Sex is always better on a Tuesday
Harry/Draco.
M
Disclaimer: I don't quite own any of these lovelies.
Part (1/2)
It all came down to one thing, one simple thing when Draco was about, flitting through throngs of grease and sweat and smoke. Alcohol stuck to his skin like a sweet, sin sleek in his veins and blood, and thoughts, just thoughts, of the things he could do amongst so many men was sweeter than anything he had ever tasted – because anticipation, was almost as good as sex. Almost.
It was always on a Tuesday. Tuesdays, after all, were just the day, the day that his nerves went wonky, and everything in him just thrummed and thrived on the beat of night clubs and the smell of stale sex and cigarette smoke. A push in the right direction of course, always came from Blaise, a new club, a new establishment, anything trashy or pricey or out of sorts in the ordinary way – he was there. If there would be men, then Draco clung to it with an open mouth, quick to paste himself to something new and lean or maybe, sometimes, preferably muscular.
Tuesday, today, of all days, was magical. Tuesdays, after all, meant difference. It was special. The men were special. The sight of them, what it had to offer, wasn't the usual lot that frequented low run shit clubs or even the high class digs. Tuesdays were thick cocks and beautiful faces and thick, thick pockets, and even though Draco had enough money to last him a lifetime, he could always do with some more.
His glass was frosted over, champagne on his tongue, bought by a man leering across to other side of leather couches and lesser smoke, and Draco smiled over the rim, legs crossed and pressing them together so tightly, because he was excited and he knew it, but it didn't mean that he wanted it to show, not this early. Not when his special for the night hadn't shown.
Blaise was next to him. Black hair that stuck to him, pasty white cheeks from too much foundation, he looked beautiful. Like death and seduction, and swift fingers, ready to deflower another beautiful boy or man with kisses and thrusts. It was a man this time, early twenties, draped near his lap and into his nape. Brown haired and average, but with pretty eyes, such pretty eyes and cheeks that Draco knew what he saw in him. He watched him shift his shirt, the man's shirt just a bit to expose flesh, softly tanned, and his body dipped, to suck at the trail of sweat across his stomach, just flat enough and perfect.
Draco moaned when the younger man did.
The lighting was damn near infuriating. The shades fell in just the right places, and he could see Blaise's groin and the hardened dampness of his prey, legs spread and just dear god those hips and Blaise's teeth; he held in a whimper when his mouth closed over a protruding hip bone, because it was too long into the night and he hadn't seen anyone yet, and Blaise had found his pick within minutes of buying a drink and fixing the sweep of his hair.
He slid further into the couches, and he let out a little breathy gasp as he surveyed bodies and languid figures moist with lust. The atmosphere here, made him jittery, and as he moved his arm to press into his face, hoping, waiting, he saw it, him, just right there, then, just across him.
It was him. Him, the special one. His Tuesday evening pick.
He was tall. So tall and slim and impeccably dressed for such a shit hole place. His cheeks were flushed – he could see it from even here – and he even wondered if the man could handle liquor.
It didn't matter. He was too beautiful to pass up. Shy, or repressed, or straight – it didn't matter. It never mattered. He wanted him. And Draco damn well knew how to get what he wanted, wrapping fingers into stringy hair and never letting go.
He was off the couches, unseen by Blaise who had long tugged down his pants, cock bobbing out between the zippers to rub against the brunette's cheeks and lips. His own prey, the tall one, was close enough now, for him to touch, and he slid, pushing away his drink, right into his lap, legs hanging over and grinning into his face.
"Hello."
Shy boy grinned at him, not so shy, even with red cheeks. "Hello. There's a seat right next to me, you know."
"I know."
He laughed, and straightened his legs before picking up his drink again.
It was whiskey. Draco could smell it as the crystal passed under him.
"You're an odd one. I think I more than like you. and I believe–" He shifted, making sure the middle of his ass dug into his groin. "–that you're nice and big and fuck you definitely are. We can have some fun, can't we?"
Draco was stilled into silence when the man only smiled, red cheeks hard, and whiskey no more as he shot it down.
"And why should I join you? Even though you are…" His palm cupped his cheek, and his breath caught, "…so very lovely. Pretty even, for a man. But definitely a man," he said. "Gorgeous, but I can have my toys whenever I want. And I don't think I want you."
He nearly choked on his laugh. "You don't?"
"No, I don't quite think so."
His lips were stuck together, and he couldn't figure if the man was joking, or serious enough that he was nothing but a pretty face shrouded by the thoughts of many others. Thoughts, of maybe or maybe not, was still embarrassing. There had never been someone who did not breathe 'yes' to him.
"You're in shock," the man said, amused, and his voice was thick with it. "Such a pretty thing that you're shocked I've said no." His eyes crinkled, – a beautiful green – soft lines that made his face handsome, and a mouth so hard that Draco wondered if he had imagined the softness, the shyness with reddened cheeks and softer mouth. "But I'll tell you this. When I want to fuck you, I'll fuck you. Just not when you tell me to."
His nose was warm as it pecked near his cheek.
"The name's Harry Potter, boy. And I'll see you again. I'm sure of it."