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It’s a rainy evening in Helsinki when Malfoy finally cracks the code in his decades-long quest to ruin Harry’s life. Harry watches it take shape in his eyes: the light-switch click of new knowledge slotting into place, the dawning headiness of power at his fingertips, the devious, gleeful glint of purpose. All of it flashes across Malfoy’s face in a split second, and Harry—a deer in the headlights with half a hard-on in his trousers—well, he knows right then and there that he can’t do anything to stop it.
They’ve come to Helsinki as part of the British delegation for the annual International Confederation of Wizards summit. It’s been a long day of roundtables and panel discussions and policy updates and featured speakers and other shit that bores Harry out of his fucking skull. Malfoy’s got a higher tolerance for sitting still—or, as he calls it, passively absorbing information—and he’d spent the day alternating between studiously taking notes and viciously kicking Harry under the table to stop him fidgeting.
The day’s almost over, now. The “international camaraderie building” reception at the hotel bar is dragging on, Harry well into his fifth pint of complimentary sahti and counting the minutes until eight, when Kingsley had told him it would be socially acceptable to bail on the schmoozing and retreat to his room. In the meantime, he’s been getting painfully chatted up by the middle-aged Frenchman sitting next to him at the bar, a high-level Minister of something Harry can’t be arsed to remember after the day he’s had. Normally he’s a dab hand at nimbly extricating himself from such unwanted attentions, but lord this Finnish beer is strong, and Harry’s brain had already felt like an empty beehive before he’d even gotten started. He makes an indeterminate humming noise and takes a swig while the man beside him—Remy? Gabriel? Harry’s got no idea, frankly—leans in to put a hand on Harry’s knee, and—
“There you are, darling—”
A firm arm is winding around Harry’s waist; an incoming presence that feels familiar and right, carrying the smell of Earl Grey and a certain lemon-fresh aftershave charm, the pleasantly smoky residue of a strong Protego—Malfoy, his eyes crinkling with mischief as he leans in, brushing his lips against Harry’s temple and whispering, you’re welcome, and Harry is struck, reeling, frozen to the spot.
Harry’s never been called darling by anyone, not once in his entire life. Not by an affectionate friend, or a doting relative, or a lover at twilight. Never. And honestly, who goes around calling people darling in public, anyway, all posh and drawling and affectionate like some sort of Edwardian dandy—! Well.
Needless to say, Harry isn’t prepared for how it feels to hear the word rolling off Malfoy’s tongue, sliding over his skin and spilling into his ear, vibrating all the way through him at some low, animal frequency he’s never known existed.
He’s gone stock still in Malfoy’s embrace, and of course, the bastard clocks it at once. He looks down at Harry with the smuggest, most shit-eating grin that ever ate shit, and he pinches Harry’s waist—the utter gall of him, the sheer cheek, honestly—and his smile gets somehow, impossibly, even smugger.
“Tu m'as manqué, chéri,” Malfoy murmurs, and then turns his head to Claude—or was it Christophe?—whoever he is, Malfoy turns to him and says, “Pas de chance, mon vieux,” whatever that means.
Claude-Christophe skedaddles, and then it’s just Harry and Malfoy, a shark smile stretching his face as he strokes his thumb back and forth over Harry’s lowest rib and purrs, “Another drink, darling?”
And Harry feels it roll through him again—that quivering rush of heat, his breath caught in his throat.
“Ah—ahem—I’m alright, thanks, I’m still, er…” he holds up the dregs of his sahti and gives it a little wiggle.
“Alright,” Malfoy smirks, flagging down the bartender. “Are you at least going to thank me?”
“Er, what?”
“Merlin,” Malfoy breathes, shaking his head, wrangling down a smile like he can’t bloody believe his luck. “For rescuing you?”
“Oh, yeah,” Harry snorts. “Thanks. I was trying to—” he makes a vague gesture indicating his disinterest “—but I’m knackered, and—” he waves the glass of sahti pointedly.
Malfoy eyes Harry critically up and down. “Poor bloke thought you’d be able to get it up?”
“Fuck off,” Harry says, not thinking about the fact that he’s actually a bit plumped up in his pants as it is, just from Malfoy being a fucking prat, per usual. Malfoy can always tell when Harry’s half-pissed, even though he’s got a bloody unimpeachable poker face when he’s drunk. “Who’s to say I wanted you meddling, anyway? What if I wanted to get it up for…uh, whatshisname?”
Malfoy scoffs. “Please, Potter. That man had Golden Boy Boner written all over his face.”
“Golden Boy what?”
“Oh, come on,” Malfoy waves his hand, eyes sparking. “That whole hot for Savior thing—all moon-eyed and star-struck. You hate that shit.”
Harry cocks his head. He does hate that shit. “Right; cheers, then.”
Malfoy plucks his fresh glass of sahti up off the polished bartop and clinks the lip against Harry’s. “Cheers, chéri.” His smirk is wicked and knife-sharp and just this side of deranged.
Harry swallows down the rest of his drink, contemplating the looming certainty that he is tragically, irretrievably, spectacularly doomed.
There’s a booth at the Leaky with Harry and Malfoy’s names on it.
No, really, their names are painted on a plaque hung on the wall just above the bench: Dedicated to the memory of Aurors Potter and Malfoy, who shared many a pint on these benches before meeting their untimely deaths, at each other’s hands, possibly in this very booth. Rest in Peace, you incorrigible wankers.
Ron had got the plaque up two years ago, when Harry and Malfoy had been promoted to co-head the Curses and Artefacts division (or as Ron calls them, “Cunts and Arses”). They’d already been partners for years, and they celebrated here—in the same booth they always slid into for drinks after work, drinks after cracking a stubborn case, drinks after a narrow scrape with blood crusted under their fingernails and the scent of curse smoke in their hair. It’s their regular booth, is all.
Malfoy’s draped in the corner now, sipping on a pint of something dark and bitter while Harry swills the crisp wash of lager around his teeth—don’t know how you can stand that stuff—Malfoy always says—tastes like stale water and looks like piss. It’s a classic for a reason, though, a beer for anyone who doesn’t really give a shit what they’re drinking, which is Harry’s usual approach.
Tonight is a standard drinks after work night; they’re out with a generous handful of colleagues, spilling from Harry and Malfoy’s booth into the next one over, trailing towards the bar, clustering around the dartboard in the corner. It’s dim and warm in the Leaky, and Harry is leaned up against Ron, sipping his flavourless lager and appreciating the simple lull of a Friday evening routine. He zones in and out as Ron and Amelia, his partner in the Tactical and Strategy Training Programme, recount how one of the new recruits had meant to cast a simple banishing spell at the pieces on the simulation board after a lesson and, in a fit of nerves, accidentally spelled the hair off everyone in the room.
Malfoy’s voice cuts through, clear and posh: “And how, exactly, did she mispronounce it? I might have a slip of the tongue next time Potter comes into our office with that bird’s nest sticking every which way—”
“Oi!” Harry sits up, jabbing a finger in Malfoy’s direction. “Need I remind you that you are on record with Witch Weekly citing your father’s receding hairline as the most pressing worry keeping you up at night—”
“And what’s keeping you up at night, then, because it’s sure as hell not finishing your paperwork after a case…”
“That’s between Harry and his hand,” Ron quips, and Harry shoves him over, rolling his eyes.
“Leave off, the both of you—"
“Oh, are you shy,” Malfoy snorts, eyes glittering, “I’d never have guessed it, my fluttering little turtle dove—"
Harry, midway through his last mouthful of lager, spits half of it out onto the table and inhales the other half up through his nose. He blinks the watering out of his eyes, hacking violently as Ron thumps him on the back and Amelia laughs, “Merlin, Draco, don’t actually kill him—”
“Oh, to think, what Voldemort himself never managed in seventeen years of dark magic, I might accomplish with a few sweet nothings—”
Harry glares across the table as best he can with his nose still fizzing and his eyes smarting.
“I’m sorry,” Malfoy says, in a tone that suggests precisely the opposite. “You’re just too easy, sweetheart.” He winks.
And Harry feels himself turning redder, can’t help imagining the low rumble of Malfoy’s words in another context entirely: Malfoy pressing him up against something—anything really, Harry’s desk or the door of their office or even, fuck it, a grotty stall in the Leaky toilets—his hands roaming over Harry’s skin, touching him until he’s squirming and whimpering, telling him, you’re so easy for me, calling him sweetheart.
Harry clears his throat. Twice. He manages a throaty, “Fuck off,” and, hoping to forestall further attempts at speech, reaches for a scalding-fresh chip out of the basket Hannah had just plunked in the centre of the table.
“Fuuh—” he hisses, tongue death throe-ing around the burning flesh of his mouth, pushing out hot, desperate breaths, “Fuck—”
Ron, the cold bastard, laughs at him.
“Hopeless,” Malfoy drawls. Then he mutters something Harry can’t hear, and a cool rush of relief floods his mouth.
“Goddammit,” Harry pants, “thanks.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes. He plucks a chip out of the basket—the movements of his long fingers always neat, elegant—and blows on it, smirking. “Every bloody time, Potter. Would it kill you to be patient for five additional seconds?” He pops the chip into mouth and chews, smirk undiminished.
“I’m getting another pint,” Harry huffs, sliding out of the booth.
Malfoy wolf-whistles as he’s walking away. “Put it on my tab, cupcake!”
Later, tucked under the duvet in the darkness of his bedroom, Harry feels his face burning, thinking about it. Malfoy hasn’t let up in the two weeks since that night in Helsinki. When Harry least expects it—which Malfoy seems to have a sixth sense for—he’ll say, good morning, my delectable little cream puff, or pass me that file, my bite-sized treacle tart, or even once, when Harry held the office door for him, thanks, poppet, which surely shouldn’t have made Harry’s insides clench up with a sick sort of longing.
Malfoy seems to think it’s all fun and games, like transfiguring the nameplate on Harry’s desk to read Saint Potter, or featherlight jinxing the kettlebell while Harry’s in the middle of his swings so he hauls off and flings himself across the training room floor, or swiping all the singing valentines from the fan mail diversion chute and setting them off when Harry walks into the Leaky after work. None of that has ever turned Harry into a blushing, stuttering mess, though, not like when Malfoy calls him dear heart, or little dove.
The worst—Harry thinks, shivering with embarrassment as he touches himself under the sheets—the worst one had been only the day before, when Malfoy had glanced up from filling in a form and asked if Harry had remembered to sign off on Grable and Bellamy’s report that morning, and when Harry had answered in the affirmative, Malfoy had hummed, not even looking up from his quill on the parchment and murmured good boy, like an afterthought. Harry had shuddered in his seat and let out a high-pitched squeak that he tried—too late—to cover as a cough, not daring to glance up, not needing to, anyway, since he could feel Malfoy’s smirk all over his skin like the humid air of midsummer, slick and stifling, and god, what if he had looked up, Harry thought, toes curling, what if he had looked up and Malfoy had seen right through him and said, oh, darling—
Harry’s heart beats hard and fast in his chest as he comes down, waving away the sticky mess in his pants, waiting for his breathing to steady, waiting for Malfoy’s voice to stop echoing through his head.
On Monday, Harry finally wins a round. Or at least, he thinks he does, at first.
“I’m going to the canteen for a cup of tea, would you like anything, dear?”
Harry doesn’t even flinch. “One of those stuffed croissants, if they still have any? The cheese and mushroom one?”
Malfoy stops with his hand on the door, looking put out. “Well— Alright, then.” He opens his mouth and closes it again, frowning.
“Molly calls me dear,” Harry supplies, suppressing a laugh.
Malfoy flushes. “Hmph. No matter.” Then he cocks his head. “What, so nobody else calls you—” he waves a hand “—the rest of it?”
“What, sugar pie? Babycakes? No, I can’t say I get those a lot—”
Malfoy narrows his eyes in a way Harry has come to understand means trouble, for him, specifically. But he just shakes his head and says, “What a terrible shame, chéri.” And with that, he glides out the door and comes back in fifteen with a cup of Earl Grey and a steaming stuffed croissant.
“Howdy doody, my piping hot cherry pie—” Malfoy drawls, sweeping into the office, cloak swirling around him as he drops into a mock bow.
Harry’s stomach gives a pleased little flip as he chuckles, scrubbing his hands over his face to hide his blush. “Really? Is that the best you can do?”
“No,” Malfoy’s shoulders slump on a sigh, “Cherry tart was right there, don’t know what I was thinking—" He sweeps a hand over his heart, “I’ll do better tomorrow, you have my word.”
Harry chucks a wad of parchment at him. “Please, don’t.”
“Pah!” Malfoy bats it away. “No need to play coy, Potter, I know you love it.”
“What—!” Harry’s face goes hot; his spine stiffens in his chair. “I do not—”
Malfoy lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks...”
“Definitely not,” Harry huffs. “Don’t forget we’ve got the Radnor briefing at ten.”
Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “Have I ever forgotten a meeting?”
“Fuck off,” Harry says. “Tea’s just there.”
Malfoy smiles, ducks his head, swoops down on the mug Harry had left on his desk.
The next day, Malfoy calls Harry mon petit chou, and Harry, once he’s stopped blushing enough to speak, clears his throat and asks, “What does that even mean?”
Malfoy leans back in his office chair, smiling, “It’s broadly used as an endearment, like sweetie or baby, but it literally translates to my little cabbage.”
“Wha— Are you having me on?”
“No, really,” Malfoy laughs. “Cast a translation spell on me, go on—”
Harry does it, peeved when it turns out Malfoy wasn’t pulling his leg.
"To be fair," Malfoy says, "It's more likely derivative of chou à la crème—the pastry—than the vegetable, but I do think my little cabbage has a certain ring to it..."
“Bloody French,” Harry mutters. “Makes cabbage sound all—” he waves a sexually frustrated hand.
Malfoy laughs again, a bright peal like the ring of a bell, delighted and infuriating. “I can make anything I’d call you sound like that.”
“Yeah?” Harry thinks of how it feels when Malfoy calls him something—anything—dear and sweet and velvet-sounding. The shiver that starts at the crown of his head and runs straight through to the low pit of his belly. The wobble in his breath as he wonders what it would be like to hear Malfoy’s voice murmur those things right in his ear, in the dark, in the morning light.
He swallows. “What else would you call me?”
Malfoy cocks his head, eyes gone keen and bright. When he smiles it’s sharp, but his voice is soft. “Mon petit désastre,” he says.
“And what’s that?” Harry asks, even though he’s pretty sure it’s what it sounds like.
“My little disaster,” Malfoy murmurs, mouth still upturned. And then, “Mon petit cataclysme.”
Harry’s skin prickles. If he tries to ask, his voice will crack and he knows it. He tilts his head, waiting for Malfoy to say it.
“My little cataclysm,” Malfoy obliges, tamping down the corners of his lips, eyes warm.
There’s a dizzying rush of feeling in Harry’s chest, and his breath hitches, but he keeps looking right at Malfoy even as he feels the colour rising in his face. “What else?”
“Mon ange,” Malfoy whispers, “mon cœur.”
The air in the office has gone hot and staticky, and Malfoy is looking at Harry like he really means it, whatever it is he’s saying, like he wants to cross the room and hold Harry’s face in his hands and kiss him, soft and gentle, and Harry can feel his heartbeat in his mouth, he can hardly breathe as he waits for Malfoy to tell him what it is, what he means, but he doesn’t; he just keeps looking at Harry like that, fierce and tender, and then his mouth twists and sets and he says, “Mon amour.”
Harry makes a small noise in the back of his throat, because he knows what that means. His breath catches and he tries again, opens his mouth but doesn’t know what to say; nods, starts, “That would be—"
Across the room, Malfoy stands abruptly, then catches himself, turning bright red and smoothing his hands over his robes. He clears his throat, eyes sliding away, then snapping back to Harry’s face. He draws himself up, squares his shoulders. “Well— That is—”
“D’you want to grab a drink at the Leaky tonight?” Harry interrupts.
There’s a brief, suspended moment in which Malfoy’s mouth drops open and he flushes in a way Harry finds very appealing. But just as quick, his face goes sharp again. “The Leaky, Potter? Where we go practically every night?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Harry shrugs. He’d thought it might be nice to slide into their usual booth under new pretences. “I can take you out somewhere else, if you’d rather.”
“You can— Oh, no you don’t—” Malfoy stamps his foot on the floor. “No, Potter, you are not asking me out right now—”
“I’m not?” Harry asks, bemused.
“No.” Malfoy narrows his eyes, stalking across the room. “If you think you can distract me from the true matter at hand now, just when I’ve finally got you to—”
“The true matter—!” Harry rather thinks Malfoy might be trying to distract from the elephant of his own admission, and he allows it with only the slightest of eye-rolls, “And what, exactly, is it that I just admitted—”
“That it gets you hot,” Malfoy shrugs, leaning his hip against the side of Harry’s desk, “when I call you little names.”
Harry makes an incoherent noise of indignation. “Oh, is that it—”
“It’s alright,” Malfoy says, in that tone of voice he uses when he’s accusing Harry of being slow as a troll. “Obviously I don’t mind it it or I wouldn’t have gone on all these weeks—I’m not a sadist, you know—”
Harry snorts. “You don’t mind?”
“Well, you can hardly expect me to get off on calling you sugarplum,” he says, like this conversation is completely normal. “Although,” his eyes go hot and dark and he sways forward, “I won’t lie, it is a bit of a rush. The way you get all squirmy,” he grins. “But I’ve been scraping the bottom of the barrel with some of them—I’m probably not going to call you cherry tart while we’re fucking.” He cocks his head, “Unless you’re really partial to it, I suppose—”
“I’m sorry—” Harry splutters, “Have I missed the part where we’re fucking?”
“I’d assumed that’s where all this was leading,” Malfoy says. “But if you’d prefer not to, I’ll do my utmost not to take it personally.”
“Is that so?” Harry asks archly, trying not to grin.
“Oh, fine,” Malfoy huffs. “I’ll take it extremely personally. Have you seen me? I’m very good looking. And I’m tall. I know you like tall men—”
Harry opens his mouth to deny it, but he really does favour tall men. Instead, he asks, “How would you know?”
“Please, Potter, I know all about you. First of all, you’re an open book, so it’s not even hard. Second, I’ve spent half my waking hours with you for the past who knows how many years—so. You like tall men,” he starts ticking off his fingers, “You like a man who can cook. Bookish enough to keep you on your toes, impress you without making you feel inferior. Someone who can keep up with you on the pitch. You like a bit of attitude, bit of a challenge. Blond, obviously—"
“Are you just describing yourself?”
“Maybe,” Malfoy shrugs. “It’s not my fault if I’m your ideal man.”
“Merlin wept,” Harry mutters, shaking his head. It’s all true, is the absurd, unavoidable thing.
Malfoy grins, triumphant. “Up,” he says. “On the desk.”
“You can’t just order me around,” Harry grumbles, even as he does exactly what Malfoy tells him, hopping up onto the desk with his feet swinging over the edge.
Malfoy, with the smirk of a man who knows he absolutely can order Harry around, comes to stand between his legs. He flings up soundproofing wards and locks the door. He leans in close, and Harry lets his eyes flutter shut, thinking Malfoy’s going to kiss him, but instead he grazes the tip of his nose across Harry’s cheekbone, towards his ear.
“I’m going to hear you say it, you know.” His breath is hot over Harry’s skin, and Harry does know, he’s certain that Malfoy is going to wring every last thing he wants from Harry, right now, and possibly well into the foreseeable future.
“God,” he says, “you’re always so insufferable when you’re right.”
“And yet you suffer me,” Malfoy chuckles, his lips brushing Harry’s neck, quick fingers working the fastenings on Harry’s robes. “What a hardship, hm? You’ve always been so self-sacrificing.”
“Shut up,” Harry laughs, breathless, and Malfoy’s somehow already managed to get Harry’s robes all opened up and spread out, and his trousers undone too, and he’s wrapping a slick fist around Harry’s cock, and Harry gasps oh fuck as his hips twitch into Malfoy’s hand.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that wasn’t a direct admission,” Malfoy says, conversationally, as if he isn’t wanking Harry off right there on the desk. “You always have been stubborn. But no matter, Potter, I’ll have it out of you sooner or later.”
Harry thinks about just telling Malfoy what he wants to hear—that yeah, it gets him hot when Malfoy calls him little names—it’s not that embarrassing, and Malfoy seems well enough into it, but the hand on his cock is too wet and tight and bloody distracting, and Harry just isn’t all that invested in forming coherent sentences at the moment. He leans back on his hands and watches his cock slip through the tight circle of Malfoy’s fist.
Malfoy, of course, just keeps talking. “Fair is fair, you know, and I’ve already said that I like it.” Malfoy squeezes his hand tighter but slows down, grinning with a feral light in his eyes. “You get so embarrassed—it’s so obvious, you’re so sweet about it—”
“Wha—” Harry protests, “I’m not—”
“I know, darling,” Malfoy murmurs, laying a gentle kiss below Harry’s ear. “I know you’re not, that’s why I like it.” He pauses, kissing the spot again. “Big bad Auror Potter,” he nips Harry’s earlobe. “My little dove.”
Harry shudders hard, and that’s it for him too, isn’t it? Why it sends the blood to his face and a thrill through his chest—he’s never been anyone’s darling, not anyone’s baby, or dear heart, or little dove. Harry’s long been more myth than man—whether worshipped or reviled, always larger than life. But this makes him feel small, like he fits in the palm of Malfoy’s hands.
“Go on,” Malfoy whispers, “I know you like it, just say it—"
“Fuck,” Harry squeezes his eyes shut, bucking his hips. “Fuck it, yeah, I like it, alright?”
Malfoy hisses a sharp intake of breath, nosing along the shell of Harry’s ear. “Good boy,” he murmurs, and all of Harry’s muscles contract inward; his cock throbs in Malfoy’s fist.
Malfoy draws back, grinning, “Oh, you really like that one, don’t you?”
“Fuck—" Harry’s ears are still ringing, stomach muscles clenching.
“I thought you were going to come in your pants when I said it last week,” Malfoy says, smug and still working Harry’s prick excruciatingly slowly.
“Christ,” Harry chokes, “can you gloat some other time—"
Malfoy’s answering grin is wicked and well pleased. “Gladly,” he says. And then the hand that isn’t wrapped around Harry’s cock is cupping his face, thumb sliding back and forth along his jaw, tilting his chin up, and Malfoy is kissing him.
It starts slow, Malfoy’s lips soft and gentle, his fingers tangling in Harry’s hair. He hums, sliding his sticky hand up around Harry’s waist and tugging him closer, kissing and kissing him until he’s lightheaded. Harry’s never been kissed so thoroughly—Malfoy tilting his head just so and wringing a soft, pliant noise out of him, pressing one hand to his low back and tightening the fingers in his hair, arching Harry’s spine, positioning him precisely for Malfoy to most efficiently snog the daylights out of him.
This is it, he thinks, Malfoy has officially ruined my life. There’s no way back—no return to a time before Harry knew the heat of Malfoy’s mouth, the slide of his hand, the sound of his voice forming the word darling in Harry’s ear. Harry’s hands have come up to clutch at the lapels of Malfoy’s robes, and he starts undoing them, impatient, hardly able to believe he’s gone all this time never being kissed by Malfoy.
But Malfoy nips his lower lip, pulls back, shows all his teeth and says, “Do you want to know something else I think you like, Potter? I think you like taking it.”
“God, you are unbelievable—”
“I think you like getting fucked,” he leans in and brushes his lips against Harry’s, “You do, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Harry groans, pressing his hips forward, “and I’d like to get fucked today, if you decide to stop torturing me anytime soon—”
“Oh, darling,” Malfoy’s smile is sharp, “I’m never going to stop torturing you.”
And he proves it, turning Harry around and pushing his robes off, bending him over the desk so he’s laid out with his cheek resting on the cool glass-top, his breath a hot mist over the surface.
Malfoy finally quiets down as he spreads Harry open. Harry’s quiet too, just little hitches of breath as Malfoy touches him, small quavering moans. The surface of the desk under his cheek is sticky with condensation and sweat and drool; he’s spread out right here in their office, Malfoy petting his arsehole and pushing his fingers in and out, and he’s going to fuck Harry over his desk—
“You’re mine,” Malfoy says, suddenly and sharply, a waver in his voice. “I want things too, you know—” he’s got two fingers in, and his breathing is harsh and stuttering. “You’re my— my darling, my heart—”
“Yeah,” Harry chokes out. “Yeah, of course—" He hadn’t contemplated any other possibility, sees now that it’s been a foregone conclusion since Helsinki at least, maybe long before that.
“Of course you are, I knew it,” Malfoy is murmuring as he slides another finger in, “My darling, all mine, yes, just like that—”
“Yeah,” Harry tilts his hips up. “Come on, please—”
Malfoy makes a choking sound behind him. “Up, up, brace yourself.”
Harry plants his palms on the desk.
The sound of Malfoy’s zip makes him shiver, the feel of him plastered all against Harry’s back— “Please,” he tries again, turning his face up toward the damp skin of Malfoy’s neck.
“Darling,” Malfoy murmurs, like it hurts to say, and maybe it does because it hurts Harry to hear it, a sweet sort of ache, deep down inside. Harry whimpers with it, and then Malfoy’s pushing in, saying oh, oh in a choked, reverent tone that makes Harry’s spine curl in answering pleasure.
Malfoy has one arm wound securely across Harry’s chest, the other hand wanking him slowly but steadily, the edge of the desk biting into Harry’s thighs, and it’s all he can do to keep his hands steady and let it all roll over him in great crashing waves: Malfoy peppering him with kisses, panting down his neck and whispering: mon amour, my little dove, the soft tingle of the words alighting on Harry’s skin and sinking in, making him dizzy with it—being adored, being Malfoy’s. He makes a garbled mess of a sound, a little wet at the edges.
“Yes,” Malfoy pants, “Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it? So good—” he mouths at Harry’s temple, “You feel so bloody good—”
Harry contracts around him, whining, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Oh, but you do, sweetheart, you do—” Malfoy says into his skin, “You feel so good, you’re so good, you’re so darling, yes—”
Harry can feel the edge approaching, spasms of pleasure twitching through him. “I—” he gasps, overwhelmed, “I’m—"
“Yes, yes, that’s right, you’re going to— Yes, just like that—"
He’s spilling over Malfoy’s fingers, white-hot pleasure rocketing through him, and just as it starts to ebb, Malfoy murmurs, good boy, and a violent shudder wracks his body, a final sharp burst of pleasure.
Malfoy’s coming too, then, burying a muffled sound into the curve of Harry’s neck, nuzzling the spot as his hips start to slow, come trickling down the inside of Harry’s thigh.
“Jesus,” Harry says.
Malfoy hums, licking Harry’s mess off his fingers.
“Jesus Christ.”
Malfoy laughs, throaty and deep. He turns Harry around and brushes the hair out of his eyes. “Alright?” he asks softly.
“Yeah,” Harry grins. “Very alright. More than.”
Malfoy smiles, tugs Harry in a little tighter, brushes their noses together. “That’s good,” he says, “I’m glad we’re on the same page, my little cherry tart.”
“Oh my god,” Harry wrinkles his nose, laughing, “Okay, you can retire that one…”
“I won’t,” Malfoy says, eyes shining, “I’ll call you anything I please—”
Harry snorts. “And what shall I call you, then, my little spotted dick?”
“Absolutely not.” Malfoy glares, pinching Harry’s side until he’s batting his hands off and squirming away, laughing.
“I’ll stick with Malfoy, then, shall I?”
“Well,” Malfoy sniffs, “I rather think Draco would be appropriate.” He’s tilted his chin up challengingly and gone satisfyingly pink in the face.
“Oh really?” Harry feels a slow smile spreading across his face. “Draco, huh?”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that!” He pokes his fingers into the centre of Harry’s chest, looking adorably cross. “It’s hardly more intimate that you wanting me to call you good boy.”
Harry barks a laugh at that. “Is it, Draco?” He draws it out, low and teasing.
Draco goes even redder and more cross-looking, huffing and folding his arms and drawing himself up like he’s going to start telling Harry off, so Harry kisses him before he can get any momentum going.
He’s looking mollified when they break apart, and Harry says, “I think you can call me Harry too, you know—in addition to good boy, and all that—” he grins.
“Is that so?” Draco’s mouth twists and his eyes have gone warm. “I suppose I can add it to the rotation.”
“You do that,” Harry says, and kisses him again.
Draco hums, gathering Harry up in his arms like he’s something small and precious.
“Harry,” he murmurs between kisses, “Harry, darling,” and to Harry’s ear, they sound the same.