Fanart: Getting What You Want (Harry/Draco, PG-13)
Title: Getting What You Want
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine, of course.
Warnings: None.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time in front of this Muggle contraption lately,” an amused voice drawled from behind him.
Harry snorted as crisp footsteps echoed along the floor to where he lay wantonly on the couch watching a football match like one of those typical Muggle husbands, and straightened up as Malfoy pushed him gently before ungraciously inviting himself to sit down next to Harry. How typical. “And your point, snooty wizard?”
Malfoy kicked off his shoes, leaning back against the cushions as Harry slid an arm around the other wizard’s shoulders and the couch, pressing a light kiss to that head of blond hair.
“Nothing in particular,” Malfoy intoned amiably, turning so that Harry could see his eyes glittering, his face illuminated only by the light of the television. “The Chosen One is of course entitled to watch little people running around chasing after a ball in a little box. Who am I to deny you that, Potter?”
It sounded a little chiding, but there was something about that grin he flashed at Harry, all innocence… Harry raised an eyebrow. He could almost see the gears clicking, shifting behind Malfoy’s grey gaze. Huh.
He’d give it a couple of minutes, he thought, and turned back to the bright screen in front of him, watching his lover from the corner of his eye. Harry could practically feel Malfoy itching to say something, do something to prove a point.
Anytime, now.
Harry started and yelped, despite himself. He had been predicting a verbal barb or a surprise kick in the shins, but he certainly hadn’t prepared himself for the unexpected sensation of a palm on his groin. Malfoy smirked and increased the pressure even as he positively slithered up against Harry, lust dancing in his eyes.
“I can’t deny you the tevelision,” Malfoy announced grandly - television, Harry corrected absently, even if it was becoming very, ah, hard to think. Yup, hard, that was the word - “But you, Harry Potter, will not deny me what I want.” He nuzzled Harry’s neck, occasionally licking at the warm skin there. Harry shuddered. “Move over, Gryffindor. Your arse is mine.”
“Am I supposed to just acquiesce to you when you feel like dirtying the couch like the incorrigible Slytherin you are?” Harry asked lazily, but shifting all the same. “Spoiled brat,” he started, but was cut off by Malfoy biting softly on his lower lip, gaze locked on Harry’s all the while.
Malfoy drew back, wearing a triumphant expression not unlike a twitchy Niffler having discovered a dragon’s horde, and slid a thumb over Harry’s bottom lip.
“Damned right,” he purred. “And Slytherins always get what they want.”
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine, of course.
Warnings: None.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time in front of this Muggle contraption lately,” an amused voice drawled from behind him.
Harry snorted as crisp footsteps echoed along the floor to where he lay wantonly on the couch watching a football match like one of those typical Muggle husbands, and straightened up as Malfoy pushed him gently before ungraciously inviting himself to sit down next to Harry. How typical. “And your point, snooty wizard?”
Malfoy kicked off his shoes, leaning back against the cushions as Harry slid an arm around the other wizard’s shoulders and the couch, pressing a light kiss to that head of blond hair.
“Nothing in particular,” Malfoy intoned amiably, turning so that Harry could see his eyes glittering, his face illuminated only by the light of the television. “The Chosen One is of course entitled to watch little people running around chasing after a ball in a little box. Who am I to deny you that, Potter?”
It sounded a little chiding, but there was something about that grin he flashed at Harry, all innocence… Harry raised an eyebrow. He could almost see the gears clicking, shifting behind Malfoy’s grey gaze. Huh.
He’d give it a couple of minutes, he thought, and turned back to the bright screen in front of him, watching his lover from the corner of his eye. Harry could practically feel Malfoy itching to say something, do something to prove a point.
Anytime, now.
Harry started and yelped, despite himself. He had been predicting a verbal barb or a surprise kick in the shins, but he certainly hadn’t prepared himself for the unexpected sensation of a palm on his groin. Malfoy smirked and increased the pressure even as he positively slithered up against Harry, lust dancing in his eyes.
“I can’t deny you the tevelision,” Malfoy announced grandly - television, Harry corrected absently, even if it was becoming very, ah, hard to think. Yup, hard, that was the word - “But you, Harry Potter, will not deny me what I want.” He nuzzled Harry’s neck, occasionally licking at the warm skin there. Harry shuddered. “Move over, Gryffindor. Your arse is mine.”
“Am I supposed to just acquiesce to you when you feel like dirtying the couch like the incorrigible Slytherin you are?” Harry asked lazily, but shifting all the same. “Spoiled brat,” he started, but was cut off by Malfoy biting softly on his lower lip, gaze locked on Harry’s all the while.
Malfoy drew back, wearing a triumphant expression not unlike a twitchy Niffler having discovered a dragon’s horde, and slid a thumb over Harry’s bottom lip.
“Damned right,” he purred. “And Slytherins always get what they want.”