FIC: Lightning Quick [Harry/Draco]
Title: Lightning Quick
Author: winkola
Prompt: # S22 by sempreme123
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Word Count: 1500
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Sex
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: Thank you to my beta decynthus. If not for you then this fic would be filled with mangled English and French.
Summary: Harry has a kink for Draco speaking French.
"Do you remember that summer we went to France?"
Draco looks up from his mug of tea at Harry's question. It's almost cold, which he abhors, but his attention keeps being diverted by the Prophet. He sets his mug down gently. It's green but lined at the top with small red and gold dragons. It was Harry's gift to him when they first moved in together. It was meant to be a joke- encouraged by Weasley, not doubt, but now it has become Draco's favorite mug, and he refuses to take his morning cuppa in anything else.
Harry is sitting across from him on the other side of their small dining table. The flat is small, intimate. Moving from the sprawling halls of the Manor to a two bedroom, two bath, and kitchen flat in the middle of London has taken some getting used to. Draco is not accustomed to constantly being in the space of another person, or another person in his. Even at Hogwarts he had the opportunity to escape into many of the empty classrooms, fields or even pockets of alcoves if he needed a moment to himself.
Now, Draco is surrounded by items like Muggle photos or Chudley Cannons memorabilia that constantly remind him of another person. It surrounds him but, to his surprise, it does not suffocate him. His sacrifice is paid for in the quiet mornings like this when his toes retreat from the cold kitchen tile and run up the warm space within Harry's pajama bottoms. He raises his foot to slowly graze higher along his partner's legs, thoroughly enjoying the scratch of Harry's leg hair. Harry's gaze is fixed firmly on the Quidditch section that Draco has generously, lovingly allowed him to read first.
"The one after the war?" Draco's answer is laced with sarcasm because he knows damned well that Potter knows Draco knows which summer in France he's talking about.
And they hadn't "gone to France"- not in the likeness of a vacation which Harry's question implies.
Draco had escaped to France after cornering the young hero in the ruined remains of the castle, kissing the brunette within an inch of his life, then legging it to the Malfoy cottage in rural France, hidden and unplottable amidst the forest close to Dreyes les Belles Fontaines. He could have chosen the residence in Paris but he felt the cottage would afford him more shelter from meddlesome things like Aurors, stray Death Eaters, or tousle-haired-gorgeous(-possibly-angry)-Gryffindors.
He'd lived in fear for the first three months thinking every shadow was a lurking Auror ready to cart him off to Azkaban. Then he'd spent the next three drifting between relief and indignation at the realization that he wasn't even worthy of being chased by the Chosen One. Even if it was to hex Draco for molesting him. Draco was working himself into a state of depressed bitterness with fantasies of Potter planning his revolting- and slightly incestuous- wedding to the littlest Weasley when Harry finally showed up on his doorstep, one hand clutching a missive with his Mother's curling script and the other proffering wilting narcissi.
Now, Harry coughs then sniffs. Harry rubs his nose then the hand skitters behind his head to rub nervously at his hair. That catches Draco's attention because he knows all of Harry's tells. Draco experiences that second of dizzying joy he gets every time he realizes that he is now one of the few fortunate ones that have the privilege of getting close enough to Harry to recognize these intimate details. When he can focus again, he notices that Harry is nervously fiddling with the edge of the Quidditch section and refusing to look at Draco.
Also, his ears are pink.
Draco smirks. He loves this. Sunday mornings like this one: Potter doesn't have to rush off to save crups and kneazles, or whatever it is that Aurors get up to, and Draco doesn't have any meetings with solicitors or overbearing, meddling, but well-meaning mothers. Rare are the bright and sunny Sunday mornings like this when Harry is randy and Draco is the lucky bastard that gets to bend him over their table.
Draco walks around to Harry’s side until he can look over Harry's shoulder. He's curious about what could possibly be in the Prophet that has put his lover in this mood. He frowns in confusion as he reads the headline out loud. "Bubbling Bowels Curse Cripples Chudley Cannons".
Before Draco starts to wonder about his boyfriend's sanity, he sees that Harry's right hand is covering a particular portion of the print. Draco gently but firmly moves his hand. It turns out to be an advert for a new line of French racing brooms. The copy is written in French, and Draco begins to read aloud. "L'incendie - Plus rapide que l'éclair."
Harry makes a small, barely audible noise. He squirms in his seat. Draco can see that his blush is now in full bloom across both cheeks. Draco pauses to think this over before it finally dawns on him...
"Really?" Draco drawls. They have been dating for a little over three years now and he cannot believe that he is just now discovering this juicy tidbit.
"Shut up Malfoy." Harry groans and bangs his head on the table.
Draco leans in and breaths into his ear. "Vraiment?"
"No," Harry moans. "Keep talking. Please."
Harry makes an attempt to scoot his chair closer to the table, concealing himself. Draco will have none of that.
"Up. Now." Draco thought he already knew all of Potter's kinks. The afternoon, evening and morning that he had discovered Harry's love for being rough-handled had become one of his favorite memories. It sends a thrill up his spine and sizzles his brain- the thought that there is more that he can learn about this man. So much more.
"Debout! Lève-toi!" Draco orders and Harry obeys, almost as if against his own will. Draco makes a tsk-ing noise when he turns his lover and sees Harry's erection stretching against soft cotton "Pourquoi te caches-tu? Je désire te voir."
"Draco. Please."
Draco does not waste time thinking he can deny this man anything. Not anymore. "Lay back. Allonge-toi...Étends-toi." Draco helps Harry obey by easing him down over the surface of their table, its previous contents magically transported away.
The slight tremble in Harry's hands as he lifts his top over his head exposes his need but the line of his gaze- focused on Draco- does not waver. Draco, meanwhile, runs his hands over Harry's lower half. His hips. His thighs. His calves. All of these are Draco's to claim. He drops Harry's pants away and they are forgotten. Harry is spread open for him and the sight triggers a rush of blood throughout the blond's body so strong and fast it almost makes him stumble. It's an effort to hold on to himself and it burns him hotly, leaves him struggling for breath.
This won't last long- not when it's this intense. They can both feel it.
Harry summons the lube and reaches for himself. Were this another time, he might have teased Draco. He might have started higher, putting pressure on his nipples making them harden. He might have let his hands travel, slowly down, over his navel, past his hips, and over his cock. But that is not this time.
Now Harry's left hand traps his length, running over it at a pace just shy of frantic while he breaches himself with his right. Draco can see what he wants and how badly he wants it. And Draco will give it to him. He will, but Draco can't resist dropping to his knees and licking a stripe up his lover's opening.
Harry groans desperately and his head thumps against the wood beneath him. "Draco," he begs again.
"Tu es si délicieux"
Draco knows Harry's patience is at an end when he grabs a handful of Draco's hair and yanks. He knows Draco hates that; he's no longer asking. Harry is demanding attention. Draco rises to meet him and grabs the abandoned lube. He smears a liberal amount on his hand, too excited to be careful. He slicks himself then positions himself for entry. Harry releases his erection to scrabble at Draco's shoulders as Draco begins to enter him.
The sounds they make as Draco makes the final thrust and bottoms out- they are obscene. The creak of the table. Their mingled moans. The slap of skin against skin, of skin against wood.
“Finir-moi,” Harry begs in clumsy French, mindless in his pleasure.
Draco plants both elbows on either side of his lover. Harry clutches at him desperately. He claws Draco's back as Draco moves faster. He has to close his eyes when he comes because it's too much, he feels too much then. Draco follows quickly, trapped in Harry's heat.
They don't move afterwards. It takes them almost a minute to come down.
Then Harry giggles. The sound is so ridiculous, especially in this moment when Draco is still in him and he's lying naked where they eat, that a few giggles escape Draco as well.
“What's so funny Potter?” Draco asks the question into Harry's neck because he's not ready to get up yet. His back will protest in a bit but for now he could happily die here.
“Plus rapide que l'éclair.” Harry answers then giggles some more.
The End
Author: winkola
Prompt: # S22 by sempreme123
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Word Count: 1500
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Sex
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: Thank you to my beta decynthus. If not for you then this fic would be filled with mangled English and French.
Summary: Harry has a kink for Draco speaking French.
"Do you remember that summer we went to France?"
Draco looks up from his mug of tea at Harry's question. It's almost cold, which he abhors, but his attention keeps being diverted by the Prophet. He sets his mug down gently. It's green but lined at the top with small red and gold dragons. It was Harry's gift to him when they first moved in together. It was meant to be a joke- encouraged by Weasley, not doubt, but now it has become Draco's favorite mug, and he refuses to take his morning cuppa in anything else.
Harry is sitting across from him on the other side of their small dining table. The flat is small, intimate. Moving from the sprawling halls of the Manor to a two bedroom, two bath, and kitchen flat in the middle of London has taken some getting used to. Draco is not accustomed to constantly being in the space of another person, or another person in his. Even at Hogwarts he had the opportunity to escape into many of the empty classrooms, fields or even pockets of alcoves if he needed a moment to himself.
Now, Draco is surrounded by items like Muggle photos or Chudley Cannons memorabilia that constantly remind him of another person. It surrounds him but, to his surprise, it does not suffocate him. His sacrifice is paid for in the quiet mornings like this when his toes retreat from the cold kitchen tile and run up the warm space within Harry's pajama bottoms. He raises his foot to slowly graze higher along his partner's legs, thoroughly enjoying the scratch of Harry's leg hair. Harry's gaze is fixed firmly on the Quidditch section that Draco has generously, lovingly allowed him to read first.
"The one after the war?" Draco's answer is laced with sarcasm because he knows damned well that Potter knows Draco knows which summer in France he's talking about.
And they hadn't "gone to France"- not in the likeness of a vacation which Harry's question implies.
Draco had escaped to France after cornering the young hero in the ruined remains of the castle, kissing the brunette within an inch of his life, then legging it to the Malfoy cottage in rural France, hidden and unplottable amidst the forest close to Dreyes les Belles Fontaines. He could have chosen the residence in Paris but he felt the cottage would afford him more shelter from meddlesome things like Aurors, stray Death Eaters, or tousle-haired-gorgeous(-possibly-angry)-Gryffindors.
He'd lived in fear for the first three months thinking every shadow was a lurking Auror ready to cart him off to Azkaban. Then he'd spent the next three drifting between relief and indignation at the realization that he wasn't even worthy of being chased by the Chosen One. Even if it was to hex Draco for molesting him. Draco was working himself into a state of depressed bitterness with fantasies of Potter planning his revolting- and slightly incestuous- wedding to the littlest Weasley when Harry finally showed up on his doorstep, one hand clutching a missive with his Mother's curling script and the other proffering wilting narcissi.
Now, Harry coughs then sniffs. Harry rubs his nose then the hand skitters behind his head to rub nervously at his hair. That catches Draco's attention because he knows all of Harry's tells. Draco experiences that second of dizzying joy he gets every time he realizes that he is now one of the few fortunate ones that have the privilege of getting close enough to Harry to recognize these intimate details. When he can focus again, he notices that Harry is nervously fiddling with the edge of the Quidditch section and refusing to look at Draco.
Also, his ears are pink.
Draco smirks. He loves this. Sunday mornings like this one: Potter doesn't have to rush off to save crups and kneazles, or whatever it is that Aurors get up to, and Draco doesn't have any meetings with solicitors or overbearing, meddling, but well-meaning mothers. Rare are the bright and sunny Sunday mornings like this when Harry is randy and Draco is the lucky bastard that gets to bend him over their table.
Draco walks around to Harry’s side until he can look over Harry's shoulder. He's curious about what could possibly be in the Prophet that has put his lover in this mood. He frowns in confusion as he reads the headline out loud. "Bubbling Bowels Curse Cripples Chudley Cannons".
Before Draco starts to wonder about his boyfriend's sanity, he sees that Harry's right hand is covering a particular portion of the print. Draco gently but firmly moves his hand. It turns out to be an advert for a new line of French racing brooms. The copy is written in French, and Draco begins to read aloud. "L'incendie - Plus rapide que l'éclair."
Harry makes a small, barely audible noise. He squirms in his seat. Draco can see that his blush is now in full bloom across both cheeks. Draco pauses to think this over before it finally dawns on him...
"Really?" Draco drawls. They have been dating for a little over three years now and he cannot believe that he is just now discovering this juicy tidbit.
"Shut up Malfoy." Harry groans and bangs his head on the table.
Draco leans in and breaths into his ear. "Vraiment?"
"No," Harry moans. "Keep talking. Please."
Harry makes an attempt to scoot his chair closer to the table, concealing himself. Draco will have none of that.
"Up. Now." Draco thought he already knew all of Potter's kinks. The afternoon, evening and morning that he had discovered Harry's love for being rough-handled had become one of his favorite memories. It sends a thrill up his spine and sizzles his brain- the thought that there is more that he can learn about this man. So much more.
"Debout! Lève-toi!" Draco orders and Harry obeys, almost as if against his own will. Draco makes a tsk-ing noise when he turns his lover and sees Harry's erection stretching against soft cotton "Pourquoi te caches-tu? Je désire te voir."
"Draco. Please."
Draco does not waste time thinking he can deny this man anything. Not anymore. "Lay back. Allonge-toi...Étends-toi." Draco helps Harry obey by easing him down over the surface of their table, its previous contents magically transported away.
The slight tremble in Harry's hands as he lifts his top over his head exposes his need but the line of his gaze- focused on Draco- does not waver. Draco, meanwhile, runs his hands over Harry's lower half. His hips. His thighs. His calves. All of these are Draco's to claim. He drops Harry's pants away and they are forgotten. Harry is spread open for him and the sight triggers a rush of blood throughout the blond's body so strong and fast it almost makes him stumble. It's an effort to hold on to himself and it burns him hotly, leaves him struggling for breath.
This won't last long- not when it's this intense. They can both feel it.
Harry summons the lube and reaches for himself. Were this another time, he might have teased Draco. He might have started higher, putting pressure on his nipples making them harden. He might have let his hands travel, slowly down, over his navel, past his hips, and over his cock. But that is not this time.
Now Harry's left hand traps his length, running over it at a pace just shy of frantic while he breaches himself with his right. Draco can see what he wants and how badly he wants it. And Draco will give it to him. He will, but Draco can't resist dropping to his knees and licking a stripe up his lover's opening.
Harry groans desperately and his head thumps against the wood beneath him. "Draco," he begs again.
"Tu es si délicieux"
Draco knows Harry's patience is at an end when he grabs a handful of Draco's hair and yanks. He knows Draco hates that; he's no longer asking. Harry is demanding attention. Draco rises to meet him and grabs the abandoned lube. He smears a liberal amount on his hand, too excited to be careful. He slicks himself then positions himself for entry. Harry releases his erection to scrabble at Draco's shoulders as Draco begins to enter him.
The sounds they make as Draco makes the final thrust and bottoms out- they are obscene. The creak of the table. Their mingled moans. The slap of skin against skin, of skin against wood.
“Finir-moi,” Harry begs in clumsy French, mindless in his pleasure.
Draco plants both elbows on either side of his lover. Harry clutches at him desperately. He claws Draco's back as Draco moves faster. He has to close his eyes when he comes because it's too much, he feels too much then. Draco follows quickly, trapped in Harry's heat.
They don't move afterwards. It takes them almost a minute to come down.
Then Harry giggles. The sound is so ridiculous, especially in this moment when Draco is still in him and he's lying naked where they eat, that a few giggles escape Draco as well.
“What's so funny Potter?” Draco asks the question into Harry's neck because he's not ready to get up yet. His back will protest in a bit but for now he could happily die here.
“Plus rapide que l'éclair.” Harry answers then giggles some more.
The End