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Simple Love With A Complex Touch	By : PsychoB Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 4540 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Simple Love With A Complex Touch
- 1
Title: Simple Love With A Complex Touch
Author: Psychodelic Barfly: smk7886@aol.com // smk7886 on AIM
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): H/D, (R/H) SLASH, implied het.
Summary: PWP. Near-future fic, takes place just under a year after graduation. Harry and Draco like it rough. They have an extremely unhealthy relationship. Also for Valentine's Day, somewhat . . . not that Fuckwit!Harry seems to remember. But, to his credit, neither does Draco. We meet both Top! and Bottom!Draco and Harry, to make everyone happy. We will remember that tea is a natural diuretic. Poor Draco's!Bladder. We feel sorry for it. Also, the Ron/Hermione drivel is incredibly pointless, just so you know.
Warning: Pissable, er, possible squick factors within. And also probably somewhat OOC, try as I might.
Feedback: Yessssss! My back is hungryyy! Feed ittttt.
Archiving: Most certainly, but please let me know so I can squeal and pass out from happiness first. Or after. Not like I'll say no, so either order . . . uh . . . not to sound too anxious.
Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's boys. No rights given or implied, yes, yes, we know. All I own is my own dirty mind, and no one can take that away from me. Also, title snagged from the nifty song lyrics of "Through With You," by Maroon 5.
A/N: The whole tea thing is dedicated to Lady Eternal, our (and others') DeadJournal debate about tea's "canon"-ness and other such nonsense prompted this entire ficlet, the smutty section, at least. (Alright, there's more to it than that, but does anyone really care? ::hinthint Happy Birthday Lady E nudgewink::) Also, this is a mix of book and movie canon, meaning we do not picture anything but the cutie (jailbait) movie boys! With, er, a mix of book!canon features (so basically I do whatever the hell I want). Hence the . . . oh, just read. (Mm, just a few more years until we're out of jailbait zone with these two . . .) Oh yes, and I should warn you that I am a sick bitch. Completed: January 29, 2003.

Simple Love With A Complex Touch
By: Psychodelic Barfly
"Unless you fancy a urine enema, I suggest you move your lazy arse now, Potter."
Harry smirked maliciously. "Whose fault is it you drank an entire pot of tea by yourself? Serves you right for not waiting for me, you know."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Potter! Get off!" Draco swatted at the smooth skin of Harry's hip halfheartedly, trying to shove him when the lesser maneuver wasn't as successful as he'd planned. "And you didn't even think to make a full pot, fuckwit. Was I supposed to let it sit and spoil?"
"Tea can't spoil, you poncey git." Draco gave him a look. "Alright, maybe it could oversteep, but it can't spoil—"
"The hell it can't!" Draco hissed, becoming agitated. His bladder was threatening rebellion if he didn't stop their activities to relieve himself sometime in the very near future, and having Harry laying heavily on top of him wasn't helping. Trying another tactic, Draco decided that perhaps sweet talk would earn him his way. "Harry, please," he said as nicely as he possibly could, "if you don't let me up to use the loo right this second I will have an accident. It would be a pity after how careful we were with the sheets this time." Draco batted his eyelashes.
Taking the bait, Harry said easily, "Go ahead, Malfoy, just go. I can't say I'm much in the mood for moving just now . . ." And Harry laid his head down on Draco's shoulder, fully aware that his full head of messy dark hair was undoubtedly tickling the dickens out of Draco's neck as he snuggled and settled into his chosen position. This pleased Harry each and every time, on a level never to be understood by mere mortals—and certainly never Malfoy. "And you do know that tea is a natural diuretic, right, Malfoy? A kind of, er, drug that makes you have to . . . go. Remember Neville's toad in Potions, the time Snape made it, with the, yeah, and the, er . . . well, I know you remember. You nearly squashed it dead when it let loose on your Arithmancy book." Draco nodded weakly at the memory, biting his lip against the pressure in his abdomen. "It was the same thing, just like tea. You're getting your just desserts, you know. 'S what you get for not leaving enough for me to have even one teensy ickle cuppie—" Harry looked immensely pleased with himself as he mocked Draco.
"God, Potter, you are such a bitch," Draco snapped, entering into untested territory—he grabbed Harry roughly around his torso and attempted to flip him off of himself (and onto the floor, preferably, for his poor attitude and disobedience), and at the same time, dislodge the flesh still pressed undeniably firmly between Potter's thighs. Difficult little bastard.
Unfortunately, for Draco, at least, this didn't work as spectacularly as it could—should—have. Harry caught himself and stayed more or less in his original place, eyes glinting with pure mischief as he peered at the nervous-looking blond. Draco should have known better than to think he was being let off the hook when Harry made to sit up, sliding his hands gently down from Draco's shoulders to the smooth planes of his chest, and below. Should've seen exactly where it was headed when the Quidditch-sun-stained hands traveled delicate trails in the soft ivory skin of Draco's abdomen, caressing with the lightest of feather-soft touches. And smiled.
Harry squeezed.
And pressed down, hard, on Draco's belly.
All in the same instant.
*
Harry supposed that the look of shock, disbelief and utter surprise painted so clearly and attractively on Draco's face was worth it, in the long run, as were the horrified bulging gray eyes. Or so he told himself, as he nursed his wounds, pointing Draco's wand (Harry had no clue where he'd managed to lose his own this time) and muttering healing charms at the darkening bruises on his unclothed form, all the while glaring at the closed bathroom door, imagining the wet naked body so busily sucking up all the hot water while Harry sat in wait before a bedside table and a spell-locked door.
So what if he'd forced Draco to make a mess of their sheets in a somewhat irregular (for them, at least) way? For the second time that week?
And so what if it was only Monday?
Or maybe . . . Thursday, was it? Harry cluelessly picked out days at random. Oh hell, who cares. Either way, the sheets were changed at an abnormal rate due to the frequent activity.
True, since graduating, the pair had lived an almost freakishly secluded and out of the way life; neither worked, neither needed to work, not with the fortunes left by their dearly departed parents. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had kept a separate Gringotts vault for their son all his life, so their passing at the hands of overexcited Aurors during a wartime raid (under suspicious circumstances in the hectic time surrounding Voldemort's demise) hadn't done much to complicate Draco's financial affairs—he had both his own and his parents' fortunes at his disposal—and it eventually leaked out that something fishy had indeed gone down. Draco was awarded a large sum as restitution from the Ministry for the "unfortunate incident" that had cost him his family. Aside from accepting the cash, he refused to acknowledge their fates, and Harry didn't push the issue. Draco was an expert when it came to ignoring the truth. Brothers in orphanhood, they now resided reasonably peacefully in a small Muggle village on the northeastern coast of England.
They spent most of the time holed up in the simple townhouse they'd purchased together in under an hour—they had taken the very first place they'd viewed, and walked out of the leasing office in fifty-two minutes after entering, signed contract in hand. Draco had noted the precise time. Draco had always been one for details, unnecessary as they usually were.
Eighteen, in lust, and in the money, everything was blissfully simple.
Even leaving Hogwarts had been anti-climatic. With all threat and immediate danger gone, Harry and Draco had simply accompanied everyone to Hogsmeade to catch the Express back to King's Cross, intending to apparate instead of taking the train, but nostalgia had taken precedence, and they'd ended up atop a random Hufflepuff's trunk in the luggage compartment, fondling and moaning loudly (and leaving behind trace elements not eliminated by simple Muggle tissues, damn the darkness), feeling stupid when they tried to leave sometime later and couldn't open the compartment door—not realizing nor remembering (they had been in quite a state as they'd groped their way inside hours before, attached at the mouth) that it was a sliding, rather than a hinged door.
Giggles had prevailed.
Along with more gratuitous snogging.
*
Draco emerged from the bathroom looking so clean, he appeared scrubbed raw. He regarded Harry silently with narrowed, angry eyes, saying nothing as he moved from the arched doorway connecting the master suite with its washroom, moving toward the small walk-in closet and closing the door softly behind him. Draco had never been one to slam doors—truth be told, he preferred slamming Harry—and God knew, it was more frightening, in an eerie way, to have the nearly non-existent click of the latch than the rough wooden bang of a door thrown shut in anger. No, Malfoy knew to save his violent side for Harry directly.
Harry knew better than to comment on the fact that Draco had been wearing his dressing gown.
"Draco," Harry tried tentatively, knocking gently on the dark wood door of the closet, knowing full well that it was spell-locked and impermeable. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't've done that—"
"Damn right you shouldn't have!" Draco spat, opening the door long enough to thrust Harry's damp robe into his hands. "I hope you had the good sense to get the sheets changed while I was— . . . damn you, Potter. And I hope you dried—cleaned—that mattress, or you're sleeping on the couch!" A beat: ". . . The floor!"
Harry sighed. That wouldn't be any different from usual, anyway, provided they could usually manage to the bed at some point during the day or night's activities to avoid the sore muscles that came with falling asleep on the tile, the hardwood, even the carpeting. The kitchen counters were particularly unforgiving.
"Yes, I dried it. And the sheets are fresh, too. Look, Draco . . ."
Disgruntled: "What?"
"I'm sorry."
"And?"
"I'm . . . very, very sorry?" Harry carded nervous fingers through his disheveled hair. "That was awful of me to do, and I am sorry, you great prat." He kicked the closet door childishly and turned to leave. It's not like I didn't have a good reason . . .
The door slid open a few inches. "What was that, Potter?"
Harry startled. "Er, what? I, uh, just apologized," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Draco was not satisfied.
"No, you twat, you said you had a good reason." Draco opened the door wider, standing smugly in flannel pajama pants and little else. "Well, let's hear it, then." Draco stood back and waited patiently, arms crossed at chest level, the door swinging open a good half-foot more.
Bloody hell! I didn't think I said that out loud. Goddamnit. "Oh, I . . . didn't realize I'd said that out loud." Honesty's supposed to be the best route, yes. When in doubt, don't lie . . . or is it to lie? Oh, drat him for hearing that! Drat! Dratdratdratdrat—
"A little late now, then, isn't it?" Draco's dry amusement did nothing to comfort Harry, who was having serious doubts about his ability to think silently.
"I suppose it is." Harry looked guiltily to the side, avoiding Draco's gaze admirably. Draco prodded him with a hanger.
"Spill it, Wonder Boy."
"I . . ."
Icy eyes narrowed dangerously. "Potter."
"I really don't want to tell you, Malfoy. It's none of your business, really."
Draco almost laughed. "None of my business? Potter, you just . . . just . . . attacked me, and made me piss up your arsehole!—which was quite painful, in case you weren't aware. I think you bruised me. And I think I deserve to know why your brain comes up with such sick little ideas! This concerns my personal safety!"
"Well, it was your own fault, you know. You drank all that tea and didn't save a drop for me. Seems fitting your bladder was full to bursting, doesn't it?"
"I'll remember that next time, idiot."
The relationship thrived on often-hateful encounters, and was better for it. Anyone seeing Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy walking off into the sunset together, hand-in-hand and lovey-dovey, would be mad. The name-calling, the vicious and sometimes painful exchanges were food for the soul, binding the two more closely than teddy bears and roses and boxes of candy ever could. The rough-housing, the fight-to-the-death scrabbles on the hardwood floor in the kitchen, and on top of the counters and the antique dining set were fulfilling in their own, bizarre way—fist fights made their day. Curses and threats were as commonplace in the bedroom—when they indeed made it there, though they usually did at some point during the day or night—as words of love and encouragement, as moans and groans and growls with the biting and clawing and mussing of the sheets.
Pity no one could really understand.
". . . I said I wanted to know why, Potter."
Harry bristled visibly, hands clenched at his sides. "Because I wanted something more this time, damn it. Damn you," he mumbled to his feet and looking stubbornly down at the ground. I'm not telling you this.
Draco quirked an eyebrow. "Explain?"
"Er—" Sighing, "Because you don't fuck me enough . . . I always fuck you. And I wanted more than just your come on this rare occasion." Harry turned his dark tassel of hair toward the bed with an extravagant wave of his arm to accentuate the said rareness, or so Draco imagined. "It was just a passing fancy, and I was upset at you for drinking all that goddamned tea, still." Alright, I am telling you this. Damn.
The blond snickered.
"And I liked that look on your face, too." That shut Draco's smirking mouth right quick.
"Look? I don't have looks, Potter. I have . . . poses. Yes. And you're a sick fuck." Harry recognized the look in Draco's eyes—yes, a look, as hard as Draco tried to deny it—he wanted to pounce.
"Never bothered you before."
"Not the point, Boy Who Presses On Bladders."
"Touché."
Harry knew that in a moment's time, he would be forced to act purely on instinct as Draco would invariably lunge at him and topple them both to the ground, kicking, biting and scratching routinely leading up to another clever attempt to avoid talking about feelings. He wondered if he should dodge, or take the punishment like a man.
Draco looked at him keenly. It reminded Harry of being paired in Double Potions, the blond peering into his cauldron wondering whether it was going to do something interesting and worthwhile, or blow up in his face. Had Snape only known how the boys were buggering behind the backs of the entire school, Harry doubted the slimy old git would have thrown them together as partners so often. As it was, Harry was confounded at how no one had ever noticed Draco's straying hands under the worktables, or the innocuous games of footsie that more often than not ended in a good, solid kick to make Harry yelp and spill his chopped flobberworm and silverweed paste to the cold stone below. Had to keep up appearances, Draco had reminded, before they wrestled each other to the floor of the Charms classroom at two in the morning and . . . well. Harry smiled fondly at the memory. The distraction was Draco's cue.
He pounced.
Harry didn't block.
They managed to hit the heavy oak dresser on the way to the ground, and Harry's poor, abused ribs would need to be healed when they were through, he noted. Draco always came through and helped him heal when it was over, and Harry performed likewise for Draco. It was another part of the unspoken code between the two; you heal my wounds and I heal yours. The fact they they'd been the ones to inflict the damage in the first place was inconsequential.
Tangled in a flailing, writhing heap on the floor, the blood didn't take long to be shed. In fact, Draco's sharp canines punctured the delicate juncture where shoulder meets neck almost before they hit the ground, attacking fully and ferally. When the bloodied mouth met Harry's he could taste himself, the metallic tang mixed with the flavor that was pure Draco, salty-sweet and more addictive than the coke Draco'd pushed on Harry on a rare trip to London, grinding sinuously to the techno beat in a trendy club during the summer months. Though the entire episode was hazy, Harry had the distinct feeling he'd disliked both the men and women who were ogling and leering at Draco, and that he had enjoyed himself (and Draco) immensely while drugged and loved in the hotel room after hours, too messed to risk apparating home and too busy with the blond between his legs to bother at all.
Harry heard Draco's growl and set off, slipping from his grasp and darting out the door, calling tauntingly at the boy he had abandoned so suddenly. Draco squealed in outraged indignance at being so hastily left and gave chase.
It was a miracle none of the neighbors hadn't complained about the noise level yet. Harry imagined they got off on it, the sorry sods. Hew thw the crashing, banging and animalistic sounds emitted would've prompted him to make an inquiry, if for nothing other than checking up on the well-being of the residents.
Harry had gotten to the kitchen by the time Draco's vault over the banister gave him a lead, and made it to the living room before he was caught, face down on the rug, and bitten again.
"You owe me, Potter," Draco spat viciously, ripping carelessly through the buttons on the shirt Harry had put on after their last episode, several pinging off the coffee table and skittering across the floor. "And you're going to pay in full."
"You say it like it's a bad thing, Malfoy," Harry said teasingly, and was rewarded with a sharp bite to his nipple as Draco rocked his hips.
"I'd be a bit more—nip—concerned—bite—if I were you," Draco returned easily, eyes glinting. Harry flipped him.
"You had more than your fair share of top last time, you tosser, quit—" Harry was knocked to the side, and a small tussle ensued, —”stop struggling, damn it Malfoy—" Harry returned the violent gesture and bit down hard on Draco's neck, hand delving into Draco's pajama bottoms.
"That was your fault, you great poof—"
The moment was lost as the fireplace roared for a moment with green flame, and a scandalized brunette stepped out. Hermione's brown eyes widened to unseemly proportions as her lips thinned in surprise, parting quickly as shock overtook her. "Harry! . . . Malfoy." Draco's name had a definite dip to the inflection. "I—your Floo was open, I had no idea—I— . . . my, you two really do live like animals," she finished, looking around at the additions to Draco's decorating skills ("Of course Magical Interior Design is a time-worthy class, Potter!"). She looked disdainfully at the tangle of mostly naked limbs sprawled ungracefully on the rug. "Yes. Animals, both of you." Nothing's changed, I see. She turned her eyes to the trail of upturned furniture, and the potted plant ("I don't see why we need real plants, Potter, the fake ones are easier and they look so much better, you're wasting your time."), the soil of while was scattered throughout the kitchen. "You should feel blessed I didn't bring Ron, Harry. He'd probably have a heart attack."
Draco grinned ferally. "Why are you still here, Granger? Anyone with a speck of brains could see we're a little busy, don't you think?" The effect of his harsh (but true) words was downplayed by his current position trapped beneath the warm body straddling his hips. At least the tosspot's hiding my hard-on.
"Sorry about the Floo, I was . . . we were . . . distracted when we got in last night, 'Mione, sorry." Harry smiled sheepishly. Draco wanted to lick him.
Just then, the fireplace roared to life again, and Ron himself stepped out, nearly knocking Hermione over in the process. Harry's natural possessive instinct chose that time to take over as he hurriedly grabbed an animal print throw blanket from the couch behind them ("Har-ryyy, animal prints are in this season!") to shield Draco from the eyes of others, mindless of his own partial nudity. Even knowing Ron's preference for the gentler sex, Harry was still compulsively protective of Draco. Especially when said boy was mostly naked and pinned underneath him.
"Ah, look, she didn't even need to bring the ginger clown, he just follows obediently wherever his keeper goes," Draco sing-songed nastily, screeching when Harry slapped him. Again, being pinioned helplessly to the ground takes some of the threat out of one's words.
"You're one to talk about 'keepers,' Malfoy," Ron said uneasily, still not used to seeing the surly prick with his best friend on a regular basis, and definitely not in such compromising positions ("We have a Malfoy in the family?!").
Harry coughed at the edgy silence that followed, very aware of the erection nudging up from underneath him. "Er, Ron, Hermione," he started placatingly, "maybe we should, ah, could you . . . turn around for a minute?" He felt Draco poke at him with an impatient finger as he blushed madly.
A chorus of "Yeah, sure, Harry, okay, of course," and the couple was on the couch, covered modestly by the oversized fleece throw. Harry noted to himself that he'd have to "thank" Draco for choosing it a little later, when their company had left.
"So . . ." Harry said suddenly, seeing Draco smirk and toss his wet hair as the two turned around nervously, squinting as if they were about to be thoroughly scandalized by the sight of he and Harry nude and cavorting. "Why are you two here, exactly, anyway? I thought you had a phone put in . . ."
"We—do, but we thought it would be more—"
"Formal—"
"If we did this in person," Ron finished. "Herm was just stopping by to invite you—" Ron looked pained, —”the two of you, to dinner, since your Floo was open, but I couldn't wait," he smiled broadly, happiness overtaking his disgust for seeing Malfoy unclothed and . . . wet. "What happened to the two of you, anyway?" he asked tentatively, as if he didn't really want to hear the answer. Naturally, looking bloodied, beat up (and still quite wet, in Draco's case) wasn't the norm, even for wizards as eccentric as Potter and Malfoy. Draco's eyes sparkled wickedly, his hair was tousled beyond repair. He looked the picture of debauched . . . debauchery. He leaned lazily against Harry as the boy stuttered a reasonable explanation.
*
"You're getting married!" Harry was thrilled for his friends. "That's excellent! But gods, Ron, I thought you two were planning to wait until your Auror training was over," he said, feeling Draco tense at the word "Auror." Harry petted his leg soothingly, and Draco relaxed.
"Well, we were planning on it that way, but," she looked at Ron, "things sort of, er, took their own course . . ."
Draco didn't miss a beat. "You knocked her up, didn't you, Weasel?" he grinned, propping a leg up on the armrest, letting his foot swing back and forth idly and resting his head on Harry's shoulder. "Good job."
Hermione was speechless at the frank remark, but from the way Ron beamed and Harry cheered, she was able to ignore the callous barb. Malfoy was being unusually tactless today, and figured that it was probably somehow Harry's fault. He was the only one who could successfully rile the blond, and she knew it. Hermione also noticed keenly the annoyed look as Harry left him alone on the couch to get up and hug everyone. He continued to swing his leg and look bored with it all, but she could see he was jealous. His icy eyes said it all.
"Draco," she said appeasingly, "aren't you happy for us? Come now, you know you'll love having an extra Weasley to annoy and torture." Draco looked up sharply.
"Fun as that would be," he said in a strained voice, "I think I'd rather leave my cache of insults to people worthy of my time." He stood shakily, dragging the blanket with him. "I'm happy for you both." With that, Draco stalked from the room. The happy chatter died along with the light in Harry's eyes.
"What's wrong with him?" Ron asked cluelessly. Harry just shook his head.
"Dunno, Ron. I expect he's probably jealous, is all." Harry shrugged listlessly, shoulders drooping. "But you guys, married! I can't believe it! Well, er, I always knew it'd happen eventually, but wow . . . already!" He forced a happy, lopsided grin, shoving Ron from his perch on the arm of Hermione's wing-backed chair and into her lap. Neither seemed to mind terribly. Tells just who wears the pants in that relationship.
"Jealous, Harry? Why would Malfoy be jealous?" Hermione knew the answer already, but wanted to see if Harry did—and if he would admit it to his best friends.
"Why? Er . . . oh, y'know . . ."
"No, Harry, I don't."
"I—I don't think it's really my place to tell you that, Herm . . . sorry."
"Really, Harry, I think maybe you should keep that—keep Malfoy drugged, for his own good," she said crossly. "Those little mood swings, and—Harry, God, what have you done to your neck?"
Green eyes widened fractionally as Hermione sat next to him, examining the marks closely. He and Draco were always good about cleaning up each other's accidents when they were done, but this time they had been interrupted. No time to heal the rapidly bruising teeth marks, or obvious strawberry-colored patches in the shape of each other's mouths peppered across neck and chest. Harry was horrified.
"Harry, oh . . . did Malfoy do this to you?" Hermione looked even more unsettled, because she was suddenly recalling similar marks on Draco's smooth white skin, remembering the small blood smear on the side of his chin that she had chosen to overlook, unconsciously or no. Animals. "Harry. You two do this to each other?"
Ron was speechless. Probably for the best.
"Er . . ." Harry was wishing the floor would open up and swallow him. "Well, you even said just now when you arrived we looked like wild animals . . ." His cheeks were stained bright red. "Unless you were referring to the new decor?"
Managing a weak smile, Hermione cursed herself and her big mouth for saying what she had—and for showing up uninvited at all. Clearly, she had never been intended to witness what she'd witnessed. No one was. Disturbing and wrong as it was, it was private. What bothered her was how much Harry seemed to enjoy it.
"But this really isn't any of your business, so let's drop it," Harry was saying as Hermione tuned back into the conversation. "So! Wedding plans! And baby plans . . . ?"
"Yes, Harry. Baby and wedding plans. And I suppose," she said aggrievedly, with great drama, "that you can bring Malfoy to tag along at the ceremony." Hermione smiled despite herself. The entire day had been strange as hell.
*
A little more then an hour later, Ron and Hermione announced that it was about time they departed. Forcing Ron to go back through the Floo first, Hermione seized the opportunity and cornered Harry, who had redressed somewhat (though his shirt was oddly devoid of buttons, she noticed).
"Harry, you know you can tell us if there's anything going on here . . . you know you can stay with us if you need to." She looked at him meaningfully.
Smiling awkwardly, Harry assured her that yes, he knew he could show up on their doorstep anything and be welcome, even if they were rolling around on the floor half naked when he arrived, he added for good measure, but that no, he and Draco were quite alright and probably wouldn't be needing any rescuing. "We're fine, Herm, you just caught us at an—er . . . you really need to use the telephone."
"B-but Malfoy was obviously hurting you!" she stammered angrily.
"Maybe I like to be hurt." It was a quiet end to the argument that left Hermione speechless, for once, as she was ushered into the fireplace and out of the townhouse with warnings not to call uninvited again.
*
"Your friends are really lacking, Potter," Draco informed Harry when he dragged himself upstairs sometime later. "I was thinking of offering to put on some tea, but I didn't think they'd appreciate it enough—coming from me." Silvery eyes skipped guiltily to the side. Harry knew.
"You heard." It was a statement, not a question. Draco nodded. He was secretly pleased that Harry had gone to bat for him—indirectly as it were.
"It's so wrong, what we do. This whole thing is bloody wrong," Draco insisted angrily, hauling himself off the bed and in front of the window, peeking through the blinds like a criminal. He then eyed a long, angry-looking scrape that ran the length of his arm, holding it up to the daylight and appraising it carefully before he tapped it with his wand, correcting the stinging scratch with a word and a wave. The doorjamb had attacked him when Draco chased after Harry—the scrape looked much worse than it felt, though. And there had sure as hell been worse accidents, though nothing had ever been beyond repair. "You have to know I'm right, Potter. What we do here is wrong." The biting and kicking and scratching and hitting is fun, but if any of this got out . . .
"'S not wrong if we like it," Harry said weakly. "I'm happy with it. Aren't you?"
"That's not the point, fuckstick."
"Then what is? We're just a couple of sick, twisted fucks. But we're alright with it. I like it. Too bad that damned hat didn't stuff me into Slytherin after all." Harry leered lasciviously at Malfoy.
"True, would've made the shagging a lot easier. More convenient." Stormy eyes returned the stare with renewed passion; purpose.
This time, Harry pounced.
*
"Mm . . . fuck, Potter. Being a sick, twisted fuck isn't all bad . . . God, yes, right there . . ." Harry dragged his tongue over one of two pale pink buds, mouthing languidly and grazing the sensitive flesh with his teeth, moves to Malfoy's undoing well-practiced in all the years they'd been buggering behind everyone's back at Hogwarts, made ever more so skilled since the move the spring before. Had it really been that close to a year already?
He moved a hand up and over Draco's side, rubbing at his ribs, breathily murmuring from around his nipple something about his caloric intake not being up to par with his physical output. Draco looked amused. Then aroused. Yeah. More of the second, Harry decided. He heard Draco mumbling something, words he couldn't quite catch.
"Sorry?"
"Yes, you certainly are. Sorriest thing I've ever seen. You know, if your eyes were any more glazed over, someone might mistake you for a pastry and eat you. But aside from that, I asked if you were planning to do anything useful in the near future, or if I needed to take charge here."
Oh no you don't, you had me last time—er—even if I was technically on top. Bastard. Sexy bastard. "Er . . . okay." Eat me, indeed.
Draco quirked a brow. "Okay to which? I'm really not in the mood to dawdle, so if you'd kindly get those sodding pants off and get over here, we could get on with it—"
"No, I'm alright, thanks. But you won't be when I'm through with you," Harry warned. He hadn't noticed that he'd sat up apart from the blond when Draco had started talking. Harry was well aware of how much he enjoyed just watching Draco, as he walked, talked, crawled across messy sheets toward him— God Potter, get a grip, you sorry sod.
Draco was looking expectant.
"Yes?"
"Were you planning on doing anything even remotely useful in the near future, you pillock?"
"Oh. Yes." Harry crawled up to the pillow obediently, throwing a leg over Draco's hips and taking hold of a shock of golden hair, leverage for grabbing and kissing the Slytherin senseless.
"Harry," Draco addressed in a gasp, "I want to get something."
What? Toys? Did Malfoy buy us toys? Are we really in that sad of shape? Then, I bet he'd look even better with a little black collar . . . oh bloody fuck, that would be hot. And I could get a tag engraved 'Property of Harry J. Potter'— Harry's dirty thoughts were tugged from him with a sharp pull on his scalp.
"Potter, you bitch, I was speaking to you," Malfoy informed Harry with aggravation. Still the spoiled brat he'd been throughout their school career, expecting the royal treatment.
"What? Er, what did you say you had to get?"
Draco smiled cunningly. "Well," he started innocently enough, "I was thinking of the frightful mess your silly little friends saw today . . . that never would have happened if we had, say, a house elf . . ." Harry's eyes widened, and he stopped the movement of his tongue against the blond's collarbone. Draco's groan sounded much aggrieved.
"Sorry? A house elf? This is hardly a house, Malfoy . . ."
"That. Is. Not. The point. Potter. I hate to clean, you hate to clean, when you actually do it properly, anyhow, and I'm about sick of having to pick up after you. I'm sure you could coerce that little—eh—Dorby, was it? That little fellow you lightened my father of? He seemed to really take to you, perhaps he'd be willing to come every now and again. Your atrocious Weasley sweater collection would pay for his lifetime services, I'm sure," Draco added dryly, nose wrinkling in distaste.
"Funny," Harry replied, "how you always tend to ask me things when you have me trapped in bed with you. I really wonder whether you'd hold out on the shagging to get your way. I don't think I've ever not caved, though, come to think of it," said Harry thoughtfully. "And his name is Dobby."
Draco smiled guilelessly.
"Damn you." Harry reached out a hand in Draco's general direction, not without purpose.
A slap. "Cease molesting me, Potter!" Apparently, Draco was still in a bit of a snit from Harry's earlier infraction, in addition to not instantly getting his way.
Sheepishly: "Sorry. How's your . . . er." Harry gestured to Draco's abdomen.
"Just peachy, Potter." Draco scowled horribly. It reminded Harry of the summer they'd bought the townhouse, when he was the only one allowed to legally own it, because of his age. That, and Harry was the only one of the two who had any legal papers proving who he was—Draco's being born and bred into the wizarding world hadn't made for any documentation of his existence in Muggle society. Draco was outraged at "the stupidity of these brainless Muggles" as Harry signed the necessary paperwork, and signed it again to include Draco some months later, the day the blond came of age in the eyes of Muggle law (according to his forcibly obtained "Muggle docs"). He refused to remain in a house that was, technically, Harry's alone.
Harry knew they should've just kept the rented flat.
"D'you reckon we should have it looked at?" Harry asked anxiously. He was well aware of Draco's flair for the dramatic, but the possibility that he had actually harmed the blond weighed heavily on Harry's conscience.
Draco knew it. And knew how to use it—to his advantage.
"No," he pouted. "I'll just suffer here, alone in my pain, in silence—"
"Hardly in silence," Harry muttered.
—”and you will suffer right along with me." Draco looked pleased, lying back on the pillows like a satisfied cat basking in a patch of afternoon sunlight.
Harry's lip lifted in a look of distaste. "Why do I get the feeling I'm going to be sorrier if I try to assuage the guilt?" he asked dryly. Draco laughed.
"Because you know how we work so well, my boy," he said with a poke to Harry's side. Harry smacked the hand away.
"Alright. What do I have to do to make it up to you, oh wondrous wizarding god of the Muggle community?" Harry stretched out, falling back onto the pile of pillows behind him. Again, he was smacked—this time for his "smart mouth."
"It's your fault we're in a damned Muggle anything, tosser."
Harry had nothing to bite back with on that.
"And I can't believe you let that Mudblood and the ginger clown push you around, either. I think that requires an extra punishment. 'Maybe I like to be hurt,'" Draco mocked in a simpering voice. "Really, now."
Harry was getting desperate to find a way to shut Draco up before he recounted too much and made Harry rethink what he had admitted. "Well, it's not like it was a big surprise, after what she walked in on, prat. I don't suppose you heard the whisper just before she left?"
No, Draco had been keening to listen, but it was spoken in a low undertone that was undetectable to his ears.
"She told me flat out to leave you and come home with her and Ron."
Draco looked startled. "She really told you to leave? I'm guessing by the fact that you're still here that you told her . . . you'd just clean up a bit and then walk out." Draco said smugly. He was baiting.
"Shush, Malfoy. You know I wouldn't do that."
"Wouldn't you?"
"No."
"Alright, then." Draco looked around the room. "We need to straighten up, you know. That dirty plant and its dirt are going to get ground into the carpet. D'you wanna shag first?"
"The plant is not dirty, the soil is dirt, and yes." Harry blinked. "Then we clean."
"Sounds like a plan," Draco smiled, and hopped atop Harry, hands instantly wrapping around his neck and lifting Harry's head to smash it into the pillow. Note before becoming alarmed, however, that this was relatively normal and well-liked behavior of both parties.
"Yess," Harry hissed with the little air he was able to take in with Draco strangling him. Choking, Harry reciprocated and tugged at Draco's neck, dragging his body over and to the side, equal on the bedding and kicking with their legs to make up for their lack of free hands to hit with. Draco managed a good swift kick to Harry's shin before he was flipped onto his back, gasping for air and digging his thumbs into Harry's windpipe in retaliation, the nails of each remaining finger embedded in the back of Harry's neck.
Tanned hands left Draco's throat in favor of trailing down his chest, nails leaving angry red welts that rose up against the satiny white skin instantly. One hand stayed at chest level, holding Draco down with only slight struggle, as the other wrapped around the hardening organ between his thighs. Harry always noticed how quickly Draco's grip on his neck loosened when he began fondling the firm flesh. And how his breathing would hitch to gasps and nothingness as Harry's hand began to stroke him slowly. Good things to know.
Harry started to squeeze gently as his hand rose and fell over Draco's erection, and the other left the pale chest to seek lower, hovering over the soft skin just below Draco's navel. Fingers caressed as dark emerald eyes asked one question: forgive me?
Draco's almost imperceptible nod gave Harry a warm surge of emotion, the feeling leaving him heady. His eyes darkened to a mercurial silver, the irises just a thin ring of color around a lot of pupil—eyes hooded and desiring from their post atop the mound of pillows. Draco's blond hair had dried sticking up at crazy angles during round one of the day's games, and made him look startlingly akin to a freshly hatched chicken. When Draco's hands fastened around Harry's shoulders to haul him down for a kiss, Harry told him so. A mistake, as it were. His lip was bitten viciously in retaliation.
"I hate you," Draco hissed in a low tone.
"I loathe you." Kiss.
"I abhor you." Bite.
"I despise you." Suckle.
"I detest you." Nip.
"I can't stand you." Clothed, that is . . .
"I—want to fuck. Now," Draco insisted, grasping Harry's shoulders so tightly his nails left a curving row of crescent-shaped indentions in Harry's shoulder blades.
"That can be arranged," Harry breathed, biting his lip to combat the pain of Draco impaling him with tiny claws. One last open-mouthed kiss, and he was sliding down the length of Draco's pale body, giving pause to lap at pink-tinted nipples, and trace a trail of saliva down the sternum, continuing to the delicate dip of Draco's navel, where his tongue teased wickedly, the throbbing organ below pistoning up with a roll of Draco's hips and crashing into Harry's collarbone. "Stay still, you cheeky monkey, you," Harry admonished.
"Can't stay, need to—"
"Shush . . ."
"Can't . . ." Draco fell weakly back against the pillows, closing his eyes briefly. When he reopened them, his gaze was locked directly on Harry, who was placing small pecks with his lips over the tender spot on his lower abdomen he had brutally pushed on that morning. Draco flicked him sharply on the temple. "Suck it," he commanded, reenergized, shoving Harry's head further toward his groin with his fingertips. Potter, you bloody lightweight.
Harry nuzzled the straining flesh with his cheek, turning his lips to it the way one might a lover, just barely grazing. As his lips ghosted over the taut skin, Harry's hands smoothed down to rest and settle on tapered hips, keeping them from rolling and rising up off the mattress.
"Potter, I'm warning you . . ." It was a hollow threat, but Draco felt required to moan it anyhow. A moan that stretched into a deep sigh of satisfaction when Harry licked from base to crown, and popped the head into his waiting mouth.
Draco was flying already, and Potter, damn him, kept right at it, daring Draco to lose himself quickly. It was a common game—tease and torment and tussle until one, the other or both came crying and screaming into the other's mouth, hand, other such convenient places . . .
*
Harry liked for Draco to touch his hair. And, admit to it or not, he liked it just as much when he was petted softly and lovingly as when his hair was tugged on so harshly it felt ready to give up and separate from his scalp. This was what Draco's hands busied themselves with while Harry Potter sucked him off. Draco would need to use the sticky lint roller they'd originally bought for the black wool cloaks and overcoats in the front closet to pick up all the glossy black hairs littering the sheets, the canopy, the floor, and even himself and Harry when they were done, but that was a chore made almost pleasant because of the sheer absurdity of it—not mentioning the heady, sexy reminders of just how those hairs came to be scattered liberally over everything they owned.
So it wasn't a surprise to Hary that one of the hands fisted in his thick hair left its perch to thwack him upside the head several moments after Draco came. "You prick, I told you I wanted to fuck and you let me come! What the bloody fuck did you do?" Draco was angry. This was an understatement. Harry's cock twitched when Draco slapped him again, leaving a bright, blood-red smear of a handprint in his wake.
God, we are such sick fucks. "You're complaining because I made you come?" Draco saw a tiny string of his own come attached to Harry's lip. He felt the urge to taste it. He always felt that urge; it never got old. Not like having to suffer through the untimely visits of Potter's buddies, that got stale even before it happened, which was entirely too often, in Draco's humble opinion. He was realizing again why he'd been so pissy with Harry to begin with—he wanted to punish him. Not only for having annoying, interfering, nosy-as-all-bloody-hell friends, but for leaving that damned Floo trap open. Yes. That was it, precisely. It Harry hadn't forgotten the Floo, his meddlesome Mudblood and her pet weasel would never have come to spoil his day. Them and their marriage and babies. Draco felt ill.
Then it hit him.
"Harry! You gigantic moron, do you know what day this is?"
Harry blinked innocently. No, apparently he did not know, because when you make your own rules, and your own schedule, with no real commitments or deadlines or worries to, well, worry over, you tend to forget what month you're in, much less what bloody day it is. "Er . . . Thursday?" he tried cautiously, unsure where Draco was taking his post-coital conversation.
"Potter. You are clearly a special exception case of idiocy. They could name a new brand of idiocy after you. It's Friday, by the way, you sod. And it is also . . . ?" Draco had to at least give him a chance to redeem himself.
"Er." Damn, Hermione mentioned something significant about today, too, when I was busy ignoring her and thinking about . . . Draco. Mmm.
"You, my sexy friend, are most assuredly the stupidest creature on earth." Harry started to protest, and Draco added: "And that's including the flobberworms. But you are sexier than them, and I'd take sexy over brains any day."
". . . Thanks." Harry smiled lopsidedly at him from beneath obscenely disobedient fringe.
"It's Valentine's Day, halfwit."
"Oh." Harry's yes widened. "Oh . . ."
"Yes."
"Happy Valentine's Day, then." Harry crawled down to snuggle, valiantly ignoring his raging erection and the fact that Draco had been the only one to get serviced. Draco petted his head indulgently.
"Same here, you prat." He kissed the wild tangle of black hair affectionately. "Wanna shag s'more, then?" Harry nearly came from the mere mention.
"Yeah!" Harry was on top of Draco immediately, latching his lips onto Draco's and wedging himself between the blond's parted thighs. Draco surged upward, crushing himself against Harry's length. "Where's your wand? . . . Where's my wand?" Harry sounded only mildly distressed.
"On top of the fridge," Draco said after a second of mental deliberation. He had to remember where they were the last time Harry had used the lubrication charm—that morning they'd used Draco's wand, as they often needed to, but Harry's was still where Draco had tossed it from their perch on the counter. Good thing about counter sex, you don't even have to get up to snag a snack from the fridge afterwards, if you plan your choice section of the countertop right. "Isn't it sad that all we use our wands for is sex?" Lust-filled green eyes regarded him.
"'S not true, Malfoy, I used mine just yesterday to grab my pants after we—oh. Um."
"Right."
"Er . . . used it for . . . food? Levitating food to us?"
"After we shagged."
"Hmm."
"'S not really a problem, is it?"
"Certainly not. Now fuck me." Draco handed Harry his wand, as he was in a better position to aim, as it were. Draco's wand had really warmed up to Harry since they'd gotten together—he could use Draco's almost as well as his own, on many spells.
Harry performed the tricky little charm, and, prepared in full, he handed the dark, slender instrument back to Draco, who set it carefully aside. Then he slipped back into position.
He loved the way Draco would lie bonelessly while Harry's fingers had their merry way with his bottom—one finger inside, he added a second, scissoring with a practiced ease and being rewarded with a small whimper and a roll of the hips when he brushed Draco's prostate with slick fingertips. He ghosted over the sweet spot again, and got a full-out cry of pleasure from his suddenly willing (and pliable) blond slave.
"God, please, Harry . . ."
And by the time Draco was begging with Harry's given name, he knew the boy was ready. It was an inherent understanding; Draco weakened enough to consider calling "Potter" by his true name, and Harry giving in and sidling up to the slicked entrance, Draco's hips held in a firmly locked position to keep him still. Always he managed to hurt himself with his eagerness if Harry didn't steady him—yet another unspoken understanding between them. Draco was surprisingly adept at this trick as well, despite how few times he fucked Harry in comparison. Still, the tally reigns in at a fair amount, considering.
Pushing steadily forward, Harry heard the usual gasp and whine when he shoved past the tight barrier. This was nearing the end of where Draco would tolerate him being anything resembling gentle or prudent, and soon the blond brat would be begging for harder!—faster!—more!—and Harry would graciously deliver. As it was, Draco was already writhing beneath the expert touch, his hands sliding up and down Harry's forearms in a caress perversely mimicking what Harry was busy performing on him at the moment.
"Harry—fuck . . . oh God," Draco was wheezing breathlessly, as his breath was being bounced from his lungs as quickly as he could refill them with the precious oxygen. He dragged Harry down by the shoulders, arms slinking around his neck and fingers twining into thick dark hair as lips met lips, hot breath meeting and mixing in a cloudy haze of passionate words between embraces and gasps. Malfoy seized Harry's mouth ruthlessly, biting down on his lower lip (unusually gently, Harry noted) before moving to suckle at his chin, jawbone, tracing the line of his jaw to his ear, where Draco panted shamelessly while he attacked the tender flesh of Harry's earlobe with ivory teeth. Harry moaned low in his throat.
He was entirely unprepared for Draco taking hold of his torso roughly and flipping him over, climbing and resettling on top of his thrusting hips, and proceeding to ride him lustily. Draco's fingers squeezed and massaged at Harry's chest while he bounced on his cock, his blond head thrown back and erratically lolling to the sides, causing his moans to ebb and rise like a voice in the wind. Harry tried to reach for Draco's erection to stroke him in time, but Draco slapped his hands away.
"Potter—Harry . . ." His brow wrinkled in thought, lip trapped by his teeth as he wavered in apparent question before clambering off and yanking Harry to his knees, eliciting a startled yelp. He pressed their lips together and ordered Harry behind him. Draco himself fell to his knees, his forehead flush with the mattress. Harry didn't mind the new position at all—though he always felt cheated because he couldn't watch Draco's face during orgasm when it was buried so deeply in the mound of pillows it all but disappeared from view. The appreciative, pleasured sounds always seemed to make it through, however (loud as they were), so Harry never had to miss those.
Harry entered Draco again, pounding the boy into the mattress as per popular request. If Harry hadn't been close to the edge before, he was positively teetering now.
"Draco, how close are you?" he ground out through teeth clenched with the effort it took to keep at it.
"Mm—close," Draco affirmed, hips slamming back to take in Harry's length to the hilt.
"Good," Harry said simply, purposely angling his cock to strike Draco's prostate on each rapid stroke. He caught the high-pitched whine of the boy beneath him just as his fingers closed around Draco's slick organ, ready and dripping for him already. Harry knew well what he'd have to do to bring Draco over the edge screaming and crying and splashing copious amounts of come onto the fresh sheets—so he did.
The keen feel of Draco clenching involuntarily around him paired with Draco's enraptured squealing of his name sent Harry off, only after he shot himself deep within his spent lover did he realize his hand was sliding around in a pool of sperm. Draco's body had sunk down to the mattress, too used and abused to remain upright and trapping Harry's hand beneath him, still wrapped around his softening erection. Harry joined in and collapsed on top of the blond boy, still intimately intertwined, and licked behind his ear.
"Draco . . ."
"Uhhn."
Harry giggled. Draco murmuring nonsense usually signaled a pretty successful session. "God Draco, you're gorgeous."
"Nrrrk."
". . . I'll take that as a 'Yes, of course I'm madly in love with you, my sexy, perfect, god-like valentine!'"
Draco lifted his head slightly and turned to the side. "Potter, I . . . fuck. If I could think of something witty to retort with right now, I so would." And he promptly crashed his head back down into the pillow. Then it weakly rose again, but only just. "I suppose it'd be too much to ask that you get your ass the hell off of me so I could run to the loo?"
Harry smirked lazily, rolled to the side and spooned up behind Draco, dropping a soft kiss to the back of Draco's flushed neck. "I take it that's a 'no' to a fresh pot of tea, then."
*
Finis.
- 1
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Simple Love With A Complex Touch