I regret nothing, nor do I own anything. Reviews, as always, are appreciated.
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The morning is a bright one, the sun rising beyond the trees. It sends flaming light through the open window and across the bed, where he lays, stretched out across the sheets with the blankets tangled around his long legs. His skin is pale, almost like untouched snow. But there are scars, scars that mar the surface of his narrow chest, over his hips and the curves of his sides.
The sunlight plays over his skin, turning the pale white into light pink wherever it touches. He shifts and rolls over, opening his silver-grey eyes, light eyelashes fluttering and blond hair spilling on the black pillow, standing out in great contrast.
Harry lets out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. Draco sits up and smiles coyly, like he knew that his Gryffindor counter part had been watching him sleep. In all honesty, he probably did.
"Potter." Draco doesn't say the name, but whispers it, holding out a pale, slender hand. It's a question, a command, a pleading whimper drowned out by coy eyes and a soft, warm smile. Harry approaches and takes the offered hand, turning it to kiss the inside of the blond's wrist. He keeps smiling, and tugs gently, trying to get the Boy-Who-Lived back into bed.
It's early, he says.
I have work, Harry mumbles, though he's already leaning forward, drawn to the warmth in once cold grey eyes.
You have me, Draco murmurs, hands cool against the flesh of his arms.
You have me.
Its enough to make Harry collapse back into bed, back into pale arms and back into kissing soft, petal pink lips. Draco laughs, pleased as a cat with cream, and curls into Harry, burying his head into the other young man's neck. A warm mouth presses against the sensitive skin, perfect white teeth nipping gently and hot, wet tongue soothing the red marks.
The sun keeps rising, and pale hands press against a deep bronze, scarred chest. Smiles are shared, and Draco and Harry move together softly, gently, drinking each other in and drowning in each other. Fingernails scratch lines into skin, mouth suck hickeys onto necks and shoulders and sharp hip bones, mouths gaping open in soft gasps of "Harry" and unabashed moans and whimpers.
Harry arrives at work, late and disheveled, with a rather noticeable bite mark on his neck and hair messy from being wantonly pulled at by pale slender hands. His friends snicker at him as he walks to his desk, and they only quiet down when he glares at them.
The aruor slides into his seat, raking his fingers through his hair in an attempt to comb the unruly locks into a much neater style. As he does so, the gentle tugging reminds him of his lover's petting of his hair, of pale skin darkened by hickeys and bruises on his hips in the shape of fingerprints. Thoughts of the other man still laying in bed and basking in the glow of the sunrise come, pleasant but unwelcome, come to mind, and it takes him a moment to look down at his desk and reach for his paperwork.
Harry stops, hand stilling as he makes a puzzled face at something he hadn't noticed before.
There is a box of rather expensive chocolate on his desk and a note written in achingly familiar, slanted cursive.
Sorry for the marks, love. You make me so possessive.
- Draco
Ps. Pick up milk on your home. Will be working late at the apothecary.
Harry smiled and slid the note into his pocket, took a bite of really good chocolate, and decided he was perfectly alright with having Draco Malfoy in his bed. Even if he was bossy and snarky.
That was the charm of a Malfoy heir.