Author's Note: My first attempt at slash, so it's not too naughty or anything. Please tell me what you think!
Draco Malfoy saw to it that nothing in his life became too routine. After the War, he was anxious and restless all the time. He never knew what to do with himself. He figured that maybe that was the reason for his unexpected and unexplainable fling nearly four years after the War was over.
He never saw it coming, but perhaps he should have. He had always held some weird fascination for the surly redhead. His need to see the bigger man riled up and tense made sense in a sick sort of way after the realization was made. At first, Draco was physically ill with the thoughts he had of the man, but if he had to admit it to himself, it was slightly predictable and in that way, unnaturally routine.
It came first during an incident in Diagon Alley. Draco had heard of the man's fling with Finnigan, which had left him curious and waking in hot sweats during the night, his cock hard and his stomach churning. It wasn't the thought of another man that made him sick; he had had plenty of naughty dreams about Blaise and Theo during school. It was the thought of this man that had him vomiting in the middle of the night, which, even to himself, he had to admit in later years, was a bit extreme.
Regardless, they had a brush in Diagon Alley. Draco made some rude remark about who was the bitch and who was the butch in Weasley's relationship with Finnigan, which apparently makes it perfectly understandable to tackle someone to the ground. The way Weasley's thigh had brushed against his crotch had had Draco thrusting his hips, confusion plain on the Weasel's face as he quickly stood and retreated.
"No more comments, Ferret," he growled, and left with Hermione Granger in tow, her face twisted in concern as she stared behind her, watching Draco as he peeled himself off the pavement.
Draco had gone home and wanked after that, the best time he had with himself since before the War, thinking of Weasley's broad chest against his, his large, freckled hands tugging at Draco's white-blond hair, hard cocks pressed together. Draco came with a sigh of the Weasel's given name escaping his lips, the first time he had ever uttered the word.
For the next month, the Weasel avoided Draco like the plague, in spite of the fact that they worked in the same department at the Ministry and the fact that Draco had some sort of death wish and purposely put himself in Weasley's path. After that, he seemingly became tired of avoiding him, or just forgot to, and Draco was okay with this. His fantasy life had started to wane.
Two months after he stopped avoiding him, Weasley started with the staring. Draco couldn't take it. After a week of it, he confronted Weasley.
"What do you think you're doing?" Draco had meant it to sound demanding and authoritative, but it simply came out as a whine.
"What do you mean?" Weasley actually had the gall to look confused.
"The staring!" Draco cried, using everything in him to keep from stomping his foot. Weasley simply smiled and left for the day.
Three days after that, after everyone had gone home for the night except for the two of them, Draco made his move. He had had enough. "All right, Weasley," Draco said. "If you're not going to do anything about this, I will."
And then, right there in the middle on the office, he straddled Weasley in his desk chair.
"What the fuck, Malfoy?" Weasley exclaimed, looking confused and slightly horrified, but making no effort to push Draco away.
"I'm doing what I should have done three months ago," Draco said, bringing his lips down on top of Weasley's. The kiss was one-sided and hard against Draco's mouth. He lifted his mouth slightly away from Weasley's and whispered, "I want you… so long." That was all it took.
Weasley brought one hand up, grabbing the back of Draco's head and slammed Draco's mouth back down on his. Draco groaned at this, loving that Weasley was finally taking some sort of control. He brought his hips down on Weasley's, feeling the redhead's growing erection press against his own. Finally.