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When his quiescent Floo suddenly blasts green fire and belches out one Albus Severus Potter onto his living room floor, Draco rubs his eyes beneath his glasses and sighs quietly, “Fuck.”
Albus coughs, wiping a hand over his flushed face. “Draco?”
“I’m right here.” He’s all of five feet away in his favourite armchair. He takes a steadying breath and sets his evening paper aside.
When Albus’s gaze finds Draco, he lights up, his smile crooked and shining, and it would not take a genius to deduce that he’s drunk. His eyes are wet and wobbly for a moment, the lids heavier than usual. He sits there on his denimed rear-end, that besotted smile on his face, and he says, “Hi.”
“We’ve talked about the Floo,” Draco reminds him calmly, though his heart rate has most certainly increased, there is no denying that. He’s got an intruder; it’s not uncalled for.
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you? The fact remains you’re here. On my floor.” When no reply is forthcoming, Draco sighs, lifting his ankle from where it had lain on his knee and planting both feet on the ground instead. “I never gave you permission to Floo over unannounced. There are wards.”
“There were wards.” And how someone can wear both pride and this endearingly sheepish expression simultaneously, Draco is not at all certain. Albus didn’t inherit much from his father besides his colouring, but the magical prowess… he seems to have pilfered that gene from both sides and to great benefit. Draco’s wards had been ironclad. He’s an Arithromancer; he can craft a bloody ward.
But this boy disassembled them (them, as in multiple wards) drunk no less.
Draco takes off his reading glasses and drops them on top of the abandoned paper. “What do you want, Albus?”
And now he transforms once again at the reminder of why he came. He bites his lip and then—fucking hell—he begins to crawl across the rug toward Draco’s chair. “I was a bit lonely,” he says.
“Weren’t you at your family’s for dinner?”
Swervingly, he manages to shrug one shoulder whilst slinking across the floor. “Like I said. I was lonely.”
“Mm.” Draco watches Albus’s approach, the drunken veer of him which still sends him mostly in the right direction—that direction being between Draco’s spread legs.
“We talked about the Floo,” Draco repeats. Because it bears repeating. Albus has begged to be let into Draco’s wards all of three times, which is three-fifths the number of times he’s been in Draco’s bed total, if ‘bed’ is more a euphemism than a place: twice in the literal location, once over Draco’s desk in the study, once on the kitchen countertop, and once… once in this very chair where Draco now sits.
“Please,” Albus says quietly. And oh how that word hurts in all the right places. Draco’s cock begins to swell, though in no other way does he move to invite this slow and sweetly awkward advance.
Finally, Albus is at his feet, between them, to be exact. His hands hook around Draco’s ankles and rub inquiringly up his calves. “You’re still in your work clothes.”
Draco lifts a brow at him.
“It’s eleven at night,” Albus adds to provide further context. His swimming gaze drops to Draco’s feet, still laced into Italian leather Brogues. He licks his bitten lip. “God, Draco.”
“You’re drunk.”
Hands running up his shins, their warmth electric. “I had a Firewhiskey or two.”
“Or...?”
Their gazes meeting, Albus’s guilty: “Or four.” Then he rises on his knees, and he rubs gripping hands over Draco’s thighs through his trousers. “I’m in full possession of my faculties, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He rests his pretty cheek on Draco’s thigh, blinks, and looks up into his face. “I can consent. Unless… you want me not to.”
It would be so easy to slip his hand into that dark mess of hair, so soft and unruly. Everything about Albus begs to be touched.
“The last time was supposed to be the last time,” Draco says.
Albus turns his face, nuzzles Draco’s inner thigh, leaving a hot exhale there. “‘You’re too young for me,’” he parrots, his voice low and intimate. He lifts up, drops his lips to Draco’s shirt, to his belly beneath. “I’m twenty-two,” he objects ridiculously. As if twenty-two is any age at all. As if the distance between that and forty-eight is a jog down the street rather than… rather than the gulf of time, the vacuum of space between Venus and bloody Neptune.
“I think I’m perfect for you.” Albus’s new words are warm, lips skimming a button, up, up more, tongue seeking the part in the fabric, finding it, slithering into the gap to touch Draco’s skin.
It’s far too much. Draco sinks his hands into Albus’s hair, massaging his scalp until the boy purrs, then cupping his jaw. “You are my son’s age. You are, indeed, his best friend. Your father—”
“—is a prick who loves Lily best.”
Draco runs his thumb over Albus’s cheekbone, wondering if there remains the salty grit of old tears. He hopes not. When he took him to bed the first time (and this applies to all the other times as well), it wasn’t out of pity. He’d had no idea the pain Albus feels at the metaphorical hands of the Chosen family. None at all. Scorpius, though thoughtful and loving and almost always willing to talk in-depth about his own life with Draco—a fact he’s never once taken for granted about his dear son—has never once betrayed his friend’s confidence. It’s been a revelation, since that first time, that the middle Potter has been rather left out of the familial fold. Misunderstood, the quiet one. The Slytherin.
“And Mum thinks James made the stars in the sky,” Albus continues. He leans into Draco’s open palm, begging for it. “I want someone to love me most.”
The breath leaves his body in a sick rush. He shouldn’t. At most, he should give Albus the sofa for the night. But better still, he should see the boy safely home to his flat. He shouldn’t succumb to this uproar of emotions, this upset in his core, something so few people can provoke in him.
Albus blinks, his long lashes tickling Draco’s palm.
He shouldn’t.
And so he does.
“Come here.”
Albus crawls up off the floor, into Draco’s lap. He curls there, smelling of Ogden’s and vetiver. “Are you going to send me home?”
“No,” Draco tells him. “But I don’t think I have any business fucking you tonight.”
He should have chosen less inflammatory words because Albus slowly squirms in his lap, his arms wrapped, python-like, around Draco’s neck, fingers fiddling with the sharp collar of his shirt.
“Can I sleep in your bed?” Albus asks.
“Yes.”
“With you?”
Draco lets out a frustrated sigh.
“Please?” Albus tries, his lips far too close to the beating of Draco’s pulse in his neck. Then Albus says it. He simply says it, like it comes naturally to him. “Take me to bed, Daddy.”
It cannot be said that he hasn’t thought about it… thought it and felt slightly vile. It’s the stupid age difference, the desire to protect twinned with the desire to ruin. To be the one to dismantle Albus until he’s quivering, a soaked mess of sweat and come and exhausted begging. And then the urge to repair, to cushion the blow of their sex with hushed words, sweet promises… and to hear that word during, after, through all of it.
“What did you say?” The words are an affronted exhale. Though he’s far from offended. He’s enthralled.
“I said… take me to bed,” Albus answers, newly nuzzling into Draco’s neck.
Draco takes him by the hair and gently but firmly wrenches him back so that he can frown into that lush, green gaze. “What did you call me?”
“‘m sorry.”
“I didn’t ask for your apologies. I asked for the word.” And then, at Albus’s blushing reticence. “Say it again.”
He gasps, so sweetly, his gaze timid on Draco’s lips. Then he lifts his eyes and bravely meets Draco’s stern gaze. “Dad-dy,” he whispers, a small hiccup altering the word.
A surge inside him, a warmth like he’s never felt, some spring, a lesser magic he wasn’t aware underlay the core.
He slips his arms around Albus’s pliant body. “Let’s get you to bed, my darling.”
Draco carries him there. Not as one would carry a bride, nor a lover (feet barely off the ground as you press them to the wall for a filthy grind in the hallway). He carries Albus like a sleepy child, Albus’s legs wrapped around his waist, head ducked onto his shoulder. It’s almost too much, too close. Except that Albus’s weight is forbidding, and it’s not the easiest thing in the world to accomplish. Still, Draco is rather proud that he’s stayed as fit as he has… that though wiry, he’s deceptively strong. It’s not the strain that’s the problem.
He feels a bit desperately like he wants to distance himself from the role, even as his arms love the feel of this body against his own, clinging to him, entrusted.
Beside the big bed, he lets Albus down, setting him on his own feet but keeping him close. “Do you need Daddy to undress you?” he murmurs.
Illicit, awful. Wonderful. His body almost floats with it; it’s formidably dizzying. A strong Confundus, right to the chest.
Albus nods eagerly. “Yes, Daddy.”
Draco allows his hands free rein, lets them slide up Albus’s t-shirt onto his fevered skin, lifting cotton as he goes. Albus’s stomach is a beautiful juxtaposition: hard, hard muscle, under baby-smooth skin, a dusting of hair straight down the middle. Draco lets himself enjoy this voyage of touching him, lifting his arms so that the t-shirt comes up and off. Still gripping the fabric in his fingers, he cups Albus’s face.
He can’t help the kiss. Albus leans into it so beautifully, like it soothes an ache in him. And Draco deepens it, tosses the t-shirt aside and pulls Albus close, his tongue pushing into the boy’s willing mouth. Albus’s erection presses into Draco’s thigh, and he whimpers. Draco inhales the sound, cups Albus’s bottom with one hand, and lets him rub himself off for a few lovely, dirty moments.
Albus groans a drunken laugh into the kiss, and in that moment he meets Draco like the man he is, needy, willful, able to pursue his own pleasure without apology or restraint. “I’ve missed you,” he says. “Missed this.” And his fingers start in on Draco’s shirt.
“No,” Draco says. “I’m undressing you, remember?”
Albus nods, and Draco watches the shiver wrack his body, his future pleasure in prelude, in miniature.
Then Draco looks down at Albus’s feet. “You’re not wearing any shoes.”
Albus looks down at them, too, like he’s only now noticing. “Oh,” he says. “I suppose not.”
“You suppose not? What happened to them between dinner and here?”
“I’m… not sure.”
“Did you leave your shoes in the Floo, Albus? Did they end up in someone else’s house entirely?”
Albus smiles. “Maybe,” he laughs. “Draco, I really don’t know.”
They pass that smile back and forth between them, while Draco works on the button and zip on Albus’s jeans. He pushes them down, leaving his underwear, but when he goes to remove both jeans and socks, Albus scrunches up his toes and says, “Leave them on.” And when Draco meets his eyes. “I want you to leave them on.” An admission that leaves him scandalously blushing. The deep pink reaches in blotchy patches down his chest.
“Ah,” Draco says, because he thinks he understands. The innocence of it. That he wants to be taken like that, in his socks, because of the way that makes him feel.
Draco discards the jeans. “Get in bed now, Albus.”
Covers thrown down, Albus slides onto Draco’s silvery sheets, the warm tone of his skin contrasting in a way that pleases Draco very much to see it. And he’s very, very hard inside his tight underwear. It almost looks like it hurts. Draco longs to slip the cotton down and let Albus’s cock bounce free.
“Daddy?” Albus asks.
“Mm, yes, sweetheart.”
Albus squirms in the bed, a voiceless plea, and so Draco sits, unlaces and then sets his shoes aside, and then joins him, gathering him close and holding him, still in all his clothes.
Albus moves against him, burrows, as though he’d like to merge with Draco and slumber joined together, their skins fused, bodies sharing a heart.
“You feeling restless, love?”
Albus nods, a soft whine muffled into Draco’s chest.
“I know something that might help,” he murmurs, a klaxon of guilt going off in his chest, even as his cock rises.
“Yes, please, Daddy.”
Draco rolls him to his back and sifts a calming hand down his torso. Albus stays still for it, his breathing gone short and shallow. Then Draco rubs the heel of his hand over Albus’s straining cock.
“Oh, Daddy. Oh… that feels… strange.” He tries to close his legs, but Draco takes his thighs in both hands and forces them gently back open. Albus trembles. Draco goes back to touching his cock through his pants, his palm stroking, fingers now too, a little more pressure until Albus almost cries for it.
“Strange bad or…?”
“Strange… g-good,” Albus admits, now opening his legs willingly, hips rising off the bed to meet Draco’s touch.
“My naughty boy,” Draco chides and praises at once.
Albus keens for it. “Is it bad, Daddy? To like it?”
“No, my dear. It is very, very good.” And with that, he draws Albus’s pants down so that his hard-on springs up, wet all over from pre-come and almost red. “But if you can’t stop squirming, Daddy will have to punish you.”
Albus’s eyes nearly roll back in his head, but he bites his lip, nods, and then lets Draco stroke him off for all of a few seconds before he starts thrusting into it.
“What did I just say, Albus?”
“To be still while you touch my thing,” he says (for which Draco’s cock gives a jarring throb), “or else I’ll get a spanking.”
Draco’s brow goes up for that, a slight twitch to his lips in his attempt to quell his amusement at how Albus intends to steer things to his liking. “Yes, and we don’t want that, do we?”
A full-on smile, wicked and lovely and all roles dropped for the moment it sweeps over him. “No, not at all.”
Draco palms his balls and gives them a warm tug, which sends all that pesky mischief straight away, replaced with a writhe, a soft moan, a neediness that has Draco wanting to end their play and simply flip Albus over, burying his cock so far up the boy’s arse it tickles the back of his throat.
“I don’t think you can be good, can you?”
Albus gives in to a plaintive whine, his hips bouncing on the bed. “I can, Daddy, please, I don’t want a spanking. I can be good and still.”
“Mm, but look at you… Pushing your cock into my hand, your bare bum off the bed.”
Albus bites his lip so hard Draco fears it will bleed (wants it to, wants to make him mark himself with wanting this).
“No, my darling, I don’t think so. Over on your hands and knees now for Daddy.”
And if Albus thought he was going to get his bottom slapped, he’s sorely (yes, Draco may be enjoying himself a bit too much, he thinks) mistaken. He allows himself a moment to indulge, smoothing his hands over Albus’s gorgeous arse. It’s so taut and full, and it fits in his palms, in the clench of his fingers, so perfectly it’s a bit mesmerising. Draco watches as he squeezes it and Albus’s tiny anus comes into view. Merlin, it shines with a bit of pre-come that’s slid down and pooled there. Draco runs his thumbs over it, smearing the sticky slick.
“D-Daddy, no.”
It’s now that he realises they haven’t set a safeword. “Strawberry?” Draco tries, remembering the time Albus had wanted Draco to hold him down… had wanted to resist and for Draco not to let up.
Albus nods, even as he arches his back.
“Are you saying it?”
“No,” he rushes to say. “No, Daddy.”
“So you’re going to hold still while Daddy punishes you?”
“Yes, Daddy, I’ll be good.”
“Then put your head down on the bed, darling. And hold your bottom open for me.”
“Wh-what?”
“Lay your head down,” he says, touching the back of Albus’s tousled hair and giving a slow and steady push until his cheek is pressed to the sheet. “And then with your hands… like this.” He parts Albus’s cheeks, and Albus reaches nervous hands back to do it himself. It’s beautiful. The submission. The pose itself, revealing that pink furl for Draco’s appraisal.
Draco moves for the right angle, licks two fingers, and then smacks Albus’s hole with them.
“Ohh!” Albus nearly shouts. And then when Draco does it again, he buries his face in the sheets and groans.
“That’s it. Hold yourself open,” Draco croons. Albus’s fingers tighten on his own flesh, and his arsehole blinks open just a little. Draco spanks it with two fingers, striking as hard as he dares and bathing in the sounds Albus makes. “You’re taking it really well, sweetheart. Your little bumhole so red for me. That’s my boy.” A tap, tap, tap, gentle and encouraging, and then harder, and harder, and still harder.
Albus trembles, arching, his whole body painted blush-coloured and begging. And then he warbles out, “I’m close. Oh fuck, I’m so close.”
Draco tsks. “Language, my darling.”
“Fuuuuuck,” Albus cries when Draco’s slaps slow to barely there caresses.
“Now that’s a filthy little mouth.”
“I’ll be good. I promise. Just… please.” He relaxes his entrance, and Draco would so love to fill that emptiness, but…
“A filthy boy, so full of lies. I think I need to fill your mouth with something else.”
He’d cringe at it; it sounds so much like a… well, a line. But Albus obliterates that small shame with his response. “Dad-dy? Do you want me to… suck it again?”
Draco is already working on his flies, getting his cock out over his underwear. “Roll over, Albus. Open your pretty lips.”
“Yes, Daddy.” Albus obeys, opening his mouth as Draco straddles his face, points his cock down, and then slips his cock inside Albus’s wet mouth.
Draco learned what a good cocksucker Albus Potter was their first time together. He’s practically begged to do it every time since. It’s often what has finally convinced Draco to give in when he knows he shouldn’t: this boy falling to his knees for cock.
But Draco doesn’t let him control it this time, not at first. He drives down into Albus’s mouth, choking off his moans of pleasure. “I’ll teach you to lie to me,” Draco says, thrusting, and Albus groans around the cock moving in and out of his mouth, his eyes rolling. His hands come up to grip the backs of Draco’s thighs, but Draco takes them and pins his wrists to the bed, fucking his face in a punishing rhythm.
But all too soon he slows. He doesn’t want to come. He moves languidly over Albus’s tongue and lets Albus suck him. He is so very good at it. They move together, gently, a slow, purposeful act. Draco lets go of a wrist to push his boy’s hair off his face. “That’s better, isn’t it? You like Daddy’s cock in your mouth?” He strokes Albus’s cheek and feels himself moving there. “You like sucking on Daddy’s cock?”
The best he can, Albus nods. His eyes shut. He’s left his arm thrown over his head where Draco had pressed it… left it there like a love letter, like a little gift of himself, I’m yours, do what you will with me, I’m here for it.
“Albie,” Draco whispers. Albus opens his eyes and meets Draco’s gaze, suckling lightly on his cock. “Up now. Yow know what I’ll have from you.”
The cock leaving his slick lips: “Daddy wants to put his thing in my bottom.”
Draco shudders at the words, half delight, half repugnance. And even the second is good. He traces Albus’s lips with the head of his cock, and Albus darts out with his warm tongue, chasing it.
Draco leaves the bed, but only to strip the rest of the way. He watches Albus take his underwear all the way down and off, his dirty white socks still halfway up his strong calves. He’s got a Seeker’s calves even though he professes to loathe Quidditch. Something about the way he’s said it makes Draco wonder if he’s practised and got good (as good as his brother, as good as his parents) nonetheless, just to feel less alone.
Draco knows about feeling alone.
He returns to the bed and kneels, pulling Albus back against him, straddling him faced away, as Draco aims his cock. “Be a good boy and let Daddy in.”
“It’s too big,” Albus complains when Draco rubs it along his crease.
“It’s not. You took it all the way in last time. Do you remember?”
Albus nods. “It hurt at first.” Draco can tell he’s having trouble not just impaling himself on it and instead waiting out this part of the role, enhancing the moment it happens, building that up. His beautiful dick stands out so tall and full. Maybe, after, Draco will go down on it. Maybe he’ll make Albus come more than once, more than twice.
“Yes, at first it did, but then how did it feel?” He pushes the tip of a finger in instead and caresses the rim.
“Ohhh, that feels funny. Like… like, I want…”
“Like you want more inside you?”
Albus nods.
“And when Daddy’s cock was in here last time?” He wiggles his finger for emphasis. “Remember how you bounced in Daddy’s lap it felt so good?”
“Oh,” Albus says with a little frown. “Yes, Daddy. I want that part again. I liked that part.”
“You loved that part,” Draco murmurs near his ear, lining up and now pushing past the resistance, breaching him. “You loved it so much you came all over yourself.”
“And Daddy had to clean me up.” It comes out in a whine as Draco drives his cock further in and, shaking, Albus holds himself still for it, his back bowed, hands gripping Draco’s knees.
“I wish you could see how good you’re taking my cock, honey,” Draco breathes. Because it is a sight… that reddened hole beginning to spread open around his girth. “All right,” Draco says when he’s halfway there. “Time to sit on Daddy’s lap now.”
Albus groans and starts to tentatively back onto Draco’s cock. He bites his lip, looks behind himself; he takes it, an inch back, rises again, a little more than an inch, and then again rising.
“Almost there. How’s my boy?”
“It’s going in me,” Albus wonders.
“It is. It’s going in you.” Merlin, he might come if he’s not careful.
And then Albus squeezes his eyes closed and presses back, back, back, until he settles in Draco’s lap, completely full. “Oh Daddy,” he wibbles. “Am I good? Am I good, Daddy?”
Draco wraps his arms around him, buries his face against the boy’s back, and groans, “You are so good for Daddy,” before he thrusts up, hard.
Albus gasps. Draco does it again. He gasps with every thrust, but it’s no time at all until Albus is riding him, moving on his cock, adopting the rhythm that Draco sets up, and meeting every thrust. Draco’s hands roam his body, tweak his nipples, and Albus arches into his touch. He starts throwing himself backwards onto Draco’s cock.
God, Draco adores him to death when he bounces.
His arms reach up and back, take Draco by the hair, the neck. “Oh Draco, I’m going to come.” Wholly himself, wholly everything that he is, all of it washing through him, lighting him up.
Draco makes a loose ring of his fingers under the head of Albus’s cock, and it only takes two thrusts into that easy touch for him to orgasm. It shoots slick, shiny ropes onto the bed, over Draco’s knuckles, onto his own stomach, their legs. There’s so much of it. He grinds on Draco, like he’d take his balls too if he could. Draco grips his hips and—slow, deep—he thrusts, not trying to come… just to see what it will do to him… to his Albus.
What he does, is turn his flushed face for a kiss. When he doesn’t get it, he licks Draco’s lips, trying.
“No, my darling,” Draco tells him. “Daddy’s not finished with you yet.”
He pulls Albus, limp and used, off his dick, lays him down on his back, takes his legs—with those ridiculous socks; one is now just dripping from his toes—hooks them around his waist, and sinks back inside.
“Tell me,” he nearly growls as he plunges in and out.
Albus looks up at him like he’s seeing something celestial, a perihelion moment, comet-like, something that mustn’t be missed, all in Draco’s tense face. “I love my Daddy’s cock.”
Draco goes at him, and Albus wraps his arms around his neck, his body so open and clinging all at once. So his.
“Daddy, please. Please.”
And it’s his boy begging him to come that does Draco in, that rakes hot and furious over his skin, deeper, digging beneath the veneer he keeps polished just so. And while he comes, so deep he thinks, my God, why doesn’t it hurt?—while he comes, he’s blasted through with how recklessly he’s let himself be caught.
It stuns him, even as he loses himself in the sensation, the warm, slick ride Albus’s body has become. The limbs wrapped around him feel right, and that is an untoward thought, not at all prepared for. Albus had him the moment he rolled onto his rug.
He had him before. Has had him for months. What Draco had thought of as simply five stellar fucks were, instead… A snare, a burrowing. Something soft, though. Something he missed while it was happening. It’s happening now.
Draco finishes, his breath hard but slowing. A socked foot strokes over his arse. Albus is smiling. Which isn’t correct. Draco’s not the one who’s supposed to need aftercare. Or rather, he does. He does need it. Needs to hold his boy and say, quiet as humming a beloved song beneath your breath, “Come here, love.”
He slips out, rolls them, intertwines them. “My good boy. How good you are for Daddy.”
Albus makes a pleased sound in his throat and leans in to kiss the sweat from Draco’s throat. Draco smooths his hands down his body, over his bottom, gives a pat-pat like praise and feels the answer in Albus, the struggling to get even closer, to be beyond skin. Draco sinks two fingers into him, the puffy, sticky mess, hot to the touch.
A little sip of breath, of small pain, then Albus moving to get more of his fingers inside.
“Shh, shh. Rest now. I’ve got you.” Draco leaves his fingers there as what they are, a claiming, bold and uncompromising. He strokes Albus’s hair from his face and Albus tilts his chin up in invitation. They kiss, free from the grip of passion. Slowly, they share it, a taste of one another. Draco pulls his fingers almost all the way out, traces the rim, and then cups his arse.
“I can make them sorry they don’t notice you,” he finds himself saying.
“Oh, I doubt that would go anything like well,” Albus says, though he’s blushing; it’s made him happy to think of it. Then, sobering, “They notice me. They love me, I know that. I… don’t want to talk about them right now.”
Draco nods. God, when did he get here? To where he would do anything for this young man? He’d storm over to the Potters’, dress them down for how they’ve treated Albus, and demand his shoes back. Which brings a wayward smile to his face.
“What?”
“Nothing,” says Draco. “I was just remembering your shoes.”
Albus meets his smile with one of his own. “I don’t need them.”
“What do you need? Anything?”
Albus shakes his head, runs his hand up Draco’s torso, onto his chest. How often has he lain like this with anyone? On their sides, facing one another? It’s an intimacy he never even had with his wife. Wincing, he thinks of Scorpius, not yet knowing, but perhaps finding out.
“So serious,” Albus chides, and then touches the tip of Draco’s nose with his index finger.
Draco frowns further, strikes, takes the finger between his teeth, and then closes his lips over it, sucks on it. Albus’s eyes widen. “Fuck.”
But Draco lets his digit pop free. There will be time for more sex if Albus stays—another hour, the night maybe.
“Can I get you a glass of water?”
“Not yet,” says Albus.
“Do you want a Scourgify?”
“Mm, not yet.”
“What do you want?” Draco asks.
“Will you… pet my hair like you did before?”
“Like this?” His palm over Albus’s springy locks, his fingers through them.
“And my name, the way you said it before.”
“Albus?”
“The other one.”
Draco inhales. “Albie.”
Albus scoots closer, his leg between Draco’s, nudging up against his bollocks in a way that is frightfully familiar, so easy, guilelessly tactile. He lays his cheek against Draco’s chest and closes his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “Like that.” Then, “Daddy,” softly, a bit sleepy, but clear. So clear. The tip of a finger around a crystal glass.