Happy Holidays crumbfreebread
Title: Rock Hard Vice (or Twelve Days ‘til Boxing Day or In which Harry Denies He’s Gay Eleven Times)
To: Cait or crumbfreebread
From: Domz or dadomz
Rating: NC17
Warning: Sex, Alcohol, Mild Exhibitionism, Absurd Metaphors, Crude (and not artistic) sex descriptions and lotsa’ swearing-not a very good combination, I reckon.
Genre: (An attempt, rather, at) Slight Humour/Utter Cra(p)ck
Summary: Just how many times can you read the word sex?
Note: This is my first try at porn and humour-surprisingly, I’ve managed to come up with more or less twelve sex scenarios (most of which being connotative). I am not held liable for brain cell deterioration.
Tenchu: My respective beta-readers and guinea pigs, you’re all loffly.
++: This was posted on time however, I'm not quite sure as to why it only appeared now. Either ways, posting access is granted and I thought--Hey, I worked for this fic, so why not post it? It's horrendous, I know, but give me a break, I'm on my temporary leave from the fandom (just couldn't resist).
I5, December
Draco steps into the office bearing a large, awfully-wrapped box. He looks infuriatingly impeccable considering the abrupt drop in temperature and the ongoing snowstorm that can be seen raging outside the third floor Ministry window.
He drops the package on top of his desk and heaves a loud, dramatic sigh. “Reading the sports section again, I see. It’s not going to make you straight.”
The room’s other occupant lowers the Prophet. “It’s not going to make me straight because I am straight--by the way, where are my cranberry muffins?”
“Ask one of the interns to get it for you, you straight man,” Draco sits on his chair primly, shrugging off his coat and pulling out a packet of postage stamps.
“I recall myself hiring a secretary to attend to my everyday needs, not to sit pretty and do his nails.”
“Oh please, you’re Harry Potter,” Draco pulls the topmost drawer of his desk open and starts shuffling through the enormous pile of rubbish. “Everyone’s dying to attend to your every whim. You don’t even need a secretary for that. Now, where are my bloody scissors? Have you seen them?”
Harry shakes his head, offering Draco his own pair. He watches the blonde snip away at the topmost part of the plastic; pulling out sheets upon sheets of stamps.
“My father wanted a shovel for Christmas; said he was going to dig a hole deep enough to reach the Isle of Wight.” Draco starts tearing the irregularly punched holes. “By the way, the paperwork for the Trafalgar Square incident is on your desk along with a memo.”
“Really?” Harry starts rifling through the towering pile of paperwork and invoices sufficiently covering every inch of the desk’s surface. He looks up at Draco and states, “I can’t find it.”
Draco sighs as he licks a postage stamp; he flattens it meticulously on the box’s top surface. He pulls out another one and licks it as well, then catching a glimpse of Harry’s desk, “Considering your table’s current disposition, I doubt you can find anything at all.”
Harry scowls and shoves everything off his desk in one fluid motion. “There,” he lets out a satisfied grimace and observes Draco. “You do know that you can purchase stamps corresponding to whatever amount you want, right?”
Draco ignores him and licks the back of the fifth postage stamp, pink tongue darting in and out, a glistening sheen on the tip right before slapping it on top of the colourful wrapping paper. “I have to send this all the way to the Gobi Desert.” He pauses and looks thoughtful for a moment before popping a finger into his mouth.
Harry’s eyes linger on to the slender index finger.
“It’s to avoid Wizard Customs, Muggle postage. Then from there, they’ll ship it off to Iceland and smuggle it all the way into Azkaban.” He rubs his finger on the stamp’s back and puts it on top once again.
Harry unfastens his own belt buckle; his pants feel tight. He wipes the offending droplets of sweat from his brow and fans his flushed face.
“This seems to be the only probable solution--I mean, if I had to send it by Wizarding Post, I’ll have to bribe an officer for them to loosen the security check. It would take around fifteen days for this present to arrive and then another year for my father to dig a hole deep enough to get to the Isle of Wight and--Harry, what are you doing?”
Harry looks up from under Draco’s desk and tries to look sheepish. “I’m trying to sate my heterosexual desires by using you as a substitute?” Draco did not look amused. “Which translates to I want to pull down your pants, shove you up against my wall, and fuck you.”
“Do you have any decency, you horny bastard? We’re in the middle of work.” Draco stands up and crosses his arms. “And besides, your cubicle wall is made of glass, Harry. Where’re your work ethics? People will see my arse from the outside.”
“I’m sure they’ll enjoy the free show.”
Draco rolls his eyes and makes his way across the room, leaning against the glass panes and unbuttoning his trousers. “I demand a pay raise.”
16, December
“So you decide to just drop by my flat unannounced at eleven fucking pm so you can shove your cock up somewhere warm, you bloody wanker?” Draco yawns and props his chin on top of his upturned palm. “Why don’t you just go fuck some rent boy like every self-respecting fag on the planet and leave me the bloody fuck alone?”
“I’m not gay; I just have needs.”
“Like Keeping your dick warm.”
“Hey, I didn’t make the rules.” Harry deposits Draco’s heating blanket straight to the floor. “You did, the moment you took the job--now, roll over.”
A sigh. “Do I really have to do this?”
“You are my secretary after all.” Harry states matter-of-factly.
“If I’m not mistaken, office hours are from 9 am to 5 pm.”
“You’re working overtime today then.”
“That’s fifty galleons per hour,” Draco mumbles as he presses his face against the pillow. “Fuck my arse all you want but I’m going back to sleep.”
“Sure.” Harry unrolls a packet of Trojan. “Where’s the lube?” He watches as Draco grapples for an economy-sized vat of lubricant from the top of his bedside drawer. Harry rolls his eyes as he makes a grab for it, uncapping the bottle instantly and squeezing a generous amount onto his palms. Running his middle and index finger gingerly over Draco’s crack and dipping in slightly at his entrance.
“You know, I’ve been rutting here for the past five minutes, the least you can do is scream your head off.”
Draco raises his head and grumbles flatly, “Yes, Oh Merlin, More, Faster, Harder, Oh God--did I leave anything out? No? All right, don’t wake me up when you’re done.”
17, December
Draco is seated on a Piccadilly park bench at six am, clad in Muggle sweats and a pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses.
“Morning,” Harry sits next to him, decked out, head-to-toe, in plebeian orange Nike sportswear.
“You’re oddly cheerful in the morning,” Draco offers a half-hearted glare. “And horrendously dressed.”
Harry ignores the latter statement. “Right before the war, everything was getting on my nerves: the coffee not black enough, the water not cold enough, the lack of alcohol in the camp, the loud sex noises Ron and Hermione made, the possibility of Voldemort murdering me in my sleep with a toothbrush, your father trying to molest me in the heat of battle, Dobby leaving cryptic little messages in my sock drawer--”
“Now that I think about it, you are awfully bitchy when they add more than two lumps of sugar on your coffee.”
“Irregardless,” Harry glares at Draco for interrupting him mid-tirade. “Seamus advised me to run laps to release endorphins, you know, the happy hormones. So when I run in the morning, I’m pretty much pleasant the rest of the day. So I was thinking, since you’ve got an awful temper yourself, I decided to wake you up and make you run with me.”
Draco makes a move to stand up, “Thanks but no thanks, I don’t date mentally retarded war heroes who’re perpetually confused with their sexuality--that and I hate getting sweaty early in the morning.”
“This is not a date.” Harry glares at him, tugging on to the sleeve of Draco’s sweatshirt.
“I’m still not running.”
“Don’t be petulant, Malfoy. We can run for at least five minutes and go at it by the bushes.”
Draco pauses slightly and peers at Harry over the top of his sunglasses. “Not gay, huh?”
18, December
“I just learned this new missionary position using arm rests,” Harry whispers into Draco’s ear, arms encircling the blond’s slim waist from behind.
“That’s nice,” Draco mumbles as he sifts through an array of official records. “Lovely, I think I lost the East Edinburgh case files.”
Harry frowns at the various envelopes strewn about the tiny desk. “Don’t stress on it, I’m sure we can postpone the hearing until next Tuesday.”
“I want to get the Lethifold incident in East Edinburgh done as soon as possible.” Draco grunts as Harry tugs his pinstriped trousers down to his knees. “Just so that bitch Chang won’t have a reason to drop by.”
“She has been dropping by more often than not.” Harry rests his chin on Draco’s shoulders, hands fiddling the waistband of Draco’s silk boxers. “Jealous much?”
“Me, jealous of a straight woman hitting on a straight man?” Draco scoffs, pushing Harry down on the leather armchair with light and playful pressure. “Oh please, I wouldn’t go that low.”
“Damn right you are,” Harry grins as Draco straddles him. “Because she does nothing for me.”
Draco laughs faintly and kisses the corner of Harry’s lips. “Of course, you’re a heterosexual man with homosexual tendencies. And besides, Chang looks like a cross between Cher and Michael Jackson.”
“Right, so I was thinking, I’ll sit right here and then you’ll raise your leg and prop it on top of the armrest--position the tip of my cock right before your hole and then you’ll gradually lower your arse down…yes, like that. Then you’ll ride it slow at first, then faster, and then slow once again; you can shift your pace and oh! That’s nice, you can, you can try gyrating your hips--yes…”
19, December
“So hypothetically speaking, you brought me out on this little non-date get together just so you could have me, a fervent homosexual, blow you, a sexually repressed heterosexual, under the table.”
Harry’s eyes glaze over. “Absolutely.”
“And you’re telling me,” Draco smirks as he crosses his legs, punctuating each and every syllable, “That if I were to blow you off, say now, you’re going allow me to do anything-and I repeat anything-that I want.”
“Yes.”
“Anything, anything--just to blow you off under the table.”
Harry suppresses the urge to moan. “Say blow again.”
“Blow.”
“That’s so sexy.” Harry licks his lips as Draco makes a move to crawl under the table, his fingers bumping slightly against Harry’s shins.
Harry parts the cascade of soft linen tablecloth by his midsection, “You all right down there?”
Draco tugs the zipper down gradually, eyes heavy-lidded, “Spit or swallow?”
“Your call,” Harry heaves partially, before abruptly seizing the blonde’s chin towards him. “Just don’t stain my shoes, I have to wear them again to Ron and Hermione’s wedding tomorrow--make sure to find your own pair as well.”
Draco’s eyes widen as he cocks his head to one side, a small smile quirking on the corner of his lips. “As your date?”
Harry looks mildly flustered. “As my secretary.”
Draco rolls his eyes as he strokes Harry’s member to full erection. “Secretary with benefits, you mean.”
“Secretary nonthe--God.” Harry moans as Draco pulls back the foreskin, blowing on to the tip languidly. Draco proceeds to cup Harry’s balls, stroking it deftly with his left hand before guiding the entire length to his mouth.
Harry grunts (much to Draco’s chagrin) like a pig. He tugs on Draco’s hair, twisting it into a tangled mess and pulling at it like a centurion with his stallion. Draco whinges (or neighs) indignantly, slapping Harry’s wrist to loosen his grip.
Draco withdraws for a moment with a scathing glare, “Tug my hair one more time and I’m going to bite off your dick.”
Harry raises both his hands up to his chest in mock salute; the lack of any witty repartee as an indication of his haste. Draco does not hesitate to take the entire length back into his mouth, bobbing his head in a steady rhythm and managing to hold on to Harry’s twitching thighs.
Harry continues to moan softly, slamming his hips thoroughly on to the slick and inviting heat engulfing his member. He continues to do so hastily, welcoming the imminent orgasm building up from the adept fondling of his balls and his member.
With a muffled cry and a final snap of his hips, Harry comes.
After a minute or two of partial recovery, he draws the tablecloth upwards only to be greeted by Draco’s menacing glower.
“Fuck it Harry, you’re going to knock my teeth out,” Draco hisses as he wipes a trail of come dribbling down his chin.
“Chalk it up to the ministry’s health certificate,” Harry grins as he shoves his flaccid member back into his boxers. “By the way, the waiter’s asking whether you want a cosmopolitan or a martini.”
Draco blinks back at him. “I don’t know; ask him which tastes better after giving someone a blowjob.”
20, December
Draco leans slightly against the wooden bedpost half-asleep. He has been trying to ignore Harry’s indiscernible murmurs from across the room however, catching stray fragments about the responsibility of marriage, living a lifelong dream, having children, building brick houses and wooden porches, a Volvo, Tahiti, and white picket fences-either that or a flat in Chelsea Burroughs with five million cats.
“Oh Harry, I can’t believe you’re poking fun at my blatant anxiety.”
Draco stifles a snort.
“It’s a life-altering decision--I can’t pepper it with candyfloss and pumpkin pies.”
“Yes, just like taking the initiative and admitting you’re gay.” Draco smiles widely, eyes still closed and shins still propped on top of a suede ottoman.
“You know Harry, Malfoy does have a point.”
“Let’s worry about my sexuality once we dispel your pre-marriage doubts.”
“If I were marrying the Weasel, I’d have doubts as well.” Draco opens his eyes and smirks slightly, swinging his Prada-clad foot down on the wooden floorboards. “Thank God I’m gay.” He grins and adds in an afterthought, “Just like Harry.”
Harry glares at him half-heartedly--or in a manner, rather, reserved for someone you’re determined to not like (and failing quite miserably).
Hermione sighs. “Thank you Malfoy, your opinion has been duly noted-several times, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’m just saying,” Draco fingers his boutonnière idly, “You should turn the other direction and run off to the mountains while you still have the chance.”
“Don’t listen to him, he’s just jealous you’ve got a cunt and he doesn’t.” Harry dodges a tiny glass figurine hurled at his head. “Touché.”
“Oh please, not every gay man on the planet wants to be a girl--stop stereotyping my fellow openly gay comrades just to make yourself and the rest of the closeted humanity look good!” Draco retorts albeit indignantly, arms folded across his chest.
“Just looking at the both of you makes me want to get married.” Hermione fixes the straps of her gown.
“I’m glad our complicated unrestrained sexual tension slash non relationship based on my compromised worked ethics and his sexually repressed dick is amusing you to the point of helping you make your life-altering decision,” Draco bites out.
“No problem.” Hermione gathers the folds of her frock as she manages to stand up. “You can both use my bathroom provided you don’t stain the walls--or your trousers, especially you Harry and don’t think you’re not getting your own Draco, because I would really appreciate it if you didn’t play with the bidet; you might destroy my plumbing. Oh, and be down in thirty minutes, the ceremony will have started by then.”
21, December
“So about that promise…” Draco fingers dance lightly over Harry’s abdomen.
Harry takes a drag of cigarette, “What promise?”
“If I’m not mistaken, quote: ‘You know Draco, if you blow me under the table, I promise you anything you want--’ -end quote.” He smacks Harry hard on the chest.
“Oh, that.” Harry deadpans. “What do you want then?”
Draco smirks triumphantly as he moves on top of Harry. “So I was considering the prospect,” he pauses, trying in vain to conceal his excitement by biting on to his lower lip. “Of you bottoming for me this time around.”
There is a moment of silence before Harry lets out a loud snort. “You’re delusional.”
Draco pouts, “I’m not delusional--bottoming is quite a powerful role! I mean, look at you, you were straight and then you’re gay, all because of my pert bottom.”
“Oh no, straight men don’t bottom.”
“Oh, so you think you’re straight because you don’t bottom?” Draco raises his eyebrows, “Fuck you Harry, you said ‘anything’.”
“Anything has its constraints.”
“Come on, just this once?” Draco nuzzles against Harry’s cheek.
“Fuck no--your dick’s not going up my arse and that’s final.”
Draco sighs theatrically, “Fine Harry, you win but don’t blame me if I hand in my resignation tomorrow--that’ll mean no sex in between lunch breaks, no sex between coffee breaks, no sex between meetings, no sex between bathroom breaks, no sex during overtime, no sex during company outings, no sex during Christmas parties, no sex in the alleys on the way home, no sex in the boss’ office when he’s out, no sex--”
“Fine,” Harry mumbles.
Draco looks at Harry, surprised. “I didn’t think I heard you right.”
“Fine.”
“Just a little bit louder and--”
“I thought I said it loud and clear enough.”
22, December
“You got her a Cartier bracelet; you got her a fucking Cartier bracelet?” Draco shoves the credit card bill at Harry’s chest, openly fuming right in front of a posh bistro on High Street.
“Well, yes; it’s a worthless little trinket.” Harry shrugs his shoulders, skimming through his invoice. “Is there a problem?”
“For starters, yes, there is a problem. A problem concerning you, specifically. I mean, what were you thinking! A stint like this will land your arse straight in the Daily Prophet’s front page with a whopping headline that goes: Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley, Good as married--expecting triplets and currently in Fuji for their honeymoon right after battling controversial allegations about being a shirt lifter and fucking a former Death Eater cum secretary-I repeat, what the fuck were you thinking!”
“Don’t get excited,” Harry tries to console him slightly as he holds on to the hem of Draco’s coat, gently guiding him inside a Hugo Boss store. “It’s only a bracelet.”
“It might as well be a diamond encrusted ring from Tiffany’s,” Draco sniffs, leaning against the discount rack with his shins crossed and his back slightly arched.
Harry looks down at Draco, fiddling the hem of the blonde’s cream scarf. He leans slightly towards him, “Don’t get your knickers in a twist; I’m not going to get married, I’m still bloody twenty-one.”
Draco looks coyly up at him, “I’m not concerned about that.”
“So what are you concerned about?”
Draco looks around slightly and then encircles his arms on Harry’s neck, standing in tiptoes. He can feel Harry’s warm breath tickling his cheek. “You’re getting her an even more expensive present.” He sidles up against Harry, trailing his hand slightly on top of the evident hardness in Harry’s midsection.
“She may have gotten something expensive,” Harry grabs Draco’s fingers, “But she’ll never get this.” He brings them down to his crotch.
Abruptly grabbing his bicep, Draco drags Harry to the nearest fitting room, mumbling to the clerk, “If you don’t disturb us, we’ll get the entire winter collection.”
23, December
Harry fingers the lacy black corset, marvelling at the illusion of milky white swells it has produced. He runs his fingertips faintly on the tight concave crevice in the middle, clearly astounded--his eyes glazing over and his breathing shallow.
“If you are projecting any of your latent heterosexual tendencies on me, I am going to cut off your family jewels and feed them to Longbottom’s niffler.” Draco slaps Harry’s fingers away from the bodice, reaching from behind to unlace the strings holding the entire garment. “God, I can’t breathe in this bloody thing!”
“Auto-asphyxiation, try it, you’ll love it.” Harry shoves the satin frock upwards, fingers trailing faintly on the lacy thong he had originally purchased from La Perla for Ron’s stag party. “I’ve never tried fucking a man wearing a skirt before.”
“Me neither.” Draco says breezily, his breathing a bit laboured. He squirms slightly and grabs Harry’s wrist. “You know what’s worse? I’ve never tried fucking a man who’s entertained thoughts of fucking another man in a skirt--until you came along.”
“You told me to indulge in my bisexual tendencies in order to tire of it and settle on a single sexuality.” Harry pauses thoughtfully, “I’m multitasking in a really smart way, you know.” He yanks the underwear down to Draco’s knees.
“Why do I have to wear the dress?” Draco whines indignantly.
“Because that’s Ginny’s dress and you think I’d fit in to her clothes? Besides, even if I dress up like a woman, I’d still end up looking like a man--not a drag queen but just a man in a dress. You on the other hand, with your light colouring and your dashing features, you’re sure to wow any outfit-“
“Hold on right there before your bullshit flattery gets me into trouble again.” Draco holds a finger against Harry’s lips. “Now, before you fuck me blind in the female Weasley’s skirt, I daresay, what happens in this bedroom stays in this bedroom.”
Harry nods enthusiastically, bringing up Draco’s legs to his shoulders. He bunches up the mauve skirt over Draco’s waist, smirking as he looks up, “Wizard’s honour.”
“Then fuck me straight,” Draco says simply as he grips hard onto the wooden posts on Harry’s bed. He opens his mouth slightly and cranes his neck wantonly, eyes partially hooded and blond lashes fluttering faintly against his angular cheekbones.
Harry bends down slightly, pressing his lips lightly against Draco’s. He gradually pries it open and slips his tongue, kissing him languidly as he lines up his member against the blonde’s taut entrance. He pushes past the tight ring of muscle; pondering for a tiny second at how welcoming it was to plunge in yet how tight it was for him to enjoy every moment of it. He rests his forehead against Draco’s, his sweat dripping slowly down Draco’s face and scalp.
He pulls back slightly and raises Draco by the small of his back, angling his thrusts deep and hard. Draco lets out a soft gasp, biting down on to his lower lip and eyes screwed shut. Harry pulls back repeatedly and slams all the way in, grabbing Draco’s hands and guiding it to the blonde’s member, pumping it fastidiously. Draco brings down his legs to Harry’s waist, lifting his arse in hopes of bringing Harry closer than possible.
“You’re so hot.” Harry whispers as he buries his head against the crook of Draco’s neck.
Draco mewls in response.
“I’m so close,” he mumbles against his shoulder as he thrusts in and out fast.
“Please,” Draco whimpers.
After a couple of thrusts, Harry final pulls all the way out and slams back in, hitting the spot directly and bringing the both of them to the pinnacle before coming successively. With a final groan, Harry settles his dead weight on top of Draco’s chest.
Harry lets out a throaty chuckle. “Do you notice that the more we have sex, the less we have to talk to each other?” He proceeds to roll off Draco.
“That’s ‘cause we do it so often and everything we say seems stale and half-hearted. Either that or the sex is just too good to not enjoy.” Draco gets up slightly and unties the laces of the corset. “You know Harry, I don’t know how you’re going to explain to Weasley about the stain here.”
24, December
“So how do you like my present?”
Incoherent mumble.
“Malfoy, listen to me, put the headset against your ear and talk--”
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”
“Gently, yes. It’s a mobile.”
“A WHAT?”
“Dammit, are you planning on getting me deaf before thirty? It’s a mobile phone.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a portable telephone, it’s like firecalling only without the image so I can contact you whenever and wherever.” A momentary pause. “Cause you’re my secretary and all.”
A snort. “Where are you?”
“At home.”
“This is very odd Harry, a black chunk of plastic emitting your voice. I would’ve said thank you only I don’t really like your pathetic excuse of a present. It’s intrusive and very unprofessional. You just don’t call your secretary anytime you want just ‘cause--”
“Are you going to the company party?”
“No, I’m busy tonight. Mother’s coming over and I’m trying to prepare a variety of Jewish Christmas Eve dishes and my right ear stings from holding the phone too close to my ear.”
“Why Jewish?”
“I don’t know; that’s what she said. She’s bringing a young Jewish friend of hers--you know how she is. Ever since I waved my gay pride banner, she’s been trying to set me up with all her high-society gay friends. Apparently, Gay is the new black and having a gay son is beyond fashionable.”
“Sounds boring.”
A smirk. “At least they’re not closeted.”
“Ha, Ha, That’s funny. Let’s not go over this again; I am straight.”
“Very straight, like obscenely straight you know. It’s like pussies and tits for you and not arses and dicks and giving presents to hot little assistants.”
“It’s a nifty present useful to our managerial-employee dynamic.”
“Nifty?”
“Yes, nifty! We can do business transactions without having to do it face to face. We can yell at each other, and most of all, we can have sex!”
“Sex?”
“Yes, sex.”
A whisper. “We can have sex through this thing?”
A (manly giggle) chuckle. “We can have phone sex.”
“How?”
“It’s pretty simple…”
25, December
“-And as the queen mum coddled him on to her supple bosom, he latched onto the rhinestone tiara with his nimble fingers and pulled it off her coiffed hair. The only way we could appease young Draco was to promise we’d procure for him a better Tiara made of rubies and emeralds and amethyst. That was when I was certain that my son was gay.”
Draco rolls his eyes as he shoves a scallop into his mouth. “You know mother, I never really got that tiara.”
Pansy smiles wryly. “Neither did I, Draco, neither did I.” She proceeds to pour an ample amount of gravy over her pot roast. “Come to think about it, I never received the white Shetland pony I wanted for my birthday when I was eight.”
“Oh you know how our fathers felt about us being potentially soft. I mean, how would that look like to the future founders of Death Eater Inc. Empire and I suppose that--Ow!” Draco protests indignantly as Narcissa stabs at his elbow with her salad fork. “Bloody hell mother, that’s going to leave a scar!”
“Scars and bloodied forks are the least of my concerns. Where is the Jewish dinner you promised me?” Narcissa levels a cool gaze at him. “I’m utterly sorry Robert; how unfortunate of you to not even have a Jewish meal for Christmas.”
“It’s Roger, madam,” the man who was formerly-named Robert politely corrects the overly fashionable dame.
“I like this guy.” Pansy stage whispers, pointing her fork directly at the guy named Robert.
“I was busy with work mother; you know I tried my best.” Draco wipes at the corner of his mouth primly. “By the way, I wonder if your ensemble was picked by a blind man--saffron and yellow do not go together. You’re like poster child for fashion victims.”
“Why you ungrateful little--”
“I like the scallops,” Roger conveniently interrupts.
“Really?” Draco brightens up. “I didn’t make them.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, you make a wicked pot roast then.” Roger offers a dazzling smile.
Draco props his chin on top of his upturned palm. “They’re actually from Philippe and Marcus, that new Italian restaurant on the corner of Chelsea.”
“Might I commend you for your choice then?” Roger replies, his shins bumping faintly against Draco’s.
“Well, if you stick around long enough, I might be able to show you--Ooh, uh, hold on.” Draco grabs hold on to the contraption tucked snugly in his pocket as it vibrates profusely and emits an irritating rendition of some neo-hippie Bon Jovi song.
He looks apologetically at everyone and flips the black object open, “You better be spewing your intestines out lest I’d shove my fist up your arse so hard you’d be coughing up my fingers.”
“I’m at your door.”
Draco frowns slightly, “I thought I heard you say you were at my door?”
“I fucking left the Weasley’s three hours early just to check up if you don’t have that Welsh guy buggering you on your bed so I suggest you open the door before I blow it to pieces.”
“Excuse me; he’s Jewish not Welsh and will you please stop concerning yourself with my life? I’m having a luxurious and peaceful dinner inside the house with expensive Italian food and I’d appreciate it if you go back to the hole you came from or at least leave my door intact and not resort to other juvenile means.” He stands up for a moment. “Excuse me mother, my homophobic straight boss is outside and requires my presence for something he says is obscenely important.”
He turns the phone off and makes his way towards the door, jamming it open slightly. “What, in God’s name, are you doing here, you drunken buffoon?”
“Send your mother off, I’m horny.” Harry states simply, hands fidgeting with his maroon sweater.
“I can not just send them off! It’s Christmas, you ingrate!” Draco seethes as he proceeds to close the door. “I do have common host etiquette stored in my system despite the fact that my best friend is fattening herself up by three stones per meal and my mother looks like she got run over by a turkey and a lemon.”
“Sounds fun,” Harry stops in mid-motion. “Can’t we do it here? Or perhaps inside your bathroom?”
A slight pause. “You know, I have got to stop giving in to you.”
26, December
With a final groan, Harry collapses on top of Draco completely drained.
Within an interval of a minute and a half, Draco shoves Harry off the floor with a simple “Geroff.”
“Thanks a lot.” Harry rubs his freezing hide.
“I can’t believe you made me send off my guests for a quick shag. No wait, I can’t believe you made me send off my guests for a quick shag on Christmas, you bastard.” Draco sits up and crosses his arms. “You are always responsible for my irrational actions, you twit--those that are clear signs of abysmal judgement that may end up as a subject for regret as soon as the sex is over.”
“You can’t help it if the sex is good.” Harry shrugs, kneeling on the wooden floors with his elbows on top of the bed.
“Oh please, it’s not that good.” Draco perches on top of a huge bolster pillow. “I can’t believe I’m spending Christmas with you.”
“It’s no longer Christmas, it’s Boxing Day.” Harry grins wryly, standing up gently and making his way towards the coat rack.
“Don’t tell me you’re going back to your own flat.” Draco swings his legs to the edge of the bed. “You made me spend Christmas alone so you better accompany me in the wee hours of Boxing Day morning.”
“Relax, I’m not leaving.” Harry starts fiddling with his pants pocket.
“You better not be.” Draco sighs as he leans against the bedpost, ignoring the fact that he was just whinging like a little girl a few seconds ago.
After a few seconds of waiting, a bright red coloured packaged is dropped into his lap.
“Happy Christmas.”
Unwrapping it hastily, he smiles at the Cartier bracelet in his hands. “So you’re not straight anymore?”
“No, not anymore.”
You never said you loved me for my sense of humour XD.
To: Cait or crumbfreebread
From: Domz or dadomz
Rating: NC17
Warning: Sex, Alcohol, Mild Exhibitionism, Absurd Metaphors, Crude (and not artistic) sex descriptions and lotsa’ swearing-not a very good combination, I reckon.
Genre: (An attempt, rather, at) Slight Humour/Utter Cra(p)ck
Summary: Just how many times can you read the word sex?
Note: This is my first try at porn and humour-surprisingly, I’ve managed to come up with more or less twelve sex scenarios (most of which being connotative). I am not held liable for brain cell deterioration.
Tenchu: My respective beta-readers and guinea pigs, you’re all loffly.
++: This was posted on time however, I'm not quite sure as to why it only appeared now. Either ways, posting access is granted and I thought--Hey, I worked for this fic, so why not post it? It's horrendous, I know, but give me a break, I'm on my temporary leave from the fandom (just couldn't resist).
I5, December
Draco steps into the office bearing a large, awfully-wrapped box. He looks infuriatingly impeccable considering the abrupt drop in temperature and the ongoing snowstorm that can be seen raging outside the third floor Ministry window.
He drops the package on top of his desk and heaves a loud, dramatic sigh. “Reading the sports section again, I see. It’s not going to make you straight.”
The room’s other occupant lowers the Prophet. “It’s not going to make me straight because I am straight--by the way, where are my cranberry muffins?”
“Ask one of the interns to get it for you, you straight man,” Draco sits on his chair primly, shrugging off his coat and pulling out a packet of postage stamps.
“I recall myself hiring a secretary to attend to my everyday needs, not to sit pretty and do his nails.”
“Oh please, you’re Harry Potter,” Draco pulls the topmost drawer of his desk open and starts shuffling through the enormous pile of rubbish. “Everyone’s dying to attend to your every whim. You don’t even need a secretary for that. Now, where are my bloody scissors? Have you seen them?”
Harry shakes his head, offering Draco his own pair. He watches the blonde snip away at the topmost part of the plastic; pulling out sheets upon sheets of stamps.
“My father wanted a shovel for Christmas; said he was going to dig a hole deep enough to reach the Isle of Wight.” Draco starts tearing the irregularly punched holes. “By the way, the paperwork for the Trafalgar Square incident is on your desk along with a memo.”
“Really?” Harry starts rifling through the towering pile of paperwork and invoices sufficiently covering every inch of the desk’s surface. He looks up at Draco and states, “I can’t find it.”
Draco sighs as he licks a postage stamp; he flattens it meticulously on the box’s top surface. He pulls out another one and licks it as well, then catching a glimpse of Harry’s desk, “Considering your table’s current disposition, I doubt you can find anything at all.”
Harry scowls and shoves everything off his desk in one fluid motion. “There,” he lets out a satisfied grimace and observes Draco. “You do know that you can purchase stamps corresponding to whatever amount you want, right?”
Draco ignores him and licks the back of the fifth postage stamp, pink tongue darting in and out, a glistening sheen on the tip right before slapping it on top of the colourful wrapping paper. “I have to send this all the way to the Gobi Desert.” He pauses and looks thoughtful for a moment before popping a finger into his mouth.
Harry’s eyes linger on to the slender index finger.
“It’s to avoid Wizard Customs, Muggle postage. Then from there, they’ll ship it off to Iceland and smuggle it all the way into Azkaban.” He rubs his finger on the stamp’s back and puts it on top once again.
Harry unfastens his own belt buckle; his pants feel tight. He wipes the offending droplets of sweat from his brow and fans his flushed face.
“This seems to be the only probable solution--I mean, if I had to send it by Wizarding Post, I’ll have to bribe an officer for them to loosen the security check. It would take around fifteen days for this present to arrive and then another year for my father to dig a hole deep enough to get to the Isle of Wight and--Harry, what are you doing?”
Harry looks up from under Draco’s desk and tries to look sheepish. “I’m trying to sate my heterosexual desires by using you as a substitute?” Draco did not look amused. “Which translates to I want to pull down your pants, shove you up against my wall, and fuck you.”
“Do you have any decency, you horny bastard? We’re in the middle of work.” Draco stands up and crosses his arms. “And besides, your cubicle wall is made of glass, Harry. Where’re your work ethics? People will see my arse from the outside.”
“I’m sure they’ll enjoy the free show.”
Draco rolls his eyes and makes his way across the room, leaning against the glass panes and unbuttoning his trousers. “I demand a pay raise.”
16, December
“So you decide to just drop by my flat unannounced at eleven fucking pm so you can shove your cock up somewhere warm, you bloody wanker?” Draco yawns and props his chin on top of his upturned palm. “Why don’t you just go fuck some rent boy like every self-respecting fag on the planet and leave me the bloody fuck alone?”
“I’m not gay; I just have needs.”
“Like Keeping your dick warm.”
“Hey, I didn’t make the rules.” Harry deposits Draco’s heating blanket straight to the floor. “You did, the moment you took the job--now, roll over.”
A sigh. “Do I really have to do this?”
“You are my secretary after all.” Harry states matter-of-factly.
“If I’m not mistaken, office hours are from 9 am to 5 pm.”
“You’re working overtime today then.”
“That’s fifty galleons per hour,” Draco mumbles as he presses his face against the pillow. “Fuck my arse all you want but I’m going back to sleep.”
“Sure.” Harry unrolls a packet of Trojan. “Where’s the lube?” He watches as Draco grapples for an economy-sized vat of lubricant from the top of his bedside drawer. Harry rolls his eyes as he makes a grab for it, uncapping the bottle instantly and squeezing a generous amount onto his palms. Running his middle and index finger gingerly over Draco’s crack and dipping in slightly at his entrance.
“You know, I’ve been rutting here for the past five minutes, the least you can do is scream your head off.”
Draco raises his head and grumbles flatly, “Yes, Oh Merlin, More, Faster, Harder, Oh God--did I leave anything out? No? All right, don’t wake me up when you’re done.”
17, December
Draco is seated on a Piccadilly park bench at six am, clad in Muggle sweats and a pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses.
“Morning,” Harry sits next to him, decked out, head-to-toe, in plebeian orange Nike sportswear.
“You’re oddly cheerful in the morning,” Draco offers a half-hearted glare. “And horrendously dressed.”
Harry ignores the latter statement. “Right before the war, everything was getting on my nerves: the coffee not black enough, the water not cold enough, the lack of alcohol in the camp, the loud sex noises Ron and Hermione made, the possibility of Voldemort murdering me in my sleep with a toothbrush, your father trying to molest me in the heat of battle, Dobby leaving cryptic little messages in my sock drawer--”
“Now that I think about it, you are awfully bitchy when they add more than two lumps of sugar on your coffee.”
“Irregardless,” Harry glares at Draco for interrupting him mid-tirade. “Seamus advised me to run laps to release endorphins, you know, the happy hormones. So when I run in the morning, I’m pretty much pleasant the rest of the day. So I was thinking, since you’ve got an awful temper yourself, I decided to wake you up and make you run with me.”
Draco makes a move to stand up, “Thanks but no thanks, I don’t date mentally retarded war heroes who’re perpetually confused with their sexuality--that and I hate getting sweaty early in the morning.”
“This is not a date.” Harry glares at him, tugging on to the sleeve of Draco’s sweatshirt.
“I’m still not running.”
“Don’t be petulant, Malfoy. We can run for at least five minutes and go at it by the bushes.”
Draco pauses slightly and peers at Harry over the top of his sunglasses. “Not gay, huh?”
18, December
“I just learned this new missionary position using arm rests,” Harry whispers into Draco’s ear, arms encircling the blond’s slim waist from behind.
“That’s nice,” Draco mumbles as he sifts through an array of official records. “Lovely, I think I lost the East Edinburgh case files.”
Harry frowns at the various envelopes strewn about the tiny desk. “Don’t stress on it, I’m sure we can postpone the hearing until next Tuesday.”
“I want to get the Lethifold incident in East Edinburgh done as soon as possible.” Draco grunts as Harry tugs his pinstriped trousers down to his knees. “Just so that bitch Chang won’t have a reason to drop by.”
“She has been dropping by more often than not.” Harry rests his chin on Draco’s shoulders, hands fiddling the waistband of Draco’s silk boxers. “Jealous much?”
“Me, jealous of a straight woman hitting on a straight man?” Draco scoffs, pushing Harry down on the leather armchair with light and playful pressure. “Oh please, I wouldn’t go that low.”
“Damn right you are,” Harry grins as Draco straddles him. “Because she does nothing for me.”
Draco laughs faintly and kisses the corner of Harry’s lips. “Of course, you’re a heterosexual man with homosexual tendencies. And besides, Chang looks like a cross between Cher and Michael Jackson.”
“Right, so I was thinking, I’ll sit right here and then you’ll raise your leg and prop it on top of the armrest--position the tip of my cock right before your hole and then you’ll gradually lower your arse down…yes, like that. Then you’ll ride it slow at first, then faster, and then slow once again; you can shift your pace and oh! That’s nice, you can, you can try gyrating your hips--yes…”
19, December
“So hypothetically speaking, you brought me out on this little non-date get together just so you could have me, a fervent homosexual, blow you, a sexually repressed heterosexual, under the table.”
Harry’s eyes glaze over. “Absolutely.”
“And you’re telling me,” Draco smirks as he crosses his legs, punctuating each and every syllable, “That if I were to blow you off, say now, you’re going allow me to do anything-and I repeat anything-that I want.”
“Yes.”
“Anything, anything--just to blow you off under the table.”
Harry suppresses the urge to moan. “Say blow again.”
“Blow.”
“That’s so sexy.” Harry licks his lips as Draco makes a move to crawl under the table, his fingers bumping slightly against Harry’s shins.
Harry parts the cascade of soft linen tablecloth by his midsection, “You all right down there?”
Draco tugs the zipper down gradually, eyes heavy-lidded, “Spit or swallow?”
“Your call,” Harry heaves partially, before abruptly seizing the blonde’s chin towards him. “Just don’t stain my shoes, I have to wear them again to Ron and Hermione’s wedding tomorrow--make sure to find your own pair as well.”
Draco’s eyes widen as he cocks his head to one side, a small smile quirking on the corner of his lips. “As your date?”
Harry looks mildly flustered. “As my secretary.”
Draco rolls his eyes as he strokes Harry’s member to full erection. “Secretary with benefits, you mean.”
“Secretary nonthe--God.” Harry moans as Draco pulls back the foreskin, blowing on to the tip languidly. Draco proceeds to cup Harry’s balls, stroking it deftly with his left hand before guiding the entire length to his mouth.
Harry grunts (much to Draco’s chagrin) like a pig. He tugs on Draco’s hair, twisting it into a tangled mess and pulling at it like a centurion with his stallion. Draco whinges (or neighs) indignantly, slapping Harry’s wrist to loosen his grip.
Draco withdraws for a moment with a scathing glare, “Tug my hair one more time and I’m going to bite off your dick.”
Harry raises both his hands up to his chest in mock salute; the lack of any witty repartee as an indication of his haste. Draco does not hesitate to take the entire length back into his mouth, bobbing his head in a steady rhythm and managing to hold on to Harry’s twitching thighs.
Harry continues to moan softly, slamming his hips thoroughly on to the slick and inviting heat engulfing his member. He continues to do so hastily, welcoming the imminent orgasm building up from the adept fondling of his balls and his member.
With a muffled cry and a final snap of his hips, Harry comes.
After a minute or two of partial recovery, he draws the tablecloth upwards only to be greeted by Draco’s menacing glower.
“Fuck it Harry, you’re going to knock my teeth out,” Draco hisses as he wipes a trail of come dribbling down his chin.
“Chalk it up to the ministry’s health certificate,” Harry grins as he shoves his flaccid member back into his boxers. “By the way, the waiter’s asking whether you want a cosmopolitan or a martini.”
Draco blinks back at him. “I don’t know; ask him which tastes better after giving someone a blowjob.”
20, December
Draco leans slightly against the wooden bedpost half-asleep. He has been trying to ignore Harry’s indiscernible murmurs from across the room however, catching stray fragments about the responsibility of marriage, living a lifelong dream, having children, building brick houses and wooden porches, a Volvo, Tahiti, and white picket fences-either that or a flat in Chelsea Burroughs with five million cats.
“Oh Harry, I can’t believe you’re poking fun at my blatant anxiety.”
Draco stifles a snort.
“It’s a life-altering decision--I can’t pepper it with candyfloss and pumpkin pies.”
“Yes, just like taking the initiative and admitting you’re gay.” Draco smiles widely, eyes still closed and shins still propped on top of a suede ottoman.
“You know Harry, Malfoy does have a point.”
“Let’s worry about my sexuality once we dispel your pre-marriage doubts.”
“If I were marrying the Weasel, I’d have doubts as well.” Draco opens his eyes and smirks slightly, swinging his Prada-clad foot down on the wooden floorboards. “Thank God I’m gay.” He grins and adds in an afterthought, “Just like Harry.”
Harry glares at him half-heartedly--or in a manner, rather, reserved for someone you’re determined to not like (and failing quite miserably).
Hermione sighs. “Thank you Malfoy, your opinion has been duly noted-several times, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’m just saying,” Draco fingers his boutonnière idly, “You should turn the other direction and run off to the mountains while you still have the chance.”
“Don’t listen to him, he’s just jealous you’ve got a cunt and he doesn’t.” Harry dodges a tiny glass figurine hurled at his head. “Touché.”
“Oh please, not every gay man on the planet wants to be a girl--stop stereotyping my fellow openly gay comrades just to make yourself and the rest of the closeted humanity look good!” Draco retorts albeit indignantly, arms folded across his chest.
“Just looking at the both of you makes me want to get married.” Hermione fixes the straps of her gown.
“I’m glad our complicated unrestrained sexual tension slash non relationship based on my compromised worked ethics and his sexually repressed dick is amusing you to the point of helping you make your life-altering decision,” Draco bites out.
“No problem.” Hermione gathers the folds of her frock as she manages to stand up. “You can both use my bathroom provided you don’t stain the walls--or your trousers, especially you Harry and don’t think you’re not getting your own Draco, because I would really appreciate it if you didn’t play with the bidet; you might destroy my plumbing. Oh, and be down in thirty minutes, the ceremony will have started by then.”
21, December
“So about that promise…” Draco fingers dance lightly over Harry’s abdomen.
Harry takes a drag of cigarette, “What promise?”
“If I’m not mistaken, quote: ‘You know Draco, if you blow me under the table, I promise you anything you want--’ -end quote.” He smacks Harry hard on the chest.
“Oh, that.” Harry deadpans. “What do you want then?”
Draco smirks triumphantly as he moves on top of Harry. “So I was considering the prospect,” he pauses, trying in vain to conceal his excitement by biting on to his lower lip. “Of you bottoming for me this time around.”
There is a moment of silence before Harry lets out a loud snort. “You’re delusional.”
Draco pouts, “I’m not delusional--bottoming is quite a powerful role! I mean, look at you, you were straight and then you’re gay, all because of my pert bottom.”
“Oh no, straight men don’t bottom.”
“Oh, so you think you’re straight because you don’t bottom?” Draco raises his eyebrows, “Fuck you Harry, you said ‘anything’.”
“Anything has its constraints.”
“Come on, just this once?” Draco nuzzles against Harry’s cheek.
“Fuck no--your dick’s not going up my arse and that’s final.”
Draco sighs theatrically, “Fine Harry, you win but don’t blame me if I hand in my resignation tomorrow--that’ll mean no sex in between lunch breaks, no sex between coffee breaks, no sex between meetings, no sex between bathroom breaks, no sex during overtime, no sex during company outings, no sex during Christmas parties, no sex in the alleys on the way home, no sex in the boss’ office when he’s out, no sex--”
“Fine,” Harry mumbles.
Draco looks at Harry, surprised. “I didn’t think I heard you right.”
“Fine.”
“Just a little bit louder and--”
“I thought I said it loud and clear enough.”
22, December
“You got her a Cartier bracelet; you got her a fucking Cartier bracelet?” Draco shoves the credit card bill at Harry’s chest, openly fuming right in front of a posh bistro on High Street.
“Well, yes; it’s a worthless little trinket.” Harry shrugs his shoulders, skimming through his invoice. “Is there a problem?”
“For starters, yes, there is a problem. A problem concerning you, specifically. I mean, what were you thinking! A stint like this will land your arse straight in the Daily Prophet’s front page with a whopping headline that goes: Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley, Good as married--expecting triplets and currently in Fuji for their honeymoon right after battling controversial allegations about being a shirt lifter and fucking a former Death Eater cum secretary-I repeat, what the fuck were you thinking!”
“Don’t get excited,” Harry tries to console him slightly as he holds on to the hem of Draco’s coat, gently guiding him inside a Hugo Boss store. “It’s only a bracelet.”
“It might as well be a diamond encrusted ring from Tiffany’s,” Draco sniffs, leaning against the discount rack with his shins crossed and his back slightly arched.
Harry looks down at Draco, fiddling the hem of the blonde’s cream scarf. He leans slightly towards him, “Don’t get your knickers in a twist; I’m not going to get married, I’m still bloody twenty-one.”
Draco looks coyly up at him, “I’m not concerned about that.”
“So what are you concerned about?”
Draco looks around slightly and then encircles his arms on Harry’s neck, standing in tiptoes. He can feel Harry’s warm breath tickling his cheek. “You’re getting her an even more expensive present.” He sidles up against Harry, trailing his hand slightly on top of the evident hardness in Harry’s midsection.
“She may have gotten something expensive,” Harry grabs Draco’s fingers, “But she’ll never get this.” He brings them down to his crotch.
Abruptly grabbing his bicep, Draco drags Harry to the nearest fitting room, mumbling to the clerk, “If you don’t disturb us, we’ll get the entire winter collection.”
23, December
Harry fingers the lacy black corset, marvelling at the illusion of milky white swells it has produced. He runs his fingertips faintly on the tight concave crevice in the middle, clearly astounded--his eyes glazing over and his breathing shallow.
“If you are projecting any of your latent heterosexual tendencies on me, I am going to cut off your family jewels and feed them to Longbottom’s niffler.” Draco slaps Harry’s fingers away from the bodice, reaching from behind to unlace the strings holding the entire garment. “God, I can’t breathe in this bloody thing!”
“Auto-asphyxiation, try it, you’ll love it.” Harry shoves the satin frock upwards, fingers trailing faintly on the lacy thong he had originally purchased from La Perla for Ron’s stag party. “I’ve never tried fucking a man wearing a skirt before.”
“Me neither.” Draco says breezily, his breathing a bit laboured. He squirms slightly and grabs Harry’s wrist. “You know what’s worse? I’ve never tried fucking a man who’s entertained thoughts of fucking another man in a skirt--until you came along.”
“You told me to indulge in my bisexual tendencies in order to tire of it and settle on a single sexuality.” Harry pauses thoughtfully, “I’m multitasking in a really smart way, you know.” He yanks the underwear down to Draco’s knees.
“Why do I have to wear the dress?” Draco whines indignantly.
“Because that’s Ginny’s dress and you think I’d fit in to her clothes? Besides, even if I dress up like a woman, I’d still end up looking like a man--not a drag queen but just a man in a dress. You on the other hand, with your light colouring and your dashing features, you’re sure to wow any outfit-“
“Hold on right there before your bullshit flattery gets me into trouble again.” Draco holds a finger against Harry’s lips. “Now, before you fuck me blind in the female Weasley’s skirt, I daresay, what happens in this bedroom stays in this bedroom.”
Harry nods enthusiastically, bringing up Draco’s legs to his shoulders. He bunches up the mauve skirt over Draco’s waist, smirking as he looks up, “Wizard’s honour.”
“Then fuck me straight,” Draco says simply as he grips hard onto the wooden posts on Harry’s bed. He opens his mouth slightly and cranes his neck wantonly, eyes partially hooded and blond lashes fluttering faintly against his angular cheekbones.
Harry bends down slightly, pressing his lips lightly against Draco’s. He gradually pries it open and slips his tongue, kissing him languidly as he lines up his member against the blonde’s taut entrance. He pushes past the tight ring of muscle; pondering for a tiny second at how welcoming it was to plunge in yet how tight it was for him to enjoy every moment of it. He rests his forehead against Draco’s, his sweat dripping slowly down Draco’s face and scalp.
He pulls back slightly and raises Draco by the small of his back, angling his thrusts deep and hard. Draco lets out a soft gasp, biting down on to his lower lip and eyes screwed shut. Harry pulls back repeatedly and slams all the way in, grabbing Draco’s hands and guiding it to the blonde’s member, pumping it fastidiously. Draco brings down his legs to Harry’s waist, lifting his arse in hopes of bringing Harry closer than possible.
“You’re so hot.” Harry whispers as he buries his head against the crook of Draco’s neck.
Draco mewls in response.
“I’m so close,” he mumbles against his shoulder as he thrusts in and out fast.
“Please,” Draco whimpers.
After a couple of thrusts, Harry final pulls all the way out and slams back in, hitting the spot directly and bringing the both of them to the pinnacle before coming successively. With a final groan, Harry settles his dead weight on top of Draco’s chest.
Harry lets out a throaty chuckle. “Do you notice that the more we have sex, the less we have to talk to each other?” He proceeds to roll off Draco.
“That’s ‘cause we do it so often and everything we say seems stale and half-hearted. Either that or the sex is just too good to not enjoy.” Draco gets up slightly and unties the laces of the corset. “You know Harry, I don’t know how you’re going to explain to Weasley about the stain here.”
24, December
“So how do you like my present?”
Incoherent mumble.
“Malfoy, listen to me, put the headset against your ear and talk--”
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”
“Gently, yes. It’s a mobile.”
“A WHAT?”
“Dammit, are you planning on getting me deaf before thirty? It’s a mobile phone.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a portable telephone, it’s like firecalling only without the image so I can contact you whenever and wherever.” A momentary pause. “Cause you’re my secretary and all.”
A snort. “Where are you?”
“At home.”
“This is very odd Harry, a black chunk of plastic emitting your voice. I would’ve said thank you only I don’t really like your pathetic excuse of a present. It’s intrusive and very unprofessional. You just don’t call your secretary anytime you want just ‘cause--”
“Are you going to the company party?”
“No, I’m busy tonight. Mother’s coming over and I’m trying to prepare a variety of Jewish Christmas Eve dishes and my right ear stings from holding the phone too close to my ear.”
“Why Jewish?”
“I don’t know; that’s what she said. She’s bringing a young Jewish friend of hers--you know how she is. Ever since I waved my gay pride banner, she’s been trying to set me up with all her high-society gay friends. Apparently, Gay is the new black and having a gay son is beyond fashionable.”
“Sounds boring.”
A smirk. “At least they’re not closeted.”
“Ha, Ha, That’s funny. Let’s not go over this again; I am straight.”
“Very straight, like obscenely straight you know. It’s like pussies and tits for you and not arses and dicks and giving presents to hot little assistants.”
“It’s a nifty present useful to our managerial-employee dynamic.”
“Nifty?”
“Yes, nifty! We can do business transactions without having to do it face to face. We can yell at each other, and most of all, we can have sex!”
“Sex?”
“Yes, sex.”
A whisper. “We can have sex through this thing?”
A (manly giggle) chuckle. “We can have phone sex.”
“How?”
“It’s pretty simple…”
25, December
“-And as the queen mum coddled him on to her supple bosom, he latched onto the rhinestone tiara with his nimble fingers and pulled it off her coiffed hair. The only way we could appease young Draco was to promise we’d procure for him a better Tiara made of rubies and emeralds and amethyst. That was when I was certain that my son was gay.”
Draco rolls his eyes as he shoves a scallop into his mouth. “You know mother, I never really got that tiara.”
Pansy smiles wryly. “Neither did I, Draco, neither did I.” She proceeds to pour an ample amount of gravy over her pot roast. “Come to think about it, I never received the white Shetland pony I wanted for my birthday when I was eight.”
“Oh you know how our fathers felt about us being potentially soft. I mean, how would that look like to the future founders of Death Eater Inc. Empire and I suppose that--Ow!” Draco protests indignantly as Narcissa stabs at his elbow with her salad fork. “Bloody hell mother, that’s going to leave a scar!”
“Scars and bloodied forks are the least of my concerns. Where is the Jewish dinner you promised me?” Narcissa levels a cool gaze at him. “I’m utterly sorry Robert; how unfortunate of you to not even have a Jewish meal for Christmas.”
“It’s Roger, madam,” the man who was formerly-named Robert politely corrects the overly fashionable dame.
“I like this guy.” Pansy stage whispers, pointing her fork directly at the guy named Robert.
“I was busy with work mother; you know I tried my best.” Draco wipes at the corner of his mouth primly. “By the way, I wonder if your ensemble was picked by a blind man--saffron and yellow do not go together. You’re like poster child for fashion victims.”
“Why you ungrateful little--”
“I like the scallops,” Roger conveniently interrupts.
“Really?” Draco brightens up. “I didn’t make them.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, you make a wicked pot roast then.” Roger offers a dazzling smile.
Draco props his chin on top of his upturned palm. “They’re actually from Philippe and Marcus, that new Italian restaurant on the corner of Chelsea.”
“Might I commend you for your choice then?” Roger replies, his shins bumping faintly against Draco’s.
“Well, if you stick around long enough, I might be able to show you--Ooh, uh, hold on.” Draco grabs hold on to the contraption tucked snugly in his pocket as it vibrates profusely and emits an irritating rendition of some neo-hippie Bon Jovi song.
He looks apologetically at everyone and flips the black object open, “You better be spewing your intestines out lest I’d shove my fist up your arse so hard you’d be coughing up my fingers.”
“I’m at your door.”
Draco frowns slightly, “I thought I heard you say you were at my door?”
“I fucking left the Weasley’s three hours early just to check up if you don’t have that Welsh guy buggering you on your bed so I suggest you open the door before I blow it to pieces.”
“Excuse me; he’s Jewish not Welsh and will you please stop concerning yourself with my life? I’m having a luxurious and peaceful dinner inside the house with expensive Italian food and I’d appreciate it if you go back to the hole you came from or at least leave my door intact and not resort to other juvenile means.” He stands up for a moment. “Excuse me mother, my homophobic straight boss is outside and requires my presence for something he says is obscenely important.”
He turns the phone off and makes his way towards the door, jamming it open slightly. “What, in God’s name, are you doing here, you drunken buffoon?”
“Send your mother off, I’m horny.” Harry states simply, hands fidgeting with his maroon sweater.
“I can not just send them off! It’s Christmas, you ingrate!” Draco seethes as he proceeds to close the door. “I do have common host etiquette stored in my system despite the fact that my best friend is fattening herself up by three stones per meal and my mother looks like she got run over by a turkey and a lemon.”
“Sounds fun,” Harry stops in mid-motion. “Can’t we do it here? Or perhaps inside your bathroom?”
A slight pause. “You know, I have got to stop giving in to you.”
26, December
With a final groan, Harry collapses on top of Draco completely drained.
Within an interval of a minute and a half, Draco shoves Harry off the floor with a simple “Geroff.”
“Thanks a lot.” Harry rubs his freezing hide.
“I can’t believe you made me send off my guests for a quick shag. No wait, I can’t believe you made me send off my guests for a quick shag on Christmas, you bastard.” Draco sits up and crosses his arms. “You are always responsible for my irrational actions, you twit--those that are clear signs of abysmal judgement that may end up as a subject for regret as soon as the sex is over.”
“You can’t help it if the sex is good.” Harry shrugs, kneeling on the wooden floors with his elbows on top of the bed.
“Oh please, it’s not that good.” Draco perches on top of a huge bolster pillow. “I can’t believe I’m spending Christmas with you.”
“It’s no longer Christmas, it’s Boxing Day.” Harry grins wryly, standing up gently and making his way towards the coat rack.
“Don’t tell me you’re going back to your own flat.” Draco swings his legs to the edge of the bed. “You made me spend Christmas alone so you better accompany me in the wee hours of Boxing Day morning.”
“Relax, I’m not leaving.” Harry starts fiddling with his pants pocket.
“You better not be.” Draco sighs as he leans against the bedpost, ignoring the fact that he was just whinging like a little girl a few seconds ago.
After a few seconds of waiting, a bright red coloured packaged is dropped into his lap.
“Happy Christmas.”
Unwrapping it hastily, he smiles at the Cartier bracelet in his hands. “So you’re not straight anymore?”
“No, not anymore.”
You never said you loved me for my sense of humour XD.