Title: HD "My Adonis'
Author: tigersilver
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: H/D
Warnings: Hogwarts, 6th Year; assisted pleasure-seeking.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em-nope! Only playing:)
Author's Note: This is for the prompt 'fig leaf' for the wonderful enchanted_jae* , who has bestowed a Charity Vgift of a Pink Ribbon upon me for a drabble. Drabbles are beyond me, apparently. You have a thousand plus words for charity, my lovely, and it was pure pleasure to provide it for a cause that is more than worthy! GLOMPS! Tiger
HD 'My Adonis'
The first thing Draco noticed was that the mermaid had been blindfolded.
A swathe of milk-white opaque glass shielded her sharp features with a thin strip that effectively blocked her view of the actual bathtub in the Prefect's loo. She preened still, combing her tresses, but scowled with it, showing teeth.
The second thing he noticed was that Potter was a sodding Greek god when he was naked—as he was, currently, and also sopping wet, with suds trailing in an inviting trickle down his chest.
"—Ur," he remarked, having swallowed the 'Pot!', nearly along with his tongue, which he kept in his mouth but barely.
He was visited with a sudden urge to gild that young Adonis before him with a fig leaf—which fortunately he had available, having just been to Greenhouse No. 4, the one with the succulents and deciduous exotics. He'd been gathering items for illicit potions (an oil made of extract of fig and Snarling Cherry would be just the thing to ease the Cabinet's hinges, he'd thought) and managed to spray his right arm down with Ichor of the Lashing Levantofolius. This reeked, though it wasn't harmful, and so he'd come, fig leaves clutched in hand, to have a quick shower before retiring.
Currently, he only wished to prevent his nose from bleeding copiously, keep his tongue firmly in his mouth where it belonged instead of gagging over Potter and make his quiet escape back to Slytherin fastnesses, where he could wank till he was raw and dizzy.
"Er?" Potter said instead, spinning on a bare heel. He was entirely bare, the towel he was holding in no way in contact with that lissome, muscled body.
"Gah," Draco replied, with no wit remaining whatsoever. He dropped his leaves, his wand and nearly his jaw. That last smacked his chest as his eyes popped. Potter was hung.
Potter was hung like a hippogriff—a dragon—an Olympian. And Potter was three-quarters erect, the red head of his cock a beacon. Leftover lather peeked through the dusky curls of his pubes; his nipples were things of pert rose-coloured beauty—and those eyes!
Oh, those incandescent green eyes, naked and huge with shock—they lit up his face and all but tugged Draco closer.
"Ur."
And closer.
"Po-po-pot!" He gasped, placing his now empty hands where they belonged: all over Potter.
And his very hungry mouth (which wasn't working at all normally, being simultaneously dry and full of saliva) where it needed to be—on Potter's.
Potter had very nice lips, but his tongue was stellar. It was moving, as Potter was moving, slippery-smooth between Draco's hands. He sighed his delight with all that skin rubbing itself against the sensitive pads of his slightly grubby fingers and proceeded to gather the bare-arse naked Potter right into his arms for the long haul.
No mere snog would—or could—do this justice. No single kiss, no matter how long in duration, could manage to express his appreciation for the living, breathing art form he was embracing. Draco struggled to ensure he got this very crucial point across, all without speaking.
"Um!" Potter wriggled fitfully. "Ah-er!" he added, when Draco stuck one of his hands (he now had several, it seemed, and all of them all over Potter) on Potter's impressive bits. "Oh! Yes!" Potter concluded, apparently pleased, as Draco stroked and caressed what he'd found with his brand new delight in Life practically sparking off his eager fingertips.
Now this was the ticket—the love bite, the joy! The one thing guaranteed to distract him from pesky, unresponsive Cabinets and orders to murder his elders in cold blood and that sodding snake-nosed thing that had been his father's fabled 'Dark Lord', back in the day.
He'd take a bloody living Hebe—a young Hercules or Apollo—over a musty old, evil old, viciously cruel beyond words old 'Master'.
"D-Draco?" Potter faltered, as Draco rubbed faster, the burn of his perspiring palm catching soapy trails and lathering Potter's bits—quite literally—into a frenzy that matched the blooming conviction flowering freely in his mind's eye.
Sod Voldemort—and sod that fucking Vanishing Cabinet.
"Potter!" he moaned, and Potter only pressed himself more firmly into Draco's arms, matching hip to hip, slotting himself in nicely to fill to bursting the shrinking, gaping hole that was Draco's hungry heart.
"Potter—I think I!" Draco gasped, his fingers at their fastest, milking tightly drawn-up bollocks in passing, sliding feverishly over pre-cum slick skin, all swollen and ripe—his for the taking. "Oh, Potter!"
"Think—think I'm cum—ing!" Potter shouted, sagging in Draco's arms—and oh, the smell of him: all musk and bath salts and sweet, sweet life!
"Ah! Ah-h-ahah!" Draco yelped, and felt that first spurt decorating the inside of his pants—damp through now with the bathwater he'd soaked up form Potter's delicious skin. "Yesssss!" he hissed, eyes rolling back in his head, and locked his knees in reeling afterthought to keep them both upright on the slippery tiles.
"Mmmmm," Potter agreed, sighing, his seal-dark curls nestled against Draco's shoulder, which was exactly where they should be—as he was where he should be, and the Dark Lord and Draco's mad Aunt Bella could go fuck themselves and he'd be bloody a billion times happier without them, effing up his life and his poor mother's.
"Wow!" Potter added, huffing a bit yet, green eyes starry and dazed. "That was—that was bloody brilliant, Malfoy!"
"Draco," Draco corrected. No need to start this round off on the wrong footing. They'd use their given names from the very beginning, just as they'd henceforth share everything, if he'd his druthers—and he was, he knew, just as determined and stubborn as this gorgeous git in his arms. "Call me Draco. I think I love you, Potter—and, well."
"Love?" Potter gurgled. He sounded shocked beyond belief.
Draco swallowed with difficulty, suddenly terribly nervous. This was it, wasn't it? No returning repentant to the horribly familiar Death Eater fold after this one—no return once opened, this curious box of Pandora's.
Potter lifted his damp head and drew back just far enough to stare at Draco in great bewilderment.
"You do?" He blinked solemnly at Draco, managing to appear both excruciatingly hot and adorable, all at once. "Could've fooled me, prat."
Draco nodded—hesitantly at first, and then much more firmly. He did, in fact, love Potter. And he was, in fact, defecting. Right now—this very minute.
And, for the record, Potter needed more than a bloody fig leaf to shield those lovely bits of his from the prying eyes of mermaids, Myrtle and any other git who should hereto and henceforth damned well keep their lascivious glances off of Draco's Potter and strictly to their own business, damn them! A grass skirt might be the better method of concealment—or perhaps a muumuu. Something large and thick and heavy—perhaps Draco's winter cloak, new from Twifitt & Tatting's. But, whatever—he'd hex to dust the next person who dared even peek at Potter nude. It was his job to do that, from now on.
"Look, Pot—Harry," Draco burst out, getting on with it, as there was a whole herd of Thestrals and not too, too many logical carts available to hitch them to, and Potter needed to understand his days of sunny bachelordom were over and done with, beginning here and now. "There's this Vanishing Cabinet, see? Here, and there's one at Borgin & Burke's, too. And, erm, I'm supposed to fix it—and murder the Headmaster, besides—which I'm not and would never—and well, let me tell you a story—"
Finite