Pretty

Dedicated to Pushdragon, on the way out, with the highest admiration.

*

"Blimey, Malfoy, it's one thing if you show up in black lace for Pansy's birthday. But me and Greg here, we're done playin' little girls. How bloody much longer is this going to take?" Crabbe whispered with an edge of cruelty Harry had never heard him use before. And Malfoy hissed back, furious, but underneath, undeniably, the desperation of a sixteen-year old at his wits' end. "I don't know how much longer, all right?"

Low-riding jeans, so faded they must have been worn for years. Thin, wiry arms stretching from a short-sleeved shirt, blazing white before a dirty stone-wall. The sheen of pale skin beneath a black lacy pattern, fractured into leaves and petals.

The image has been in Harry's mind for a very long time. If he's honest, it's been with him ever since that morning in the Great Hall when Twycross was teaching them Apparition. Sometimes, when he thinks about that piece of lace just barely covering Malfoy's bony hip, he can hear a soft chant of "destination, determination, deliberation." Harry's never got off harder than when he's fantasising about pulling up that shirt, pushing down those jeans. Anything to get at that scratchy lace fragment, of a gingko leaf perhaps, to slowly move the tips of his finger underneath, to tear at it with clenched fists. All he needs is his hand tight around his cock and this image in his head, zooming in and out, on constant repeat, his fingers brushing the seams, cool skin, lace grazing over his knuckles, and he comes, cannot help but coming with such a vicious force, it leaves him panting and sweating and wanting more, wanting it for real.

Not once does he think Malfoy's hard prick, not once Malfoy's tight arse or Malfoy's pink nipples. He does not imagine any of that. He wants it, yes, but in his mind it's all wrapped in lace so fine that it has become Malfoy's skin, prick, arse and nipples for him, ever shifting, ever tempting him to touch and fist and pound and squeeze …

And now he stands in front of Harry, leaning against The Fort's wall of dirt-covered stones, hips pushed forward so his bare skin catches in the blue light.

"Hello," Harry says and his voice barely shakes, "you're very pretty, aren't you?"

And Malfoy turns to him, a ferocious smile on his lips. He recognises Harry instantly, drawls, "Potter, what a surprise", his voice like ripped lace, like torn skin, a promise of pleasures Harry can barely imagine. Malfoy's pinkie and thumb move in a gesture which says loud and clear, I'm all yours, for two-hundred quid.

Harry's hand moves to his back pocket, he counts out the bills, aware of Malfoy's smirk, his impatience, too, but he doesn't care, doesn't care at all. He will pay any price for –

Fractured into a pattern of leaves and petals, black lace barely covering the glimmering sheen of skin. The shirt exposes wiry arms, thin and cold to the touch. There's heat, too, trapped beneath those low-riding jeans. So innocent. So pretty. Any price, Harry'll pay any price for this

* * *

*Bold words are direct quotes from JK Rowling's Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.