Author's Notes: This was written for livejournal's hp_kinkfest for the prompt of 'someone getting off at being naked around the house and their partner touching them randomly,' or words to that effect. Hope you enjoy this.
As a child, I loved bath time best of all. After washing, when my skin was alive with the tingle of warm water and soap, I'd drive the house-elves mad scampering off as soon as I was dry, running the length of the halls and revelling in the freedom of being naked. At the top of the stairs, I'd stand, pretending to be the king of the world, swivel my hips and giggle at how my tiny penis bounced around.
The elves would chase after me, wailing in their little anxious high-pitched voices, 'Master Draco is to be getting clothes on and then Willy will have to be punishing himself.'
I never escaped them for too long but those few moments of rebellion are a cherished memory in a life wearing robes that caught around my ankles and tripped me up if I so much as walked quickly. They had stiff scratchy collars that choked, and woe betide me if I managed to get them dirty. There was many a night I was sent to bed with no dinner for various infractions of the 'Malfoys do not ever look anything less than perfect' rule.
Apparently I was being taught how to be a proper Malfoy. When I was eleven years old, Mother admonished me about my behaviour, insisting that I was old enough to start behaving in an appropriately discreet manner, which included not offending others by displaying myself so shamelessly. At the time, I was keen to be seen as a 'grown-up' boy, especially in my father's eyes, and quickly convinced myself of the indecency of the naked body.
After all, I'd never seen either of my parents naked. Or anybody else, for that matter.
Hogwarts, rather than being an escape from the rules and standards of home, was instead a place where those rules were more strictly enforced. The letters sent from home, hidden in the packages of sweets from my mother, brutally reminded me of my place and what was expected of me. When I say brutal, I mean it. Everyone thought I was selfish not sharing the sweets sent from home, but my father thought it great sport when I failed him at some task or other, to lace some of them with a laxative potion or worse, a curse which left the victim feeling like their insides were being scraped out through their rectum. I'd have been hexed to the Quidditch pitch and back if I'd subjected any of my housemates to that sort of agony. Besides, I had to report back to him which sweet or sweets were the laced ones, so…
Stuck between two worlds, no choice about playing a role I was not suited to, I hated just about every single day I ever spent at Hogwarts. I didn't understand why someone as strong and as apparently dominant as my father would choose to cower before anyone when he'd always taught me that Malfoys were better than everyone else. Of course, I learned later that fear played a role in his choices, just as terror played its role in mine.
All that Hogwarts taught me was that my life wasn't my own and that I was dead regardless of the outcome of the war. The only times I ever felt something resembling hopeful back in those last couple of years of my schooling were the times when Blaise would catch me in the shower and tell me how beautiful my body was. Outwardly I didn't even pretend to care, but I think a kernel of pride was forming inside, confirming, with some relief, that at least something was right about me. In a round about way, he reminded me of just how rebellious and brave I'd been in my childhood; of running away from the elves when it suited me, daring to be naked and flaunting the fact that I was going against everything I was being taught.
Perhaps that's what kept me alive during those last few horrible months of the war: pride sparking the dying embers of my courage. That was a big part of why I did not identify Potter and his sidekicks when they were caught and brought to the Manor during the war. For once I wanted to make my own choice.
At the very least, Blaise's words stirred the sense that my naked body was desirable and could be used as a tool as much as dressing in proper robes could.
I've learned that freedom is found in the strangest of places. It's in the everyday choices we take for granted, that we assume are ours by right of birth but, in actuality, have been long awaited and hard earned by virtue of the fact that we lived through the worst, most vicious war in wizarding history. Everything around you takes on a different, more compelling meaning when you've lost virtually everything that made up the structure of your life. Those impressionable years when personality is formed through a combination of biology and environment.
They say people don't change, but that's patently untrue. A child whose life is marred by catastrophic events cannot help but be changed by them. Some traits may remain stable, basic frameworks don't alter, but there are always changes.
Perhaps the exhibitionist tendencies in me were ingrained in my personality from birth – look who my father was: a man with the biggest ego and the least substance to back it up with that I have ever met.
'Never shy away from publicity, Son,' he used to say. 'Standing at the centre of all the attention is the birthright of a Malfoy.'
What with heredity working against me, and the upbringing I had, it appears I was destined to be ruled by vanity. There are some things you just can't fight.
Of course it's more complex than that.
The war taught me to find my joy where I can. To express my freedom in ways that enable me to let go of the past – maybe find that ingenuous child in me that stood at the top of the stairs and in his innocence exposed himself to the world, not caring one iota for the consequences. To search for love among those who know how to get under my skin and past the mask and how to inspire or evoke the most vivid of emotions in me.
I found my freedom and my joy in Harry Potter.
I think it hit us both hard when we realised we might mean more to each other than Quidditch team mates. It was not something either of us expected, though Harry took it better than I did. I remember him knocking on my door one night, looking as pale as a ghost.
'What are you doing here?' I asked, confused because we'd only said goodbye after the Quidditch match about an hour earlier. I'd caught him peeking at me in the showers after the game but, apart from giving him a show, I hadn't dwelt on it.
'Can I come in?' His voice shook so badly I thought he might lose it entirely.
'Harry, what's wrong?'
He took a tentative step over the threshold and inhaled deeply. 'I think I might be in love with you.'
'Don't be ridiculous, Potter,' I replied, reverting back to his surname as I tended to do when he was being particularly obtuse or stupid.
'I'm not,' he protested, as his voice became stronger and more confident. He raised his hands to rest on my shoulder.
'You are,' I insisted, because of course he had to be under some sort of spell.
'I can't stop thinking about you …'
'Obsessed.' I scoffed and went to push him away, but Harry had other thoughts and covered my lips with his own as he pressed me back into the wall. As kisses went, it was not memorable: too much spit and tongue. But as a first kiss, one that woke me up to the fact that Harry Potter was the one to make my knees go weak, it was perfect.
But then I scared myself silly by what it could all mean so I kneed him in the balls and shoved him out the door.
I was extremely lucky he was so stubborn.
Both of us have changed as a consequence of the war. Harry is quieter, more introspective about things. He still hates publicity and people prying into his life and telling him how he should live. But he ignores them better now. He is also surrounded by this aura of quiet confidence that makes you feel like you're wrapped in a warm blanket whenever you come into contact with him.
Being vulnerable doesn't sit well with me; I like being secure and important enough to be taken care of. Needed, too. I find I need to be someone's priority; evidence of my worth, I expect. Perhaps pretending to be the king of the world as a child says a lot about who I am after all.
There are days I don't think that fearless, confident child exists anymore. Sometimes there's a block sitting like a lump in my throat I can't seem to push aside. It's nothing to do with trust, but with the paralysing fear of being as powerless and as vulnerable again as I was in those years Voldemort had my family.
Harry gives me all the validation I need, whenever I want it. Truly, I know he loves me to distraction; he proves that every day. But sometimes I need more than he can give freely. Sometimes I need it not to be because he chooses to, but because he can't help himself. The only things I know that we don't have complete control over are our desires.
And I have just the tool to fuel those desires: the body I was born with.
From the innocent displays that turned into something forbidden. To the burgeoning awareness of it's potential as a tool, with a slightly secretive, immoral feel about it. To acceptance and knowledge of the ways in which to use my naked body to get Harry to show more than admiration and affection.
The power exchange involved is as exhilarating as it is affirming.
There are places in the house where Harry will watch me when I am naked, inhale deeply and reach for me. Holding me tightly, breath ragged from want, he'll whisper in my ear that I look like an angel.
In the summer, sun so hot through the glass it almost burns, it's the parlour, on the faded patch of carpet right beside the French windows that I wait. Occasionally I'll mistime the seduction, so I can stand there for ages, naked, proud and erect, until sweat forms on my neck and trickles down my chest in droplets. When Harry finds me there, it takes barely one sweep of his tongue across the sweat soaked scars that are a constant reminder of our turbulent past, and I'm already half way to an orgasm.
'My angel,' Harry murmurs, as he kneels to suck me into a stupor.
'Always,' I respond with a voice so tight it's barely audible, hands tangled in Harry's hair and hips thrusting forward so far they hit his glasses.
Winter needs the cosy kitchen, right by the stove that carries the warmth of a cooking meal, though the tiles chill my bare feet. I'll pretend to be preparing food, waiting until I hear Harry enter the room, and then I'll start vigorously chopping something, anything, knowing it will make my arse move enticingly. Harry can't resist, and our coupling is always hard and fast as a result, so in anticipation of his touch I take the easy route and prepare myself with a spell.
'You're an evil, evil boyfriend, Malfoy,' he snarls playfully as he watches my arse. He loves calling me that when I taunt him so. It sets my teeth on edge in anticipation.
'Then you had better fuck me into goodness,' I give him the throaty reply, deliberately spreading my legs for him.
'I'll fuck you into something, that's for sure,' he says before I feel my cheeks spread apart and the cool air chilling my well-lubricated hole. No, he's not terribly original, is he? But it hardly matters, because in the end I get what I want.
As he pushes inside me, our joining feels like validation. At these moments, I'm Harry's to use as he sees fit. He knows it and just takes what he wants, and just the thought that he wants me above anything else in the universe is enough to make my muscles convulse and grip Harry's cock in the hope of keeping it inside forever.
Spring carries a breeze through the living room and with it comes the aroma of the new garden. There are vases of roses decorating the house as well, creating riots of colour and leaving the rooms redolent with their heady perfume.
On the stunning mornings that spring offers, bright with the promise of the future, I can set the table, having prepared Harry's favourite breakfast as a treat, and sit there naked, patiently waiting for him. No matter how I try and hide a smirk, it always finds its way to my mouth as soon as Harry enters the room, because I'll hear a hitch in his breath and then he'll launch a surprise attack on my lips, which is no surprise at all.
His kisses on mornings like these are possessive and promise loyalty, all in the same breath. I could quite happily just stay like that, accepting his kisses forever. And he'd be just as glad to give them to me. Sometimes I think of entering one of those kissing marathons I've seen on our telly. We could show them how real kissing is done, although I'm not sure twenty-four hours only kissing Harry would work, really. After just a few minutes, he leaves me hard, the bastard. But as soon as breakfast is finished, I repay him by pulling petals from several roses and then climbing on the table and spreading myself out.
He smirks at me. 'Do I fuck you or smell you?' he asks.
Declining to answer, I take the handful of petals and drape them artfully over my erection. Only then do I speak. 'Edible petals.'
Not another word is needed.
Over the years that Harry and I have been together, I've noticed that he is especially attentive in autumn. Or I am especially needy, which is probably the more accurate description. It seems appropriate that this be so, though, when you consider why I am needy and why Harry is attentive.
September raises the spectre of Hogwarts. So much of our growing happened within the walls of that castle. Harry lost so many people he cared about and I lost what was left of my childhood. We were both caught in lives we had no control over and no great prospects of surviving. We compliment each other in this respect; I need to be reminded that I am important and safe and alive. Harry needs to ensure I know it.
The autumn days are still filled with the heavy heat of summer but there's a different, earthier tang to the air. When it rains, the drops are warm, and when they hit the dry earth, the smell carries on the breeze and revitalises me, arousing my nerves into primal relief at the change of seasons.
As the weather begins to close in, changing the harsh glare of summer to the gentler, golden light of autumn, we prepare for the colder winter months. We plan to stay indoors more in the evenings. Clothing becomes optional and yet instead of planned seduction scenes, I find myself naked more often than not as I go about my daily routine.
This is when Harry shows his true colours. He shows no consistency about it; he touches me randomly when he feels like it – when he can't resist – which is what I need. The silky touch of his finger as it trails from my shoulder to wrist that raises all the hairs in its path like each one suddenly stands up and comes alive, might happen when I am standing at the bench in the kitchen pouring coffee. If I'm sitting on the couch reading a book, it's not unusual to find Harry bending over the back, his chin resting on my shoulder, teeth biting at my earlobes, and hands busy at work playing with my nipples or reaching down to fondle my cock into hardness, making me bite my lip to hold back the whimpers and demands to be allowed to come.
When the cooler nights require a fire to be lit in the grate, our evenings settle into what feels like one long session of foreplay that is rather the end result and needs no climax to be fulfilling, though there are plenty of those. Harry will often carry me into the lounge room from the dinner table, just because he can and likes the feel of me in his arms. With the fire shedding golden light, casting flickering shadows across the room, he lays me down on the plush rug near the hearth. He's so attentive, so reverent, his deep green eyes so expressive that I only have to arch into a stretch and he's already bending his head to a nipple or my throat to taste me.
'Harry!' The word is dragged from me as his lips or teeth make their mark. I feel every hot breath branding my flesh as deeply as the biting, and willingly move into him, open to his every advance. His touch feels like the fire from the grate scorching a path over my body, burning me down to the bone with need and love and an arousal that feels like the first time, every time.
When my cries turn to whimpers, he sits back watching me intently, watching me catch my breath again while I relish the smouldering want in his eyes. I can't hear it over the crackle of the flames, but if I were to put my fingers to his throat, the soft growl of craving - want - that comes right from his chest would reverberate against them.
'You look like an angel lying there,' he says, voice hoarse with longing. 'All shimmering in the light.' The desperation of his tone ripples across my skin like a meteor trail and I want him forever.
When he bends his head back to my skin, it's all I can do to thread my fingers through his hair and hang on while he spends hours searching out every inch of my body and cementing forever into it, sucking, kissing and nipping the message home.
By the time he is done and my cries of release match his, I'm so weakened from the heightened tension, having hovered on the brink of orgasm for hours, that I can't even hum approval when he curls up beside me and strokes my skin. He calls me Draco as we lie there, saying it with an awed care like he is afraid I might take fright and run if it's too loud or brash. He knows I am made of stronger stuff than that, but it feeds my need when he lays bare his emotions so easily and willingly.
Through the night, we talk softly, making plans and laughing, and his hands don't stop caressing me, holding me and loving me.
I'm thankful my body elicits this sort of attention from Harry, but it occurs to me that because he always gives me exactly what I need every single time, he must know and understand me better than I do myself. Every time I need this affirmation from Harry, this validation of my worth, I am as exposed in my emotions as he is when he reacts. I'm as helpless to his touch as he is to me wanting it.
'Do you love me, Draco?' he whispers late at the night when I am almost asleep, delirious from the hours of touching.
'For as long as you love me, Harry.'
I've grown past swivelling my hips and giggling, but he makes me feel like the king of the world. So what other answer is there?