s voice sounds hollow even to his own ears, but Potter doesn’t seem to notice.
And then Potter is gone, and Draco is reminded that this isn’t their sanctuary at all. It’s the room where people pay him to fuck them, and that’s all Potter wants from him, nothing more.
When Draco next gets a letter notifying him that Potter’s booked an appointment, he cancels it.
Draco’s been feeling off kilter since he last saw Potter, his nerves raw and his anxiety peaking after revisiting the war. He’s been sleeping badly, alternating between nightmares about the Dark Lord that leave him screaming and dreams full of Potter that make his heart ache when he wakes up alone.
He just can’t face seeing him again, not yet. Not when he knows he won’t be able to hide how he’s feeling, and when watching Potter leave will break him again.
Draco expects Potter to give up after the fourth appointment he refuses to take. There’s plenty of people out there that he can pay for sex, after all. No need to keep coming to Draco when a warm body is all he wants.
It’s not just Potter though. After one appointment goes spectacularly wrong, every touch making him ache with missing Potter and the evening ending in him shouting at his client then storming out in tears, Draco cancels all of his appointments entirely. He’s got enough money saved to get by, and it’s better than having to go to that room and be reminded of every touch, every conversation, that he and Potter shared.
It’s an unusually hot September and the city is sweltering. It leaves Draco feeling listless, his boiling flat making it impossible to sleep, forcing him to spend hours lying in bed, tossing and turning and thinking about Potter. His days are spent in a daze of exhaustion, books opened and put aside without taking a word in, years’ worth of routine slipping away without the structure of his work. And all the time, his mind is full of Potter. He keeps refusing to see anyone though, and eventually stops responding to any communications from the hotel at all.
He knows Potter’s still in Paris. When he does venture out into the world, he can’t escape Potter’s face on the magazines and newspapers for sale in the kiosks that line the streets. Paris is apparently abuzz with excitement that Harry Potter has signed a deal with Les Pumas de Paris for an undisclosed sum.
Draco’s always loved Paris, let it steal his heart and made it his home, but now everywhere he turns there is a reminder of everything he wants but can’t have, and it’s like he’s losing Paris too.
After a month, Pansy comes to visit. She too had fled Britain after the war, settling herself in Monaco where she’s become somewhat of an it girl, dating a string of gorgeous men and women and swanning around on yachts. Draco had been planning on visiting her this summer, as he always does—it’s good to get away from the city in high season—but he hadn’t, first caught up in Potter, and then caught up in missing him.
In true Pansy style, she doesn’t give Draco any warning of her visit, instead turning up on his doorstep one afternoon, matching luggage in hand.
‘Merlin, you look awful,’ is how she greets him, but he can’t be cross about it—she’s right.
Normally when Pansy comes to Paris, her visits are a whirlwind of cocktails and shopping and dancing late into the night, but instead of immediately dragging him out to some fancy gala, Pansy pushes Draco into his living room and makes him sit down.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks, hands on hips in a way that is so Pansy that it makes Draco ache with missing having her around all the time.
‘Nothing’s going on.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Draco, you know you’re crap at it.’
Draco sighs. She always has been able to see right through him. It’s driven him crazy at times—like when she figured out in sixth year that his feelings for Potter were a bit more complicated than simple hatred—but at other times, it’s been a blessing in disguise. In sixth year she’d known something was wrong before anyone else, and if she hadn’t been there for the dark days, he doesn’t know how he’d have got through it.
‘Anyway,’ Pansy continues, disrupting his thoughts. ‘It doesn’t really matter—I’ve spoken to Manon.’
‘You’ve been talking to Manon about me?’ Draco doesn’t know whether to be shocked that Pansy and the woman who books his appointments are apparently in contact or annoyed that they’ve been talking about him behind his back.
‘Yes,’ Pansy says simply, before adding, ‘we might have had a little fling when I visited a few years ago and we’ve kept in touch.’
‘Merlin, Pansy, I work with her!’
‘I know. And that’s why she got in touch. She’s worried about you.’
Pansy looks at him, concern etched across her face, and Draco hates it. It reminds him too much of the bad times. He doesn’t want her to be worried about him again, not about this.
‘Why have you been cancelling your appointments, Draco?’ Pansy says softly. ‘Did something happen?’
‘I—.’ Draco doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know whether to tell her the truth, or where he would start if he did. But he can’t lie to Pansy, and part of him is desperate to talk about it, to share his turmoil with someone else. So he says it.
‘I slept with Potter.’
Pansy is quiet, a slight widening of her eyes her only reaction.
‘Multiple times, actually,’ Draco continues. ‘He paid me, and that was fine, but then…’
‘Then what?’ Pansy prods when Draco falls silent.
‘It wasn’t enough anymore.’
‘For him?’
‘For me.’ Draco drops his head into his hands, hiding from Pansy’s gaze. ‘I wanted it to be real, and it was too much, I couldn’t see him anymore. I couldn’t have him paying me any longer.’
‘Oh, Draco.’ And then Pansy is beside him on the sofa, pulling him into her arms, and it’s everything Draco’s been needing. He’s used to bottling up his feelings, burying them deep down, but it’s a relief to have said it aloud, and he finds that his eyes are damp and he’s trembling as Pansy strokes his back.
They sit like that for long minutes, Pansy’s top growing damp with tears as Draco lets himself go. Most people never see this side of Pansy, but Draco can’t think of anyone he’d rather be with right now—she’s always known how to comfort him, take care of him. Slytherins have always had a reputation for being self-serving, for being ruthless and cold, but that has never been Draco’s experience. At Hogwarts they’d formed a little family, looking after each other when their parents were too distracted with chasing power and the rest of the world had written them off.
When Draco finally pulls back, sniffling slightly but a bit more composed than he had been, Pansy pushes his hair off his face, and then turns businesslike.
‘So,’ she says, ‘what on earth are you going to do?’
What Draco does is get absolutely plastered. After insisting that he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, he and Pansy begin to steadily make their way through several bottles of wine. Draco listens as Pansy regales him with scandalous stories of her life in Monaco, distracted for the first time from the undercurrent of sadness that has been present these last weeks. It’s good to have her here, and he makes a silent promise to not leave it so long between visits. Whatever he might like to think about his ability to look after himself, he needs his friends.
By the time Pansy has run out of stories of socialites and soirées, they’re both lying on the floor, the cushions from Draco’s sofa stuffed under their heads. The floor isn’t at all comfortable, the wood cold and hard against Draco’s back, but he’s too drunk to care. Too angry, as well.
It had faded into the background while Pansy spoke, but then she mentions a Quidditch player she met at a party, and it all comes rushing back. How Potter had slept with him, made him fall for him, paid him. And on top of that, Potter had kept coming back, had told Draco things he hadn’t told anyone else, had made Draco think he could be something more than just his whore. How dare he? Why did Potter have to come and ruin Draco’s life just as he was finally happy?
The more he thinks about it, the angrier he gets. He’s finally made a life for himself outside of Britain, where his past doesn’t hang over him, and now Potter has tracked him down, used his body, stolen his heart, and then destroyed him.
Draco says as much to Pansy, his voice loud, his words slurring slightly. It’s not the first time she’s listened to him rant about Potter, and she knows what he needs, making noises of encouragement and letting him get it out of his system. But this is so much worse than having a handshake snubbed, and the ranting doesn’t lessen his anger this time.
He’s furious, and he needs to do something. He briefly considers going to find Potter so that he can shout at him, but then remembers he has no idea where Potter lives. Just another reminder that this was all business for Potter, that none of it had been real.
In the end, he does the only thing he can think of, and writes to his bank.
Three days later, there’s a loud banging on Draco’s front door. He thinks it must be Pansy, assuming that she’s realised en route to her portkey that she’s left something behind.
So he’s entirely unprepared when he opens the door to a furious Potter.
Before he can even open his mouth to say something, Potter pushes past him, invading Draco’s flat, anger radiating off him, the air sparking around him. For the first time, Draco sees the war hero, the man who was capable of facing down evil and vanquishing it.
‘What the fuck is this, Malfoy?’ Potter says, brandishing a piece of parchment in Draco’s face.
‘You tell me, you’re the one holding it,’ Draco says snarkily, his old defences snapping back into place in the face of Potter’s anger.
‘You know what it is, you’re the one who did it!’ Potter thrusts the parchment towards Draco.
As soon as he sees the Gringotts header, he knows what the letter says.
‘So I sent you your money back, surely you should be happy? You got to fuck me for free, plenty of my clients would love that.’
‘You don’t get to just decide to send it back! I don’t need it, don’t want it.’ Potter is pacing around Draco’s living room, his voice echoing loudly.
‘Well I definitely don’t want it. Go find another whore to give it to if you need to get rid of it that badly.’
‘I don’t want to give it to another whore!’
Draco’s anger is coiled in his stomach, ready to explode, and he hates that once again Potter has got a reaction out of him. Whether they’re fucking or fighting Potter always gets the better of him, and he can’t bear that. He wants to win, just once. And if winning means he never sees Potter again, that he loses the one man he’s truly wanted, well. So be it.
‘Well this whore doesn’t want your guilt money,’ Draco says, whirling round to face Potter properly. He’s momentarily grateful for the few inches of height he has on Potter, even if Potter is far broader than he is. It makes them feel equal, just for a moment.
‘It’s not guilt money,’ Potter snaps.
‘What is it then? Pity money?’
‘It’s not pity money!’ Potter roars, shocking Draco with the force of his emotion. ‘I hated paying you, alright? Is that what you want to hear?’
Draco is momentarily frozen, mind racing.
‘Why did you, then?’ he asks.
‘Because I had to,’ Potter says, his voice quieter, his eyes boring into Draco’s. ‘How else was I going to see you?’
Potter’s words echo around the room as Draco tries to take them in. He thinks—hopes—he knows what Potter is trying to say, but he doesn’t quite dare to believe it.
‘You didn’t need to pay to see me,’ Draco replies, heart thumping in his chest as he skirts dangerously close to a confession. He’s not the type to take a risk, to put his heart in danger, but the thought of missing this chance with Potter—with Harry—is too much.
‘I didn’t?’ Harry takes a tentative step forward, nearly closing the gap between them, and Draco’s heart leaps. Maybe sometimes taking a risk is worth it.
‘No,’ Draco says simply.
Harry’s so close now, and Draco wants him so badly, all the feelings that he’s tried to push away rushing back. His fingers itch to touch Harry, to feel his skin after weeks of missing it.
‘Can I—’ Harry starts, then hesitates briefly. The look in his eyes is almost too much for Draco to bear, but Draco waits, desperate to hear what Harry wants to say.
‘Can I kiss you, Draco?’ Harry says finally, and Draco can only nod.
Finally, after so long wanting and wondering, Draco’s lips meet Harry’s. It’s soft at first, tentative almost, but it still sends shockwaves of delight through Draco. He can’t believe he’s waited this long to do this. If he’d known it would be this wonderful, he’d have let Harry kiss him long ago, rules be damned.
When Harry’s hands curl into Draco’s hair, what started out soft turns more heated, Draco pressing his body closer and wrapping his arms around Harry, wanting him as close as possible. They kiss until Draco is panting, aching with need but also content to do nothing but enjoy being close like this. He’s so used to rushing to the main event that it’s a treat to enjoy the journey.
But soon their hips are grinding together, Harry’s cock a hard line against Draco’s, and Draco needs more. He wants to have sex with Harry properly, knowing that it’s because they desperately want each other rather than because of any money or obligation. He breaks their kiss, thrilling at the moan of loss that escapes Harry.
‘Come with me,’ Draco says, taking Harry’s hand and leading him through the flat to his bedroom.
As soon as they’re in Draco’s bedroom, Harry is kissing him again, his hands roaming over Draco’s body, slipping under his shirt and tracing the skin hidden there. Every touch has Draco trembling, and as Harry slowly undresses him, it’s all he can do not to beg for more.
Once Draco is naked, Harry’s gaze hot on his exposed skin, it’s Draco’s turn. He starts with Harry’s t-shirt, pushing it up and over his head, leaving his hair even more rumpled than it was before as the golden skin of his torso is revealed. Draco wants to touch it all, wants to explore every inch of that skin with his hands and his lips. He wants to know what Harry’s skin tastes like, and the sounds he’d make if Draco licked his nipples. He’s known Harry for most of his life, but there’s still so much more to discover, and his mind is heady with possibilities.
But that will have to be saved for another day—and Merlin, Draco hopes that there’s another day. Today, his hands move to the button of Harry’s jeans, undoing it and unzipping his flies. As soon as they’re undone Harry is eagerly pushing his trousers down, revealing his toned thighs and a pair of straining black boxer shorts. Draco can’t resist dropping to his knees and kissing along the length of Harry’s cock, delighting in the noise that Harry makes. And then Draco is slipping his fingers under the waistband, needing to see Harry properly, without a scrap of fabric between them. Draco pulls off Harry’s boxers, and then he’s bare and all Draco can do is look, letting his eyes wander up and down Harry’s body, taking in every detail.
‘Come here,’ Harry says, his voice taking on the commanding tone that Draco loves so much.
Draco complies, and he’s in Harry’s arms again, their bodies pressed together from head to toe as Harry kisses him, and oh god. Without breaking their kiss, Harry walks them over to Draco’s bed, pushing Draco down onto the soft covers and covering Draco’s body with his own. Harry’s hot and heavy on top of him, their pricks rubbing together as Harry begins to move his hips. Draco’s been so turned on for so long that the friction is enough to make him moan, and his volume only increases when Harry moves to finger him open.
Once Draco is pushing back on Harry’s fingers, taking them with ease, Harry stops. Draco’s body misses the sensation immediately.
‘How do you want me?’ Draco asks. He wants this to be perfect for Harry.
‘Just like you are,’ Harry replies, settling himself between Draco’s open thighs and wandlessly casting the spell to slick his cock. ‘I want to see you, kiss you, while I fuck you.’
Draco is still melting over Harry’s words when Harry begins to press into him, the stretch delicious as his body adjusts to the feeling of Harry inside him. He fights the urge to let his eyes close—he wants to watch Harry’s face. Harry’s eyelids flutter as he enters Draco, his mouth falling open on a silent moan, and all Draco can think is how beautiful he is. Harry reaches for Draco’s hands, moving them above Draco’s head before interlocking their fingers. It’s the perfect combination of tenderness and control.
Harry picks up speed, his hips moving faster and harder, and soon they’re fucking properly. It’s nothing they haven’t done before, but it’s somehow different this time. Draco can’t look away from Harry’s face, and Harry doesn’t turn away either. Draco doesn’t know what his face is giving away, but Harry’s expression is tender, his eyes full of something that Draco hopes might be love. Draco’s never had sex with someone he loves before, and if this is what it’s like, he doesn’t think he can ever go back. It’s like magic, sparking around them and drawing them closer together, making every sensation more, cocooning them in their own private world.
Draco’s cock rubs against Harry’s stomach with every one of Harry’s thrusts, and it feels incredible. Harry’s hitting his prostate incessantly, pushing Draco closer and closer to his orgasm with every stroke, and although Draco doesn’t want this to end, he knows he can’t hold off much longer. When Harry closes his eyes and kisses Draco, his tongue slipping into Draco’s mouth, Draco is done for. He moans into Harry’s mouth as he starts to come, their bodies growing sticky as he spills between them. It’s the best orgasm of his life.
Through a pleasure-filled haze, he feels Harry stiffen and come too, his body shaking above Draco. After a final few thrusts, Harry’s weight drops fully onto Draco and he releases Draco’s hands. Draco strokes up and down Harry’s back as they both sink into the afterglow, long moments passing where the only sound is their gradually slowing breathing. Harry’s almost crushing Draco, and he’s hot and sticky and sweaty, but Draco doesn’t care at all.
Harry eventually rolls away, but he doesn’t get up and leave like Draco is used to. Instead, he stays next to Draco, seeming totally at ease with his nudity and what they’ve just done. He starts to stroke Draco’s wrist, his fingers making Draco shiver as they slowly explore the flowers tattooed there. To Draco’s relief he doesn’t say anything. He knows Harry is aware of what the flowers cover, but he doesn’t want to discuss it, not now. Not when he’s so happy and at peace.
‘Well, that was... amazing,’ Harry says eventually.
‘And you didn’t even have to pay for it,’ Draco teases, too full of happiness to find referencing their past upsetting.
‘I don’t intend to pay for anything to do with you ever again,’ Harry says, sincerity shining in his eyes as he brings Draco’s hand to his mouth and kisses it.
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Well,’ Harry pauses, before continuing, ‘I could pay for dinner, if you’d like?’
‘I would like that very much,’ Draco says, not even trying to stop the smile that spreads across his face.
‘But first…’ Harry rolls over until his body is on top of Draco’s once again, leaning down to capture his mouth in a blistering kiss. Draco doesn’t hesitate to pull Harry even closer, his body already responding to Harry’s proximity. Dinner will have to wait.