HP Any Day of The Week
Wednesday
"Harry," the voice was quiet and warm and he was welcomed into their bed with greedy, hot hands. "I missed you."
"Me, too, mmm," Harry mumbled against Draco's tongue, as Draco was already lipping across his cheeks and jowls, those warm, deft hands on the move elsewhere, ascertaining Harry was all properly present.
"Sorry I'm so late!" Harry gasped his apology in little bursts, as a set of agile fingers captured his cold-shriveled cock in easy victory. They swarmed over it, nudging at his sex gently, coaxing him back from weather-induced frigidity.
"Was everything all right?" Draco murmured, and the palms were getting hotter and sweatier by the second, like the humid breath pulsing in Harry's ear, tantalizing him. "Do you have to go back?"
"No, uh—not tonight. False alarm, thankfully."
"Brilliant."
Thursday
"Harry!"
The familiar cultured voice was surprised, but not displeased, despite the coldness of the raindrops sluicing off Harry's wet mac and scattering accidentally over Draco's neat grey robes. Harry's person was warmed and dried in a matter of seconds, Draco's precise mutterings above his head as he tugged his sopping shoes off aptly taking care of the routine task Harry should've thought of before he left the hospital.
But he didn't always bother with details when he was in a hurry to get home.
"Hungry? I've made soup and sandwiches or we could order in if you need something more substantial," Draco inquired of Harry's hair. His nose was buried deep in its newly dried wavy mass and he had his arms wrapped so tight 'round his lover he literally wasn't able to peer down at Harry's smiling face.
Harry nodded first, automatically, and then shook his head a second later, stopping abruptly when he realized he was being confusing. He squeezed Draco instead, just a little harder, and then abruptly shoved him back an inch or three, clinging to those wide shoulders for balance as he toed off his still-damp socks one by one in an orchestrated hop.
"No—staying in sounds just perfect." Finished, Harry immediately barged back into Draco's embrace and brought his chin up a bit to press a kiss to the soft under skin of Draco's stubble roughened jaw. "It's miserable as fuck out there—and I want to hold you."
"Harry," and the voice of his partner was very soft indeed, and the kisses like warm raindrops across his exposed nape were even softer, and Harry couldn't help but hold Draco just a little nearer yet.
"Harry!" and Draco was breathless now, and laughing.
Friday
"Harry."
Draco's upper-crust accents were curt and clipped, as they almost never were…at least not with Harry. He sounded just like 'Malfoy', Harry thought, and shivered uncomfortably, remembering that particular incarnation of Draco all too well.
"You might've spoken to me first, you know, before I had to hear it from someone else's lips. Common courtesy, at the very least, would've been appreciated, Harry. It is the cornerstone of most relationships."
Harry truly expected to hear a vicious 'Potter' as a poisonous addendum to Draco's jibe but mercifully, his partner didn't venture quite that far. He was simply acting the prick about the whole stupid mess in that typical, biting Old Guard way of his, which always made Harry feel small—except for those rare occasions when it stirred his own quick temper.
"I…wanted to, but, well," Harry started his obligatory apology and then paused; took a good long gander at Draco's face. This time Harry did feel he'd committed an infraction, so he gulped in pained dismay at the disappointed grey eyes regarding him, Malfoy's nasty tone notwithstanding. All in all, he'd rather Draco's ire than his disappointment, any day of the week.
"I was waiting to make sure they were actually going to offer me the position, Draco, so…I, er, held off. But you're right—I shouldn't have," Harry offered up, guilty as charged and knowing it oh, so well. "I really shouldn't've. I'm so sorry, Draco. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Then you were appointed?" Draco sounded a bit ambivalent—whether about the position itself or Harry's lame excuse for not sharing, Harry wasn't certain—and not at all congratulatory, and his gentleman's hands were still firmly stuck up his robe sleeves instead of plastered on Harry, where normally they should be at the start of a quiet evening spent at home.
"Yes—starting a fortnight from today," Harry answered, and rapidly ran his mind through the various ways he could make it up to the bland-faced man standing very straight, stiff and tall two or three feet away from him. It seemed suddenly a rather large distance to cross. "Do you—do you want to go to Angelus, maybe? Celebrate?"
"Congratulations, then," Draco remarked offhandedly, and completely ignored Harry's halting suggestion of their current culinary favorite as if he hadn't even heard it. "Well, at least I'm able confirm the news now instead of coming off as a clueless berk."
"Oh, er—yeah, I suppose so," Harry nodded, and then winced. He hadn't meant to agree; he hadn't meant to tread on Draco's sometimes fragile confidence, either. And if it hadn't already been made clear he was royally screwed, he certainly would've known by Draco's easy dismissal of his invite. They didn't venture out all that often, just the two of them; not these days. Too many demands and too many well-past-leaving-time meetings. "Sorry. Right. Uh, Draco…" Harry faltered a bit, not quite certain where to go next.
From his stance by the drawing room doorway Draco remained stubbornly motionless and observed him, entirely without discernable expression, and with not a hint of thaw anywhere about his formidably chilly person. Harry still couldn't see his lover's hands as they were remained tucked neatly away but he would've bet a small fortune they were fisted so tight Draco's knuckles were white and that quite possibly one was wrapped around Draco's trusty old hawthorn wand tight enough to snap it. His partner sported a nasty streak sometimes—genetic, Harry believed—though Harry really wasn't privy to it all that often. If Harry were canny—and very fortunate—he'd best dodge quickly to avoid hexing.
"Yes, Harry?" And Draco's voice, usually so full of life and all the varying shades of his copious affection, remained just as blank as his stony demeanour. For Harry, even a tapping foot would've been welcome.
"I really am sorry, Draco," Harry threw out quickly, well aware he'd fucked up badly, "but I didn't want to disappoint you if I didn't get it and the offer wasn't a sure thing—not at all. There are at least two other candidates with as much or more experience as me running a department and it's not a situation where the whole 'being Harry Potter' thing would've helped. I'm still considered a little too young to be in charge like that and one of the Board really hates me—Greengrass, of course. So, it was just too close to call it, Draco. I, er…couldn't be sure."
"I know," Draco's voice lost its cutting edge in his quiet reply. "I know."
He looked away for a moment, breaking the slight tension, scanning the tastefully decorated room and the ash-dusted cloaks hanging in the open closet as if seeking some sort of arcane guidance there before returning those fine grey eyes to Harry. This time, they travelled over Harry's tired features with a searching concern that neither anger nor annoyance nor even hurt could obscure for very long.
He took a very deliberate step closer to Harry, reducing the distance considerably, for Draco's legs were long—and elegantly pale, Harry thought whimsically, under his Muggle trousers.
"I'm well aware of your particular circumstances and I wouldn't have wished you to be awarded the position in such a half-arsed manner, Harry, no matter how much prestige it carries. You know that," Draco chided. The slicing edge to his tone, however, wasonce againfully sheathed.
"I know that," Harry swallowed back the sudden hoarseness that plagued him, and in gratitude extended his lover a frailty of his own for inspection. "I know, believe me. But I really would've liked to impress you, Draco. Anyway."
Harry took a step forward, the first he'd dared since stumbling unwarily out of the anteroom Floo, and put both his hands out, palms up. Draco caught them quickly in his own, and there was a brief moment where they were poised; where it seemed as though they might sweep into a waltz or merely stand hand matched to hand, like Shakespeare's famous couple, in a silent palmer's kiss. Then Draco's fingers twitched and he slid them 'round to grasp Harry's wrists much more firmly, jerking the other man forward just enough to compel Harry to take that next step.
And another half-stumble, for which Harry was more than eager.
"Oh, Harry," sighed Draco, his breath wafting against Harry's cheekbone as he gathered him closer, ever closer, stroking him roughly until they were wholly matched, chest to chest, flank to hip, Draco's longer legs parting and enclosing Harry's. "You impress me merely by existing, prat. Always."
With a sigh, Harry settled into Draco's arms, and knew he was home safe again. And it was alright, no matter what got said next, or who said it.
Monday
"Harry?"
Harry was staring blankly at the Floo in the flat's tiny library when Draco came through the door a little after six, an empty tumbler tilted lopsidedly in one slack hand. The matching bottle of Talisker sat on the low cherrywood escritoire next to the loveseat but, fortunately, that wasn't empty. Near enough, Draco decided, frowning, and was damned glad he hadn't stopped to discard his work robes.
Draco was on his knees before his partner within seconds, setting aside the sticky-sided glass, taking both of those very special hands in his so that he could rub some much-needed warmth into them. Harry fingers felt so very thin and chilled and Draco didn't like that. He didn't like the little-boy-lost look in Harry's limpid green eyes, either, or the way his broad shoulders slumped in silent defeat.
"Harry?" he asked softly, "What happened? Did you…did you lose someone today?"
Harry blinked in confusion, clearly startled from somewhere quite faraway and likely unpleasant by the familiar sound of Draco's voice, and then blinked a few more times, slowly, blearily focusing finally on the worried gaze nearly on level with his own.
"Hey, Draco," he muttered and pitched himself forward off the edge of the sofa cushions in a sort of sodden, desperate lunge, his normally fine, clear-eyed features contorted into a drunken smirk, the edges of which were white, tight and unbearably wounded.
His lover caught him deftly, guiding Harry's spinning head toward one wool-clad shoulder and walking his trouser-clad knees just forward enough over the few inches of carpet so that he could manage the full brunt of Harry's weight, still falling. Grimacing as his shoulder muscles pulled sharply at the odd angle, Draco shoved an arm slantways under Harry's wobbly calves and thighs and scooped him across his knees, blessing the fact the other man was those few pounds sufficiently lighter than he and thus a tad easier to manhandle.
"Harry, love. What's wrong? Tell me," Draco begged, all manner of wild thoughts running rampant through his ready imagination. An accident? A murder? And who? Who was there in Harry's list whose loss might leave his partner so distraught? A child, perhaps—or an acquaintance?
"Hey…Draco—" and Draco heard his own name break across Harry's whispered half-sob and instinctively gathered his precious armful of Potter nearer still, as if attempting to absorb all the pain and frustration that poured from his lover's every cell into the confines of his own willing body. Draco's heart pounded in his chest with staccato anxiety; seldom did Harry let a work-related death scupper him like this. It must've been truly horrible, whoever it was.
But he didn't really need to know all the details right this minute, Draco knew. Time enough for that later. Right this moment, the important thing was Harry, lost and despairing and in dire need of comfort.
"Shhh, Harry—it's alright; it's alright," Draco murmured soothingly, and settled Harry carefully onto the lapchair he'd transformed himself into; pretzel-legged, robes mangled up about him and with his elbows and knees folded foetal 'round Harry to coddle him. "I'm here, love. I'm right here. Always, always here for you."
Saturday
"Shite! Fuckfuckfuck! Harry!"
"Draco! Where the bleeding fuck have you been!? You know how late we are already?"
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It's just—" Feeling like the idiot he was for mistiming routine back-to-back staff meetings and silly errands, Draco dropped his sundry shopping, his briefcase and his light-weight overcloak all about his feet, shrugging frantically out of the dark formal business robes he wore underneath.
Harry waved his wand at him peremptorily, Vanishing the remainder of Draco's apparel.
"Get dressed," he ordered through clenched teeth, green eyes narrowed dangerously, "and don't take all day about it or I'll have to leave without you!"
"Shite-shite-shite! I'm going—I'm going!"
Draco bolted for the dressing room at top speed, thanking Merlin he'd already thoughtfully chosen his outfit that morning. A Time Turner would've been useful right about then—or even a Stasis spell—but he managed nonetheless, straightening his tie and stomping on his highly polished dragonhide half-boots even as he settled his belt and tucked his wand into his holster.
"Ready?"
Harry was tense and irritable when Draco skidded back into the tiled entryway; practically hopping before the Floo in his impatience. He snagged Draco's arm with one hand and jabbed the other firmly around him, gripping Draco's slender ribcage through the fine weave of the robe fabric.
"Yes! Fuck—let's move, Potter! Don't dawdle like that! We've only got two minutes!"
And it was Draco the Strategist who responded, just as short and sharp and Malfoy-commanding as he'd ever been back in the day, and that made Harry grin with soft-eyed amusement at certain reminisces as they whirled through the sparkling green and the lingering odor of soot and guaranteed his mood would be miraculously improved on the other end of their journey.
Tuesday
"Harry, let's get that," Draco pointed out the special appetizer platter for two, his forehead nearly knocking against his companion's as they peered at the shared menu, "and salad. I'm in a rush again, sorry."
"Bloody hell, Draco," Harry swore, but he wasn't wound up, really. "Always got your head stuck up your arse in work, don't you?"
"And you don't, Boss Man?" Draco bantered sweetly, white teeth flashing in a mocking slash. "How many nights have I been abandoned recently? Ten in a row, now? Twenty? At least I manage to keep regular hours, Potter—unlike some I could mention," he sneered.
Harry put the hand that wasn't occupied with his water glass over the one Draco had resting on the tabletop and grinned in the perfectly fetching way he had. Draco could've sworn Dumbledore had taught him that particular potent, mischievous twinkle as final, parting gift.
"'M' sorry, love, but they just always seem to want me and only me," the git replied, smarmy as could be. "What can I say? I'm fucking popular."
Perfect opportunity! Draco smiled slyly in reply and slid a questing ankle up Harry's shin under the table, rubbing at his calf a bit and the soft bend inside his knee, shifting forward in his seat to entwine their respective lower legs as soon as he had Harry's full and rapt attention.
"Stop that, you idiot," Harry snarled, but it was more as though he were bearing predatory teeth in interest. Draco bent forward another inch or so across the tiny, intimate surface of the mosaic'd tabletop, making certain he was close enough to give his lover a good whiff of his favorite cologne—Draco-flavored by an arduous morning's worth of body heat—and ever so slowly turned his wrist upwards within Harry's loose grasp, exposing the thin blue vein that pulsed there. Immediately, a fingertip tickled hard across it, exerting pressure.
They each took a sharp breath, almost in unison, and two sets of eyes brightened with intent. Draco beat Harry to it, however, one lip curling up into the trademark smirk that was guaranteed to have Harry gagging for a shag instantly.
"Just…how hungry are you, Potter?" he drawled, taking his time over every nuance, and Harry had the glass slammed down and two Galleons on the tabletop in record time to cover the waiter's trouble. He gripped Draco's wrist with sudden and meaningful urgency.
"Very," he growled, the speculative mile morphing into precisely the lustful leer Draco was hoping for and, in a blink, they'd both Disapparated. The much-used and very elegantly decorated foyer in their upscale Belgravia residence soon saw yet more frantic shagging-against-the-wall-and-knocking-the-hat-tree-over action and the house elves...wisely refrained from offering luncheon.
Sunday
"Ungh, Harry," Draco groaned, and pushed past the tight ring of Harry's sphincter with a satisfied grunt.
"Ahnnn!" Harry moaned, burrowing his flushed face into the pillows, biting spun-cotton thread hard at the first sting of stretching. But he was accustomed, and it took but a moment of Draco waiting stark still and eyes wide, hands braced tight on Harry's hips, ears cocked for that telltale sigh that always followed hard on the heels of his partner's welcoming moan.
When he caught it—a whisper of a sound, barely even audible—Draco shoved, hard and fast, embedding himself in one smooth motion till their swollen balls slapped together.
"Harry!"
The pillows ate Draco's name as it passed Harry's parched and panting lips in return, but Draco didn't mind. There was no one present in this bed but the two of them—and no one else that mattered.
They'd been lovers forever and a day, well used to each other's quirks and fancies, and it required no brainpower whatsoever on Draco's part to coax Harry to the trembling brink of orgasm, nor to pound his own way there through slippery flesh that clung, and yielded, and clung tighter with every harsh inhalation Harry took. Draco swiped a palm 'round Harry's dick on something like the Harry's seventh or eight full-body shudder and fisted it roughly, catching the slimy slide of precum on the downstroke.
It didn't take much; it never did.
"Draco, Draco!" Harry cried out, and curved into a gorgeous arch within the encircling bounds of Draco's knees. He seemed exalted, as if coming were an act of ritual beatification, and Draco's gaze unerringly found that passion-blind face and locked on unblinking, all through his own surging and falling.
"Mmm, Harry."
Sated, Draco grazed at his lover's sweaty nape and bed-head hair with the lazy aftershocks still racing through his bloodstream, and inhaled the steamy, sultry, home-y scent of Sunday morning sheets. There was coffee brewing close by and he could hear the faint sounds of busy elves in the kitchen. The both of them were tacky with various fluids and he'd end up permanently glued to Harry's back if they stayed too much longer abed, Draco realized.
"Harry…." Draco whined, with the 'we-should-get-up-now' note underpinning the timbre of his husky morning voice, but Harry only pressed his nubbly spine more firmly into Draco's perspiring chest and clutched his pillow like a life raft.
Draco teethed a tempting earlobe in silent retaliation, but his contrary partner angled his head around just enough to kiss him, an off-center and messy business that led to mindless, endless, awkward in-depth snogging. Harry feel asleep again in minutes, mid-nuzzle, his teeth closing lightly on Draco's lower lip.
"Ngh—Harry," Draco remonstrated thickly, his bruised and swollen mouth held prisoner, but it was really a bit of an all right, that. And a few more minutes doze were exactly what was required.
Draco let his heavy eyelids fall shut and happily resigned himself to another day with Potter.