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firewhiskeyficTitle: A Good Deal
Author:lq_traintracks
I am of legal drinking age in my region: Yes, but I still got carded at the store tonght! \o/
Pairing(s)/Characters/Fandom: Harry/Draco baby! (Sorry Sanpe)
Challenge/Prompts used: Knockturn Alley, Transfiguration, Frostbite
Summary: Harry’s slumming it. He’s not doing too well. Draco’s doing wrose.
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; rentboy, down-and-out!Draco, sexity sex sex sex
Word count: 2,222 Ha!
Author's Notes (if any): Wine is good.
The twilit sky presses down on Harry’s head as he lifts the collar of his coat against the cold and turns off Diagon.
Knockturn. Again. He’s not sure what he expects. It’s the same every time, whether in stifling summer heat, thick as water, or like now: dead of winter, everything shrunken into itself to preserve whatevver warmth it’s got left. The men change, but are always the same. The women too. The drinks are stronger down here but cheaper, the wine too sweet and the whiskey too sour.
He shrugs his shoulders, chest caved in, and walks faster, nearly bumping into someone so slight he very nearly assumed they were a shadow,
“Sorry,” Harry says, a hand on the stranger’s elbow to help him keep his balance.
Three steps down the alley, and a voie stops him in his tracks. “Potter?”
Harry turns. A threadbare cap covers a head he would have recognised anywhere, and as Malfoy drags it off, revealing his bare head to the elements, Harry frowns. “Malfoy, what are you doing here?”
There’s a flit to his eyelashes, a shine to Malfoy’s eyes as he approaches, though he shivers violently, the hat twisted in his hands. “Do you… want some company?”
Harry frowns further. But Malfoy, undeterred, comes closer, his teeth chattering behind lips so pale they’re verging on blue.
“It’s been a long time,” Malfoy says. He flicks his hair out of his face, off cheeks so gaunt it’s difficult to look at him.
“It has,” Harry agrees, wary. Warier still when Malfoy reaches out and slides a hand into Harry’s coat, onto his waist. Harry looks down at Malfoy’s arm disappearing into his coat and then back up into Malfoy’s face. “You should get inside somewhere, Draco. You don’t look well.”
Malfoy’s lips manage a crooked smile, and the huff of his breath is warm against Harry’s neck as he steps even closer. “You can take me any warm place you like, Harry.” Then, before Harry can react—can step away, or, even worse, pull Malfoy’s skinny, underclothed body into the shelter of his coat—Malfoy adds, “I’ll give you a really good deal.”
A good deal.
Harry lurches back to look him in the eye. He’s so cold he seems barely able to keep them open. They’re the colour of the sky, dirty slate, ringed with something that shifts between concrete and lavender.
“You’re a…” Harry can’t make himself say it. Even though it’s Malfoy. It’s only Malfioy.
Whore.
Malfoy shivers into a seductive smile aimed at Harry’s lips. “Yes, I’m a,” he says. He leans in and says against Harry’s jaw, “And I want to suck your cock.”
The revulsion Harry ought to feel slithers off his body and drains down the alley, seeping into the cold stone. He blinks… lets Malfoy slip his other arm beneath the coat, his hands rising up Harry’s back, and Harry wonders if this is part of the seduction or simply Malfoy unable not to seek the necessary heat from Harry’s warmer body.
Harry takes him by the upper arms and pulls him back. His nose is red. Malfoy flinches at the grip on his arms. Harry wonders if his toes are already frostbitten… wonders just how long he’s been out here. And if it’s been nightly. The cold front’s been unrelenting for days.
“You need help,” Harry tells him, and then, ignoring the pull of something so far back in his body, so weathered away by time and inaction that he almost doesn’t recognise its familiar contours, Harry turns and walks away from him.
It’s only Malfoy. It’s only bloody Malfoy. For fuck’s sake.
But Malfoy calls after him again. “Half price!” he shouts. “And I’ll give you seconds for free.”
Harry stops in his tracks. His head bows; his eyes close. It’s so cold, he feels like his face may blister with it.
Harry takes a breath, the torture of it searing his lungs. He turns back to Malfoy and walks up to him. When he takes hold of Malfoy’s body and jerks it tight into his own, he gets a gasp of surprise but no resistance. “Hold on,” he warns. And then when Malfoy does, Harry Apparates.
The old Harry wouldn’t take him up on it. The old Harry would have done one of two things: continue to walk away, or make sure Malfoy got someplace warm… and then walked away.
Harry is not his old self. He hasn’t been in a very long while.
The hotel he takes Malfoy to is inexpensive, nearby. There’s no way he’s taking Malfoy home with him. Harry hardly goes there himself anymore anyway. The art on the walls here is so old it doesn’t even move anymore. It sits there looking Muggle-ish, sepia and frozen in some other century, advertising a luxury that, faced with the other surroundings, comes off as absurd or ironic in the extreme.
The bedspread is… atrocious. Not that it matters at the moment. Malfoy’s got him pressed against a wall, and he’s kissing Harry’s neck like he means it, like he’s grateful, if not aroused. He’s trying to unbutton Harry’s trousers but failing.
“Malfoy,” Harry says. Who knows what possesses him. Because he follows that with, “Look at me.”
Malfoy does, lifting his now-tousled head, his threadbare cap dropped to the floor immeidately upon entering.
Harry has no gameplan for this. Hermione’s always on him to have a gameplan. Thinking it, a disbelieving smile flits onto his face. Malfoy sees it, blinks, and then smiles a similar smile in return, unable to suss Harry’s actual thoughts. The return of his smile, on Malfoy’s face though…
Harry finds himself cupping Malfoy’s jaw in one hand. Malfoy is cool to the touch, still not warmed from the room. Harry digs for his wand and, belatedly, sees the fear jump into Malfoy’s body in reaction.
“No,” he says. “I’m just…” And then he executes a warming charm, instantly upping the temperature in the room by a couple degrees.
“Oh,” says Malfoy with a shiver of what looks like pleasure. It looks good on him.
Harry thinks he’d like to see it again.
He thinks he’s lost his fucking mind.
“Suck my cock,” he says.
Something truly bizarre like delight brightens Malfoy’s ashen face. He sinks to the ground, and his newly nimble fingers work on Harry’s flies.
He shouldn’t be doing this. Malfoy needs sleep. He could use a hot meal, not Harry’s dick in his face. But Harry is half-hard, because he’s a bloody monster, and he’s not stopping this. He watches Malfoy take his cock in his hand, glance up at Harry’s face with a look of such… genuine admiration (which is unreal, surely a fantasy, not what he expects at all), before he wraps his lips around Harry’s cock and moans.
Harry lets his head fall back against the wall. He sighs. His hand sinks into Malfoy’s hair. As blow jobs go it’s… fucking good. Maybe masterful. A swoop of anger overtakes him momentarily, insane and out of place. He grips Malfoy’s hair tighter, and Malfoy moves on him, cheeks hollowing, head bobbing dutifully. He moans again, a luscious sound out of his flexing throat.
“Hold still. I want to fuck your mouth,” Harry says.
Malfoy whimpers and goes lax, obedient. Harry’s stomach sours, but for only a moment, and then he’s trhusting.
And Christ. Malfoy takes it. He places his hands on Harry’s shins and relaxes his throat, and… Harry clamps down on the pleasure before he can voice it, can tug Malfoy’s face into his groin and come down his throat.
He shoves Malfoy away too soon, not gently. “Take off your clothes.”
Malfoy strips as though being told to do so by Harry is everything he’s ever wanted. Harry doesn’t think about that too much. He whips the bedding off the bed, and when Malfoy’s nude (and he’s skinny, pale, underfed, but so so very beautiful still, Harry’s rather shocked by it), Harry commands him, “Face down.”
Because he can’t be looking at Malfoy’s face when he does this. When he buries his soul just a little deeper in someone else’s body. In Malfoy’s.
Malfoy slides onto his stomach, but not before Harry sees how hard his cock is. It’s cold comfort… that Malfoy, on some level, likes it. It doesn’t do much for Harry’s sense of himself or any lingering idea that he’s a person who can live up to any specter of who he once was, or maybe only pretended to be.
Harry climbs up behind him and jerks him into his knees.
“Harry,” Malfoy breathes, and he sounds so real, Harry almost believes the emotion behind it. He chooses to believe the next part: “God, fuck me. PLease fuck me.”
So Harry does. He lines up and pushes in and he doesn’t stop until he bottoms out, until Malfoy is gasping and crying a little bit and his bony arse is flush with Harry’s pelvis and Harry’s dick feels so good he’s afraid he’s not going to last. Not that it matters. Malfoy’s pleasure doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. He’s a whore.
Harry draws out, watches it, hears the whine in Malfoy’s breath, and then he slams back inside.
Malfoy’s a gasping, pliant thing as Harry pounds into him. His arse is warmer than anything, and Harry closes hsi eyes to fully feel him, the softness, the give, the clench of his body masquerading as need. Harry grasps his hips and hauls him back, and Malfoy lets himself be fucked, head turned on the rough sheets, cheeks pink now from the exertion, the adrenaline. He’s almost pretty.
Harry rocks into him, watching again now, eating it up, because this is once. This is one time. This is all it is. Their bodies make undignified slapping sounds, meeting quickly, efficiently, working up a friction, something Harry can’t fight, doesn’t want to, wishes he never had.
What if they’d been like this in school?
What if they’d shared a bed, shared this pleasure?
Would Malfoy have still done what he’d done?
Would Harry have?
“Fuck,” Harry grits out, forcing his thoughts down, down deep and then deeper.
“Yeah,” Malfoy replies, once again answering a refrain he can’t read. “Fuck me, Harry. Fuck me until you come.”
Recklessly, Harry pussl out. He flips Malfoy over onto his back and yanks Malfoy’s legs over his shoulders. Malfoy looks stunned by this, his round eyes staring up at Harry as though he doesn’t know what Harry might do next. But Harry just sinks inside again. He pushes into Malfoy’s warm arsehole, face to face, and, eyes fatalistically open, they fuck like that. They fuck looking into one another.
Malfoy braces one hand against the dodgy headboard as Harry goes at him like he’s trying to pound hinm into the next room. They don’t stop. Harry watches Malfoy as it happens… as he takes a few heavy, short breaths, and then he comes, his semen shooting up his own stomach, his chest. Harry lifts a hand and drags his fingers through it. He smears Malfoy’s mouth with Malfoy’s own come, and then—God when was the last time he let himself go like this—then he kisses Malfoy. He thrusts deep, hard, continuously, as Malfoy still shakes, and he bloody kisses him. Harry comes like that, his tongue inside Malfoy’s whining mouth, their lips open to one another, their bodies as close to flush as they’kll ever get.
Malfoy’s legs slip from his shoulders, exhausted. Harry feels a last tremor wrack him, a last jolt take him. He’s inside Malfoy’s body, on top of him, and as the kiss ends, their breath still mingling, Harry, even now, doesn’t close his eyes.
He thoght there would be the payment and then sending Malfoy back out into the cold. He’d thought that’s how this whole thing would end. Or maybe he’d be the one out there, walking away, leaving Malfoy the warm room and maybe a bit of extra money for food.
Jesus, for food.
But Malfoy’s fallen asleep. And Harry doesn’t have the heart to wake him, or to leave.
Doesn’t have the heart. What a funny saying. It means he still has a heart to determine his actions, to forge ahead with, to dismay over.
Harry reaches for his wand and transfigures the bedspread into something softer, something replete, something maybe like Malfoy once was used to, something he took for granted. He covers Malfoy’s body with it and watches him snuggle into the meagre pillows. Then Harry transfigures those too.
He lies on his side and watches Malfoy sleep. Most of the shps are closed now, even the pubs, but Harry does know of a Muggle place that they could get food from. If Malfoy wakes. When he wakes.
Money hasn’t exchanged hands yet. Harry doesn’t know how much a full night will cost. Not that it matters. He’s got the money.
For now, he lays his head on a pillow adjacent to Malfpy’s and he reaches out a hand, not tentative—he doesn’t think he’ll ever be tentative with Malfoy, and maytbe that’s a good thing. He reaches out and sifts Malfoy’s hair off his face., curling a lock behind his ear and then watching it fall again.
Author:
lq_traintracksI am of legal drinking age in my region: Yes, but I still got carded at the store tonght! \o/
Pairing(s)/Characters/Fandom: Harry/Draco baby! (Sorry Sanpe)
Challenge/Prompts used: Knockturn Alley, Transfiguration, Frostbite
Summary: Harry’s slumming it. He’s not doing too well. Draco’s doing wrose.
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; rentboy, down-and-out!Draco, sexity sex sex sex
Word count: 2,222 Ha!
Author's Notes (if any): Wine is good.
The twilit sky presses down on Harry’s head as he lifts the collar of his coat against the cold and turns off Diagon.
Knockturn. Again. He’s not sure what he expects. It’s the same every time, whether in stifling summer heat, thick as water, or like now: dead of winter, everything shrunken into itself to preserve whatevver warmth it’s got left. The men change, but are always the same. The women too. The drinks are stronger down here but cheaper, the wine too sweet and the whiskey too sour.
He shrugs his shoulders, chest caved in, and walks faster, nearly bumping into someone so slight he very nearly assumed they were a shadow,
“Sorry,” Harry says, a hand on the stranger’s elbow to help him keep his balance.
Three steps down the alley, and a voie stops him in his tracks. “Potter?”
Harry turns. A threadbare cap covers a head he would have recognised anywhere, and as Malfoy drags it off, revealing his bare head to the elements, Harry frowns. “Malfoy, what are you doing here?”
There’s a flit to his eyelashes, a shine to Malfoy’s eyes as he approaches, though he shivers violently, the hat twisted in his hands. “Do you… want some company?”
Harry frowns further. But Malfoy, undeterred, comes closer, his teeth chattering behind lips so pale they’re verging on blue.
“It’s been a long time,” Malfoy says. He flicks his hair out of his face, off cheeks so gaunt it’s difficult to look at him.
“It has,” Harry agrees, wary. Warier still when Malfoy reaches out and slides a hand into Harry’s coat, onto his waist. Harry looks down at Malfoy’s arm disappearing into his coat and then back up into Malfoy’s face. “You should get inside somewhere, Draco. You don’t look well.”
Malfoy’s lips manage a crooked smile, and the huff of his breath is warm against Harry’s neck as he steps even closer. “You can take me any warm place you like, Harry.” Then, before Harry can react—can step away, or, even worse, pull Malfoy’s skinny, underclothed body into the shelter of his coat—Malfoy adds, “I’ll give you a really good deal.”
A good deal.
Harry lurches back to look him in the eye. He’s so cold he seems barely able to keep them open. They’re the colour of the sky, dirty slate, ringed with something that shifts between concrete and lavender.
“You’re a…” Harry can’t make himself say it. Even though it’s Malfoy. It’s only Malfioy.
Whore.
Malfoy shivers into a seductive smile aimed at Harry’s lips. “Yes, I’m a,” he says. He leans in and says against Harry’s jaw, “And I want to suck your cock.”
The revulsion Harry ought to feel slithers off his body and drains down the alley, seeping into the cold stone. He blinks… lets Malfoy slip his other arm beneath the coat, his hands rising up Harry’s back, and Harry wonders if this is part of the seduction or simply Malfoy unable not to seek the necessary heat from Harry’s warmer body.
Harry takes him by the upper arms and pulls him back. His nose is red. Malfoy flinches at the grip on his arms. Harry wonders if his toes are already frostbitten… wonders just how long he’s been out here. And if it’s been nightly. The cold front’s been unrelenting for days.
“You need help,” Harry tells him, and then, ignoring the pull of something so far back in his body, so weathered away by time and inaction that he almost doesn’t recognise its familiar contours, Harry turns and walks away from him.
It’s only Malfoy. It’s only bloody Malfoy. For fuck’s sake.
But Malfoy calls after him again. “Half price!” he shouts. “And I’ll give you seconds for free.”
Harry stops in his tracks. His head bows; his eyes close. It’s so cold, he feels like his face may blister with it.
Harry takes a breath, the torture of it searing his lungs. He turns back to Malfoy and walks up to him. When he takes hold of Malfoy’s body and jerks it tight into his own, he gets a gasp of surprise but no resistance. “Hold on,” he warns. And then when Malfoy does, Harry Apparates.
The old Harry wouldn’t take him up on it. The old Harry would have done one of two things: continue to walk away, or make sure Malfoy got someplace warm… and then walked away.
Harry is not his old self. He hasn’t been in a very long while.
The hotel he takes Malfoy to is inexpensive, nearby. There’s no way he’s taking Malfoy home with him. Harry hardly goes there himself anymore anyway. The art on the walls here is so old it doesn’t even move anymore. It sits there looking Muggle-ish, sepia and frozen in some other century, advertising a luxury that, faced with the other surroundings, comes off as absurd or ironic in the extreme.
The bedspread is… atrocious. Not that it matters at the moment. Malfoy’s got him pressed against a wall, and he’s kissing Harry’s neck like he means it, like he’s grateful, if not aroused. He’s trying to unbutton Harry’s trousers but failing.
“Malfoy,” Harry says. Who knows what possesses him. Because he follows that with, “Look at me.”
Malfoy does, lifting his now-tousled head, his threadbare cap dropped to the floor immeidately upon entering.
Harry has no gameplan for this. Hermione’s always on him to have a gameplan. Thinking it, a disbelieving smile flits onto his face. Malfoy sees it, blinks, and then smiles a similar smile in return, unable to suss Harry’s actual thoughts. The return of his smile, on Malfoy’s face though…
Harry finds himself cupping Malfoy’s jaw in one hand. Malfoy is cool to the touch, still not warmed from the room. Harry digs for his wand and, belatedly, sees the fear jump into Malfoy’s body in reaction.
“No,” he says. “I’m just…” And then he executes a warming charm, instantly upping the temperature in the room by a couple degrees.
“Oh,” says Malfoy with a shiver of what looks like pleasure. It looks good on him.
Harry thinks he’d like to see it again.
He thinks he’s lost his fucking mind.
“Suck my cock,” he says.
Something truly bizarre like delight brightens Malfoy’s ashen face. He sinks to the ground, and his newly nimble fingers work on Harry’s flies.
He shouldn’t be doing this. Malfoy needs sleep. He could use a hot meal, not Harry’s dick in his face. But Harry is half-hard, because he’s a bloody monster, and he’s not stopping this. He watches Malfoy take his cock in his hand, glance up at Harry’s face with a look of such… genuine admiration (which is unreal, surely a fantasy, not what he expects at all), before he wraps his lips around Harry’s cock and moans.
Harry lets his head fall back against the wall. He sighs. His hand sinks into Malfoy’s hair. As blow jobs go it’s… fucking good. Maybe masterful. A swoop of anger overtakes him momentarily, insane and out of place. He grips Malfoy’s hair tighter, and Malfoy moves on him, cheeks hollowing, head bobbing dutifully. He moans again, a luscious sound out of his flexing throat.
“Hold still. I want to fuck your mouth,” Harry says.
Malfoy whimpers and goes lax, obedient. Harry’s stomach sours, but for only a moment, and then he’s trhusting.
And Christ. Malfoy takes it. He places his hands on Harry’s shins and relaxes his throat, and… Harry clamps down on the pleasure before he can voice it, can tug Malfoy’s face into his groin and come down his throat.
He shoves Malfoy away too soon, not gently. “Take off your clothes.”
Malfoy strips as though being told to do so by Harry is everything he’s ever wanted. Harry doesn’t think about that too much. He whips the bedding off the bed, and when Malfoy’s nude (and he’s skinny, pale, underfed, but so so very beautiful still, Harry’s rather shocked by it), Harry commands him, “Face down.”
Because he can’t be looking at Malfoy’s face when he does this. When he buries his soul just a little deeper in someone else’s body. In Malfoy’s.
Malfoy slides onto his stomach, but not before Harry sees how hard his cock is. It’s cold comfort… that Malfoy, on some level, likes it. It doesn’t do much for Harry’s sense of himself or any lingering idea that he’s a person who can live up to any specter of who he once was, or maybe only pretended to be.
Harry climbs up behind him and jerks him into his knees.
“Harry,” Malfoy breathes, and he sounds so real, Harry almost believes the emotion behind it. He chooses to believe the next part: “God, fuck me. PLease fuck me.”
So Harry does. He lines up and pushes in and he doesn’t stop until he bottoms out, until Malfoy is gasping and crying a little bit and his bony arse is flush with Harry’s pelvis and Harry’s dick feels so good he’s afraid he’s not going to last. Not that it matters. Malfoy’s pleasure doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. He’s a whore.
Harry draws out, watches it, hears the whine in Malfoy’s breath, and then he slams back inside.
Malfoy’s a gasping, pliant thing as Harry pounds into him. His arse is warmer than anything, and Harry closes hsi eyes to fully feel him, the softness, the give, the clench of his body masquerading as need. Harry grasps his hips and hauls him back, and Malfoy lets himself be fucked, head turned on the rough sheets, cheeks pink now from the exertion, the adrenaline. He’s almost pretty.
Harry rocks into him, watching again now, eating it up, because this is once. This is one time. This is all it is. Their bodies make undignified slapping sounds, meeting quickly, efficiently, working up a friction, something Harry can’t fight, doesn’t want to, wishes he never had.
What if they’d been like this in school?
What if they’d shared a bed, shared this pleasure?
Would Malfoy have still done what he’d done?
Would Harry have?
“Fuck,” Harry grits out, forcing his thoughts down, down deep and then deeper.
“Yeah,” Malfoy replies, once again answering a refrain he can’t read. “Fuck me, Harry. Fuck me until you come.”
Recklessly, Harry pussl out. He flips Malfoy over onto his back and yanks Malfoy’s legs over his shoulders. Malfoy looks stunned by this, his round eyes staring up at Harry as though he doesn’t know what Harry might do next. But Harry just sinks inside again. He pushes into Malfoy’s warm arsehole, face to face, and, eyes fatalistically open, they fuck like that. They fuck looking into one another.
Malfoy braces one hand against the dodgy headboard as Harry goes at him like he’s trying to pound hinm into the next room. They don’t stop. Harry watches Malfoy as it happens… as he takes a few heavy, short breaths, and then he comes, his semen shooting up his own stomach, his chest. Harry lifts a hand and drags his fingers through it. He smears Malfoy’s mouth with Malfoy’s own come, and then—God when was the last time he let himself go like this—then he kisses Malfoy. He thrusts deep, hard, continuously, as Malfoy still shakes, and he bloody kisses him. Harry comes like that, his tongue inside Malfoy’s whining mouth, their lips open to one another, their bodies as close to flush as they’kll ever get.
Malfoy’s legs slip from his shoulders, exhausted. Harry feels a last tremor wrack him, a last jolt take him. He’s inside Malfoy’s body, on top of him, and as the kiss ends, their breath still mingling, Harry, even now, doesn’t close his eyes.
He thoght there would be the payment and then sending Malfoy back out into the cold. He’d thought that’s how this whole thing would end. Or maybe he’d be the one out there, walking away, leaving Malfoy the warm room and maybe a bit of extra money for food.
Jesus, for food.
But Malfoy’s fallen asleep. And Harry doesn’t have the heart to wake him, or to leave.
Doesn’t have the heart. What a funny saying. It means he still has a heart to determine his actions, to forge ahead with, to dismay over.
Harry reaches for his wand and transfigures the bedspread into something softer, something replete, something maybe like Malfoy once was used to, something he took for granted. He covers Malfoy’s body with it and watches him snuggle into the meagre pillows. Then Harry transfigures those too.
He lies on his side and watches Malfoy sleep. Most of the shps are closed now, even the pubs, but Harry does know of a Muggle place that they could get food from. If Malfoy wakes. When he wakes.
Money hasn’t exchanged hands yet. Harry doesn’t know how much a full night will cost. Not that it matters. He’s got the money.
For now, he lays his head on a pillow adjacent to Malfpy’s and he reaches out a hand, not tentative—he doesn’t think he’ll ever be tentative with Malfoy, and maytbe that’s a good thing. He reaches out and sifts Malfoy’s hair off his face., curling a lock behind his ear and then watching it fall again.