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Draco is tired of being a genius.
Most of the time, he’s happy to humbly bear the burden of his brilliance. But it’s utter shit this time of year.
He stares at the velvet panels on his desk, nearly going cross-eyed. He hasn’t slept more than five hours a night for a month, and he hasn’t had a decent shag since early autumn.
Draco lives in a sea of fabric. Drowning in it, no land in sight.
He’s going a bit mental, truth be told. After the final winter gala, he’s closing his shop and going on holiday somewhere he can get naked and boil himself in a natural spring. Iceland, he thinks. Somewhere no one can find him.
If he’s lucky, he’ll find a bloke to entertain him. No one special. Few people are special enough to warrant Draco’s long-term attention. He is, after all, a tortured genius with an enormous cock. Not just anyone will do.
There’s a tap at his door. His head snaps up, glasses going askew on the bridge of his nose.
“It’s five o’clock. I’ll be heading on.” The new receptionist—Draco can’t remember her name—appears in the doorway. He glances at her sidelong and notes that she seems to be done for the day.
“I thought you were staying until six.” He pulls his reading glasses down and peers at her. She has her jacket over one arm, a pinched look on her face. “The wool rugs in the dressing room need shaving. I need my chenille organised. And I need you in the office in case there are any late orders for dress robes.”
“I told you yesterday. My niece…” She looks expectant, like Draco is supposed to recall a conversation they had a day ago.
“Your niece what?” He frowns. She said something about a family member, but Draco can’t remember when. It’s entirely possible she’s making it up to get out of work. Draco did it all the time when he started as an apprentice tailor. He wouldn’t begrudge her such an escape, but the Phoenix Feather Gala is less than two months away, and Draco is the most sought-after clothier in Wixen London. He doesn’t have time for nonsense.
“She’s at St. Mungo’s, sir. Dragon Pox.” Her already pinched face starts to pinch further. The poor woman appears close to collapse, and, Merlin, Draco can’t handle an employee threatening to go to the press, or worse, vomiting on one of the hand-tufted rugs.
He can see the headline now: Death Eater’s Dreadful Deeds: Despot of Diagon Alley Drives Employees to Despair.
Something horrible like that. He sighs.
“Does your sibling not believe in vaccinations? Scorpius was vaccinated well before he went to Hogwarts.” Draco keeps his voice cool and even. No one likes harsh words or a condescending tone. Pansy has informed him that he has ‘no filter,’ but Draco prefers to think of himself as honest. And in this case, he’s being helpful.
“She was too young for the vaccine.” Her mouth draws into a thin line, then pinches again. “Caught it on holiday.”
“Not at one of those absurd Dragon Pox parties, I hope.” Draco frowns; he’s hard pressed not to say something rude, but he doesn’t want to be without a receptionist entirely. Next gala season, however, he’s hiring someone who doesn’t have a niece.
“Course not. Like I said, it was on holiday.” The receptionist clenches her coat and releases it. “I really have to go, Mr Malfoy. I have colouring books to deliver.”
“Colouring books? Why would you give a child colouring books? Can’t it read? Scorpius was reading classic Greek poetry by the age of three. Writing it by five.”
The receptionist stares at him. Draco stares back. What on earth is her name? His head is filled entirely with silk panels and velvet linings. Draco supposes it’s easier to just let her go than to listen to more of her inanity.
“Off you go then,” he says graciously, forcing a little smile. There. That’s a fine interaction. “Tomorrow you’ll be working a full day, yes?”
She gives him a clipped nod, but she doesn’t move. He just told the woman to go. What in Merlin’s name is wrong with her? Her mouth is open in a little O shape, and her eyes flick to the side, in the direction of the waiting room.
Draco pulls on his great well of patience. “Is there anything else?”
“Your five o’clock appointment is here. He wanted me to tell you.” The poor woman is very pale now, almost sallow around the eyes. Perhaps he should offer her a bit of Pepper-Up. Draco would want someone to tell him before he went out in public looking like that: all ashen-faced with a mouth like a puckered arsehole. Maybe it’s just the colour of her jumper that washes her out. No self-respecting blond wears that shade of yellow.
He decides against informing her. His words could be construed as insulting by those prone to overreaction.
“That’s fine. No need to get upset about letting me down this evening. Send him back.” Draco waves her away. Why isn’t she gone yet if she’s so intent on viewing her infected niece?
“I’m sorry, Mr Malfoy.” Her eyes drift to the floor. “I know you have a strict rule about your blacklisted names. But this one used a fake name when he Owled. I swear it. He tried twice under his own name last month.”
Draco blinks, the names on his blacklist flashing through his mind. There are only three: Zacharias Smith, because he’s Draco’s least favourite ex and a massive cunt; Anthony Goldstein, because he referred to Draco’s designs as derivative during Wixen Fashion Week last year and—there’s also—
“He called himself James Black.”
Draco clutches the sheer silver voile in his lap so hard that it activates the heating charm woven into the fabric, creating a blanket of warmth across the tops of his thighs. It feels, disgustingly, like he’s wet himself. He clutches and tugs at the fabric, trying to deactivate the charm, but it keeps getting hotter. “Merlin, fuck this fucking fabric—”
“Sir—”
Draco chucks the fabric on the floor; a hot, shimmery heap at his feet. He grits his teeth. “Tell me that Harry fucking Potter isn’t in the front sitting room. And that I don’t have to fit him for a set of fucking dress robes.”
“Harry Potter is, unfortunately, in the front sitting room.” The wretched woman flinches like she’s bracing herself for a Stinging Hex. Draco’s not in fifth year, for Merlin’s sake. He doesn’t know why his staff are so afraid of him. “He says it’s for the Phoenix Feather Gala. Suit. No robes. He said you were the only one he trusted with it. And that your schoolyard rivalry should be long done, especially since—”
“—our sons have been shagging since sixth year?”
The receptionist—her name is Marguerite, his brain supplies—cringes. “Something like that.”
“Let me guess—he implied their relationship is the reason I don’t want to see him.” Circe’s cunt. Draco hasn’t made a fool of himself in front of Potter for months now. Scorpius had even congratulated him on ‘not being a complete tit’ in front of his boyfriend’s dad.
She nods again.
“He should know better. His mind is a tangled web of simple-minded lies.” Draco sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Send him back, as I said. I’ll disabuse him of this preposterous notion and send him on his way.”
Anyone who would care about Scorpius shagging Albus Potter is long dead. Besides, Scorpius could do much worse. Al’s a Slytherin and the son of a Quidditch legend.
No, Draco doesn’t disapprove of their relationship in the slightest.
It’s the Harry Potter of it all.
At forty-two, Draco should really be over his emotions regarding a certain bumbling-but-charming, messy-haired, musclebound Gryffindor. Alas, Draco’s feelings have only become more complicated with time. Potter has always been endlessly fascinating, and Draco has always wanted him in one form or another. Draco first wanted Potter as a friend. When that didn’t work out, he made Potter an enemy. Sometime around fifth year, Draco’s revenge fantasies got mixed up with erotic hate dreams.
Potter went on his merry heterosexual way after the war, marrying Ginevra and producing half a Quidditch team’s worth of Potter-Weasleys.
The erotic dreams, however, stayed with Draco.
In his early twenties, Draco assumed he could cure his steadily blossoming queerness by marrying well and producing a brilliant child. Instead, Draco became progressively more homosexual. Astoria conveniently prefers the company of other women, which allowed Draco the freedom to explore his sexuality and his kinks well before their divorce was finalised. In many ways, Astoria helped him become the pervert he is today.
Draco kept thinking his dreams of Potter would leave him, but for all the men he’s fucked, his grade school crush has stuck with him, intensifying over time.
Nowadays, Potter makes Draco feel like he’s consumed a double shot of Veritaserum and an entire vial of Amortentia. All of Draco’s most wanton desires rise within him the moment he catches sight of Potter’s forearms or the elegant curve of his thick arse.
So, ever since Draco came gambolling out of the closet at the ripe old age of thirty-three, he’s avoided Potter as much as possible. They move in the same social circles, and Scorpius and Albus spend so much time together that he can’t stay away from Potter entirely. Draco does a lot of dodging and deflecting at school events and a fair amount of ducking into cupboards at charity galas. The one place Draco is able to keep Potter away from entirely is his workshop.
Potter can get a bespoke suit from a dozen other Wixen haberdasheries, and Draco will tell him exactly that. No faffing about. No falling into him “accidentally” and brushing against his lips after Potter says something sweet with his sinful mouth.
Merlin. Those full, ripe lips make Draco want to commit all manner of sins, both Muggle and magical; crimes against humanity, nature, and the universe itself. After he’s done with those, he’ll invent a whole new crop of atrocities, all in the name of a straight man who will never want him.
“He’s quite insistent. Mr Potter says it has to be you.” Her knuckles are white where she’s clutching her outdated coat. Merlin. He forgets how people react when in the presence of such supposed greatness.
He realises he’s been silently staring at his receptionist for more than a minute now, his mind bouncing between visions of Potter’s arse and his judgments on Marguerite’s wardrobe. “Like I said, Marguerite—”
“It’s Margaret. And he said—”
“Don’t listen to a word he says. He won’t hurt you. He’s just a washed up, middle-aged ex-Auror who coasts on his good looks and charisma—”
“You think I’m charismatic? That’s new.” There’s a Potter-shaped shadow in Draco’s doorway, and Marguerite looks like she’s either about to shit herself or lift off into Earth’s atmosphere.
Merlin, he’s big. Draco hasn’t seen him in well over six months, not since he almost snogged Potter in a lift at the last Ministry Gala. When Potter steps into the light, he nearly takes up the doorframe, salt and pepper hair glinting in the glow of the sconces.
“You’ve always thought I was good-looking,” he continues. “Not sure you will anymore. I’m middle-aged. Washed up.”
His stomach drops all the way to his arse. Jesus shitting Merlin fuck. How does this man manage to get more fuckable every single year? “Marguerite—”
“It’s Margaret, sir.”
“Go see your invalid relative. I’ll deal with this man.” Draco’s heart is a quick, ticking patter in the hollow of his throat. Circe, Potter’s eyes are as green polished emerald, his jaw cut like stone, covered in artfully-tended black and grey stubble. He’s strong and wide and toned, his middle deliciously soft; a decadent meal of a man. Draco wants to devour him piece by piece until he’s nothing more than a quivering puddle of goo.
Every time, Draco thinks he’s going to be over it. He’ll be over the longing and the want. Over the depraved desires Potter brings to life inside of him.
He isn’t. He never will be.
Marguerite shuffles off, glancing back at Potter with wide eyes. The door slams behind her.
“Why are you here?” Draco purses his lips and grips the arm of his chair. Magic sizzles in the air around Potter, crackling with a frequency Draco can feel, like the pulse of a living thing. Draco wants to catch its electric flare between his teeth so he can memorise its texture and taste as he swallows it down.
“I’m here for a suit.”
Draco sniffs. His eyes wander to Potter’s waist. Circe, he looks like he’s been eating well. He wants to pull up Potter’s horrid jumper and suck marks into his soft flesh. Focus. He can focus. “Obviously. But why are you bothering me about it? Don’t you have ten different fashion designers crawling up your arse on a daily basis?”
“I don’t have the right fashion designer crawling up my arse.” Potter shoots him a devastating grin—lopsided, a dimple on one cheek. Morganna’s tits. This man.
Draco hopes the heat overtaking his face isn’t apparent in the golden light of the studio. Along with the kaleidoscopic display of suit jackets and robes lining his walls and the fleet of antique sewing machines, the lighting is designed to inspire confidence in the customer and hide Draco’s less appealing features. Smoke and mirrors, the lot of it.
Potter won’t notice. He’s been not noticing Draco for three decades now. He’d never let Draco suck him or bite him or slide his cock inside that unexplored arse.
“Excuse my choice of words. Tell me, Potter, truly—why—”
“Look, you’re the best clothier in London. I was told I needed to look good, which is why I came here. I know I don’t look good anymore. You have the skill to make something flattering, at least.” Potter’s voice is sickeningly earnest. A Slytherin would never. “I know I’m not what I once was. Like, physically. It’s… embarrassing. I’m just—I’m desperate.”
“Merlin deliver me.” Draco takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please, I beg you. I cannot have this man at my place of work.”
“Christ, Malfoy. I know you don’t like me, for whatever reason, but—”
Draco makes a pained sound. “It’s not that—I don’t—I don’t dislike you, you clueless, daft—”
“—we should really get along for the kids’ sake. We’re both adults.” Potter barrels on, gesticulating between them for emphasis. “And by the way, I don’t mind seeing you around. I want to see more of you, honestly. You’ve really built something here. It’s artistry, what you do. I’ve seen your designs, and they’re really, like, breathtaking. Modern and classic, or whatever.”
“You like my work?” He glares at Potter, but a touch of satisfaction creeps into Draco’s mind. Even if he doesn’t want Draco to hold him down and fuck his pretty mouth, Potter admires his talent.
“Er. Yeah. Is there anyone who doesn’t? I’m famous because of something I accidentally accomplished as a teenager. You’re famous because you’re an actual artist. That’s really something, you know.” Potter shifts from foot to foot.
“You’re buttering me up.” The glow of Potter’s praise is better than any manufactured warming charm. The hand-woven silver voile is cheap and tawdry in comparison.
“Is it buttering you up if it’s true?” That grin again, wider this time. His gaze locks on Draco.
“I suppose not.” Draco attempts a scowl, but it doesn’t sit right when all Draco wants to do is bury his face against Potter’s crotch and mouth at it until he comes in his tatty jeans. “And what is it that you need from me, precisely?”
“I’m middle-aged and washed up, like you said. Too big in the middle for everything I own. I fucking hate galas, but Phoenix Feather is important. I want to look like—like I’m still fit. You do that with your suits. And you know about styling and whatnot. I need help.”
“Are you daft? You don’t need a suit for that. You’re already fit. Why would I lie about that? I’ve nothing to gain from it.” Draco frowns, looking Potter up and down. The man is wearing an orange jumper that some Weasley or another probably knitted for him. His jeans are certainly too tight, but Draco doesn’t mind a man with full legs. Gods, the worn denim is hanging on for dear life; it looks like it’s about to rip in half. Draco’s cock pulses. Merlin, Potter looks so stupid in his clothes that he’s circled back around to incredibly fucking sexy.
Nevertheless, Potter’s wardrobe isn’t doing him any great favours. Just because Draco wants to fuck him silly doesn’t mean Potter feels fuck-worthy himself.
The glow inside Draco surges. Crafting a suit for Potter could be a bit of fun. Merlin knows his job gets monotonous, and Draco’s so busy that he’s unlikely to make a fool of himself.
If he has Potter here, Draco has a professional excuse to feel him up. Nothing inappropriate; just a harmless touch of flirtation. A release of the steam that’s been building in Draco for the past thirty years, give or take. And doesn’t he deserve that?
It’s been a long time since he’s really flirted with anyone. He fucks all manner of men when he has the time; he could step outside and find one right now. Now he can have any London twink he likes; they all fall to their knees for Draco.
Not one of them compares to Potter.
There’s a tiny voice at the back of his mind, telling him to kick Potter out. This won’t turn out well, it says. It never does, when it comes to him. With Potter so close, the voice is ever so small and insignificant.
In the glow of the sconces, Potter looks like a god stepping down from Olympus. His skin is golden-hued in the glow of Draco’s workshop, his curls wild and windswept. Gods be damned. He’d launch a thousand ships for Potter’s face and a thousand more for the rich expanse of his body.
Draco needs Potter to realise how fucking stunning he is.
“Alright. Fine.” His gaze roams over Potter’s body. Draco can feel the words forming in his mind, on his tongue, and he can’t stop them now that they’re falling from his mouth. “You should be illegal, you know. It’s a wonder you don’t have a crowd of women fainting in your wake. Or are they all lined up outside?”
“Er.”
Draco had said much the same thing at the Ministry Gala, falling all over Potter in a frankly embarrassing display of unbridled horniness. Draco knows, realistically, that he’s being unforgivably inappropriate. He should be ashamed of his words, embarrassed about the quickening of his pulse and the stir of his cock.
Instead, Draco feels like he’s taking flight, climbing high and steady into the chilly grey of the winter sky. Limitless, thrilling. A cure for the monotony, a balm for his stress.
“Before you accuse me of lying about your appearance, let me avow that everything I say is true. I’m quite gay, and you’re very fit. I should know.”
Potter looks like he’s been struck in the face with a Quaffle. But he recovers quickly enough. Good. Draco won’t have him denying his opinions.
“Well, that’s, uh, actually. The suit isn’t the only thing. I wanted to talk to you.” There’s a crease between Potter’s brows. Merlin, the man has incredible eyebrows. Draco gets lost in them for a moment as Potter prattles on about something. “It’s not just women lining up, you know. I was wondering—”
“Let’s get you measured, you gorgeous thing.” Draco flips his tape measure over his shoulder, bustling past Potter and gesturing grandly toward the dressing room. “You can ask me whatever you like while I’m measuring. I’m sure we’ll have a lovely conversation.”
“You make like we’re still enemies—”
“I never wanted to be enemies. I wanted to be friends, remember? And then I wanted to know you in an entirely different way.” Draco holds the heavy velvet curtain to the dressing room open and watches Potter’s arse as he steps inside. Draco wants to bury his face in it until the taste is seared into his mind.
“—and then you say things like that. It’s like you’re making fun of me, but you’re also—you also really make me—and I’ve been thinking—”
“Strip down to your vest. For accurate measurements, we do recommend removing your trousers.” He lets his eyes wander over Potter’s body, lingering on his broad shoulders, the tantalising roundness of his belly, the muscles in his thighs. Heavens deliver him. “But, of course, it’s up to you.”
Draco winks at him and lets the curtain fall closed. He prances off and puts together a stack of suit designs and fabrics.
“Malfoy—I don’t—” He vaguely hears Potter’s voice from the fitting room.
“Don’t worry about it, whatever it is,” Draco calls, sifting through several velvets, all in jewel tones, that would look dashing with Potter’s green eyes. “I don’t have time for your fuss.”
There’s a heavy silence across the hall, followed by a pathetic sound. It’s like the noise Draco’s cat makes when she’s feeling desperately neglected; certainly, it can’t be coming from the Saviour himself.
Draco makes his way back to the fitting room and clears his throat. Draco can feel Potter’s magic like a low, electric hum, but there’s no sound. “Potter? Are you alright in there?”
There’s a pause, a slow release of breath. “Malfoy—Draco. I don’t have—you should just—give me a second.”
Draco scoffs. “I’ll just come in.”
“No—it’s fine. Don’t—you don’t have to. I didn’t think to wear a vest—”
“Don’t be coy, Potter.” Draco tosses his measuring tape over his shoulder and pushes aside the curtain. He lays a bundle of sample fabrics on the velveteen daybed and sorts through a few pieces of parchment so he can show Potter sample designs.
“I should put on… something. Do you have a spare vest in that pile?” When Draco turns around, he sees the Saviour of the Wizarding World in a vulnerable state of undress. Pants only.
“Where would I get a vest? What do I look like to you? Why don’t you have one?” Potter is standing in front of the floor-length three-way mirror, so Draco can see all of him. Fuck. The man is a splendid specimen. He looks even better now that he’s free of his confines.
“Er. I was just wearing a jumper. I didn’t think about it.” A pair of thin grey pants are the only barrier between Potter’s cock and the rest of the world. Boxer briefs. Draco’s favourite. And Gods, Potter fills them out nicely. A firm, round arse and an obviously large package; thick, meaty thighs. The waistband sits just below the lovely curve of his belly, a delicious roundness to his frame that’s likely been developing for some time. Potter’s been hiding beneath baggy jumpers and baggier jeans. Draco wants to shake him for it.
Potter’s muscles aren’t any less impressive than they were a decade ago. His biceps are the size of Draco’s thighs, and his tits are two perfect pillows, covered in thick, black hair, dotted here and there with silver. To make things worse, because Potter always makes things worse, he’s sporting tattoos on both of his shoulders: day lilies on one, a stag on the other.
Harry Potter has officially crossed the line from ageing twunk to tattooed bear. Merlin.
Draco’s cock twitches. Down boy.
“I didn’t know you had tattoos. You’ve been holding out on me.”
“Um. Yeah, I do.” Potter, ever the wordsmith. “I can—I should get a vest. Somehow. I can transfigure something.”
Draco puts a hand on Potter’s shoulder and lets it rest there for a moment. Potter flinches, like Draco’s hand is boiling hot. When Draco speaks, he keeps his tone very gentle, like he’s talking to a skittish owl. “I’m going to measure you. You mustn’t be shy. No one with a body like yours should be shy.”
“Gods, this is so fucking embarrassing.” Potter’s breath is heavy, a dark flush on his chest.
“Why? What’s embarrassing? Tailors are like Healers, Potter. We’ve seen absolutely everything. I’m simply taking your measurements. It’s better if you’re in this state of undress. I can see you much more clearly.” Draco lets his fingers trail over the line of his bicep. This time, Potter doesn’t pull away. “Tell me what’s going on. What do you need?”
“I don’t fit in my suit, the one I was supposed to wear. It was my favourite. And you’re—I thought. I don’t know.” Potter’s deep green gaze follows Draco as he measures the length of Potter’s arms, the span of his shoulders. “Ever since the separation, I don’t feel like myself anymore. Everything is just hard and—awful. Stressful.”
“Ah. I heard that you and Ginevra parted ways. Astoria told me, actually.”
“You’re friends with Astoria?”
“Of course. We always were. She always knew I was as gay as a bag of Pixies. She gave me Scorpius. There really wasn’t any point of staying married after that. We’re both happier. Even if our mothers aren’t.” Draco slips the measuring tape around Potter’s waist, brushing Potter’s arms, which hang like dead weight. “Potter. Lift up your arms.”
Potter mumbles something in response, his arms actually clamping down. Draco’s hands are mashed against his succulent love handles; Draco has a brief vision of clutching the soft flesh from behind. He could certainly help Potter relieve some stress by fucking him until he can’t stand straight.
“Speak up, Potter,” Draco chides. “You sound like you’re talking into a pillow. And raise your arms.”
“I’m sensitive about my waist. That’s what I said.” Potter’s tone is baleful. He lets out a shaky sigh.
“Why?” Potter lifts his arms and scowls as Draco slips the measuring tape around Potter’s delicious middle. It’s firm, but has a lovely give to it. Draco would give anything to put his cock on it and cover it with ropes of come. “Because you don’t look like you’re twenty-five? Grow up. We’re not twenty-five anymore. You’re an adult with an adult body. Merlin.”
“Believe me, I do know that. But—”
“But nothing.” Draco slips his measuring tape lower, right around the tight waistband of Potter’s pants. “You’ve always been fit. You’re even more so now, I dare say. Every witch and at least half the wizards in London want you to fuck them senseless. Might help you feel like yourself again.”
“No, I—what? I’m not—people don’t like me like that.” Potter looks mortified at the mere suggestion that anyone is thinking about his cock.
“Oh, pish. Gods, your bare shoulders alone would be enough to send gay London into a tizzy. This tattoo”—Draco trails his fingers over the creamy orange petals of one lily— “has stunning colour work. You could walk shirtless into any bar in this city and the twinks would climb you like a tree.”
“Twinks?” Potter looks helplessly confused.
“Oh, yes. The twinks. Pretty young men.” Draco brings his lips close to Potter’s ear. “They love daddies. And that’s just what you are. I should know. I’m a daddy, too.”
“I—I don’t go out much.” Potter shivers, and his nipples crinkle into little points. “I wouldn’t know.”
Potter radiates discomfort, but not the sort Draco so often sees in heterosexual men. Draco’s never been this close to Potter without starting a fight or toppling into him. His responses to Draco are intriguing.
“Whyever not? All the children are off at school. They’re happy.” Draco slips his measuring tape around one of Potter’s biceps. He doesn’t need this particular measurement, but Potter isn’t going to question it. “You’re still so muscular. Built, as the lads say. Are you lifting weights? It looks like you are. You could pick me up and carry me like a bride.”
“Jesus Christ.” The look on Potter’s face is pained. Good. It’s how he’s made Draco feel for years. Let him feel it.
Draco measures Potter’s other bicep. Potter’s skin is warm and smooth, the muscle hard beneath his fingers. Draco wants to taste it. “What cologne are you wearing?” He leans close to Potter’s ear. “It smells like a slutty vanilla. With woody notes. Though I don’t know how wood is really classified as a scent. Regardless, it’s woody.”
Potter frowns, his shoulders hunching. “Gin picked it out. It’s not supposed to be slutty.”
“Merlin, Potter. I like it.” Gently, Draco threads the measuring tape around Potter’s neck and holds it, for one erotic moment, like it’s a collar. “You just need new clothing. Tapered trousers, shirts that fit your frame instead of hiding it. Why would you ever hide this?” Draco drags his nails across Potter’s shoulders, making Potter’s back tense. His muscles ripple beautifully.
“I feel better with baggier clothes. Hides my problem areas.”
“Problem areas?” Draco’s hand lingers on Potter’s bicep, and he gives it a squeeze. “You don’t have a single problem area.”
“I’m—I don’t like my gut. And I’ll never get a date, ever. Not like this. I'm well past my prime dating years.”
Draco glances in the mirror and lets his eyes wander again to Potter’s midsection. “I'll tell you a secret—I absolutely worship men with a bit of heft. They look so decadent sprawled out on my duvet, waiting to be ravished.”
“Ravished,” Potter repeats. His eyes are very, very wide. “You always—you always do that. I keep trying to tell you—”
“Mm, what do I do?” Draco replies, absently, thinking of Potter sprawled out on his bed, arse up. He doesn’t listen to whatever Potter says in response because he’s flying high on the unbeatable hit of dopamine that he gets when he’s flirting. That weightless feeling hits him again as he measures Potter’s thick forearms and brushes the inside of his wrist with his thumb.
Potter’s breathing is uneven. “I was saying—I don’t think you heard me. Are you listening?”
“I’m on a tight schedule, Potter. I don’t make exceptions for the Chosen One, no matter how fit he is.” Draco hums in satisfaction as he measures Potter’s other wrist. Potter’s skin is so warm and soft. Draco could dive into it and never come up for air. “I’m going to measure your legs now.”
Potter makes a stricken sound and tries to grab Draco. “Wait—no—I—”
Draco dodges him and kneels on the floor. Ludicrous man. “Oh, heavens.”
Draco is face to face with Potter’s erection. His boxer briefs are obscenely tented, a small wet spot just below the waistband.
“It’s not what you think.” Potter’s voice is so strained, and he moves one hand to cover his cock, but Draco bats it away.
“What else would it be, then? Looks like a cock to me.” Draco can smell Potter’s arousal. He wants to bury his face against those thin pants and mouth at the fabric until it’s soaking wet, take in his sharp musk and wank over it until he spills on the rug. Draco should stand, but he finds himself unable to move. “There’s no need to be self-conscious. You’re not the first straight man who’s gotten hard in my dressing room. I’ve very soft hands, and I have been flirting rather a lot. Trying to boost your morale.”
“I should go.” Potter doesn’t move.
“Did you like me telling you how fit you are?” Something long-ignored stirs inside Draco. Draco should let it go. But he can’t stop the words from rolling off of his tongue as he stares at the mesmerising outline of Potter’s fat cock. “You’re fit as fuck, Potter. I’ve wanked over it dozens of times. Since I was fourteen and discovered I had a cock.”
Potter makes a choked, glottal sound. The wet spot below his waistband spreads. He smells so good. Musky. Like a big, strong man.
“Oh, you like that, don’t you? You like knowing I stroked my cock thinking about you. You needn't answer that. I already know you like it because I can see your cock. How very full and heavy it is.” Very deliberately, Draco measures the length of Potter’s leg, from the base of his foot to the top of his thigh. He repeats it for the other leg, even though he doesn’t strictly need to. He lets his hand rest on Potter’s thigh for a moment, brushing his thumb against the delicate skin. “Has it been a long time since someone has touched you?”
“Yes.” Potter’s belly rises and falls with his breath. It’s bewitching.
“Are you not so straight after all?” Draco moves his tape to the inside of Potter’s foot and measures his inseam, his hand moving up Potter's leg to rest just below the warm weight of his balls.
“Not really.” Potter’s thighs tremble.
“‘Not really.’ Teenage me would have combusted at the thought. I would have tugged myself raw.” Draco drops the measuring tape, keeping his palm between Potter’s thighs. Draco’s half-hard himself, shivers rolling down his spine. His job is usually more tedious than a three-hour Elvish sermon—and Potter is a holiday to Iceland, a dip in a bubbling hot spring. "I would have cornered you and pinned you to the wall."
“I really should go.”
“You can stay. I’d like it if you did.” Draco chances a look at Potter’s face; he’s rewarded with wide, shocked eyes and open lips. Mm, yes. Draco wants to dive right in.
“Yeah?” Potter whines.
“Mm. I couldn’t let you go without offering my full menu of services. One of those services involves you stroking that big cock of yours. You can come on my face, my chest, or my arse. I might request my mouth, actually.” Draco shivers. “I’ll bet you taste like sin. Big men always taste better, especially after I take them in my throat.”
“Fuck, Malfoy. Christ. No. That’s not what I want. I—”
“No? Pity.” Draco sighs and removes his hand. He’ll have a wank before he goes home. He should actually Obliviate Potter before he leaves so he can keep his sodding job.
“No, wait. I want—” Potter swallows audibly. “Gods. This is stupid.”
“It’s probably not. Go on then.” He refrains from feeling Potter up again, heart rabbit-fast in his neck. Best not to scare off a newly minted gay.
“I’ve just never—not with a man. But I want to. If you can show me. And tell me the things you like about me.”
Draco wonders how much it will hurt to have this once and let it go; how much he’ll suffer after being Potter’s dirty dressing room experiment. The fall out could be considerable. But the opportunity—that’s not going to come around again.
Draco stands, utterly unselfconscious about his own stiffening cock. Everyone’s cock is friendly here. He stands behind Potter and slides his hands over Potter’s back, down the front of his furred chest, letting them fall into place on Potter’s impossibly adorable belly. He strokes the skin—it’s so soft—and his thumb dips briefly into Potter’s navel. Draco pets in soothing circles, placing kisses on Potter’s shoulder. Tension drains from Potter’s muscles as Draco kisses the whorls of hair at his nape; even his magic is calmer, more hum than crackle. The circle of wetness on his pants spreads. Potter’s sounds are soft and kittenish as Draco caresses his belly, fingers trailing close to his cock.
“Is that what you need, darling? Want me to prove how much I like looking at you?” Draco pinches a bit of Potter’s belly between his fingers, sighing with contentment when Potter’s breath hitches. Draco lets his hand wander, fingertips skimming the waistband of his boxer briefs, scratching through the hair on his abdomen before cupping his belly again. “You want me to tell you how much I like this? How hard it makes me?”
Potter nods, biting his lip. “Yes, please.”
“I’m painfully hard. I could rut against your hip and come all over your cock in a matter of moments.”
“Really?” His voice is barely a whisper.
“You’re sumptuous. You’re built for sex. You’d look like a dessert spread out for me, and I’d suck down every morsel.” Draco hooks his thumbs in the tight waistband of Potter’s pants, toying with it. Merlin, these pants are too small; the fly is stretched across Potter’s erection, a beguiling peek of skin showing through.
Potter’s chest just keeps rising and falling, his eyes trained on Draco’s hands as they pluck at his pants.
“I’d like to see how pretty that cock is. I’ve heard it’s big. Blaise said he saw it when you were at his birthday party and everyone ended up skinny dipping. Let’s see if he was right.” Slowly, he pulls down Potter’s pants and makes an approving sound when his cock springs free. “Look at that. You’re such a big boy. All grown up.”
Potter closes his eyes and makes an inhuman sound. Duly noted.
“Will you look in the mirror for me, sweet thing? Step a little closer. I want you to see yourself.”
Potter shuffles forward to stand closer to the three-way mirror, exposed on all sides in the soft light. Draco pushes the pants midway down Potter’s thighs, so the waistband is biting into his skin. Potter’s mouth is slack; Draco can see his tender, pink tongue.
“See? Your cock is long and thick, and so red right at the end. Your tip got so wet while I was talking to you.” Draco slips his hand below Potter’s waistline and plays with the dark curls at Potter’s groin. “You’re so impressive, Harry. It feels good to get your cock out for me, doesn’t it? Feels young. Will you give it a stroke?”
Potter mumbles again, and Draco smacks his arse. Just a light tap. But he notes how Potter’s body responds. The twitch of his cock, the ripples in his muscles, that same animal sound.
“Speak up, sweetheart.” Draco kneads Potter’s ample arsecheek, tugging at it so he catches a glimpse of that untouched furl of muscle. Potter’s hole is clenched so tight that it would probably bruise Draco’s cock head if he managed to shove it in. “I can’t hear you.”
“I want you to do it.” Potter’s voice is sweet and small. Oh, Draco never expected this, not from Potter. Well, this he can work with. This is a treat.
“Do what?” Draco presses his chest to Potter’s back and pets his stomach again. With the other, he teases Potter’s nipples, rolling and pinching. Potter rewards him with a charming gasp. “Be specific.”
“I want—” Potter swallows, his throat clicking. “I want you to touch my cock. Make me come.”
“I suppose I can. I shouldn’t let you have your way the first time you ask, but I’m feeling indulgent.” Draco murmurs a spell, and oil coats his fingers. He lets it drip onto Potter’s shaft. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Yes. Please.”
“I like when you say please.” A thrill runs up Draco’s spine as he touches the tips of his fingers to Potter’s cock, dragging the oil down to the tip. Potter makes a gratifying noise when Draco slips a finger inside his foreskin, massaging oil around his cock head. “Not all the way hard yet, hm? Let’s get him to peek out.”
“Fuck, oh holy fuck.” Potter lets out a litany of obscenities that would make Voldemort blush as Draco dips his finger beneath the silky skin and plays with the swollen tip.
“If I had you in bed,” Draco whispers, “I’d tuck the head of my cock inside all this soft skin. ” Potter’s cock jerks in Draco’s hand. Draco rewards him with a lazy stroke, spreading the lube down to the base and up again. “There we are. Nice and hard.”
Potter shudders and makes a garbled noise, bucking into Draco’s hand.
“I’ve got a few rules to share, Harry. Is that alright?” It’s thrilling to touch and tease after dreaming of it for so many years. It really is quite like a holiday. One he thought would never come.
“Hnn. Yes.” Potter’s eyes are glued to his reflection, locked on Draco’s hand. He whimpers. “Please. Tell me.”
“I don’t want you to come until I tell you. I want you to watch in the mirror—no looking away. You mustn’t insult yourself. You’re just a sweet, pretty boy, aren’t you?” Draco gives him a stroke, relishing the weight of his cock, the heft in his hand. The slick sound of oiled skin against his palm. “Aren’t you? Answer me. That’s the other rule. You must always answer.”
“Yes. Yeah. I’m pretty.” Potter sounds utterly wrecked, like he’s been hit with a Confundus charm. Draco knows this look well—if asked to kneel or beg or bend over the daybed, Potter would comply without hesitation. What a delight.
“Good boy.”
Potter’s reaction is noteworthy. He cries out, and his body nearly bends in half, his whole torso tensing. Draco begins stroking him slowly, adding more lube so his palm is decadently slick.
“Oh, you like to be called a good boy, don’t you? You are a good boy. You’re so, so good.” Draco rotates his wrist as he works Potter’s cock, holding just tight enough to make him tremble. Not enough to make him come. Not yet.
“I’m good?” Potter’s voice is small and unsure, his stomach tensing as Draco works him.
“You are, darling. And you’re fucking beautiful. I’d climb over a mountain of men just to get to you. I’d reject everyone who looked my way if there was even a sliver of a chance that I could take care of you.”
“Fuck, oh Christ.” Slick, squelching sounds fill the dressing room as Draco pumps faster, his grip still light.
“That’s right. It feels so good, doesn’t it?” Draco licks Potters’ shoulder and gives it a bite. “Your body is so inviting. Needs to be touched. Need someone to take care of you.”
Potter is almost sobbing now. “I’m close. I’m so close. Please—I want to—”
Draco slows his hand, stroking light and languid again, pausing to cup his palm around the cock head, two fingers circling the sensitive bit beneath it. “No, you don’t. You don’t need to make that decision. You don’t need to be in charge. I promise.”
Potter whimpers, his whole body trembling, precome drooling from his slit, dripping on the floor. “Yeah. I like that.”
“You’ve caught on. I’m so proud of you.” Draco starts stroking Potter’s cock again, fast enough to make him shudder and jerk, before he backs off again.
“You decide for me.” That small voice again. Merlin, it makes Draco hard as stone.
“That’s right. Daddy gets to decide.” Draco rubs his erection against the exquisite swell of Potter’s arse. The pit of his belly is on fire, just from jerking Potter off and calling himself Daddy.
“Daddy.” Potter says the word like it tastes sweet on his tongue.
“That’s right.” This isn’t what Draco expected out of his evening, but he’s not mad about it. Far from it. “You’re just a darling. So strong and capable. So grown up. But you need a holiday, don’t you? You need me to spoil you silly.”
Potter leans his head against Draco’s shoulder, and Draco bites his neck, hard, sucking the skin. “S’what I need. You’re right.”
“I need that too, pet. I’m going to get you to come for me. That’s my holiday. You know what I think?” Draco twists and strokes, twists and strokes.
“What? What do you think?”
“People would pay good money to fuck you. Thousands of Galleons. Just to look at you. They’d line up for miles just to get a glimpse. With your hard, wet cock on display. Your strong thighs and round belly. You’re lush, Potter. You feel expensive.”
“Holy fucking shit—”
“I could take a Pensieve and sell it on the black market. And I’d never have to work a day again in my life. Who’s to say I won’t? Gods, I could tie you up and sell your arse to the highest bidder.”
Potter trembles. Draco can tell he’s holding back. What a good boy he is.
“You’d be a tight, sweet fuck. No one’s ever touched you there, have they?” Draco feels utterly, hopelessly deranged. He ruts harder against Potter’s arse, pushing into his crack.
“Draco, oh—fuck—I’m—please—”
“No. I’m not finished.” He stills his hand and squeezes Potter’s cock at the base. His other hand moves to Potter’s arse, one finger ghosting over his crack. “Answer me. No one’s ever touched you there, have they?”
“No. Please—”
“Good. That’s just for Daddy. You have to keep it nice and fresh for Daddy.” Draco’s eyes roll back in his head, and he gives Potter a few erratic strokes while he thrusts against his thick, cushiony arse. “So Daddy can play with it before anyone else.”
“Oh my god.” Potter sobs. He’s truly shaking now. Draco should just let him come and shove him out the door. But he wants one thing, and he means to get it.
“Tell me. Tell me who you’re saving your arse for. Who gets to fuck it for the first time?”
“I’m saving it for—for Daddy.” Potter’s chest is heaving, sweat dripping down his forehead. His cock is so hard it looks angry, the tip nearly purple. “Fucking shit, Malfoy, you’re so fucking filthy–”
“Good boy. You’re such a good, good boy.” Draco places a soft kiss on his shoulder, licking over the bite mark he left there earlier. Merlin, he smells so good. Like vanilla and sweat and sex. Draco might lose his whole fucking mind. But he keeps going. Potter needs it. Draco needs it. “Look at yourself when you come.”
Potter lifts his head and looks in the mirror as Draco strokes him, his grip tight and purposeful. He’s biting his lip so hard it’s red. “You’re doing so, so well. So well-behaved for your first time with Daddy.”
Potter lets out another wretched, keening sound. “Fuck. I need to—”
“No, Harry. You mustn't say naughty words. Good boys don’t do such things.” He licks Potter’s ear and rubs his cock on Potter’s glorious arse. Merlin, he could come in his trousers, just like this: rutting like a fool, his slick hand on Potter’s cock, milking drops of precome onto the floor. Draco is high on it; it’s the sweetest drug he’s ever known.
Draco has enough remaining sense to squeeze the base of Potter’s cock when he sobs. “No. You’re not the one in charge. You’re not Harry Potter here. You’re just a sweet boy in my arms. Your pleasure belongs to me.”
“I really need to. I’m so close. You don’t understand, I need to—I need it—” Potter’s voice is a feral, desperate whine, and there’s a stunning sheen of sweat blooming across his chest, fat beads of it on his forehead.
Draco wishes he could gather it on his tongue and drink it down. He makes do with licking Potter’s neck and grunting when the salty taste hits the back of his tongue. “Darling, you’re being terribly rude. Don’t you remember your etiquette?”
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please, Daddy.” Potter sounds utterly wrecked, his words slurring together. But his eyes are bright and sharp, trained on the reflection of his dripping cock and Draco’s steady hand. “Oh, please.”
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart. You deserve a treat, don’t you?”
Potter sobs.
“I’m proud of you. You can come now, whenever you like. Show me how much you have.” Draco strokes him, firm and fast. “Is your cock very full? You always have loads for me when I dream of you. Will you make all my dreams come true, Harry? ”
Potter does, in fact, look like Draco’s dreams, with his lube-slicked cock heavy in Draco’s hand, his hair matted down with sweat, his full lips open in a soft O. His cock twitches in Draco’s hand before the first wave hits.
“That feels so good, doesn’t it?” Draco nips his ear as he strokes firm and fast. “My good boy gets to come for me now.”
“Oh, shit. Merlin, Jesus fucking shit—” Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, moans like a whore, torso jerking and cock leaping as he starts to come. The first spurt hits the mirror in a thick, white drip.
“What a good job you’re doing, Harry. Do you have more for Daddy?”
His come hits the mirror again and again as Draco milks him through it. The last of his spunk dribbles onto Draco’s fingers.
“I’m so impressed with you, sweetheart. You came so much.” Draco brings his hand to his mouth and licks, sucking a fat, salty drop from his finger. “And you taste like a dream. What a pretty little fucktoy you are, giving yourself up to your Daddy like that.”
Draco has passed the border from vaguely high to utterly blitzed, and he wonders again if he ought to Obliviate Potter so he can never tell anyone, ever. Draco can happily go back to shagging Muggles who won’t care that he defiled the Chosen One.
“Christ, Draco,” he says softly, grabbing Draco’s hand. Potter’s thighs are still trembling. “You’ve got a dirty fucking mouth.”
“And you’re a dirty fucking—”
Potter whips around and catches Draco by the waist, kissing him hard and gasping into his mouth. There’s nothing boyish about the hunger in this kiss; it’s full of smouldering embers and bone-deep need. Potter’s hand is in Draco’s hair, tugging hard, hot lips along the line of his jaw. The heat of Potter’s breath pulses against his ear.
“You can fuck me.” Potter’s voice is low and raspy, sending a pulse of need straight to Draco’s aching prick. “I want you to. I came here wanting you to. I’ve never done it.”
“Don’t be insane,” Draco hisses. His cock clearly disagrees with him; there’s a wet spot forming on the front of his trousers. But he can’t. This man has been bisexual for approximately five minutes and has probably had nothing more than the tip of a finger in his arse when Ginny Weasley had one too many wine coolers. “I’m not fucking you in my dressing room.”
“You’re so fucking hot. I need you to fill me up.” Potter kisses him again and moves his hands to Draco’s belt buckle, fumbling with it. “Please, Draco.”
Draco huffs and undoes it himself, unzipping his flies and grunting when Potter pulls his cock out. They exchange another rough kiss while Potter strokes him clumsily. “No. Don’t be absurd.”
“Please, Daddy.” Potter’s eyes are very green and wide behind his glasses. “I want to make you feel good.”
“Merlin, you’re an entitled brat.” Draco groans, and his eyes flutter closed. He might like brat Harry even more than good boy Harry. No, he likes them both. Gods, he’s deliriously hard. “I’m not fucking your arse for the first time in my sodding changing room.”
“Why not?” There’s a defiant set to Potter’s jaw that makes Draco want to bend him over the daybed and spank him until he can’t form another insolent sentence. For an amateur, he’s playing the brat angle so very well.
Draco knocks Potter’s hand from his cock and starts stroking himself, grunting. “Because if I’m going to give you the precious gift of my cock, I’m going to take my fucking time. If I’m going to pop your cherry, I’m going to eat you out until you’re crying. Then I’ll put my fingers inside of you. Maybe a little practice toy if you’re good.”
“Will you do that? I want that so fucking badly. You have no idea.” Potter’s eyes go even wider, and he kisses Draco again, softer this time.
“Maybe.” Draco conjures more oil and drips it on his straining dick, pushing it against Potter’s naked thigh.
“You can come in my mouth,” he says against Draco’s lips. “Down my throat. I’ve never done it before, but I’ll swallow it all.”
Draco lets out a hopeless sound and shoves Potter around so he’s facing the mirror again. “No. I’m going to finish right where you want me to put it. You’re a dirty boy, demanding treats from your daddy. Dirty boys get treated just like they act. And you’re acting” —Draco bites his lip so hard he draws blood— “like a little whore. Show me your arse. I need to see it.”
Potter lets out a grunt and puts his sweaty hands on Draco’s mirror, his round, thick arse proffered like a gift. “Like this?”
Potter’s soft cock and soft belly look so fucking delicious. He’s thick everywhere, from his trunk-like thighs to his biceps to his long, fleshy cock.
“Very—unnh—good. I see you can follow instructions. I’m surprised.” He grabs a handful of Potter’s arse and kneads it, looking at that promising little pucker between his cheeks. He groans and pushes the head of his cock into Potter’s supple cleft.
“Oh fuck, Draco. I mean, Daddy. Daddy.”
Draco’s laugh is cut off by a grunt as he slides his dick along the smooth line of Potter’s crack. His eyes are glued to Potter’s arse, right where he has it spread apart. “It looks so small and sweet, even though you’re such a dirty boy. I’d have to kiss you right there and open you up with my tongue until you’re slack enough for my little finger.”
“That, do that,” Potter says wildly.
“No. When I get inside you, it won’t be a quick fuck. Do you understand?” Draco grunts, pressure building in his belly. He grips Potter’s belly and nudges his cock between Potter’s cheeks. “I’ll use you all night long, stretch you open until you can’t even speak. You like attention, don’t you? I’ll drown you with it.”
“Oh, fuck.” Potter pushes his arse back against Draco’s cock. “I don’t want to wait. Give it to me now.”
Fuck, Potter’s bratty little display; that insolent tone. Draco lets go of his cock to smack Potter’s round arse. It ripples handsomely, and Potter groans in a way that makes Draco’s cock ache. “I told you no. You mustn’t act so entitled. You’ll take what Daddy gives you. Tell me.”
“I’ll take what Daddy gives me.” Potter sounds rapturous, like he’s been waiting for ages to say it.
“You’ll take it so well when I put my cock in you.” Draco’s eyes roll back in his head, and he starts fucking his fist in earnest, the tip pressed tight between Potter’s arsecheeks. “You’re built for fucking. But Daddy gets to use you when and how he wants. You shan’t misbehave, or you’ll get a real spanking.”
Potter keens, tugging at his still slick cock until it starts to grow full and heavy again. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I just—I wanna feel it.”
“Oh, sweetheart. I want to give it to you. It hurts me to keep things from you when you act like a brat and a whore. Don’t you know that? You can’t just ask for whatever you want. You have to earn it.” A bit of precome drips down Potter’s crack, a shiny drop, sitting obscenely on his puckered rim. Draco grips himself hard, making wet, slapping sounds and grunting as he imagines that first slide into Potter’s body. His rim, hot and swollen and licked open, the smooth clutch of muscle. His heartbeat inside, pulsing against Draco’s cock. “Daddy gets to decide when you’ve—oh, fuck—been good enough—”
Draco’s belly tightens, heat pooling behind his cock and releasing as he splashes against Potter’s pucker, the muscle winking when it hits. Potter is groaning and stroking his dick, like all he’s ever wanted is Draco’s come dripping down the backs of his thighs and into his pants.
“Gorgeous. You’re fucking gorgeous. I want to watch it drip out of you. I want to lick you clean. Fuck.” Draco grabs Potter’s waist and digs his fingers in as the aftershocks roll through his body.
They’re both sweating and breathing heavily, and Draco’s head falls against Potter’s shoulder. Draco licks the salt of Potter’s skin and takes one last breath, trying to memorise the scent of him.
“Fuck. Holy shit, Draco.” Potter is still absently squeezing his cock with no apparent goal. Just for the pleasure of it. “That was incredible.”
Potter is currently half-hard. Draco could coax another orgasm out of him, he's sure of it. Alas. That seems like a questionable idea.
With post-orgasmic clarity, Draco realises a former Death Eater probably shouldn’t Obliviate anyone. He probably shouldn’t have made Potter call him Daddy, either. Even if Potter thinks it’s incredible now, this liaison was just a bit of fun. A touch of stress relief.
Merlin. If Potter lets any of this slip, Draco is going to have to move to his mother’s flat in Paris.
“I’m glad my services meet with your approval.” Draco pulls Potter’s pants up over his come-soaked arse. This is likely the first and last time he’ll defile a national treasure, so he gives Potter’s arse a squeeze. He can feel the warmth of his come soaking through the fabric. Draco can’t stop himself from adding, “I won’t have you doing any cleaning spells. I want you to sit in it after you get home and think about what a pretty little slut you are.”
Fuck. He’s babbling like he so often does after a scene. This was staggeringly undernegotiated. He certainly shouldn’t be giving Potter extra instructions, but he can’t help it. Potter just has that look about him. The man wants to take orders and be spoiled in return.
“How long?” Potter’s voice is sweet and dreamy, and Draco can’t help patting his round belly again. He already misses it, and Potter is still mostly nude.
“Twenty minutes. At least. You can get off if you need to, but you’ll need to send me a picture of your cock afterwards.” Draco tries to clamp his mouth shut. It doesn’t work. It never has with Potter. “Daddy’s the only one who gets to see it. You mustn’t ever show anyone else.”
Potter lets out a slow, shaky breath. He’s staring at Draco’s reflection in the mirror. “I can shower after that? Will you let me?”
“If you must.” Draco purses his lips. It’s stupid that he’s letting this carry on. Potter is dangerous to his psyche; always has been. He tries to clamp his mouth shut, but the words keep coming. “I certainly wouldn’t let you shower. I like messy boys.”
“How many other boys?” Potter looks like one of those big-eyed cats in Muggle motivational posters.
“None right now,” Draco says because he’s barking mad.
“Good. That’s really good.” Potter threads their fingers together and turns to catch Draco by the waist. Gods. Potter’s staring at him, all dopey-eyed. Like he’s a Niffler and Draco is a pile of platinum rings. “Can I see you again?”
Draco’s stomach swoops. In Draco’s experience, a quick, dirty fuck doesn’t usually lead to a first date. Sometimes it leads to a slower, dirtier fuck. It’s never relationship territory. He also knows himself—if he fucks Potter, he’s never going to recover. Poor Scorpius will have to hire someone to care for him when Draco goes catatonic.
“You can pick up your suit the day after tomorrow.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He brings Draco’s hand to his mouth and places a kiss to the centre of his palm. “I want to do this again. I want more. Of this. Exactly.”
“That’s not a good idea.” He should let go of Potter’s hand, but he finds he can’t move. Potter’s not letting him.
“No one’s ever made me feel half so good.” Soft lips brush against Draco’s, unbearably tender. “And you made me call you Daddy. Surely, that warrants dinner.”
“That’s the endorphins, Potter.” Draco struggles to put his cock away, one-handed. “You don’t actually know what you want—”
“Fine. I’ll come by the day after tomorrow and ask you then.” Potter wears a determined look that makes Draco’s heart quicken. It’s the same look he wore at fourteen, facing a dragon for the first time. “I’ve always liked proving you wrong.”
“Fine,” Draco says, scowling. Fuck. Fucking fuck. The git is going to make Draco deliver and then he’ll stomp all over Draco’s tender heart.
But what if he doesn’t?
The words repeat on a loop when Potter pushes him against the wall and snogs him senseless, when he and Potter half-heartedly agree on a suit design, when Potter snogs him senseless a second time, and again when he disappears through the floo in the lobby.
What if he doesn’t? What if this is something more?
It’s the most deranged thought of all, far worse than either of their daddy issues. And that’s really saying something.
Merlin, Draco is fucked.