Gorgeous
(inspired by t. swift's song)
Harry knew the moment that Draco walked into the bar. He always knew, there was something about the way he carried himself; his magic hot and bright, burning its way up Harry's spine before he'd even actually seen him. He turned his head, craning his neck to get a glimpse of the other man.
"Malfoy must be here," Ron grumbled.
He glanced back at Ron, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that every time he shows up here, you tune out most of what anyone has to say," Seamus piped up.
Harry glared at him, "Shut it. I do not."
"You do," Lavender replied as she slid in next to Parvati across from Hermione. "And it's just so sad because he talks to everyone but you."
He frowned, he had tried to convince himself that it was just his imagination that Draco talked to everyone else and intentionally ignored him. But before he could say anything more, Draco was at their table, he said, "this is Clement," gesturing to the attractive man on his arm before sitting down next to Hermione and immediately striking up a conversation with her.
"It's because he likes you," Blaise said, leaning in closer so Harry could hear him over the noise.
Harry rolled his eyes, "Yeah, right." Draco came with a different date every week, he wasn't interested in Harry.
Blaise shrugged, "Suit yourself but I'm telling you, Potter, that boy's been obsessed with you for years."
Shoving Blaise's shoulder Harry tried to put it from his mind. But as the night wore on, Harry watched Draco talking to everyone in their friend group but him (just like he always did) and when Draco got up to go to the loo, Harry couldn't help but follow. Not wanting to be a perv, he waited outside.
When Draco emerged, he immediately jumped, hand over his heart, "Circe's tits, Potter! What are you doing?"
Instead of answering his question, Harry's inebriated brain supplied one of it's own, "Why won't you talk to me?"
"Excuse me?" Draco asked, looking around as though he thought someone was playing a trick on him.
"I mean, we were friends, right?" he asked, knowing that he sounded more than a little desperate and pathetic. "Like 8th year, we sorted out all of our shit, forgave each other, right?"
"Potter, what are you on about?"
"It's just," he sighed and stared at Draco, wondering if he looked at him hard enough if he'd be able to understand him, "you never talk to me. And you talk to everyone else."
"You should be flattered," Draco said before turning away.
Without thinking Harry reached out and grabbed his hand, giving him a gentle tug, "Wait," he said.
"Adam is waiting," Draco said, not looking up to meet Harry's eyes.
"I thought you said his name was Clement?" Harry murmured.
And before he could do anything else, Draco was pressing him back against the wall and kissing him.
Harry's arms instinctively wrapped around him, drawing him in closer as he kissed him back just as desperately.
"That's what you get for touching my hand in a dark hallway," Draco muttered, nipping at Harry's lips.
"I ought to grab your hand more often, then," Harry replied, tugging Draco's body flush against his own so he could kiss him again.
Draco kissed him back for a long, tension filled moment, body surging and pressing against Harry's before he pulled back, "I fucking hate you."
Harry blinked at him, feeling like he was experiencing whiplash, his brain moving too slow, unutterably confused by the mixed signals he was receiving from Draco's body and his words. "What-" he started, but then Draco was kissing him again.
"I hate your stupid face, and your stupid green eyes," he continued as his hands slid under his tshirt and Harry groaned. "I hate the way you grew into your stupid body; all muscled and handsome. You're so fucking gorgeous, of course I can't talk to you."
"Fuck," he hissed as Draco's nails scraped over his back and Harry flipped their positions, pinning Draco to the wall.
Draco groaned, body shuddering against Harry's as he tried to drag him impossibly closer. "And I hate the way you talk, all honest and earnest, and-" he broke off as Harry sucked hard at his neck. "And I hate that you aren't mine."
Harry pulled back far enough to look him in the eyes, "Draco, you can have me," he said.
"Stop," he whined, giving Harry a shove but immediately tugging him back in. "Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not," Harry assured him. "I want you too, in case that wasn't abundantly clear," he said, pressing forward against Draco's body to emphasize his point.
Draco shook his head, "But I want more than just sex with you. Just sex would never be enough."
"Great," Harry replied, kissing down his neck again and pausing to suck at the bruise he'd left forming on his pale skin.
"I'm serious, Potter," Draco growled, fisting a handful of his hair and pulling until Harry looked him in the eyes again.
"Call me Harry," he said.
Draco rolled his eyes, "I'm serious, Harry. I'm a possessive bastard and I will want to keep you forever."
"Is that a threat or a promise?" Harry asked, feeling a little weak in the knees at the thought of being treasured and kept.
Narrowing his eyes he asked, "Are you being serious?"
"Yes," he said in exasperation, "Draco. I want you, too. I've been head over tits for you for ages."
"Really?" he asked, looking back and forth between Harry's eyes.
"Ask literally any of our friends," he said. "Yes. Really." He leaned in and gave him another soft, tentative kiss.
Draco shuddered and wrapped his arms around Harry's neck, "Take me home," he whispered.
"From here?"
Draco nodded, eyes closed.
He rubbed his nose over Draco's cheek, "What about-" he broke off trying to remember the bloke's name, "what's-his-name?"
"Who?" Draco asked, hands slipping under Harry's waistband and distracting him even further.
"Your date?" he prompted even as his fingers tangled in Draco's hair, turning his to the side to give himself better access to Draco's neck.
Draco whimpered, body arching against Harry's. He waved a hand, "I don't give a fuck. Take me home. Right now." Then softly, in Harry's ear, "Please," he all but moaned and Harry's self control snapped.
He apparated them right from there, straight into his bed, and suddenly Draco had absolutely no problem talking to him.
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Read more of my fics inspired by songs, if you'd like
tagging the lovely @phoebe-delia since it's taylor swift and that is her jam <3
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you're in the habit of denying yourself things.
if someone asked you directly, you would say that you love a little treat. you like iced coffee and getting the cookie. you drink juice out of a fancy cup sometimes, and often do use your candles until they gutter out helplessly.
but you hesitate about buying the 20 dollar hand mixer because, like. you could just use your arms. you weren't raised rich. you don't get to just spend the 20 dollars (remember when that could cover lunch?), at least - you don't spend that without agonizing over it first, trying to figure out the cost-benefits like you are defending yourself in front of a jury. yes, this rice cooker could seriously help you. but you do know how to make stovetop rice and it really isn't that hard. how many pies or brownies would you actually make, in order to make that hand mixer worthwhile?
what's wild is that if the money was for a friend, it would already be spent. you'd fork over 40 without blinking an eye, just to make them happy. the difference is that it's for you, so you need to justify it.
and it sneaks in. you ration yourself without meaning to - you don't finish the pint of ice cream, even though you want to. the next time you go to the store, you say ah, i really shouldn't, and then you walk away. you save little bits of your precious things - just in case. sometimes you even go so far as putting that one thing in your shopping cart. and then just leaving it there, because maybe-one-day, but not right now, there's other stuff going on.
you do self-care, of course. but you don't do it more than like, 3 days in a row. after that it just feels a little bit over-the-edge. like. you can't live in decadence, the economy is so bad right now, kid.
so you don't buy the rice cooker. you can-and-will spend the time over the stove. you can withstand the little sorrows. denial and discipline are practically synonyms. and you're not spoiled.
it's just - it's not always a rice cooker. sometimes it is a person or a job or a hug. sometimes it is asking for help. sometimes it is the summer and your college degree. sometimes it is looking down at scabbed knees and feeling a strange kind of falling, like you can't even recognize the girl you used to be. sometimes it is your handprint looking unsteady.
sometimes it is tuesday, and you didn't get fired, and you want to celebrate. but what is it you like, even? you search around your little heart and come up empty. you're so used to denying that all your desires draw a blank.
oh fuck. see, this is the perfect opportunity. if you had a mixer, you'd make a cake.
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