My Name On Your...

By Reiko Katsura

Pairings: (main) Harry/Draco, (side) Hermione/Ron, Dean Thomas

Rating: NC-17

Genres: Romance, Flangst, Humor, Smut

Summary: It's not that he didn't want Harry's name on him; Draco Malfoy just didn't find the prospect of having another mark on his arm very appealing. Harry, however, didn't quite understand that.

Warnings: Epilogue, AU, Sex, Manipulation of the body, and a very daring Draco Malfoy (and Harry Potter).

Fest: Written for HP_Yule_Ball's 2009 Holiday Fest, and more specifically, for my recipient, KillerAngels13, who requested the following prompts: tattoos, piercings, hurt/comfort, strong emotions, ambiguous ending, cuddling, kissing in the rain, AU, and clubbing (amongst others which I did not include. Note, some of the prompts mentions were only very briefly mentioned).

Betas: Much thanks to SongQuake who stopped me from submitting absolute crap when I was feeling down and gave me the push I needed to re-work the story and submit something acceptable. Also, for betaing this quickly and simply being amazing. Also, thanks to Identity99 who allowed me to run ideas by her.

A/N: I've been going through a lot of stuff lately and, well, my writing hasn't been coming along too well. This story took me a long time to write simply because I've been utterly burned out. I owe a lot to my Beta for kicking me in the butt by an unintentional guilt-trip and to the mods of the fest for allowing me the extension they did. I hope you all enjoy this little story! See you at the end!


Then…

Harry was pushed onto the brick wall roughly.

"Fuck, Draco," he breathed, and cocked his head as far back as he could manage without banging it on the brick wall behind him. A pair of lips, hot and wet, descended onto the warm, stretched out skin of his neck, and he moaned as Draco scraped his teeth against it.

"You taste so fucking good, Harry," Draco grunted, slipping his knee between Harry's legs and thrusting upward. Harry groaned and pressed down onto the jean-clad joint.

"I taste like liquor," Harry murmured. His hands were digging into Draco's shoulders, no doubt bruising his beautiful pale skin. Draco didn't seem to mind, however.

"You taste like Harry," he argued back, and finally—finally—brought his lips back to Harry's mouth.

Harry moaned again as a warm tongue probed at his lips, licking the tight crease from one side to the other. He opened his mouth when Draco became more persistent, and gasped again when both tongues touched, then intertwined, dribbling saliva down both their chins.

"Cheesy bugger," Harry said, grunting eagerly. He was trying to remove the buckle to his trousers, but it was proving to be quite the difficult task.

"You love it." Draco, impatient, tore his mouth from Harry's and dipped his head, focusing on tugging Harry's tight pants down to his knees. He then followed suit with his body. .

"I love you," Harry retorted, and when Draco's lips met with the head of his leaking cock, threw his head back so hard that he nearly bashed it into the wall.

Draco ran the length of his tongue along the underside of Harry's dick, probing into the rough skin every so often. He pulled back, lifting one hand to fondle the bottom of Harry's sand-colored balls, and said, "Who's the cheesy one, now?"

"Get back there, Draco!" Harry growled, and reached his hand down to put pressure on the head of blond locks.

Draco shot him a sly smirk—which Harry didn't see since his eyes were so tightly shut—and did as he asked.

"Fuck, you give good head."

"Fanks," Draco mumbled over Harry's cock. Harry made a strangled sound and Draco put more effort to the matter at hand. Literally. He wrapped his fingers around the base of Harry's dick—which was average sized, he supposed, only a little thicker—with the other hand still fondling the tight balls, and began to suck harder.

Harry was all but vibrating against the wall, arching his back and tugging at Draco's hair urgently. If Draco found that bit annoying, he didn't quite say. Not that Harry would have been able to hear him over his gasping and cries of "Draco" and "suck harder".

Draco took Harry in as deep as he could, and what he couldn't reach with his mouth, made up for it by twisting and squeezing and pumping with this hand. He hollowed his cheeks, swallowing heavily, and Harry cried out again.

Harry was getting close, he could tell. His cock was twitching, burning in his mouth, dripping so much pre-cum he would be surprised if he had any left to ejaculate with.

"Draco," Harry cried. Draco removed one of his hands, the hand that was pulling Harry's balls, and slipped it further back. He pressed that hand against Harry's thigh, and Harry parted his legs quickly. Draco slunk his hand up to Harry's arse, and wiggled two of his finger between his cheeks. Harry tightened for a moment, then relaxed. Draco took that moment to delve deeper, until his index finger was touching the rough rings of Harry's hole, and ran his nail over the slight ridges. Harry gasped, desperately, and Draco quickly stuck the finger in, moaning over Harry's cock as his hole tightened around it, swallowing it in. Draco pulled out, with a little effort since both his fingers and Harry's arse was dry, and plunged right back in.

Harry froze, then came into Draco's mouth with a muffled scream, moving his cock against Draco's lips slowly, riding his orgasm out. When it was over, and his feet were back on the ground, and the color in the world returned, Harry slunk back into the wall with a shudder.

"Someone looks sated," Draco murmured, popping the finger that had been in Harry's arse into his mouth.

Harry grinned at him, wanly, and nodded.

Draco merely shook his head and stood. He cast a cleaning charm on Harry's bits, returned his trousers to their proper place at his waist, and moved over him.

"Want me to return the favor?"

Draco shook his head. "Maybe later. I just want to go home."

Harry nodded, and dropped his head in the crook of Draco's shoulders. There was music pulsing all around them from the party going on inside. Night had already fallen, and it was only the two of them in the dark alley just outside the club. Cool droplets of rain fell from the sky, falling at a steady pace, and Harry wondered when it had begun to rain, and how they hadn't noticed. A crisp wind blew past and he shivered.

"Yeah. It's getting cold. And it's raining."

Draco nodded, and pulled Harry closer.

"I love you," he said, and kissed Harry's cheek.

Harry smiled against his neck. "I love you, too. So fucking much. One day, I'll get your name tattooed on my arm."

Draco yawned, and nodded against him.

"Hold on." Harry muttered.

In the next instant, they both disappeared with a crack.


Now…

Draco glanced at the clock hanging over the wall just above the mantelpiece and frowned. It was already nearing nine-thirty. Where in the world was Harry?

He was lounging on the couch in the sitting room, finishing up the day's reports from the Ministry. Papers, stacks and folders of them, took up the space of the vacant spot beside him. It had been a busy day at work, if nothing else. He'd been lucky to have gotten permission to take his work home considering the amount of it his department was expected to do those days.

That had been nearly five hours ago, however. He'd wanted to at least eat out with Harry before returning to the copious amount of paperwork needing to be completed. But Harry had never gotten home, despite his usual habit of arriving at five-thirty.

Draco glanced at the clock again—an antique family heirloom he'd received from his Mother when he turned twenty-one—and sighed.

Bugger it all, he was really starting to worry.

Draco lifted the book from his lap and pushed it beside him, then stood from his seat, placing his bare feet on the warm, dark green carpet. He smoothed his robes out—still in his work attire—and made for the Floo. Surely the Weasley would know where Harry was. They were partners, after all.

Draco dropped to his knees just as he reached the fireplace and cast the spell to open the connection. Harry's office was still connected, thankfully. Draco murmured another charm and stuck his head in, grimacing at the tingly feel that moved across his face.

In mere seconds flat he was looking into Harry's office. His desk, more specifically, since the Floo network was set up just behind it. He couldn't exactly see if anyone was there, so he called out, "Anyone home?"

There was a sudden crash, and the sound of something dropping to the floor, then a moment later Weasley came into view, looking irritated.

"You look positively startled, Weasley," he commented, enjoying the ruffled appearance of his lover's best friend.

Ron scowled at him and dropped to his knees to get a better look.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" he asked.

"Harry," Draco said, simply.

Ron rolled his eyes, as if to say he could have guessed that for himself. "He's not here."

Draco frowned—in part from that rather useless information and in part from the distorted appearance he currently viewed everything in. The fire made everything look disjointed, and it irritated his eyes.

"Where is he, then?"

Ron snorted. He shook his hair back—long red strands that just reached his shoulders—and shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not his keeper."

And Draco was above taunting, really. He had grown up from his Hogwarts years. Weasley just had that ability to bring the pettiness out of him.

"Quit that role recently, did you?"

"Sod off, Malfoy," Ron said, glaring. He moved forward, and Draco knew that he was going to cut off the connection.

"Wait!" he said, urgently.

Ron gave him an expectant look, and folded his arms over his chest.

"Yes?"

Draco sighed, then shifted uncomfortably. "Harry didn't tell you where he went? He should have been home hours ago."

Ron looked bored. "No, he didn't. He's a big boy, Malfoy. He doesn't need to tell anyone whenever he decides to take a piss."

"Last time I checked, Weasel, pissing only takes about a minute—not five bloody hours!"

Ron shot Draco another irritated glance, muttered something about insufferable prats, and moved forward again. He ignored Draco's protests and, quite rudely, severed the connection.

Draco was pushed out of the fireplace, awkwardly. He stumbled backwards, landing right on his arse. Even the soft rug wasn't enough to cushion the contact completely, and he grunted in discomfort.

"Fucking Weasel," he muttered darkly, lifting himself up from the floor and rubbing at his sore bottom with one hand. "One of these days, I'll set him on fire."

"Set who on fire?"

Draco yelped, startled at the sudden voice, and stumbled back down again. That time, he fell on his bum a lot harder.

Harry walked over to him, frowning slightly. "Are you alright?"

Draco glanced up at him from beneath his blond fringe and shot him a glare. "No thanks to you."

Harry rolled his eyes and simply offered his hand. Draco took it, and lifted himself up.
"Where the hell have you been, Harry? It's—" he craned his head back and peered at the clock on the wall, "—Ten o'clock!"

"I had to run a few errands," Harry said sheepishly, using his free hand—the one that wasn't slipping its fingers through Draco's—to run through his hair, which Draco noted was particularly messier than usual.

Draco took a moment to glance at Harry's robes, then. They were crumpled, folded at irregular places and wrinkled oddly. Frowning, he moved his assessment upward, leveling his gaze on Harry's face. No difference, aside from the slight swell of Harry's bottom lip.

Draco paused, then asked skeptically. "Have you been cheating on me?"

Harry swatted him on the arm with a scowl.

"No, you git. I just said I had to run a few errands."

Draco sneered. "Yes, I'm sure that's what all cheaters tell their partners."

Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I don't know how I put up with you."

"I give good head—you said so yourself." Draco returned, smirking. When Harry made a move to hit him again, he swiveled out of the way, haughtily.

"Prat."

"And you love me for it," Draco cheekily retorted.

Harry shook his head, and let his grin overtake his face. He moved towards Draco and planted a soft kiss on his lips. Draco returned it, just as softly.

"I got you something, actually."

And oh, were those words not Draco's absolute favorite?

"Really?" Draco asked, feeling eager. Harry nodded, and took his hand again. He led Draco further into the living room, toward the empty couch, and deposited the both of them onto it.

"Close your eyes and I'll show you." Harry said, still grinning widely.

Draco nodded, excited, and closed his eyes. He didn't even bother trying to peek, since Harry would hold his present off longer if he caught him. Harry was touchy like that.

"Now, open your eyes."

Draco's eyes shot open, and he looked down quickly, expecting to see an item of some kind. There was no item of any kind, however. He gave Harry a confused look.

"I don't see anything," he said.

"You're not looking hard enough," was all Harry said.

Draco pursed his lips and scanned the immediate area. There definitely weren't any items about. It wasn't until a moment later that he realized that Harry was naked from waist up, his robe having been discarded to the floor just below them.

"Sex?" Draco asked, confusedly. Because really, as much as Draco enjoyed it, it didn't very much qualify as a present—he and Harry had sex almost every day. It was hardly something to be surprised about.

"No," Harry sighed, fidgeting. "Look closer."

Draco rolled his eyes but nevertheless continued to search. He raked his eyes over Harry's top, from his well toned stomach to his nicely built chest. His eyes lingered over the dusty brown nipples and the smooth pelvis bone that dipped into his trousers, and he found himself getting quite aroused. Harry was definitely a sight to look at—tanned and lean, with defined muscles and the perfect tone. His chest was broad, his shoulders wide, and his body seemed to be curved and shaped to perfection. Draco's eyes traveled the hollow of his throat, and he minutely imagined running his tongue along it, clamping his teeth over the slight apple. He imagined grazing his teeth down his collarbone, nipping at the flesh. He would sink his fingers into Harry's well-sculpted shoulder blades, tightly and unforgivably—

It was then that Draco noticed the tattoo.

On Harry's arm, precisely between his shoulder and elbow, was Draco's name—styled beautifully in scripted black letters, etched delicately across like a band. Just below it, in small, miniscule text, were the words: My Dragon, the love of my life.

Draco grabbed Harry's arm, just below the tattoo, and looked closer.

"Harry?" He asked, in disbelief.

"I see you found it, then," Harry breathed. "Took you long enough."

"Shut up," Draco whispered. He'd intended to say that retort a bit louder, but hadn't been able to manage it. A lump had lodged itself in his throat, and as absurd as it was, Draco's eyes felt as if, at any moment, they would start to sting.

"Shite, Harry."

Harry chuckled—a soft noise that sounded breathless—and said, "Like it, then?"

That was an understatement. Draco absolutely loved it. Loved the tattoo, loved the words, loved Harry. He didn't hold himself back from saying the last part out loud.

"I love you, too, Draco," Harry murmured, and turned himself further around.

Draco tore his gaze away from Harry's tattoo—from Harry's tattoo of his name— and up to his face. When Harry's head leaned down, Draco shortened the distance between them and crashed his lips against his.

"Fuck me," Draco said as they parted, breathing heavily. No, he realized. That wasn't right. Not then, when he felt so much love for his partner that he feared his chest would burst.

"Make love to me," he amended.

Harry smiled at him, a soft, beautiful smile that spread far above his eyes, and did just that.


When Draco awoke a few hours later, he bum was feeling pleasantly achy. He shifted, taking quick note that he was laying on top of Harry's arms, and adjusted his position—that had been facing the ceiling—towards Harry's chest.

"Finally awake, are you?"

"Shut up," Draco murmured, sleepily. Really, he could never understand just how Harry had so much energy. He never could, for the life of him, after their particularly longer love-making sessions, stay awake. Such as just then, when Harry had been ramming into him for almost two hours straight, in nearly every position possibly known to man. Draco was bloody exhausted. He couldn't have even moved afterward. It had been Harry who carried him, possibly performing some form of Weight Lightening charm beforehand—though Draco wouldn't have been surprised if he didn't, since Harry liked to carry him sometimes without the charm—from their living room couch to the bedroom. Draco certainly wouldn't have been able to; not with his admittedly low stamina.

Draco figured that a lot of Harry's endurance must come from being an Auror. Draco sat at a desk for the majority of his days. If he'd been an Auror too—not that he would ever consider doing something that required him to run around and fight all the time—he was quite sure he would be able to make it through very hard and very long sex without falling asleep right afterward. He was sure of it.

"A knut for your thoughts?" Harry breathed into Draco's ear, making him shudder.

"Just thinking about the castration charm I'm going to hex you with. My bloody back and arse are killing me," Draco complained.

He couldn't see him, but Draco knew that Harry was frowning.

"Are you alright? Would you like me to rub it for you?"

Draco stifled the smile that threatened to break over his face by shifting closer to Harry and burying his head into his chest. "No, it's alright. It'll go away in a few hours."

"If you're sure," Harry said, sounding quite doubtful.

Draco lifted his head just a little so that Harry could see his face. "I'm sure."

Harry smiled down at him, pecked him on his forehead, and nestled in more comfortably.

"How long have I been sleeping for?"

Harry hummed. "Only about an hour or so. It's still late. Around one a.m."

Draco nodded and closed his eyes. He would have to wake up in a few—about six o'clock, actually, if he wished to finish up the paperwork that he hadn't gotten to before heading to work.

"Hey, Draco?" Harry asked quietly. Suddenly.

Draco grunted, not awake enough to answer with words, but wanting Harry to know that he was listening—or at least trying to.

"Have you considered… getting a tattoo yourself?"

Draco froze.

After a brief of silence, he figured it might have been a better idea to pretend that he'd fallen asleep. That way he could have at least processed what Harry had just asked him without Harry noticing that he was trying to process it at all.

"Draco?"

"Mm?" Draco kept his head down, wearily.

"Did you hear what I asked?"

Draco nodded, because if shook his they'd both know he was lying.

"I heard you."

"Well?" Harry prompted, and Draco took note of the impatience in his tone. He pressed his lips tightly together, mind whirling for something—for anything—to say. After a moment of silence, he realized that he had absolutely nothing to tell Harry. It wasn't that he was opposed to the idea…

No, he was very opposed to the idea. It was a tattoo, for Merlin's sake! A permanent mark on one's body. Draco had nothing against tattoos in general—he loved Harry's after all, and could admit that he'd seen a few that were very attractive—but the idea of branding his arm for the remainder of his life… Draco didn't like that idea so much.

In all honesty, he'd already had his fair share of bodily marks.. When Lord Voldemort had been defeated, and the mark he'd forcibly placed on Draco's arm had disappeared, Draco had been more than just a little relieved. He didn't fancy the idea of having another one.

Draco mustered up the courage to look at Harry, and shrunk back at the deep frown he was giving him.

"You don't want one," Harry said flatly.

Draco shrunk further. "Harry—"

"You said you'd get one, Draco."

Draco gaped at him. "I did not!" he said, flummoxed. He had no recollection of ever saying anything of the sort. And really—his impressive ability to remember even the tiniest of recollections aside—he figured agreeing to get a permanent mark on his body would definitely be something he could remember.

Harry sat up quickly, pulling the sheets with him and, consequently, pulling them off Draco, as well.

Draco, suddenly cold, sat up as well and tugged the blankets back.

"I can't believe you, Draco! I wouldn't make it up if you hadn't!"

Draco scowled. "Harry, I'm sure I would remember agreeing to getting a tattoo!"

"Apparently not, Draco, since you don't!" Harry folded his arms over his bare chest and glared. "It doesn't matter. It's either you want one or you don't."

"Harry—"

Draco hadn't even been given the chance to finish his sentence. Before he could utter a second word, Harry pushed the sheets further back—once again lifting them off Draco's nude body—and moved his feet off the bed. He stood up, stormed to the other side of the room, and angrily slipped on a robe.

"Where are you going, Harry?" Draco pleaded, staring at Harry's turned form.

Harry ignored him. He stomped across the room again, grabbed his glasses and wand from the bedside table, and marched towards the door.

"Harry—" Draco tried a second time.

He didn't so much as turn around from his position by the door, hand planted on the dark-wood knob. "I'll be sleeping in the guest room tonight," he said stiffly, then pulled the door open, slipped outside, and closed it with a slam.

Draco stared at the door for long moments even after Harry felt, the sound of the heavy door slamming against the sturdy frame reverberating in his ears, until he realized it was pointless doing so. He could also get up and follow Harry to the guest room and beg him to come back. Think up some excuse as to why the idea of having a tattoo—even one of Harry's name—didn't appeal to him very much.

Draco played out that particular scenario in his head and winced. Every alternative outcome resulted in Harry throwing some sort of hex at him. No, it would be better to leave him alone for the moment and let him cool off. Then, when the chance of Draco being hexed to Hogwarts and back was around the same approximation of his late father approving of his and Harry's relationship, he'd sit Harry down—preferably somewhere public and around children— and try to explain things.

Sighing tiredly, Draco settled back into the bed, pulled the covers over himself until the hem reached his chin, and pressed far into Harry's pillow. He stared up at the ceiling, persistently feeling for all the world like an utter prat, and tried to sleep.


One Week Later…

If there was ever a man who could hold a grudge, it was Harry. Draco stared forlornly as Harry gruffly walked past him, eyes trained to the floor and frown marring his features. He didn't even bother calling out his name knowing that he would be ignored—just as he'd been for the past week. They'd fallen into a sort of routine; Draco would call Harry's name, hoping to talk to him, and Harry would either look at him coolly and walk away, or walk away without looking at him at all. For an entire week!

The morning after Harry had gotten the tattoo, Draco had tried to speak with him. He'd slipped into the guestroom Harry had spent the night in, a tray of apology breakfast in his hand, and then made to explain his reasons for not wanting a tattoo. He'd tried to clarify, that it really wasn't Harry—it was him. Harry had simply scowled at him throughout the entire one-sided explanation. When Draco had finished speaking, flashing Harry the sorriest smile he could muster, Harry had accused Draco of being an insufferable liar who didn't love him enough to mar his beautiful skin with someone's name besides his own. Harry hadn't spoken to him since.

Draco heard ruffling from the hall, followed by the sound of banging and heavy footsteps, and finally the sound of the door slamming shut.

He stared dejectedly into his usual favorite brand of earl-grey tea and pushed it towards the middle of the table, the once wonderful flavor tasting bitter on his tongue. He clapped his hands slowly and a house elf appeared by his side at once.

"Master Malfoy," the house-elf said, morosely. "What can Willy be doing for you?"

"Bring me a cup of coffee—extra cream—and a plate of chocolate biscuits," he said, tone rivaling Willy's sullen one.

If Willy made a verbal assent, he didn't hear it. Draco continued to stare at the white face of his and Harry's kitchen table, and solemnly wondered if he'd finally be able to taste something other than guilt on his tongue.

He wouldn't count on it.


"Cut him some slack, would you, mate?" Ron said, seriously.

Harry shot him a glare from across the table. He was sitting in Ron and Hermione's kitchen, sipping hot chocolate, chewing on plain biscuits, and grumbling about Draco.

"I mean, you can't blame the bloke for not wanting to get a tattoo. I still can't believe you got one."

Harry sent another glare his way and consciously placed his hand over his tattoo.

"When did you and Draco become best mates?" Harry snapped.

"When did you get all moody like a girl—ow!" Ron yelped. He shot Hermione an annoyed look and rubbed at his aching arm.

"Quit arguing, the both of you," she chastised.

"Yes mum—ow! Quit it, 'Mione!"

Harry would have snickered if he'd been in a better mood.

Hermione turned to Harry and asked, "I hate to agree with Ron, Harry,"—Ron made a sound of outrage and she ignored him, "—but he's right. I don't understand why you're being so hard on Draco. Getting a tattoo is a big thing. A lot of people aren't capable of taking such a step—" Harry mumbled something along the lines of "it's not as if he hadn't gotten one before", and Hermione pointedly ignored that, too. "—I think you're taking Draco's refusal a bit too personally. He did say it wasn't you, didn't he?"

Harry scowled. "Yeah, well, apparently a lot of things Draco's says isn't altogether true."

Hermione sighed, annoyed. "Harry! Are you listening to me at all?"

"Of course I am, 'Mione. How the hell am I supposed to believe him, though? He lied to me. The only reason I went out and got this bloody thing is because I thought he'd get one, too." Harry touched the tattoo again. The skin there felt a lot cooler than it had the day he'd gotten it.

"Did you tell Draco that, then?"

Harry thinned his lips and looked down at the table. "It should be obvious. I'm not going to spell out every bleeding thing to him."

There was a pause where no one said anything. It was Ron who finally broke it.

"Y'know mate, sometimes you need to spell out every bleeding thing," he said, suddenly.

Harry frowned at him.

"He's right, Harry," Hermione continued. "Merlin only knows where our relationship would be if I allowed Ron time to work things out for himself. We'd still be engaged!"

"Hey!" Ron growled.

Harry fought down the urge to smile. "Yeah, but 'Mione, Ron is unnaturally thick,"—Ron growled again and Harry paid him no mind, "—Draco isn't. He knows what he's done wrong. He's just too stubborn to do anything about it. If he really felt so bad, he'd go get a tattoo, too."

Harry folded his arms and glared challengingly at his plate of biscuits.

"He must not love me that much if he won't even consider it" he continued to himself.

Hermione noted the stubborn line forming above his brow and exhaled deeply, exasperated. She shook her head and shared a look with her husband.

Ron, no longer huffing about being called a moron, shrugged at her.

Hermione sighed again and turned to her breakfast. They rest of the meal continued in relatively comfortable silence.


Draco shook his hair from his eyes and pulled it back behind his ears.

"That's what Harry said" he said finally, looking intently at Ron.

Ron sighed, little daggers of flames pouring from his mouth from where his head floated in the fireplace.

"Yeah," he nodded.

"And he told you this himself?" Draco asked.

"Uh-huh."

"In those exact words?"

"No shit, Malfoy." Ron snapped, annoyed.

Draco ignored the nasty retort and mulled it over.

"And he didn't tell you when I supposedly consented to getting marked?"

"No."

"Are you positive?"

"Bloody hell, yes, Malfoy! No wonder Harry's not talking to you! You're a complete ninny!"

Draco shot Ron a glare that would have made lesser men quake in their boots.

"And why are you telling me this, Weasley?" he asked, suspiciously.

Ron sighed. "Hermione said to."

Draco stared at him for a moment longer before he nodded shortly and disconnected the Floo, ignoring Ron's protests to wait.

He climbed to his feet and batted the invisible dust from his knees, then walked toward the hall.

Harry was taking the ordeal far more personally than Draco thought. He'd been convinced that Harry had been angry at him for the principle of the matter—simply angry that Draco wouldn't get one of his name when Harry had one of his. He had no idea, however, that Harry, the idiot, was truly believing that Draco's love for him was slight compared to his since he wouldn't get a tattoo. He had no idea that Harry had only gotten the bloody thing in the first place because he misheard—and Draco was still quite adamant that he had never agreed to it—him saying he'd get one himself.

Draco lifted his hands to his face and groaned. Merlin, how had things gotten so fucked up? Just two weeks ago he and Harry had been happy—celebrating their one and a half year anniversary in a well-established hotel in France, licking chocolate sauce and whipped cream off each other's bits, whispering almost sickening sweet nothings into each other's ears.

Now—and all because of a silly little tattoo—they weren't even speaking to one another. Well, Harry wasn't speaking to Draco, anyways. And there was certainly no whipped cream or chocolate sauce involved in anything, to Draco's immense sadness.

Really, nothing good ever came from being branded. He'd gotten a tattoo from a man he hated and he'd nearly been sent to Azkaban because of it. His partner had gotten a tattoo with his name, and now they weren't speaking.

Nothing good, indeed.

Draco pushed the door to their bedroom open and closed it loudly. The house was far too quiet without Harry in it. And Harry truly hadn't been in it much in the past week. He'd wake up—in a room separate from Draco's—leave ridiculously early for work, stay out late (with Weasley and Granger, he presumed), come home, lock himself in the guest room, and wouldn't come out again unless he had to use the loo or in the morning when he had to get ready for work.

To say that Draco was beyond aggravated was an understatement.

Draco plopped on the bed, bounced slightly, and glanced at his left arm. He wore a short sleeved shirt and had perfect view of the skin—pale, smooth, unmarred. When the Dark Lord had died and the Dark Mark had vanished, Draco had spent hours staring at his arm, feeling so absolutely relieved that it was once again clean. He'd vowed, then, never to do something as stupid as marking his body again.

With another sigh, he fell onto the bed until his back was on the sheets and e was facing the white ceiling.

Maybe it wouldn't be stupid this time, though.

Draco closed his eyes and began to ponder.


Draco was thinking that maybe he'd made a mistake, after all.

The sound of revving and tapping and soft whimpering resonated around him, thrumming in his ears, suffocating his brain. The chair he was seated in was uncomfortable, and he couldn't stop his leg from anxiously bouncing—a habit he often scolded Harry for doing. The room was cold and smelled of weird things, kind of like Snape's potions lab after a particularly bad experiment. There was another scent in the air, tangy and metallic, which he would swear was the smell of blood. The eeriness of the dark room aside, the occupants weren't all too comfortable to be around, either; the scruffy lady sitting across the room from him was eyeing him rudely and the bloke sitting next to him was entirely too close for his liking. Not to mention that there was definitely some whimpering going on behind the curtains.

No, he was quite sure he'd made a mistake.

"Malfoy?"

Draco jumped, startled at the sound of his name being called. His head swiveled in the direction it came from, and he gulped at the sight of Dean Thomas—robed in muggle attire—looking at him calmly from behind the parted black curtains.

"You're up." He said, thickly.

Draco nodded stiffly and stood up. The book of art work that had been placed on his lap—the one he'd forgotten about after only five minutes of flipping through it—crashed to the floor with a thud.

He looked down at it for a moment, blankly, until it shivered closed and rose to the seat he'd been sitting in.

Draco glanced up at Dean and saw that his wand was out. Dean smiled at him softly and cocked his head, gesturing at Draco to follow him. He disappeared behind the thick curtains and Draco swallowed, then traveled behind.

Draco pulled the curtain apart and slipped through quickly, doing his best to keep the seemingly dirty cloth from brushing against his hair.

He paused as he finally looked forward. The other side of the curtain revealed an entirely new room, a bit larger that the one he'd been waiting in, but the same square shape. The walls were decorated in different types of artwork, scattered randomly like mismatched wallpaper. On each wall was an opening, half covered by different colored cloth.

Dean was standing before the one directly across from him. He nodded at Draco again and pushed the short material to the side, so that it wouldn't brush his face, and walked through. Draco swallowed again and moved forward.

"Hermione told me you were coming," he said as soon as Draco came through. He patted at a bed in the middle of the small, brightly lit room, and waited for Draco to take a seat.

"Did she?" Draco murmured. He wasn't surprised.

"Yeah. She told me you wanted to get a tattoo. One with Harry's name."

Draco nodded, blankly.

"Have you chosen one you liked?"

He shook his head. He had been concentrating on other things—like the lady staring at him, or the man who was nearly breathing down his neck, or the small whimpering he'd heard from behind the curtains—where he was currently at—to pay much attention to the book of artwork some woman had given him when he first came in.

"Oh. Well, would you like to look at something now?"

Draco shook his head again.

Dean sounded a bit agitated. "Would you like me to pick something out for you myself?"

He paused, mulled the idea over in his head, then nodded.

"Anything in specific, then?"

Draco thought for a second then said, "Nothing too large or flashy. Something elegant and fashionable. Something that won't stand out too much. Something nice looking. I don't want to look like a hooligan."

Dean shot him an irritated glare, but he ignored it, now feeling more in his element.

"I don't want anything cheap looking, either. It has to compliment me and my wealth. Something designer, I suppose. Aesthetic—but not overly so. And did I mention that I wanted something elegant and not too large or flashy? Because that's imperative. Close to my complexion, please."

Dean sighed and shook his head. He mumbled something that Draco was quite sure sounded like, "poncy git", turned around, and pulled out a large, leather-bound book from a tall shelf. Draco took the moment to take a look at his arm.

Wizarding tattoos were permanent. Well, they weren't, but the process of removing one was long and almost agonizingly painful. So basically, yes, Wizarding tattoos were permanent.

"How about this one?" Dean said suddenly, and moved closer to give Draco a look at the book.

Draco peered down at the page cautiously, taking his time. He scrutinized the picture for a moment before shaking his head. "No. Too boorish. Didn't you hear me when I said Aesthetic? Something else."

Dean huffed, turned around again, and continued to flip through the book. Draco waited for him to show him then next one.

"No, too large."

"I don't think so. Too bold."

"Does that look elegant to you?"

"Too tiny. I'd look stupid."

"Too girly."

"Too manly."

"Not flashy enough."

"I have a respectable job. I'd get fired for having that thing on me."

"I was a Slytherin, for Merlin's sake!"

"Are you blind? No? Well, color blind, then."

"You call that artwork?"

"I said expensive, Thomas. Tell me, does that look expensive to you? Because it certainly doesn't to me."

"I think you need to start thinking of a change in career."

Dean growled and all but threw the book at Draco.

"Take a look at that one, then!"

Draco glared at him and sneered, ready to complain about customer abuse, when something moving caught his attention. He looked down at the book, the page turned to one of it's last, and paused.

"That," he said, eyes locked onto the moving item, "That is perfect."

He looked up just in time to see Dean shooting him a stunned look, as if he was sure that Draco would turn down that choice, too.

"You like that one, Malfoy?" he asked, surprised.

Draco nodded, energetically. Yes, he liked that one very much. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine it on his arm, moving around as liquidly as it did, running across his perfect skin.

It didn't look bad there, at all.

"Yes, I do." He said, finally. He handed the book back to Dean and gave him a sharp smile.

"You hurt me, I'll sue you until the only thing you'd be drawing for the rest of your life are words on cardboard asking people for spare knuts."

Dean shot him a murderous look—one Draco, quite vindictively, took great pleasure in–and set out to get his tools ready.

Draco relaxed on the bed with a nervous smile.

He was sure Harry would like it, too.


Draco crept into the house quietly. The chance of Harry being home at that time, given the past week, was slim—but he felt the need to do so, anyways. Just in case.

The place on his left arm, just above his elbow, was tingly. Draco fought the urge to clamp his hand over it, or smooth his fingers over the warmed flesh. Dean had specifically told him to touch it as little as possible for a least three hours, lest he get an infection and have to have his arm amputated. Three hours had already passed, but he had never been one to take chances. Especially when it could possibly result with the loss of a limb.

Draco toed his boots off and set them by the door. Carefully, so as not to irritate the tender flesh, he slipped his robes off and, as if any heavy or rapid movement would discomfort the area, slowly placed it on the coat rack. He did the same with his tie and blazer, until he was clad only in his trousers and the short sleeve shirt Harry had bought him last year.

Still softly, he moved down the hall towards the kitchen, heart thumping in anticipation. He really, really hoped Harry was home.

He'd spent nearly two hours walking around Diagon Alley, simply wondering how in the world he would show Harry his new tattoo. Would he wait for Harry by the doorway and just flash him with it? Would he make it a sort of game and have Harry find it? Would he simply tell Harry he'd gotten it?

And then, of course, there was the possibility of Harry believing that Draco only got the tattoo because he wanted to make amends, and not for himself at all. Actually, the possibility of just that happening was quite high. Draco didn't have any idea how to handle that situation, though, and thrust that scenario to the back of his mind. He would deal with that if and when the time came. Draco's plans were usually shot to the ground whenever Harry came into the picture, anyway.

Draco walked into the kitchen and was only mildly disappointed at the sight of it empty. He moved toward the table, pulled out a chair, and sat—practically deflating in it.

He continued to think of all the ways—the best possible way—of approaching Harry. It was when the clock on the wall chimed six-thirty that Draco got a satisfactory idea.

Grinning slightly, he began to strip.


Harry was not in the best of moods when he got home. He'd all but slammed the door right off its hinges when he walked in. His boots—muddy from an unpleasant mixture of dirt and rain—were not removed as he stormed into the house, nor was his soggy jacket or firmly knotted tie. He trudged into the hallway with a scowl, stomping his feet against the polished floor.

Merlin, couldn't he ever get a break? He'd been sour ever since his talk with Ron and Hermione earlier that morning. He'd thought, going to work, that by busying himself with his department's most recent project that he'd be able to get his mind off of the things that were bothering him. Like, say, Draco, for instance. What good was work, after all, if one couldn't immerse themselves in it when they needed to?

He hadn't counted, however, on the level of incompetence of his two newest partners, Russel and Cornet. Not only were the pair prone to bickering on a constant basis, but they had an aggravating habit of breaking things in the process of it. Harry had nearly blown his top when Cornet pushed Russel right into his station—his station holding the extremely delicate Emory Orb that he'd been decoding for the past month—and knocked it right off the edge and onto the floor, causing it to burst and shatter into a hundred irreplaceable shards.

Russel and Cornet had been lucky than another Auror had been loitering in the area when he'd been. He stunned Harry before he was able to lift his wand and cast an Unforgivable—and Harry would have, too, given the chance—and ushered the two men to flee.

After the spell was removed, Harry had spent almost two hours explaining to his Head just why the most valuable magical artifact they'd received in over a year was lying broken on his floor, and why his co-workers were nowhere to be found.

He was given the paperwork in their stead, and left to compensate for them.

So not only was he overworked, tired, and hungry, but he was all-out angry, too.

As soon as Harry reached the living room, he slipped off his cloak and placed it on the couch. He loosened his tie with one hand quite masterfully, fixing it so that it came undone around his neck, and undid the first two buttons of his muggle button-down.

He glanced at the clock on the wall and noted that it was late. Draco, he reckoned, was probably upstairs.

Draco. He was another cause for Harry's rotten mood. No one, not even his best friends, could understand why Harry was upset about the tattoo ordeal. They couldn't understand why he was upset about it. So adamant that Draco get one, too.

They couldn't comprehend because they weren't him. They hadn't been the one who'd so eagerly gone to that tattoo parlor, shaking in nervousness, yet still beyond anxious to get marked for the man they loved. They hadn't been the one to suffer nearly an hour of pain as the muggle needle and magical spellwork combined to seep into their skin, all for the purpose of having their partner's name engraved on their arm.

Draco had promised Harry. He had; Harry could remember, quite clearly, the happenings of the night they'd gone to that muggle club. He remembered, vividly, telling Draco that he would some day get his name tattooed to his arm—a spur of the moment suggestion, admittedly caused by an interesting conversation with a woman with her husband's named inked across her back, but a suggestion all the same. He also remembered, just as clearly, Draco nodding and saying he'd do the same.

It angered Harry that Draco could just forget like that. It angered him more, that even after he'd been reminded, he still refused to go through with it. As if Harry weren't important enough to tarnish his perfect skin.

And then Draco had had the gall of comparing a tattoo, one that would have been for the sole purpose of expressing their bond, with the Dark Mark he'd received when he was a Death Eater! As if Harry's name could bear any form of resemblance to the mark Voldemort had placed on his minions.

But it was as if Draco had truly believed, in some sense, that it was the same. Had acted as if Harry had wanted to brand him, to claim him, for sheer purpose of doing so—just as Voldemort had done.

That had irritated Harry more than anything else.

With a frustrated sigh, because he had already worked himself up thinking of his aggravating partner, Harry made for the kitchen with a mindset that, while he couldn't do anything about his current work load or increasing annoyance, he could at least deal with his rumbling stomach.

Harry pulled the door open to the kitchen, intent on rummaging through the fridge and finding something that wouldn't take too long to make, and froze.

There, sitting on the table, was Draco.

There, sitting on the table, was Draco nude.

"Draco?" Harry finally managed to get out, chocking a little on spit that had gone down the wrong pipe. "What are you doing?!"

Draco, in all his naked glory, quirked a brow at Harry.

Harry scanned the wide kitchen, looking for something—though he didn't quite know exactly what—that would let him in on the joke. When he didn't find anything particularly noticeable, he rested his gaze on the man sitting starkers on their table.

"You're naked," Harry said, stupidly. One of his hands was still trained on the knob to the door, outstretched to hold it open. The other was hovering somewhere in front of him.

Draco simply smiled at him with nod.

After a moment, Harry spoke again. "Would you mind telling me why?"

Draco closed his eyes, as if he found Harry's clueless disposition to be exasperating.

"You haven't noticed anything different about me?" Draco asked, finally.

Harry furrowed his brows. He raked his eyes over Draco's bare form quickly, his gaze hovering over his half-hard cock and well toned chest muscles for a bit longer than he probably should have—and his own member twitched at the sight, because really, it had been too long since he'd had sex or seen Draco naked—and shook his head.

Draco sighed. "Come closer then."

Harry stood where he was, and shot him a suspicious look.

"Come here, Harry!" Draco snapped.

Still feeling suspicious, and a bit put off at being snapped at, Harry tentatively moved forward. He stopped a near yard from Draco, in part from weariness, and in part from his warming prick.

"What is it?" Harry asked again.

"Look closer," Draco drawled out. Harry started, for some reason, feeling Déjà vu.

"I think I'm close enough, thanks," Harry said stubbornly.

Draco fixed him with a glare, silently challenging him to act any stupider.

"Prat," Harry muttered, and took another step forward. He looked over Draco's body again, wondering what it was that he wanted to show him. What it was that he couldn't have shown him with his clothes on.

His parts didn't mind the view too much, though; not if his twitching cock was any indication.

Harry sighed, tiredly. Really, what was Draco playing at? "I don't see any—," He started to say, then stopped, noticing something flashing.

Harry's eyes widened and he stepped forward again, moving to the side to get a better look, and reached out and grabbed Draco's arm.

Draco made a protesting sound, muttering something about manhandling and merchandise abuse, but didn't pull away from Harry's rough hold.

"Found it, did you?" he asked, sounding only a little condescending, and only a little nervous.

Harry had.

On Draco's left arm, at the precise spot between his shoulder and elbow, was a tattoo—a snake-like design, slithering slowly in a fixed pattern, so pale in shade it nearly blended with his skin. Nearly.

Harry swallowed heavily, fighting down whatever it was that had managed to lodge itself in his throat, and examined the marking thoroughly. It was exotic, almost, with unusual designs and curves, and a silvery web-like vine that moved around it, inside it. From a certain angle it looked almost like a flower in before bloom, curving in on itself with its insides moving about. From another, it resembled an open snake, coiled freely in loose knots and wrapped around something wide.

No matter which angle you read it from, though, it spelled one thing: Harry.

"You got a tattoo," Harry said, stunned.

Draco nodded, though Harry couldn't see it. "I did."

"You got a tattoo." He repeated.

"I think we've established that," Draco snorted.

"When?" he asked, staring at the intricate design, now moving horizontally.

"Today."

"Why?"

Draco didn't answer.

Harry felt something warm move under his chin, and he slowly moved his eyes from Draco's arm and looked up at him.

Draco leaned forward and settled a chaste kiss on Harry's lips. Harry let him.

"You like it?"

"I—,"do Harry started, not missing a beat, then stopped.

Draco hadn't answered him. Had he gotten the tattoo only because Harry was angry at him? Had he got only so they could stop fighting? Because if he did, then—

"I didn't." Draco said, suddenly.

Harry looked up again, sharply. "What?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "I can understand what you're thinking, you pillock. You're wondering about my reasons for getting this, when I had been so adamantly against it in the first place."

Harry nodded, surprised.

"You—"

"I know you're wondering if I got it only to appease you," Draco interrupted. "But I didn't. I got it because I wanted to. Because I wanted to have your name on me."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Draco interrupted him again.

"I realized… how much of an idiot I'd been, refusing you like that. The mark I had before… the new one bears no relation to Dark Mark." Draco paused, and smiled ruefully. "I apologize, Harry, if I made you feel that it did. There's no similarity at all. That one… had been a mistake. Something I regret, something I'm happy to see gone. This one is something else entirely. Something I wouldn't mind having on me forever."

Draco paused, and took a deep breath, as if gathering his courage to continue. "I love you, you know. So bloody much. I'm sorry if I made you feel that I didn't. You know I do, though, don't you?"

Harry nodded, eyes locked with Draco's. "Yeah," he breathed. He felt stupid for, in the past week, thinking otherwise.

"So much," Draco repeated, and placed another kiss on Harry's lips.

"Me, too," Harry returned, and kissed Draco back, using one hand to cup his cheek. He placed his second palm on Draco's thigh, and jumped slightly in alarm at the obvious feel of flesh on flesh. Harry glanced down, and remembered that Draco was naked.

"Let's take this to the bed, yeah?"

Draco's gray eyes, suddenly a few shades darker, gazed at Harry patiently, and Harry nodded. He lowered himself a little so that Draco and he were almost touching, and allowed Draco to wrap his arms around his neck. Harry tightened his muscles and steadied his stance, then in one quick movement, put his arm under Draco's leg and behind his back, and hoisted him up.

"I missed you carrying me," Draco sighed, nestling his face into Harry's chest.

If Harry hadn't been so bloody hard, he would have quipped something back about Draco usual complaints of Harry treating him as a girl. As it was, Harry had no desire to get Draco annoyed.

Harry merely smiled at him and held him tighter. He wondered, in awe, how he could have let himself be mad at his lover—his partner—for so long. Really, the things Draco did to him.

"Hurry up, Harry," Draco urged, when they'd only just reached the bottom landing of the stairs.

Harry did. He rushed upward, going two steps at a time—and completely ignoring Draco's cries to be careful and not to go that fast, at least when Harry was carrying him—until he reached the door to their bedroom. Harry walked to it, back facing the door, and pushed it open. He slipped inside quickly, made it across the room in seconds, and deposited Draco's nude form onto the silk sheets.

"Careful, Potter!" Draco threatened as he landed, bouncing on soft mattress a few times. He didn't look particularly angry, however, so Harry ignored the warning and threw himself on the bed with him.

"Merlin, Harry, you'd think—,"

Harry cut him off with his lips, pressing them so harshly against Draco's that he was sure they'd bruise, and pushed him down so that he hovered over him. He moaned, softly, and Harry slipped his tongue into his mouth, running it along the warm roof and slick gums. Draco tasted of peppermint and coffee. Not an appealing taste combined, but because there was a bit of Draco in the mix as well, he found it to be almost intoxicating. He withdrew for a moment, to study Draco's flushed cheeks and increasingly swollen lips, and bowed his head.

"Less talking," Harry said, and leaned back so that he was on his knees. He tore off his jacket and altered positions to get his pants and boxers off, then resumed his place above him. "More fucking."

"M-must you be so crude, Harry?" Draco groaned just as Harry clamped his hand over his prick, running his calloused fingers over the pale, slightly pink, fully erect cock.

"Fuck, Draco," Harry panted, stroking him quickly. His own member was almost contracting with need, begging to be touched after an entire week of celibacy.

He once again thought how stupid he was to have been angry at him for so long.

"Let me come inside you," he breathed heavily, trembling against Draco's lips. Draco nodded quickly and opened his legs a little.

"Fuck, just hurry up!" Draco cried. His cock began to twitch, a sure sign that he'd be coming soon, and Harry hastily pulled away.

"Harry!" Draco whined, arching off the bed.

"Not yet," Harry whispered. He moved himself between Draco's legs and pushed them open. The sight of Draco—red, bobbing, weeping, and so unbelievably erect—was nearly enough to, if he'd been a little younger, push him over the edge. He bit his bottom lip hard, ignoring the pain, and clenched his thighs as if it would help in prolonging the need to come.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry," Draco chanted, straining his arse closer to Harry. His legs were opened so wide that Harry didn't need to pull his cheeks apart to see the hole, already twitching and wet from the drippings of Draco's pre-cum.

"Accio lube," Harry almost shouted. The jar of lotion, from where they'd always kept it at their shared top drawer, rushed toward him and into his hand. He uncorked the transparent vial quickly and coated the liquid on Draco's dick. Draco shuddered, probably from the cool temperature, and Harry poured some more into his hand. By the time he reached for Draco's arse, the lube had already seeped down his crack, moistening the small, fleshed pucker. He pressed his oily finger onto the tight ring, scraping the nail against the taut ridges, and moaned when Draco hissed his name.

"Hurry the hell up, Harry!" Draco snapped, impatiently. He was moving forward so desperately that Harry had to move his finger back, knowing he'd impale himself if he could.

"You have to hold on, Draco," Harry argued roughly. "We haven't had sex in a week. I don't want to hurt you."

Draco paused after a moment, then groaned. "Bloody Gryffindor," he said resignedly. Harry quite agreed.

"I'll try to be quick," Harry assured him. And he meant it. He rubbed his fingers together, feeling the odd texture of moist skin, and circled Draco again. Draco whined, and made an unconscious—or at least Harry presumed it was—attempt to push it in all the way. Harry retreated until Draco calmed, and did it again.

"Oh, fuck," Draco groaned.

Harry grunted. He circled the rim one more time before pushing the tip of his finger in. He wiggled the tip for a moment before plunging the digit all the way in. Draco whined and rocked forward.

Another finger followed, and then three, and then four. He moved them in and out of Draco's ass, curling them in all directions, spreading them when he pleased, and thoroughly enjoyed the needy whimpers and of his partner.

"I'm going to come, Harry!" Draco snapped, pumping himself on Harry's hand and moaning whenever he brushed his prostrate. "Either get in here or get me bloody off!"

And there was no way in hell Harry would let Draco come without being inside him.
He pulled his fingers out quickly, satisfied that he was at least loosened up properly, and positioned himself so that he was directly above him. He moved Draco's legs, lifting them so that they rested on his shoulders, and with one quick movement slid his trembling cock in.

Harry's eyes rolled to the back of his head.

This—being inside Draco—was heaven if there was one. Harry wouldn't have been able to restrain himself even if he tried. By the way Draco was shouting his name, telling him hurry the bloody hell up—Harry didn't think he minded so much, either.

The pleasure was enough to make Harry forgot everything around him. He could only see, fascinated even after all the time they've done this, his cock disappearing into Draco, then resurfacing, if possible, even slicker than before. He could only hear the sound of his heart beating against his chest, his erratic breath in his ear, Draco's voice moaning his name.

His cock, he was sure, was about to explode from the feeling of being sheathed in Draco's tight, hot body. Every thrust forward made him cry out. Every slide backwards made him shiver. Draco was squeezing him, tightening him, gliding and pressing all around him, fucking his cock with fervor paralleled to Harry's.

The warmth that was swimming in Harry's stomach began to spread, pooling in every direction. His thighs and arms and spine were vibrating, readying him for the moment when he'd come.

Below him, Draco was stroking himself in tune to Harry's thrusts, eyes shut and head craned. His legs were shaking over Harry's shoulders, and Harry knew he was close, too.

Everything was burning. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought he was on fire. His hips were aching, strained from whenever he squeezed his arse and the constant lolls and thrusts. He moved faster, harder, to the point that his heart was so loud in his ears he could hear nothing else, and then froze as he came, groaning at the rush that moved through him. He noticed, vaguely, that Draco was still beating himself off, whimpering in the desperation to come, too. Harry, despite the oversensitive tingles of his flaccid prick, continued to move in and out as much as he could. He replaced Draco's hand with his own, pumping and circling until it was Draco turn to freeze and arch off the bed, crying Harry's name as if he were in pain.

Harry pulled out, shuddering at the sensation, and fell on top of Draco. Draco grunted, but said nothing about the weight.

"Fucking hell," Draco said, after a while.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to come again," Harry breathed, and stared at the bed at awe.

Draco chuckled, hoarsely.

"Maybe we should fight more often," he volunteered, and turned so that he was spooned against Draco's side.

Draco hummed and moved in closer.

"As great—"

"As mind-blowing--" Harry interjected.

"As that sex was," Draco continued, pointedly ignoring the interruption, "I'd rather not have you be mad at me again."

Harry smiled into Draco's shoulder, and nodded his agreement.

He felt a warm hand graze the skin of his tattoo, then move completely over it, and Harry closed his eyes.

"Love you," he murmured.

Draco yawned. "I do, too."

They fell asleep, just like that.


Draco glanced at the clock on the wall hanging just above the mantelpiece in irritation. It was already six o'clock. Where in the world was Harry?

He huffed, shifted on the couch, and glanced again.

Six-oh-one.

Draco narrowed his eyes.

The fireplace suddenly roared to life, and Harry fell out from it, covered in soot.

"I hate these ruddy things," he mumbled bitterly, swatting at the soot on his robe.

"You're late, Harry!" Draco growled, sitting up from the sofa with his hands planted over his hips. "I thought you said you were coming home early today!"

Harry looked up quickly, and smiled when he saw Draco.

"Hey, love," he greeted, completely ignoring Draco's aggravation. "I got something for you."

And just like that, Draco perked up.

"Oh?" Draco said, irritation forgotten.

Harry smiled wider, and beckoned him closer.

"But you'll only get it if you kiss me," he said, coyly.

Draco shot him a perplexed glare. "Why?"

Harry shrugged, nonchalantly. "I guess you don't want your present that much, then," he said, and turned around, as if making to leave.

"Don't you dare walk out of this living room, Harry!" Draco snapped.

Harry stopped and glanced around cheekily. "Well?"

"Oh, fine!" Draco huffed and moved forward, intending to simply peck Harry on the lips. He let out a startled breath when, as soon as their lips touched, Harry deepened it.

And really, who was Draco to turn down such a sexy kiss from his lover?

Draco moaned when Harry's tongue ran across his, and was about to return the favor, when he felt something odd bump his teeth.

Startled, he pulled away.

"What was that?" he asked, bewildered.

Harry grinned at him. "What was what?"

"Potter—," Draco threatened.

Harry laughed—a jovial laugh that came right from his belly—and shook his head. "Alright, you impatient one. Take a look."

He poked out his tongue, and Draco's eyes widened.

There, laying in the middle of that faded-red surface, was a green ball.

Draco stepped forward and peered at it closer. He could, just barely, make out the green lettering on it:

Draco.

"You wike it?" Harry mumbled, tongue still out.

Draco stared at the piercing in horror.

"So, Dwaco," Harry started, suggestively, wiggling his dark brows.

Draco took a step back and swallowed.

Fuck.


A/N: And that's the end of it! I hope everyone had a great New Years! Comments and reviews are welcome, of course. 'Til next time!

A/N (2): I realize that many people probably feel as if Harry's attitude towards Draco, and his desire for him to get a tattoo, was simply selfish and rather mean. Honestly, I quite agree. However, I still hope that I was able to portray Harry's feelings in such a way that while you may not agree with him, you could at least understand (to an extent). I also realize that some people may believe that Draco relented to Harry far too easily. Because of my time restraints with this story I wasn't able to develop it the exact way I'd wanted to, but I hope I still managed to make you all understand why Draco got the tattoo, and his reasons for doing it when he did. If there was any point of the story that you found to be unfeasible or poorly executed, I hope you'll tell me. The same way, I hope you'll tell me if it happens to be the exact opposite. Thanks!