Incentives and Encounters
Title: Incentives and Encounters
Word Count: 1996
Rating: R
Warnings: Suggestions, UST
Summary: Malfoy ups the ante.
Author's notes: A follow up of sorts to Quality Quidditch. I don't even know where this is going anymore, really. This was written for hd_writers Wizarding Games 2014 for:
Assignment 1: Side Bet
Assignment 3: Trophy Room
Bingo Card Week 3: Quidditch World Cup, Broomstick, Beater, Hufflepuff, Holyhead Harpies, Muggle Sport, Fleur Delacour, Pairs Sport, Aingingein (all prompts)
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This was written for fun, not profit.
Harry hated parties with a passion. He especially hated the parties hosted by the International Quidditch Association. It was all black tie and champagne and sophistication- a ‘platform for rival teams to interact with each other in the spirit of good old fashioned sportsmanship’- and Harry absolutely detested being here. He was all for competitive spirit and giving it his all in the field. Hell, that was his job. Attending stuffy parties and making small talk with the Keeper from the Kenmare Kestrals was not.
He would have skipped out on it altogether had it not been for the steely hawk like gaze of one Gwenog Jones- former Captain of the Holyhead Harpies and presiding Chairperson of the IQA. Despite her refined bearing and the faintest resemblance to Fleur Delacour, the woman was formidable. When Gwenog Jones informed someone that they would be attending the Seventy Third Annual Quidditch World Cup Celebration Ball whether they wanted to or not, then they damn well listened to her. Even if they happened to be the ‘Sodding Boy Who Sodding Lived’- her words, not Harry’s.
She turned around and fixed her flinty gaze on Harry as if sensing his mutinous thoughts. Harry smiled blandly and raised his flute of champagne as evidence of his participation. Jones nodded tersely and went back to debating the intricacies of whacking a Bludger into an opponent’s solar plexus with Ivan Volkov. Harry rolled his eyes. Bloody Beaters and their love for serious injury...even on opposing teams they somehow managed to turn it into a pair sport.
His eyes swept the ballroom again and landed on yet another reason he wished he was anywhere but here. Malfoy was in the midst of a small crowd, deep in conversation. He looked sleek and elegant in his navy blue robes and seemed perfectly at ease at such a high profile event. Of course he did, Harry thought. Malfoy was born for this sort of stuff. The crowd seemed to gravitate towards him, growing with every sly comment and fluid gesture Malfoy made. Harry sneered. Everyone wanted to take a good long look at Puddlemere’s new Seeker.
Apparently, Malfoy was quite the find. He had played for some fancy schmancy French team for a few years before deigning to return to the home front and then, he’d been snapped up immediately. The news had spread fast and wide, and now everyone wanted a piece of Malfoy before the season started.
Of course, Harry had been the very first to find out- and in a very unofficial capacity, at that. Merlin, he could still remember Malfoy’s lips and tongue working him in the confines of that tiny closet, his grey eyes smouldering with heat and lust and all things depraved. Damn the bastard! Harry hadn’t been able to get him out of his head ever since that encounter. His trousers tightened considerably at the memory and Harry took another swig of his champagne.
He had to get Malfoy out of his head. He just had to. The Arrows were playing Puddlemere next week and he needed to be on top of his game. Malfoy wasn’t going to give him any quarter. Hell, the prat was already playing dirty, flitting in and out of Harry’s fantasies and driving him to distraction.
As if on cue, Malfoy turned and spotted him. His eyes met Harry’s and he smirked. Harry raised an eyebrow as Malfoy raised his glass. The sight of those long, pale fingers resting on the stem reminded Harry of Malfoy caressing that broomstick in the shop- among other things. Harry scowled and turned away abruptly. He was not going to let Malfoy drive him to distraction all over again.
Malfoy had detached himself from the group by now. He was standing by himself, sipping on his champagne and watching Harry. Harry resolutely refused to make eye contact. He had every intention of ignoring the prat altogether.
That is, until he noticed Anthony Rickett making his way over to Malfoy.
Harry snapped back to attention. Malfoy raised an enquiring eyebrow but made no move to distance himself when Rickett approached. Instead, his lips curved in a challenging smirk and he stepped back to accommodate the former Hufflepuff. Harry’s eyes narrowed at the sight.
What could Rickett possibly have to say that would interest Malfoy? Rickett was a brute on the field and save for a mean backswing, he had little patience for strategy. And then there was Malfoy-all speed and sly feints and deceptive twists. So why was Malfoy wasting time with him?
Not that it concerned Harry, of course.
He was entirely not concerned until Rickett lifted a meaty hand and placed it on Malfoy’s slim arm. Rickett’s fingers closed around Malfoy’s arm to pull him closer and Harry’s eyes narrowed dangerously as Malfoy went without protest. Something in his chest surged-hot and angry- and his fists clenched by his sides. He wanted to go over there and drag Rickett away from Malfoy, to grind him into the floor and rip him to shreds.
All out of concern, of course.
Before he knew he was even moving, Harry was striding over. Malfoy quirked an eyebrow in acknowledgement but he didn’t stall the conversation.
“So you’re with the Falcons then?” he drawled, addressing Rickett. “I should have guessed you were a Beater judging by your...physique.”
Harry’s fists clenched again but Rickett practically preened. “I’ll go easy on you, Malfoy,” he leered. “Wouldn’t want to damage such a pretty face, after all...”
“Assuming of course that you’ll still hold a position on the team,” Harry cut in.
Rickett turned on him and his eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean, Potter?” he demanded.
Harry shrugged lazily. “Oh, just some idle rumours about a certain Beater who got caught making side bets on the local Aingingein scene. It would be a real shame if that story reached the Prophet, don’t you think?” He felt a vicious thrill as Rickett blanched and Malfoy quirked an eyebrow, visibly impressed. Harry turned back to Rickett with a damning smirk. “One might even assume that the Beater in question would never play with a reputable team again. But of course there are always options in Muggle sports. Golf, perhaps?”
“That would be a shame,” Malfoy agreed with a lazy grin. “Wouldn’t you agree, Rickett?”
Rickett swallowed audibly and his eyes darted from Harry to Malfoy. “Excuse me a minute,” he stammered. “I need to...to talk to my agent.”
Harry’s eyes glinted as he hurried off. Malfoy watched the retreat with amused, grey eyes before turning to Harry. “Well, amusing as that was Potter, I should take my leave. It was nice running into you again but...”
Harry clamped a firm hand around his wrist and Malfoy trailed off.
“Walk,” Harry gritted. He didn’t wait for Malfoy to oblige him. Instead, he all but dragged the shameless little tart out of the ballroom and into a deserted hallway. Malfoy followed without protest but he did smirk when Harry shoved him unceremoniously into the trophy room.
“My word, Potter,” he purred as Harry crowded against him, backing him into a shelf. “There’s no need for all this violence. I think you’ll find me quite...accommodating.”
“You little...” Harry gripped him by the shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His blood surged when Malfoy hissed at the brutish treatment. “What do you think you’re playing at?” Harry demanded. “What was that little stunt with Rickett all about?”
“You were ignoring me,” Malfoy replied easily. “I didn’t care for it so I arranged...well, let’s call it an ‘incentive’.”
Bloody perfect.
So he had played right into Malfoy’s hands again. Harry grit his teeth and clenched his fists. Malfoy didn’t seem too worried at his obvious agitation. His head lolled back against the wall, exposing his slender neck and pale skin. Harry could have screamed in frustration. “Get out of my head,” he growled.
Malfoy’s eyes glinted with challenge. He leaned in and Harry shivered as cool, soft lips brushed his own. “No,” Malfoy whispered.
And that was it. Harry snarled as he pulled him over, all but slamming his mouth against Malfoy’s. Malfoy moaned his approval and Harry twined his fingers into that silky, blond hair, wrenching Malfoy’s head back and holding him in place. All the while his mouth plundered Malfoy’s, tasting him thoroughly.
“What do you want from me?” Harry snarled when he finally broke away.
“To drive you mad,” Malfoy retorted. A shaky, breathless laugh escaped him when Harry latched on to his neck and bit down hard. “It’s what I do best, Potter.”
No arguments there. Harry bit down again, pleased to see the red mark flare to life against Malfoy’s pale skin. Gods, he was addicted to the little tease. “Come back to my place,” he ordered. His body was taut with strain and desire. He wanted- needed- Malfoy and it was all he could do not to turn him around, rip his robes off and take him right here. But no, Harry just knew he wanted more from this. One night with Malfoy wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough.
“I’m not going anywhere with you tonight,” Malfoy told him, pushing him off. He grinned when Harry snarled and slammed him back into the wall.
“Yes, you are,” he hissed dangerously.
“No, I’m not,” Malfoy repeated, slowly to emphasise his point. “You promised me a ‘private celebration’ if you won the match against Puddlemere, remember? Correct me if I’m wrong, Potter but I don’t see a Snitch in your hand yet.”
Harry glared but Malfoy had a point. He had promised that. Reluctantly, he released Malfoy. “So, that’s how we’re playing it then?” he confirmed. “When I win the match, you’ll let me shag you?”
Malfoy quirked an amused eyebrow. “If you win, I’ll hold up my end of the bargain. But I warn you, Potter- I won’t make it easy for you.”
And damn it, Harry liked that. A challenge. A fight. This was what he’d been waiting for. And with a prize like that on the line, he would give it his all or die trying.
“Fine,” he growled. “We’ll do it your way. I’m going to beat your arse at that match next week, and then I’m going to shag it six ways to Sunday.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Malfoy smirked. “It’s been a while since I’ve had so much fun at Quidditch.”
“Likewise. Get ready to lose, Malfoy.”
Malfoy’s dark chuckle went straight to his groin. “Oh Potter, I think you’ll find that I’ve already won.” He stepped back and gave Harry one last smirk. And then there was a sharp crack and Malfoy was gone.
Harry blinked at the now empty room and sagged against the wall. “Damn,” he muttered to himself. “The little tart really does play dirty.”
He made his way back to the party on shaky legs, but despite all his efforts he couldn’t get the image of Malfoy’s challenging smirk and his glinting grey eyes out of his mind. The bastard was in his head all over again and he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Harry smirked. Well, that could be fixed. All he had to do was win the match and Malfoy would be out of his head and spread out on his sheets instead.
Harry licked his lips and strode over to the Floo.
Jones caught him about to take his leave and strode over. “Where the hell are you going, Potter?” she demanded.
“To the Pitch,” Harry retorted. “I have to practice.”
Jones blinked in surprise. “Now? You do realise that the Cup will still be up for grabs in the morning, right? Gods, I like a little competition myself but...”
“Sod the Cup,” Harry replied. “I have a real prize to collect.”
He ignored her affronted sputtering and strode into the Floo. This match couldn’t happen soon enough, but when it did, Harry would be ready.
Word Count: 1996
Rating: R
Warnings: Suggestions, UST
Summary: Malfoy ups the ante.
Author's notes: A follow up of sorts to Quality Quidditch. I don't even know where this is going anymore, really. This was written for hd_writers Wizarding Games 2014 for:
Assignment 1: Side Bet
Assignment 3: Trophy Room
Bingo Card Week 3: Quidditch World Cup, Broomstick, Beater, Hufflepuff, Holyhead Harpies, Muggle Sport, Fleur Delacour, Pairs Sport, Aingingein (all prompts)
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This was written for fun, not profit.
Harry hated parties with a passion. He especially hated the parties hosted by the International Quidditch Association. It was all black tie and champagne and sophistication- a ‘platform for rival teams to interact with each other in the spirit of good old fashioned sportsmanship’- and Harry absolutely detested being here. He was all for competitive spirit and giving it his all in the field. Hell, that was his job. Attending stuffy parties and making small talk with the Keeper from the Kenmare Kestrals was not.
He would have skipped out on it altogether had it not been for the steely hawk like gaze of one Gwenog Jones- former Captain of the Holyhead Harpies and presiding Chairperson of the IQA. Despite her refined bearing and the faintest resemblance to Fleur Delacour, the woman was formidable. When Gwenog Jones informed someone that they would be attending the Seventy Third Annual Quidditch World Cup Celebration Ball whether they wanted to or not, then they damn well listened to her. Even if they happened to be the ‘Sodding Boy Who Sodding Lived’- her words, not Harry’s.
She turned around and fixed her flinty gaze on Harry as if sensing his mutinous thoughts. Harry smiled blandly and raised his flute of champagne as evidence of his participation. Jones nodded tersely and went back to debating the intricacies of whacking a Bludger into an opponent’s solar plexus with Ivan Volkov. Harry rolled his eyes. Bloody Beaters and their love for serious injury...even on opposing teams they somehow managed to turn it into a pair sport.
His eyes swept the ballroom again and landed on yet another reason he wished he was anywhere but here. Malfoy was in the midst of a small crowd, deep in conversation. He looked sleek and elegant in his navy blue robes and seemed perfectly at ease at such a high profile event. Of course he did, Harry thought. Malfoy was born for this sort of stuff. The crowd seemed to gravitate towards him, growing with every sly comment and fluid gesture Malfoy made. Harry sneered. Everyone wanted to take a good long look at Puddlemere’s new Seeker.
Apparently, Malfoy was quite the find. He had played for some fancy schmancy French team for a few years before deigning to return to the home front and then, he’d been snapped up immediately. The news had spread fast and wide, and now everyone wanted a piece of Malfoy before the season started.
Of course, Harry had been the very first to find out- and in a very unofficial capacity, at that. Merlin, he could still remember Malfoy’s lips and tongue working him in the confines of that tiny closet, his grey eyes smouldering with heat and lust and all things depraved. Damn the bastard! Harry hadn’t been able to get him out of his head ever since that encounter. His trousers tightened considerably at the memory and Harry took another swig of his champagne.
He had to get Malfoy out of his head. He just had to. The Arrows were playing Puddlemere next week and he needed to be on top of his game. Malfoy wasn’t going to give him any quarter. Hell, the prat was already playing dirty, flitting in and out of Harry’s fantasies and driving him to distraction.
As if on cue, Malfoy turned and spotted him. His eyes met Harry’s and he smirked. Harry raised an eyebrow as Malfoy raised his glass. The sight of those long, pale fingers resting on the stem reminded Harry of Malfoy caressing that broomstick in the shop- among other things. Harry scowled and turned away abruptly. He was not going to let Malfoy drive him to distraction all over again.
Malfoy had detached himself from the group by now. He was standing by himself, sipping on his champagne and watching Harry. Harry resolutely refused to make eye contact. He had every intention of ignoring the prat altogether.
That is, until he noticed Anthony Rickett making his way over to Malfoy.
Harry snapped back to attention. Malfoy raised an enquiring eyebrow but made no move to distance himself when Rickett approached. Instead, his lips curved in a challenging smirk and he stepped back to accommodate the former Hufflepuff. Harry’s eyes narrowed at the sight.
What could Rickett possibly have to say that would interest Malfoy? Rickett was a brute on the field and save for a mean backswing, he had little patience for strategy. And then there was Malfoy-all speed and sly feints and deceptive twists. So why was Malfoy wasting time with him?
Not that it concerned Harry, of course.
He was entirely not concerned until Rickett lifted a meaty hand and placed it on Malfoy’s slim arm. Rickett’s fingers closed around Malfoy’s arm to pull him closer and Harry’s eyes narrowed dangerously as Malfoy went without protest. Something in his chest surged-hot and angry- and his fists clenched by his sides. He wanted to go over there and drag Rickett away from Malfoy, to grind him into the floor and rip him to shreds.
All out of concern, of course.
Before he knew he was even moving, Harry was striding over. Malfoy quirked an eyebrow in acknowledgement but he didn’t stall the conversation.
“So you’re with the Falcons then?” he drawled, addressing Rickett. “I should have guessed you were a Beater judging by your...physique.”
Harry’s fists clenched again but Rickett practically preened. “I’ll go easy on you, Malfoy,” he leered. “Wouldn’t want to damage such a pretty face, after all...”
“Assuming of course that you’ll still hold a position on the team,” Harry cut in.
Rickett turned on him and his eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean, Potter?” he demanded.
Harry shrugged lazily. “Oh, just some idle rumours about a certain Beater who got caught making side bets on the local Aingingein scene. It would be a real shame if that story reached the Prophet, don’t you think?” He felt a vicious thrill as Rickett blanched and Malfoy quirked an eyebrow, visibly impressed. Harry turned back to Rickett with a damning smirk. “One might even assume that the Beater in question would never play with a reputable team again. But of course there are always options in Muggle sports. Golf, perhaps?”
“That would be a shame,” Malfoy agreed with a lazy grin. “Wouldn’t you agree, Rickett?”
Rickett swallowed audibly and his eyes darted from Harry to Malfoy. “Excuse me a minute,” he stammered. “I need to...to talk to my agent.”
Harry’s eyes glinted as he hurried off. Malfoy watched the retreat with amused, grey eyes before turning to Harry. “Well, amusing as that was Potter, I should take my leave. It was nice running into you again but...”
Harry clamped a firm hand around his wrist and Malfoy trailed off.
“Walk,” Harry gritted. He didn’t wait for Malfoy to oblige him. Instead, he all but dragged the shameless little tart out of the ballroom and into a deserted hallway. Malfoy followed without protest but he did smirk when Harry shoved him unceremoniously into the trophy room.
“My word, Potter,” he purred as Harry crowded against him, backing him into a shelf. “There’s no need for all this violence. I think you’ll find me quite...accommodating.”
“You little...” Harry gripped him by the shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His blood surged when Malfoy hissed at the brutish treatment. “What do you think you’re playing at?” Harry demanded. “What was that little stunt with Rickett all about?”
“You were ignoring me,” Malfoy replied easily. “I didn’t care for it so I arranged...well, let’s call it an ‘incentive’.”
Bloody perfect.
So he had played right into Malfoy’s hands again. Harry grit his teeth and clenched his fists. Malfoy didn’t seem too worried at his obvious agitation. His head lolled back against the wall, exposing his slender neck and pale skin. Harry could have screamed in frustration. “Get out of my head,” he growled.
Malfoy’s eyes glinted with challenge. He leaned in and Harry shivered as cool, soft lips brushed his own. “No,” Malfoy whispered.
And that was it. Harry snarled as he pulled him over, all but slamming his mouth against Malfoy’s. Malfoy moaned his approval and Harry twined his fingers into that silky, blond hair, wrenching Malfoy’s head back and holding him in place. All the while his mouth plundered Malfoy’s, tasting him thoroughly.
“What do you want from me?” Harry snarled when he finally broke away.
“To drive you mad,” Malfoy retorted. A shaky, breathless laugh escaped him when Harry latched on to his neck and bit down hard. “It’s what I do best, Potter.”
No arguments there. Harry bit down again, pleased to see the red mark flare to life against Malfoy’s pale skin. Gods, he was addicted to the little tease. “Come back to my place,” he ordered. His body was taut with strain and desire. He wanted- needed- Malfoy and it was all he could do not to turn him around, rip his robes off and take him right here. But no, Harry just knew he wanted more from this. One night with Malfoy wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough.
“I’m not going anywhere with you tonight,” Malfoy told him, pushing him off. He grinned when Harry snarled and slammed him back into the wall.
“Yes, you are,” he hissed dangerously.
“No, I’m not,” Malfoy repeated, slowly to emphasise his point. “You promised me a ‘private celebration’ if you won the match against Puddlemere, remember? Correct me if I’m wrong, Potter but I don’t see a Snitch in your hand yet.”
Harry glared but Malfoy had a point. He had promised that. Reluctantly, he released Malfoy. “So, that’s how we’re playing it then?” he confirmed. “When I win the match, you’ll let me shag you?”
Malfoy quirked an amused eyebrow. “If you win, I’ll hold up my end of the bargain. But I warn you, Potter- I won’t make it easy for you.”
And damn it, Harry liked that. A challenge. A fight. This was what he’d been waiting for. And with a prize like that on the line, he would give it his all or die trying.
“Fine,” he growled. “We’ll do it your way. I’m going to beat your arse at that match next week, and then I’m going to shag it six ways to Sunday.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Malfoy smirked. “It’s been a while since I’ve had so much fun at Quidditch.”
“Likewise. Get ready to lose, Malfoy.”
Malfoy’s dark chuckle went straight to his groin. “Oh Potter, I think you’ll find that I’ve already won.” He stepped back and gave Harry one last smirk. And then there was a sharp crack and Malfoy was gone.
Harry blinked at the now empty room and sagged against the wall. “Damn,” he muttered to himself. “The little tart really does play dirty.”
He made his way back to the party on shaky legs, but despite all his efforts he couldn’t get the image of Malfoy’s challenging smirk and his glinting grey eyes out of his mind. The bastard was in his head all over again and he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Harry smirked. Well, that could be fixed. All he had to do was win the match and Malfoy would be out of his head and spread out on his sheets instead.
Harry licked his lips and strode over to the Floo.
Jones caught him about to take his leave and strode over. “Where the hell are you going, Potter?” she demanded.
“To the Pitch,” Harry retorted. “I have to practice.”
Jones blinked in surprise. “Now? You do realise that the Cup will still be up for grabs in the morning, right? Gods, I like a little competition myself but...”
“Sod the Cup,” Harry replied. “I have a real prize to collect.”
He ignored her affronted sputtering and strode into the Floo. This match couldn’t happen soon enough, but when it did, Harry would be ready.