FIC: Shy (NC-17)
Title: Shy
Author: thisaintmyname
Prompt: # 163
Summary: Harry’s shy but Draco loves him anyway.
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): non-magical AU, Draco does nail art. Don’t even ask.
Word Count: 1829
Author's Notes: Umm, so my beta has not told me what name she wants to go by, so for now I’m gonna call her TheAwesomeCG :D Do not hold her responsible for the mesèreness of my writing.
Shy
Harry had always been shy. For as long as Hermione had known him he’d been the quiet one, the reserved one, the small boy with a shock of black hair and bright green eyes, who grew into the slightly-less-small man with a shock of black hair and bright green eyes. He was the type of boy mothers loved and girls cooed over whilst dating him, before they inevitably eloped with their drop-kick boyfriends.
Hermione herself had even entertained some thought of them falling madly in love as she helped Harry come out of his shell; a social blossoming invoked by True Love and nurtured by Hermione’s care. Except for the part where she was completely gone for one Ronald Weasley and Harry had been hopelessly enamored with Draco Malfoy from the moment they met over the summer before Harry’s Sixth Form. Hermione still remembers how absolutely distraught Harry had been when Draco had given him his number, complete with a cheesy wink and a “call me, babe”. He’d run to her house and fretted for almost an hour before Hermione had taken the matter out of his hands, literally, by grabbing his phone and texting Draco. And that, as they say, was that.
Still, despite the nauseatingly cute couple he and Harry made, not even Draco, his One True Love, could get Harry to relax in public and, despite their excessive PDA, no “social blossoming” seemed to be taking place anytime soon. Which is why Hermione Jane Granger, Dux of Hogwarts Grammar and student of Humanitarian Law, was so surprised to hear giggles, actual giggles, emanating from behind the closed door of Draco and Harry’s flat.
*
Draco smiles down at the boy beneath him, smirking as Harry lets out another high-pitched giggle, hands coming up to bat weakly at Draco’s chest.
“Stop, stop,” he begs between huffs of laughter, tears leaking out as he gasps for breath. “I give.”
Draco pulls back immediately, smug satisfaction sweeping his features as he watches Harry sit up, smoothing his hair and wiping at the tears still gathering at the edges of his eyes.
“So you admit it,” he presses, “blue is the superior colour.”
Harry laughs again, his look of mock exasperation ruined by the fond smile he’s failing to suppress. He puts on a posh voice, lips pouting adorably as he deepens his tone and sharpens his consonants.
“Yes, dear. I concede. Blue is infinitely superior. Top notch, I say.”
He holds face for a second before collapsing into another round of giggles, falling against Draco’s chest as Draco’s arms twist around him, hands coming up to sweep the length of his back; neck to tailbone. Draco noses into Harry’s neck quickly before pulling back and turning to face the table. His fringe falls into his face as he sets out the items, turning to smile up at Harry through a screen of platinum blonde.
“Blue base, yeah?” he confirms as he untwists the cap of the nail polish.
Harry nods shyly, holding out his hand.
“With a white cloud pattern.”
They both turn at the quiet “Oh” that comes from the doorway. Hermione stands in the doorway, eyes flicking between Harry and the bottle Draco’s clutching. Harry pulls his hand back as if burnt, face draining of colour, eyes widening and welling with frantic tears.
“It’s not - ” he begins, “Draco was just…We…I…Hermione - ”
He breaks off and turns to Draco in desperation; eyes still wet with unshed tears. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
Draco opens his mouth, steely grey eyes piercing Hermione, warning.
Before he can say anything, Hermione speaks. “I have a green that would really suit your eyes.”
Harry stares. Draco stares. Hermione waits.
“I… Hermione.”
And then Harry is throwing himself at her, sobbing and laughing. It’s the most rambunctious she’s ever seen him and she is both happy and so, so sad because Harry felt he had to hide it from her, from them; Hermione and Ron and Neville and Luna, and Draco’s friends too; Pansy and Blaise and Theodore Nott. She pulls him close and pets his hair, whispering soothingly into his unruly mop.
“We love you,” she promises. “We’ll always love you, no matter what.”
She coos at him until he’s calm, hiccupping softly as he crawls out of her embrace and into Draco’s lap; folding himself into strong arms and against a flat chest. She watches as Draco whispers into his ear, as Harry nods and tugs one long sleeve - he’s wearing Draco’s jumper - down over his hand to wipe at his eyes. She feels as if she’s intruding on a pivotal moment and rises quickly to her feet, awkwardly clearing her throat. Draco and Harry both look at her, questioning.
“Umm, I’m just gonna - ” she gestures behind her in the vague direction on the door, nothing to say for the first time in her nineteen years of life.
Draco looks at Harry and raises his eyebrows. Harry bites his lip. Draco tilts his head. Harry gives a short nod; tucks deeper into Draco’s embrace. When Draco turns to smile at her, she’s a bit surprised and a lot scared. Draco doesn’t smile at people who aren’t Harry.
“If you’d like to,” he begins, “you may stay. Harry wouldn’t mind the company and, not to brag, but I do some killer nail art.”
He definitely wanted to brag.
“Umm, sure?” She smiles, still in shock over the fact that Draco smiled at her. Actually smiled, not even a smirk smile or smug grin. She thinks she might be obsessing just a bit. Files it away with a shudder and hopes never to see it again. Not that is isn’t a nice smile, because it is. It’s just weird.
She forgets about Draco’s smile as she turns to watch Draco bend over Harry’s hand again, applying blue polish in quick, effective strokes that speak lifetimes about how long they’ve been doing this. When he’s done with Harry’s, he does hers too. And Draco is right. He does do killer nail art.
*
It becomes a thing, doing their nails. Harry lets Luna in on it and every Friday the three gather together at Harry and Draco’s. Draco works late on a Friday, doing whatever important thing it is hotshot, bi-lingual defence lawyers do.
“Honestly guys,” Hermione tells them, rolling her eyes. “He’s probably reviewing a case or preparing for one. You can’t seriously not know what his job entails, Harry.”
Harry and Luna laugh at her and call her mini-lawyer, piffing skittles as they argue over which base colour they want. Hermione and Luna have an amazing range of polish. Harry’s is fairly impressive too, seeing as how he hasn’t been collecting them for nearly as long.
“Sometimes Draco will come home with a colour he thinks I’ll like,” Harry says, Mona Lisa smile floating at the edges of his mouth, “or will match my clothes, or work for this nail art he saw and wants to try out.”
Hermione and Luna always coo whenever Harry talks about Draco. It’s impossible not to really, not with the way Harry’s eyes brighten or glaze over; the way he ducks his head shyly, as though he still can’t believe Draco chose him.
They learn about his social anxiety, his therapy visits, even the way that, although he clams down when he’s alone with Draco, in the bedroom he reverts to his public submission.
‘It helps,” he confides, twiddling his thumbs and blushing prettily, “to… control it. The therapist suggested that perhaps if I allow myself to submit to the anxiety in a private setting, I’d be better able to manage it in a public one. We uh, we already had set… positions, but the extra element is something she said we might try out.”
He knows the girls won’t judge him; they have no secrets.
At nine o’clock Draco comes home and Harry immediately curls into him as the girls show him their desired nail art. Draco embellishes the girls’ nails while Harry either cooks, heats or orders dinner in. They eat and then Draco does the art on Harry’s nails. The girls usually leave at half an hour to midnight and Draco will carry Harry to bed. Usually for sex.
Harry loves sex with Draco. Draco drags it out, slow, kissing every inch of Harry, whispering over and over how beautiful he is; how sexy and gorgeous in body and soul. He works Harry into a writhing, sweaty, incoherent mess, and then spends ages playing with Harry’s nails, sucking on them, telling him how pretty they are, how pretty they make him. Sometimes Draco even makes Harry stretch himself, watches his latest work of art disappear over and over into Harry’s greedy, puffy, red hole. Harry’s favourite moment though, is just before Draco slides in, when the wet head of his cock just nudges against Harry’s opening. It’s the most intimate feeling, knowing that at this moment he could ask Draco to stop, and he would, but instead he trusts him enough - mind, body and soul - to thrust in to the hilt, joining them in a way that makes Harry’s heart (and his arse) ache. Afterwards, once Draco has washed Harry off and plugged him up with cum, they’ll curl together under the sheets - Draco in a pair of sleep pants and Harry in one of Draco’s T-shirts; and they whisper I love you into the stillness of the night.
In the morning they shower together and Harry will put the business shirt Draco discarded last night on over his boxers. It hangs mid-thigh and Harry rolls up the sleeves before padding into the kitchen to make breakfast. Draco will come out half an hour later dressed in trousers, a shirt with French cuffs and a cashmere sweater, because no matter how much Harry teases him he insists on dressing like a ponce even on the weekend. They make plans for the day and Harry will reluctantly change out of the well-worn shirt that smells inherently of Draco - vanilla and lemon and that cologne with the fancy French name that Harry can’t say and Draco, fluent though he is, refuses to tell him.
“It’s cute,” he says, “when you say it wrong.”
So Harry and Draco will get dressed and go out, sometimes to the market, sometimes to the cinema; it doesn’t matter. They go out and before they leave Harry will push Draco against the door, rise up on his tiptoes and kiss him ‘til they’re both breathless.
In the street Draco will grab his hand and twine their fingers together and Harry will keep his head down and his nails hidden, tucked tight into Draco’s side. And if sometimes Draco sneaks a peak at Harry’s nails, curling around his back and whispering that he’s beautiful over and over; and if sometimes Harry laughs and looks him in the eye and says I love you; well, no one pays him any attention. And that’s okay because Harry has always been shy.
Author: thisaintmyname
Prompt: # 163
Summary: Harry’s shy but Draco loves him anyway.
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): non-magical AU, Draco does nail art. Don’t even ask.
Word Count: 1829
Author's Notes: Umm, so my beta has not told me what name she wants to go by, so for now I’m gonna call her TheAwesomeCG :D Do not hold her responsible for the mesèreness of my writing.
Shy
Harry had always been shy. For as long as Hermione had known him he’d been the quiet one, the reserved one, the small boy with a shock of black hair and bright green eyes, who grew into the slightly-less-small man with a shock of black hair and bright green eyes. He was the type of boy mothers loved and girls cooed over whilst dating him, before they inevitably eloped with their drop-kick boyfriends.
Hermione herself had even entertained some thought of them falling madly in love as she helped Harry come out of his shell; a social blossoming invoked by True Love and nurtured by Hermione’s care. Except for the part where she was completely gone for one Ronald Weasley and Harry had been hopelessly enamored with Draco Malfoy from the moment they met over the summer before Harry’s Sixth Form. Hermione still remembers how absolutely distraught Harry had been when Draco had given him his number, complete with a cheesy wink and a “call me, babe”. He’d run to her house and fretted for almost an hour before Hermione had taken the matter out of his hands, literally, by grabbing his phone and texting Draco. And that, as they say, was that.
Still, despite the nauseatingly cute couple he and Harry made, not even Draco, his One True Love, could get Harry to relax in public and, despite their excessive PDA, no “social blossoming” seemed to be taking place anytime soon. Which is why Hermione Jane Granger, Dux of Hogwarts Grammar and student of Humanitarian Law, was so surprised to hear giggles, actual giggles, emanating from behind the closed door of Draco and Harry’s flat.
*
Draco smiles down at the boy beneath him, smirking as Harry lets out another high-pitched giggle, hands coming up to bat weakly at Draco’s chest.
“Stop, stop,” he begs between huffs of laughter, tears leaking out as he gasps for breath. “I give.”
Draco pulls back immediately, smug satisfaction sweeping his features as he watches Harry sit up, smoothing his hair and wiping at the tears still gathering at the edges of his eyes.
“So you admit it,” he presses, “blue is the superior colour.”
Harry laughs again, his look of mock exasperation ruined by the fond smile he’s failing to suppress. He puts on a posh voice, lips pouting adorably as he deepens his tone and sharpens his consonants.
“Yes, dear. I concede. Blue is infinitely superior. Top notch, I say.”
He holds face for a second before collapsing into another round of giggles, falling against Draco’s chest as Draco’s arms twist around him, hands coming up to sweep the length of his back; neck to tailbone. Draco noses into Harry’s neck quickly before pulling back and turning to face the table. His fringe falls into his face as he sets out the items, turning to smile up at Harry through a screen of platinum blonde.
“Blue base, yeah?” he confirms as he untwists the cap of the nail polish.
Harry nods shyly, holding out his hand.
“With a white cloud pattern.”
They both turn at the quiet “Oh” that comes from the doorway. Hermione stands in the doorway, eyes flicking between Harry and the bottle Draco’s clutching. Harry pulls his hand back as if burnt, face draining of colour, eyes widening and welling with frantic tears.
“It’s not - ” he begins, “Draco was just…We…I…Hermione - ”
He breaks off and turns to Draco in desperation; eyes still wet with unshed tears. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
Draco opens his mouth, steely grey eyes piercing Hermione, warning.
Before he can say anything, Hermione speaks. “I have a green that would really suit your eyes.”
Harry stares. Draco stares. Hermione waits.
“I… Hermione.”
And then Harry is throwing himself at her, sobbing and laughing. It’s the most rambunctious she’s ever seen him and she is both happy and so, so sad because Harry felt he had to hide it from her, from them; Hermione and Ron and Neville and Luna, and Draco’s friends too; Pansy and Blaise and Theodore Nott. She pulls him close and pets his hair, whispering soothingly into his unruly mop.
“We love you,” she promises. “We’ll always love you, no matter what.”
She coos at him until he’s calm, hiccupping softly as he crawls out of her embrace and into Draco’s lap; folding himself into strong arms and against a flat chest. She watches as Draco whispers into his ear, as Harry nods and tugs one long sleeve - he’s wearing Draco’s jumper - down over his hand to wipe at his eyes. She feels as if she’s intruding on a pivotal moment and rises quickly to her feet, awkwardly clearing her throat. Draco and Harry both look at her, questioning.
“Umm, I’m just gonna - ” she gestures behind her in the vague direction on the door, nothing to say for the first time in her nineteen years of life.
Draco looks at Harry and raises his eyebrows. Harry bites his lip. Draco tilts his head. Harry gives a short nod; tucks deeper into Draco’s embrace. When Draco turns to smile at her, she’s a bit surprised and a lot scared. Draco doesn’t smile at people who aren’t Harry.
“If you’d like to,” he begins, “you may stay. Harry wouldn’t mind the company and, not to brag, but I do some killer nail art.”
He definitely wanted to brag.
“Umm, sure?” She smiles, still in shock over the fact that Draco smiled at her. Actually smiled, not even a smirk smile or smug grin. She thinks she might be obsessing just a bit. Files it away with a shudder and hopes never to see it again. Not that is isn’t a nice smile, because it is. It’s just weird.
She forgets about Draco’s smile as she turns to watch Draco bend over Harry’s hand again, applying blue polish in quick, effective strokes that speak lifetimes about how long they’ve been doing this. When he’s done with Harry’s, he does hers too. And Draco is right. He does do killer nail art.
*
It becomes a thing, doing their nails. Harry lets Luna in on it and every Friday the three gather together at Harry and Draco’s. Draco works late on a Friday, doing whatever important thing it is hotshot, bi-lingual defence lawyers do.
“Honestly guys,” Hermione tells them, rolling her eyes. “He’s probably reviewing a case or preparing for one. You can’t seriously not know what his job entails, Harry.”
Harry and Luna laugh at her and call her mini-lawyer, piffing skittles as they argue over which base colour they want. Hermione and Luna have an amazing range of polish. Harry’s is fairly impressive too, seeing as how he hasn’t been collecting them for nearly as long.
“Sometimes Draco will come home with a colour he thinks I’ll like,” Harry says, Mona Lisa smile floating at the edges of his mouth, “or will match my clothes, or work for this nail art he saw and wants to try out.”
Hermione and Luna always coo whenever Harry talks about Draco. It’s impossible not to really, not with the way Harry’s eyes brighten or glaze over; the way he ducks his head shyly, as though he still can’t believe Draco chose him.
They learn about his social anxiety, his therapy visits, even the way that, although he clams down when he’s alone with Draco, in the bedroom he reverts to his public submission.
‘It helps,” he confides, twiddling his thumbs and blushing prettily, “to… control it. The therapist suggested that perhaps if I allow myself to submit to the anxiety in a private setting, I’d be better able to manage it in a public one. We uh, we already had set… positions, but the extra element is something she said we might try out.”
He knows the girls won’t judge him; they have no secrets.
At nine o’clock Draco comes home and Harry immediately curls into him as the girls show him their desired nail art. Draco embellishes the girls’ nails while Harry either cooks, heats or orders dinner in. They eat and then Draco does the art on Harry’s nails. The girls usually leave at half an hour to midnight and Draco will carry Harry to bed. Usually for sex.
Harry loves sex with Draco. Draco drags it out, slow, kissing every inch of Harry, whispering over and over how beautiful he is; how sexy and gorgeous in body and soul. He works Harry into a writhing, sweaty, incoherent mess, and then spends ages playing with Harry’s nails, sucking on them, telling him how pretty they are, how pretty they make him. Sometimes Draco even makes Harry stretch himself, watches his latest work of art disappear over and over into Harry’s greedy, puffy, red hole. Harry’s favourite moment though, is just before Draco slides in, when the wet head of his cock just nudges against Harry’s opening. It’s the most intimate feeling, knowing that at this moment he could ask Draco to stop, and he would, but instead he trusts him enough - mind, body and soul - to thrust in to the hilt, joining them in a way that makes Harry’s heart (and his arse) ache. Afterwards, once Draco has washed Harry off and plugged him up with cum, they’ll curl together under the sheets - Draco in a pair of sleep pants and Harry in one of Draco’s T-shirts; and they whisper I love you into the stillness of the night.
In the morning they shower together and Harry will put the business shirt Draco discarded last night on over his boxers. It hangs mid-thigh and Harry rolls up the sleeves before padding into the kitchen to make breakfast. Draco will come out half an hour later dressed in trousers, a shirt with French cuffs and a cashmere sweater, because no matter how much Harry teases him he insists on dressing like a ponce even on the weekend. They make plans for the day and Harry will reluctantly change out of the well-worn shirt that smells inherently of Draco - vanilla and lemon and that cologne with the fancy French name that Harry can’t say and Draco, fluent though he is, refuses to tell him.
“It’s cute,” he says, “when you say it wrong.”
So Harry and Draco will get dressed and go out, sometimes to the market, sometimes to the cinema; it doesn’t matter. They go out and before they leave Harry will push Draco against the door, rise up on his tiptoes and kiss him ‘til they’re both breathless.
In the street Draco will grab his hand and twine their fingers together and Harry will keep his head down and his nails hidden, tucked tight into Draco’s side. And if sometimes Draco sneaks a peak at Harry’s nails, curling around his back and whispering that he’s beautiful over and over; and if sometimes Harry laughs and looks him in the eye and says I love you; well, no one pays him any attention. And that’s okay because Harry has always been shy.