The door isn't shut for two seconds and Draco's scrambling to get into the bathroom, tripping over his own feet in haste to chuck off his pajama pants. It doesn't even register; his body is moving of its own volition, propelled forward at Harry's words as if disobedience isn't even an option. It's unthinkable.
The shower spray is steaming hot and ready for him as he steps inside, and his first thought is to wrap his hand around his cock and pull on it for all he's worth.
No. Wash first.
Because Harry says.
Draco lathers himself from head to toe in a frantic rush, soaping and scrubbing at every crevice like a madman.
No. Slow down.
Because Harry says.
His movements falter as he works slower, dragging his hands across his skin in a slide of warm suds. He rubs in gentle circles over his chest and abdomen, coming back up over his arms and shoulders. The water is hot and the spray is firm, making his skin tingle as it couples with the friction of his hands. He turns and braces a foot on the marble shower seat, washing down over his thigh and calf and foot, getting in between his toes and behind his knee. He washes like this all the time (cleanliness is always a personal priority), but it somehow seems more intimate now. Something altogether different than his regular ablutions. Draco gives his other leg the same attention, and then grabs for the bottle, squirting another dollop into his palm.
It's not his personal concoction; this is a brand used in all the guest rooms, specially imported from Wizarding France. Draco prefers citrusy scents, sometimes lavender, but this one is fresh and green, with a hint of juniper and an undercurrent of peppercorn. It smells like Harry.
He threads his fingers through his hair, working it into a rich lather. The scent is permeating through the steam and he's dizzy with it, almost reeling from the potency. It hits him right in the groin and Draco realizes he's hard. Extremely hard.
It should stick in his craw that he's hard and aching at just the command of Harry's words. He hasn't even touched himself and his cock is throbbing, begging to be touched. But it doesn't. His body is disturbingly responsive, wound tight.
Because Harry says.
When he takes his erection in hand, he hisses loudly, teeth clamping down on the moan that wants to break free. His cock is hot to the touch, already red and leaking at the tip. One stroke is all it takes, and that moan slips out, sounding more like a satisfying groan.
Draco steps under the beat of the spray, rinsing out his hair, even as his hand starts pumping over his cock. Soap runs in his eyes with a slight sting, but even the hint of a burn only serves to heighten his arousal. The drag of his palm is bracing, and the faster it moves, the more the breath catches in his lungs. He throws his head back, giving into the harsh build of pressure, and lets the water cascade over his face and neck. It's Harry's hand on him now, he imagines behind closed eyes. Harry's hand stroking over his flesh, Harry's body next to him, Harry's words whispering in his ear.
He pants, open mouthed, practically choking on the spray. He spits and snorts and shakes his head, slumping forward to brace one forearm on the tile wall. Draco lets his forehead press against his arm, taking his weight as he continues fisting his dripping cock. He feels heat coiling at the base of his spine, and he gasps. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of black on his skin and his blood turns to ice.
Draco reels back, turning his arm. The Mark glares at him, and a roll of nausea creeps into his throat. He stares at the tattoo, stark and malevolent against the pallor of his skin, reminding him of who he is. The kind of man he will always be. The kind of man who enjoys kneeling for another man's pleasure. The kind of man who needs this sort of depravity. Who needs to debase himself to feel whole. He is sick. Sick and twisted like the snake on his arm. Sick and twisted like the snake he tried to become. Sick and twisted standing in the shower, jacking into his fist like a fiend, because Harry told him to.
Because Harry says.
There's a sob welling from somewhere deep in his soul, inching slowly upward like the spread of poison through his veins. He wants to scream. He wants to howl. He wants to not need this so badly. To not need Harry's direction and calm control to find that quiet place inside where he's Draco. Not Malfoy. Not the Death Eater. Not Lucius' son.
Maybe there's a place where he can be Harry's.
He's spent so long feeling dirty and unclean, like he can never wash away the slick taint of evil that coats his skin in a swirl of ink. The taint that covers him in shame, because he is shameful. Shamefully pulling on his prick and loving it. Every filthy second. He doesn't understand how Harry can see him as anything more than he is, anything more than a weak-willed freak who follows Dark Lords and needs Harry's command to come.
Draco collapses to the floor as the sob pierces the air. The seal is broken, and his anguish comes pouring out, even as the pleasure keeps spiraling in his blood. He cries and screams, tears pouring from his eyes, choking on his own spit. Snot drips from his nose, and he's hot and shamed and terrified and aroused all at once.
Not once does his grip on his cock falter. Not once does his pleasure wane.
Because Harry says.
He imagines what he looks like, crumpled on the floor of the shower, a mess of monumental proportions.
But Harry thinks he is beautiful.
Because Harry says.
Harry says make it good.
Anything for Master Harry.
Draco scrambles to his feet and regrips himself, leaning forward to use his left hand to reach back and gingerly trace around his arse. The touch is energizing, and flashes quick in his blood like fire. His hole twitches as he works in one finger, then two, aided by the only wandless spell he can still manage. The same one every boy of a certain age learns to master. It's awkward, standing in this position, panting and jerking and fucking himself with lube-slick fingers, but he imagines Harry on the other side of the glass, watching him through the fog. Eyes bright and pupils blown, his gaze never wavering on Draco's every move.
Harry says make it good.
Anything for Master Harry.
He shoves his fingers further into his arse, pistoning his hips back and forth in time with the pump of his fist. The sensation is incredible, and his mouth falls open on a guttural moan that sweeps up from his toes. His eyes slam shut because he can't bear to look at himself, instead choosing to put Harry's face at the forefront of his mind. He focuses on Harry's eyes, looking at him with such wicked intent. He hears the sound of his voice, urging him onward in raspy, throaty encouragement. Draco shuffles forward and braces his knee on the seat and crouches forward for a better angle. The change is instantaneous.
Heat and fire and Harry zip through him, setting him ablaze. He's sweating, his back is aching, his balls are heavy and swollen, and his cock is harder in his hand than it's ever been. He knows he must look, whimpering and whining like a slut, needing to be fucked, needing to be filled with a want that is blind to everything in this world but what he thinks Harry's cock will feel like. Debauched, mouth open in an inelegant gape as he gasps for breath, body hunched and contorted so he can fuck his hand and his arse at the same time, the very picture of sin itself. But Harry's eyes look back at him with wonder. With approval. With want. It settles over him that this is how Harry sees him.
Beautifully obedient.
A thing of worth.
Of pride.
Emotion swells in his heart because it feels like someone has blown away the smoke and the shadow, leaving him to stand there in Harry's gaze, shining with light. The pressure clamps down and he fucks and fucks and fucks under Harry's watchful eye, until the sensation coalesces to burst out in a tide of orgasm.
He comes like a herd of Thestrals. Thick, white ropes of it over his hand and the tile, mouth groaning out Harry's name. Draco feels the last of his anguish spurt out with the last pulse of his cock.
He is beautiful.
He is pure.
He is clean.
He is Harry's.
Because Harry says.
Anything for Master Harry.
OOOOO
Harry nearly chokes on his coffee as a ripple of the Manor's magic flushes through his groin on a rush of pleasure. He sets the cup down and daps at his lips with the napkin, letting the smile spread wide on his face, because he knows Draco has done exactly as he was told.
Good boy.