Disclaimer: J.K Rowling is the marvelous mind behind the miracle that is Harry Potter, not I.

Excerpt/Summary: "Persimmon," he corrects into his dark stubble. "Persimmon."

Warnings: Smuff (light smut, heavy fluff)

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Harry's grinning at him and bouncing on the balls of his feet, daft as usual. Draco feels a surge of affection for him, obviously not completely innocent, either, since he hardens in the Muggle trousers he's put on just for Harry. His eyes flick down to his crotch with all the subtlety of a jackhammer, and he's suddenly all bashful and it's quite charming, in that accidental way of his. "You, erm, look good," he offers hoarsely.

Draco won't make this easy for him—that would be no fun.

"Do I really?" He asks, studying the perfect crescents of his nails. Of course he does, but there's no harm in fishing for compliments when they're swimming about so readily.

"Erm, yeah. I mean, unusually so. Not that you don't look good all the time, but, I dunno." He wonders how he can talk with his chin tucked so far down into his neck like that. He's not quite articulate, though. Good thing those great green eyes of his, glimmering up at Draco from under dark lashes, get the point across better than his mouth does. His mouth. Hm. It should be on his about right now, shouldn't it?

"How so?" He challenges. The corner of his mouth lifts in a silky, teasing smirk.

Harry regains enough of his composure to smirk back. He sidles around the counter, pressing his lovely arse to it a bit more than he should (he's learning quick). He comes close to Draco and his thin body curves toward him, a frustrating asymptote in the way it lingers without touching.

"Maybe," he begins, breath tickling the fair hair at the base of Draco's neck, not even leaving time for him to wonder just when he got so near. "Maybe it's your shirt." His hands roam up and then spread, covetous, across Draco's chest, fingering pearly buttons and moving to push his sleeves to his elbows.

That smirk is looking as attractive as ever. His mouth is indubitably kissable as ever. His mouth, which is now speaking, which is delaying the kissing that needs to be happening. "You don't normally wear orange."

"Persimmon," he corrects into his dark stubble. "Persimmon. It was a dare, and only your Gryffindor influence made me take it and wear this gaudy thing."

"Sure," he agrees concisely, then grins down at him in the way Draco has learned means trouble, and swoops down on him, pinning him to the counter. Obviously it isn't quite as ugly as it seems, or maybe it's balanced by the tailored trousers that he might just be growing to like.

Draco shoves aside the dishes and debris hurriedly. The next second he is laid out flat amongst the remnants of lunch, arms and legs splayed out and Harry's warm weight pressing down on him.

He hasn't invited himself just for the lunch that he had ended up having to cook for an exhausted Harry. He did it gladly, a labor of…like, but he wanted his dessert. And today his dessert was looking deliciously vulnerable and tender above him, still in his creased Auror robes on account of those jobsworths forcing him to pull more than his fair share, working even on weekends. Weekends, Draco thinks angrily, that should be spent in his company.

They have just sacrificed so much to be together and yet aren't allowed enough time to properly, ah, thank each other. But now there it is plenty of time to show gratitude; it's half past three on a balmy Sunday, and the sunlight sifting through the dust motes is doing funny things to Draco, making him feel all…warm and fuzzy, and it's decidedly unnatural. He'll just go with it, it's simpler for him to follow his instincts, and while Slytherins aren't the floofy type, they are certainly the type to take the easy way out.

And being with Harry is so easy, so right, and although with such a rotten beginning, their story will never be a fairy tale, it is writing itself beautifully now.

The day feels sleepy, but Draco is alert and thinking of plenty of other things Harry's bed will be good for. But at this rate, they might not even make it out of the kitchen.

Harry's hands are wandering over his body, undressing him with quiet urgency, and Draco is slipping off his heavy navy robes just as quickly. At last they fall to the floor, joined soon by Draco's persimmon button-up, and soon the only article of clothing between them is their pesky trousers. Draco got his on alright, but he admits that he wouldn't have been able to get himself out of them without help. Better Harry than his house-elf, certainly. Harry seems to be having trouble with it, though, and his fingers pause on the clasp.

Draco lifts his head and scowls at him from between his split, spread knees. "What?"

"You're not dressed like this just for kicks," Harry says matter-of-factly.

He could kick him. Draco hates being waiting on anything, especially sex. So he snaps back, "Dressing up can be fun, not that you would know, no matter how much I try and teach you—"

"—You only like dressing me up so you can undress me later—"

"If that's so wrong, get your hands off my belt, hypocrite." Draco meets his eyes and smiles despite himself. He levers himself up on his arms to offer up his throat for Harry to kiss, which he does with characteristic enthusiasm.

His lips are trailing a cloud-soft path across his Adam's apple when he pauses again. It's even more frustrating when he speaks now, with his mouth shifting against Draco's feverish skin. "What's the special occasion?"

"Your funeral, if you don't kiss me right this minute—"

"—I'm serious—"

"My arse-my neglected arse, might I add—you're serious, you've got a shit-eating grin—"

Their stubbornness tends to cancel out. "What's the special occasion?" Harry's mussed dark hair is tickling the most sensitive part of his pointed chin.

He could scream, but he answers in an impatient groan instead. "Just a Sunday seduction. Happy?"

"Incorrigibly so," Harry tells him, or at least he thinks that's what he says—his affectionate rasp is somewhat muffled by Draco's cock.

Best dare he ever took.

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Author's Note: Don't form any expectations about the rest of this series based on this drabble alone. There will be little to no continuity, and style, length, and of course quality will vary. Themes and motifs may be repeated, however. There will also be a multitude of genres and ratings, so I just chose the umbrella ones.

This is mostly a chance for me to get a feel for this fandom and see if I want to tackle a proper chapter-fic, and I won't continue it for long if it isn't well-received. I write for me, but I also write for others. Your input is important!

I'm still not entirely pleased with this. It was actually an impulse write, a spin-off from a darker piece just because…well, fluff is my oxygen. I will likely edit and subsequently re-update, though.

But what are your thoughts, lovely readers? What did I do wrong, what did I do right? Please let me know in a review, and I'll do my best to reply as well.