FIC: Fuck You/Thank You [Harry/Draco]
Title: Fuck You/Thank You
Author: lq_traintracks
Prompt: #85 -- Truth always seems to get washed out in the rain.
Pairing: Harry/Draco, (super-background, blink-and-you'll-miss-it Dean/Ginny)
Word Count: ~2,100
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): None
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: I had tremendous fun writing for this excellent prompt. Massive thanks to my beta for looking this one over and for the title help!
Summary: Merlin, no one pisses Harry off like this arsehole. No one in the five years he's been reffing. Not in the twenty-five years he played the game himself. No one ever.
Lee Jordan's voice rings out during the Falcons/Arrows game as he shouts to be heard over the rolling of thunder and peels of too-close lightning:
"The whistle's been blown once again on Draco Malfoy. You heard that right: Referee Potter has called Malfoy to ground on this one. They're meeting at the center of the pitch. Oh! And Malfoy's thrown down his broom. He is not happy, ladies and gents, not happy at all. Potter's remaining calm, it appears, but Merlin, Malfoy's seething. This is Malfoy's second call of Blatching in this match alone. They're face to face now and, whoa, I heard that all the way up here, folks, and it's nothing I can repeat! Time to get your children some pumpkin juice and other delightful refreshments at the canteen or else cover their ears. The rest of us can enjoy the fireworks until this match picks back up again. Renew those Drought and Drying Charms; I have a feeling this one's likely to go long!"
Harry crosses his arms as Malfoy storms up to him on the pitch, his boots kicking up mud, uniform drenched.
"What the fuck, Potter!" Malfoy whips his wet hair out of his face. "I was going for the bloody Snitch, and you know it!"
"And the only way to get it was by knocking Hays off his broom?"
"He collided with me! It's not my fault he's too fucking slow to get out of the way!"
Harry plants his hands on his hips. "Well, which is it, Malfoy? Did he run into you, or was he too slow to get out of your way?"
"I didn't intentionally collide with him!"
"Like hell you didn't. I know how you fly. You don't think I know a Blatch from you when I see one? You don't think I've personally felt it?" Harry finds himself smiling in disbelief at Malfoy's gall. Merlin, no one pisses him off like this arsehole. No one in the five years he's been reffing. Not in the twenty-five years he played the game himself.
No one ever.
Malfoy runs a hand over his head, wringing the rain water from his hair ineffectually as the torrent not only continues but becomes even more of a downpour and soaks them both to the skin. "It's sixty to seventy. You can't take me out now. Wilson's stone cold. It wasn't Blatching, not the first time you called it and not the second. I'm staying in this bloody game, you tosser, or-"
"Is this a threat or some sort of ill-conceived bargaining tactic?"
Malfoy takes a step closer, and Harry can feel the heat of his quick breaths. "Your call, Potter."
Harry sighs. "You know I have to."
Malfoy's jaw goes tight with barely restrained tension. It's a look Harry knows quite well.
"You can't seriously-"
Harry shakes his head at Malfoy's arrogance. "You're out," he says, turning to stalk off the pitch. Malfoy's growl of rage makes him turn back once more.
"Bloody fucking son of a-"
"You're going to want to stop right there."
Malfoy's cheeks bloom a furious rosy hue. He draws his wand to his side sharply, and Harry feels magic gathering in his palm on instinct, though he makes no move to draw on Malfoy in return. Harry stares at him, and in that moment, he accidentally lets the feeling in: He feels bad for the git. Beyond that, Harry feels guilty. Not that he lets it show in his face. His glare remains ungiving as Malfoy stands there, wand drawn, and teeth grit. Harry observes the fire in his eyes, and then Malfoy turns, shouts an expletive, and lashes out with the wand, sending his own broom crashing into the side of the stands where it splinters spectacularly even as he strides away from Harry across the soggy pitch.
Harry sighs, turns on his heel, and glances back only once more to ascertain Malfoy's slammed into the locker room before Harry mounts his broom, blows his whistle, and begins the game anew.
As it turns out, Malfoy was right: Wilson's a disaster, he can't catch the Snitch even when it hovers right in front of his face, and within half an hour of Malfoy leaving the game, the Arrows win it handily.
Harry signs a few autographs while the stands empty and the teams head to the showers to wash away both the mud and aches. The rain dwindles to a drizzle. Of course it does now that the match is over, Harry thinks, his feet sloshing in his boots as he trudges to the locker room himself. Thunder rumbles soothingly in the distance, the lightning hiding behind vast easterly clouds, making brief halos around them and nothing more.
Harry steps into the humid warmth of the locker room. Chaudhri is primping in his mirror, trying this jumper and then that and admiring himself. Harry ignores him and walks over to the only shower left running. He stands just on the other side of the gleaming white wall that provides a modicum of privacy. "Malfoy," he says.
When there's no reply, Harry clears his throat.
"Sod off," Malfoy grouses.
Chaudhri glances up from his self-admiration, and Harry slants him a look before he continues. "Draco."
"I'm busy."
Harry sighs and looks at the dawdler again. "Excuse us?"
Chaudhri picks up his bag but then hesitates, withdrawing a bottle of cologne from his locker and pensively reading the back.
Harry changes tactics. "Get out."
Chaudhri startles. "Bloody hell." Once he hurries out the door, Harry draws his wand and locks it.
"I'm not speaking to you," Draco says, splashing.
Harry sighs. He walks around the wall and into the shower, fully clothed.
Draco looks over his shoulder and then does a double take. "Merlin, Potter."
"Thought you weren't speaking to me," Harry says. He walks into the spray, taking Draco by the waist and letting his gaze descend down his back, his bare bubble of an arse, long wet legs, darkened hair clinging to his shins.
"I'm not," Draco insists.
"You don't have to," Harry says behind his ear.
Draco scoffs, rinsing an armpit.
Harry fits his lips to the hot curve of Draco's neck. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.
"Oh, but 'you had to', remember?"
"Yeah." Harry kisses his neck, lifts his lips and then lets them press to Draco's earlobe. "I'm still sorry."
"I'm not finished being angry with you."
Harry kisses the shell of his ear. "I know."
Draco tilts his head just the slightest bit. "Fucker."
"Mmm." Harry's hands slide to his stomach, one travelling up ribs to find a nipple and pinch it, the other going south, fingers sifting through pubic hair and then grasping a thickening cock.
"You think it's that easy?" Draco dips his head under the spray and then shakes the water from his face.
Harry strokes Draco's prick; it hardens in his slowly pumping fist. "Is it ever?"
Draco gives a gasp. "Fuck you," he says, planting his hands against the wall and dropping his head.
"I'm sorry," Harry tries again, flicking his tit and mouthing behind his ear. He squeezes gently under the head of Draco's cock, rubs his nipple with the pad of one finger. "Want me to stop?"
Draco whines, pressing his arse into Harry's uniformed crotch.
Harry gasps as Draco's delectable arse rubs against him. He sinks his teeth into Draco's shoulder, hand quickening between his legs. Draco groans in return, widening his stance. Harry presses up against him, his own dick aching. The sting of the hard rain leaves Harry's skin. The steam swells around them, warm and insulating, and Harry realises this yearning rampaging his body began when he'd watched Draco kick off from the ground and soar a wide, confident arc around the pitch at the start of the match. He's been wanting him, wanting this, ever since. Harry licks water from Draco's back, plays with his tit, strokes his cock.
"Fuck you," Draco bites out. Harry runs a finger over his slit and elicits a string of pre-come. He moves the foreskin over the head and pulls it back. Draco shakes. "Ffffuck you, Potter." He starts pulsing his hips, rutting into Harry's hand.
"Yes," Harry encourages, lips just behind his ear. He pinches the nipple under his fingers hard and fast, forearm flexing as he works Draco's cock.
"Fuck you," Draco groans. "Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you! Potter, fuck you! Fuck you!" He comes, Harry's hand stroking it out of him, ribbons and ribbons washing down the drain. "Fuck you," Draco whines, quaking. "Fuck you. Fuck you. Oh god, fuck you." Then, "Thank you."
Harry chuckles at the back of his neck.
"Fuck you, Harry," Draco chuckles back.
At his name, Harry spins Draco, pulls him close, and kisses him hard. Draco hums into his mouth, opens for him, drapes his arms around Harry's neck, loose with afterglow.
"Thank you," Draco whispers when Harry's kisses slow, gaining pauses between, a soft lick of Draco's lip, a warm gush of Draco's satisfied breath.
And then Draco's pushing, pressing Harry's back against the wall. Draco's kissing down his stubbled throat, unfastening his trousers.
"Draco…"
He slips to his knees, pulls Harry's pants down to clear his bollocks, letting his prick bounce free. Draco licks it, long and salacious, from root to glistening tip.
"You don't-" Harry swallows and tries again. "You d-"
"This is for me," Draco informs him, kissing the head of his cock, "not you." Then he goes down, all sucking sweetness and hollowed cheeks.
"Bloody Merlin's… fuck." The back of Harry's head hits tile.
"Articulate," Draco lifts his lips to say and then takes Harry's cock into his mouth again.
"Mother of all that's…"
At Draco's chuckle, the absurdly exquisite vibration of it on his cock, Harry abandons words and strips off his referee's robes, his shirt, letting them flump uselessly onto the shower floor. Draco's hands slip onto his bare arse and squeeze. Harry takes the hint and starts lightly thrusting into his face.
"Mmm," Draco hums. Harry stares down at him, cups his cheek, strokes his wet hair. Draco glances up, and their gazes meet. He slides a hand up Harry's stomach, his chest. Harry shivers and thrusts harder. Draco's eyes flutter closed. Harry feels it down his thighs when he comes. He pants and watches Draco swallow, watches the little bit that escapes his lips to roll down his chin.
"Oh god, Draco…"
Draco hums again, and oh how utterly mastered Harry is by the sound. He strokes Draco's face, panting and disturbingly enchanted by the look of his husband on his knees, his own cock slipping from Draco's swollen lips.
Draco smirks up at him. "All right. You might be forgiven."
"Can't we Apparate there?"
Harry turns his head and frowns at Draco as they walk, Draco's arm tight around his waist, Harry's loose around Draco's shoulders. "What, Apparate to the bike? It's just there!"
"My legs hurt."
"From the match or…?"
"Sod off, Potter." There's a reluctant smile in his voice.
"You know, you're not twenty anymore. You've been hit by more Bludgers than I care to count."
"I'm only forty-three."
"Malfoy."
"What?"
"You're forty-four."
Draco scoffs.
They're silent for a few more steps.
"Do you think it's going to rain again?" Draco muses.
"Don't change the subject."
"I wasn't aware there was one to change."
Harry sighs. "I retired five years ago, you know."
"Because even at thirty-nine, you were an old crotchety git."
Harry briefly makes like he might wrestle Draco into the mud. They stumble, arms still around each other, and Draco laughs.
"Well, maybe it's time to face your own crotchety gitishness."
"Never," Draco says.
"You're going to fly into your hundreds, are you?"
"Bloody right. And you'll be calling me for Blatching then as well, I'm sure."
"I'll be too busy rushing you to hospital for breaking every bone in your stubborn body."
Draco snorts.
They've arrived, so Harry lets go of him to swing a leg over the bike's body and kick it to life before Draco settles behind him.
"What's for dinner?" Draco asks. "Are the kids coming over?"
"They're at Ginny and Dean's tonight. Dean's birthday, I think."
"Is that so?" Draco asks at his ear.
Harry smiles and guns the engine. He feels Draco scoot in close up against his arse, his arms wrapping tightly around.
"Dinner can wait then," Draco purrs.
Harry turns his head and they share a lingering kiss, then Harry presses his toe down and they shoot down the lane, up into the air, and through the lightning-lit night.
Author: lq_traintracks
Prompt: #85 -- Truth always seems to get washed out in the rain.
Pairing: Harry/Draco, (super-background, blink-and-you'll-miss-it Dean/Ginny)
Word Count: ~2,100
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): None
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: I had tremendous fun writing for this excellent prompt. Massive thanks to my beta for looking this one over and for the title help!
Summary: Merlin, no one pisses Harry off like this arsehole. No one in the five years he's been reffing. Not in the twenty-five years he played the game himself. No one ever.
Lee Jordan's voice rings out during the Falcons/Arrows game as he shouts to be heard over the rolling of thunder and peels of too-close lightning:
"The whistle's been blown once again on Draco Malfoy. You heard that right: Referee Potter has called Malfoy to ground on this one. They're meeting at the center of the pitch. Oh! And Malfoy's thrown down his broom. He is not happy, ladies and gents, not happy at all. Potter's remaining calm, it appears, but Merlin, Malfoy's seething. This is Malfoy's second call of Blatching in this match alone. They're face to face now and, whoa, I heard that all the way up here, folks, and it's nothing I can repeat! Time to get your children some pumpkin juice and other delightful refreshments at the canteen or else cover their ears. The rest of us can enjoy the fireworks until this match picks back up again. Renew those Drought and Drying Charms; I have a feeling this one's likely to go long!"
Harry crosses his arms as Malfoy storms up to him on the pitch, his boots kicking up mud, uniform drenched.
"What the fuck, Potter!" Malfoy whips his wet hair out of his face. "I was going for the bloody Snitch, and you know it!"
"And the only way to get it was by knocking Hays off his broom?"
"He collided with me! It's not my fault he's too fucking slow to get out of the way!"
Harry plants his hands on his hips. "Well, which is it, Malfoy? Did he run into you, or was he too slow to get out of your way?"
"I didn't intentionally collide with him!"
"Like hell you didn't. I know how you fly. You don't think I know a Blatch from you when I see one? You don't think I've personally felt it?" Harry finds himself smiling in disbelief at Malfoy's gall. Merlin, no one pisses him off like this arsehole. No one in the five years he's been reffing. Not in the twenty-five years he played the game himself.
No one ever.
Malfoy runs a hand over his head, wringing the rain water from his hair ineffectually as the torrent not only continues but becomes even more of a downpour and soaks them both to the skin. "It's sixty to seventy. You can't take me out now. Wilson's stone cold. It wasn't Blatching, not the first time you called it and not the second. I'm staying in this bloody game, you tosser, or-"
"Is this a threat or some sort of ill-conceived bargaining tactic?"
Malfoy takes a step closer, and Harry can feel the heat of his quick breaths. "Your call, Potter."
Harry sighs. "You know I have to."
Malfoy's jaw goes tight with barely restrained tension. It's a look Harry knows quite well.
"You can't seriously-"
Harry shakes his head at Malfoy's arrogance. "You're out," he says, turning to stalk off the pitch. Malfoy's growl of rage makes him turn back once more.
"Bloody fucking son of a-"
"You're going to want to stop right there."
Malfoy's cheeks bloom a furious rosy hue. He draws his wand to his side sharply, and Harry feels magic gathering in his palm on instinct, though he makes no move to draw on Malfoy in return. Harry stares at him, and in that moment, he accidentally lets the feeling in: He feels bad for the git. Beyond that, Harry feels guilty. Not that he lets it show in his face. His glare remains ungiving as Malfoy stands there, wand drawn, and teeth grit. Harry observes the fire in his eyes, and then Malfoy turns, shouts an expletive, and lashes out with the wand, sending his own broom crashing into the side of the stands where it splinters spectacularly even as he strides away from Harry across the soggy pitch.
Harry sighs, turns on his heel, and glances back only once more to ascertain Malfoy's slammed into the locker room before Harry mounts his broom, blows his whistle, and begins the game anew.
As it turns out, Malfoy was right: Wilson's a disaster, he can't catch the Snitch even when it hovers right in front of his face, and within half an hour of Malfoy leaving the game, the Arrows win it handily.
Harry signs a few autographs while the stands empty and the teams head to the showers to wash away both the mud and aches. The rain dwindles to a drizzle. Of course it does now that the match is over, Harry thinks, his feet sloshing in his boots as he trudges to the locker room himself. Thunder rumbles soothingly in the distance, the lightning hiding behind vast easterly clouds, making brief halos around them and nothing more.
Harry steps into the humid warmth of the locker room. Chaudhri is primping in his mirror, trying this jumper and then that and admiring himself. Harry ignores him and walks over to the only shower left running. He stands just on the other side of the gleaming white wall that provides a modicum of privacy. "Malfoy," he says.
When there's no reply, Harry clears his throat.
"Sod off," Malfoy grouses.
Chaudhri glances up from his self-admiration, and Harry slants him a look before he continues. "Draco."
"I'm busy."
Harry sighs and looks at the dawdler again. "Excuse us?"
Chaudhri picks up his bag but then hesitates, withdrawing a bottle of cologne from his locker and pensively reading the back.
Harry changes tactics. "Get out."
Chaudhri startles. "Bloody hell." Once he hurries out the door, Harry draws his wand and locks it.
"I'm not speaking to you," Draco says, splashing.
Harry sighs. He walks around the wall and into the shower, fully clothed.
Draco looks over his shoulder and then does a double take. "Merlin, Potter."
"Thought you weren't speaking to me," Harry says. He walks into the spray, taking Draco by the waist and letting his gaze descend down his back, his bare bubble of an arse, long wet legs, darkened hair clinging to his shins.
"I'm not," Draco insists.
"You don't have to," Harry says behind his ear.
Draco scoffs, rinsing an armpit.
Harry fits his lips to the hot curve of Draco's neck. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.
"Oh, but 'you had to', remember?"
"Yeah." Harry kisses his neck, lifts his lips and then lets them press to Draco's earlobe. "I'm still sorry."
"I'm not finished being angry with you."
Harry kisses the shell of his ear. "I know."
Draco tilts his head just the slightest bit. "Fucker."
"Mmm." Harry's hands slide to his stomach, one travelling up ribs to find a nipple and pinch it, the other going south, fingers sifting through pubic hair and then grasping a thickening cock.
"You think it's that easy?" Draco dips his head under the spray and then shakes the water from his face.
Harry strokes Draco's prick; it hardens in his slowly pumping fist. "Is it ever?"
Draco gives a gasp. "Fuck you," he says, planting his hands against the wall and dropping his head.
"I'm sorry," Harry tries again, flicking his tit and mouthing behind his ear. He squeezes gently under the head of Draco's cock, rubs his nipple with the pad of one finger. "Want me to stop?"
Draco whines, pressing his arse into Harry's uniformed crotch.
Harry gasps as Draco's delectable arse rubs against him. He sinks his teeth into Draco's shoulder, hand quickening between his legs. Draco groans in return, widening his stance. Harry presses up against him, his own dick aching. The sting of the hard rain leaves Harry's skin. The steam swells around them, warm and insulating, and Harry realises this yearning rampaging his body began when he'd watched Draco kick off from the ground and soar a wide, confident arc around the pitch at the start of the match. He's been wanting him, wanting this, ever since. Harry licks water from Draco's back, plays with his tit, strokes his cock.
"Fuck you," Draco bites out. Harry runs a finger over his slit and elicits a string of pre-come. He moves the foreskin over the head and pulls it back. Draco shakes. "Ffffuck you, Potter." He starts pulsing his hips, rutting into Harry's hand.
"Yes," Harry encourages, lips just behind his ear. He pinches the nipple under his fingers hard and fast, forearm flexing as he works Draco's cock.
"Fuck you," Draco groans. "Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you! Potter, fuck you! Fuck you!" He comes, Harry's hand stroking it out of him, ribbons and ribbons washing down the drain. "Fuck you," Draco whines, quaking. "Fuck you. Fuck you. Oh god, fuck you." Then, "Thank you."
Harry chuckles at the back of his neck.
"Fuck you, Harry," Draco chuckles back.
At his name, Harry spins Draco, pulls him close, and kisses him hard. Draco hums into his mouth, opens for him, drapes his arms around Harry's neck, loose with afterglow.
"Thank you," Draco whispers when Harry's kisses slow, gaining pauses between, a soft lick of Draco's lip, a warm gush of Draco's satisfied breath.
And then Draco's pushing, pressing Harry's back against the wall. Draco's kissing down his stubbled throat, unfastening his trousers.
"Draco…"
He slips to his knees, pulls Harry's pants down to clear his bollocks, letting his prick bounce free. Draco licks it, long and salacious, from root to glistening tip.
"You don't-" Harry swallows and tries again. "You d-"
"This is for me," Draco informs him, kissing the head of his cock, "not you." Then he goes down, all sucking sweetness and hollowed cheeks.
"Bloody Merlin's… fuck." The back of Harry's head hits tile.
"Articulate," Draco lifts his lips to say and then takes Harry's cock into his mouth again.
"Mother of all that's…"
At Draco's chuckle, the absurdly exquisite vibration of it on his cock, Harry abandons words and strips off his referee's robes, his shirt, letting them flump uselessly onto the shower floor. Draco's hands slip onto his bare arse and squeeze. Harry takes the hint and starts lightly thrusting into his face.
"Mmm," Draco hums. Harry stares down at him, cups his cheek, strokes his wet hair. Draco glances up, and their gazes meet. He slides a hand up Harry's stomach, his chest. Harry shivers and thrusts harder. Draco's eyes flutter closed. Harry feels it down his thighs when he comes. He pants and watches Draco swallow, watches the little bit that escapes his lips to roll down his chin.
"Oh god, Draco…"
Draco hums again, and oh how utterly mastered Harry is by the sound. He strokes Draco's face, panting and disturbingly enchanted by the look of his husband on his knees, his own cock slipping from Draco's swollen lips.
Draco smirks up at him. "All right. You might be forgiven."
"Can't we Apparate there?"
Harry turns his head and frowns at Draco as they walk, Draco's arm tight around his waist, Harry's loose around Draco's shoulders. "What, Apparate to the bike? It's just there!"
"My legs hurt."
"From the match or…?"
"Sod off, Potter." There's a reluctant smile in his voice.
"You know, you're not twenty anymore. You've been hit by more Bludgers than I care to count."
"I'm only forty-three."
"Malfoy."
"What?"
"You're forty-four."
Draco scoffs.
They're silent for a few more steps.
"Do you think it's going to rain again?" Draco muses.
"Don't change the subject."
"I wasn't aware there was one to change."
Harry sighs. "I retired five years ago, you know."
"Because even at thirty-nine, you were an old crotchety git."
Harry briefly makes like he might wrestle Draco into the mud. They stumble, arms still around each other, and Draco laughs.
"Well, maybe it's time to face your own crotchety gitishness."
"Never," Draco says.
"You're going to fly into your hundreds, are you?"
"Bloody right. And you'll be calling me for Blatching then as well, I'm sure."
"I'll be too busy rushing you to hospital for breaking every bone in your stubborn body."
Draco snorts.
They've arrived, so Harry lets go of him to swing a leg over the bike's body and kick it to life before Draco settles behind him.
"What's for dinner?" Draco asks. "Are the kids coming over?"
"They're at Ginny and Dean's tonight. Dean's birthday, I think."
"Is that so?" Draco asks at his ear.
Harry smiles and guns the engine. He feels Draco scoot in close up against his arse, his arms wrapping tightly around.
"Dinner can wait then," Draco purrs.
Harry turns his head and they share a lingering kiss, then Harry presses his toe down and they shoot down the lane, up into the air, and through the lightning-lit night.