The One In Which Draco Wore Leather Pants
Title: The One In Which Draco Wore Leather Pants
Pairing: Harry/Draco;
Fandom: Harry Potter;
Rating: Mature (for implications)
Warnings: DLIP!fic, 'nuff said
Summary: This one time that Draco wore leather pants.
Notes: For bookshop
He's not wearing a shirt. That's actually the first thing Harry notices because, well, Draco Malfoy is exceptionally pale. He's always been pale, and maybe Harry's always noticed, but when he's shirtless, walking in that aristocratic, all-the-time-in-the-wizarding-world way he does, it's just that much more noticeable.
The second thing Harry notices is the fact that Malfoy is wearing leather trousers. Leather trousers. The last time Harry saw a bloke in leather trousers, it was Halloween, and not the type of experience he ever wants to repeat.
He's not wearing shoes either, but that's the least shocking part. If someone can pull off leather trousers, they can pull off barefoot. The shocking part is that Malfoy has beautiful feet. Which is an odd thought, since ten minutes ago, Harry didn't think feet could be beautiful.
It's odd. All of it, really. It's odd that Harry could find himself moping on the Quidditch pitch one second, staring up at the sky, then have Draco-bloody-Malfoy waltzing up in leather trousers the next.
Maybe it should be funny. Harry gets the feeling that this type of thing is supposed to be laughable.
He isn't laughing.
"What are you doing?" Harry asks, and he can feel the night swallowing them, the way the darkness moves in until it's his patch of grass, fifteen feet, and Draco. Nothing else.
"I don't know," Draco says then, "I don't think I need to."
The leather moves with him in a way Harry isn't expecting. It has a grace to it, finer than silk. The grace of a second skin, so snug against the body that every curve is outlined in the black shine of moon on smooth hide. If Draco was less perfect, it would be ugly.
Draco is too perfect to ever be ugly.
It doesn't make any sense, what they're doing. But it doesn't have to. Because all Harry knows is what he wants, and he's never been the type to just stop wanting.
The thing about leather is that it can't be shoved off, can't be tugged. It has to be peeled, like an orange. Exactly like an orange, with the prize hidden away for the determined to seize.
Harry isn't the patient sort, and he only gets the buttons undone and the trousers just off the shelf of Draco's hips before that's it. It's a clash of teeth and a grind of hips, each of them fighting for control over something uncontrollable.
Draco bites his lip and Harry grips his side too hard and it hurts but it feels good. That's the lesson of leather, though, and Harry figures that pain and pleasure come with the territory. They roll and shove and grind and push until finally it's over and all that's left is a satisfied slump of limbs on the grass with nothing to say.
Harry doesn't ask why again. He doesn't need to.
Pairing: Harry/Draco;
Fandom: Harry Potter;
Rating: Mature (for implications)
Warnings: DLIP!fic, 'nuff said
Summary: This one time that Draco wore leather pants.
Notes: For bookshop
He's not wearing a shirt. That's actually the first thing Harry notices because, well, Draco Malfoy is exceptionally pale. He's always been pale, and maybe Harry's always noticed, but when he's shirtless, walking in that aristocratic, all-the-time-in-the-wizarding-world way he does, it's just that much more noticeable.
The second thing Harry notices is the fact that Malfoy is wearing leather trousers. Leather trousers. The last time Harry saw a bloke in leather trousers, it was Halloween, and not the type of experience he ever wants to repeat.
He's not wearing shoes either, but that's the least shocking part. If someone can pull off leather trousers, they can pull off barefoot. The shocking part is that Malfoy has beautiful feet. Which is an odd thought, since ten minutes ago, Harry didn't think feet could be beautiful.
It's odd. All of it, really. It's odd that Harry could find himself moping on the Quidditch pitch one second, staring up at the sky, then have Draco-bloody-Malfoy waltzing up in leather trousers the next.
Maybe it should be funny. Harry gets the feeling that this type of thing is supposed to be laughable.
He isn't laughing.
"What are you doing?" Harry asks, and he can feel the night swallowing them, the way the darkness moves in until it's his patch of grass, fifteen feet, and Draco. Nothing else.
"I don't know," Draco says then, "I don't think I need to."
The leather moves with him in a way Harry isn't expecting. It has a grace to it, finer than silk. The grace of a second skin, so snug against the body that every curve is outlined in the black shine of moon on smooth hide. If Draco was less perfect, it would be ugly.
Draco is too perfect to ever be ugly.
It doesn't make any sense, what they're doing. But it doesn't have to. Because all Harry knows is what he wants, and he's never been the type to just stop wanting.
The thing about leather is that it can't be shoved off, can't be tugged. It has to be peeled, like an orange. Exactly like an orange, with the prize hidden away for the determined to seize.
Harry isn't the patient sort, and he only gets the buttons undone and the trousers just off the shelf of Draco's hips before that's it. It's a clash of teeth and a grind of hips, each of them fighting for control over something uncontrollable.
Draco bites his lip and Harry grips his side too hard and it hurts but it feels good. That's the lesson of leather, though, and Harry figures that pain and pleasure come with the territory. They roll and shove and grind and push until finally it's over and all that's left is a satisfied slump of limbs on the grass with nothing to say.
Harry doesn't ask why again. He doesn't need to.