Harry had never had patience; Draco knew that. The silly little twink should've known better than to saunter into Harry's Auror cubicle and loosen his tie. It was hot; sweat moistened the pale skin of his neck. Draco undid three buttons of his stiff-collared shirt, exposing the edges of his collarbones, like blades shifting dangerously under his damp skin. Draco's arrogant chin was as sharp as his collarbones: touching him wouldn't be easy.
He could've kissed him, until Draco was warm and sweet as toffee pudding, soft and pliable – but the shock of forcing him compliant was so much better.
Draco wasn't looking at Harry, not concentrating, when he said, "so, d'you think we need to talk to the Pritchards again or..."
A hand closed about his right wrist as it lowered. It was gripping too hard, and the sudden hold had Draco choking on his gasp.
Harry had no patience for misbehaviour. He should have been looking at Harry, not vaguely staring.
His skin whitened under the pressure of Harry's fingers.
He didn't fight when Harry led him down the hall by his wrist, though his cheeks burned and his ears were full of the snickers.
The door slammed.
The moment the bathroom door shut behind them, Harry let go of Draco's wrist, pulling him forward a bit as he did so, impatient. Draco stumbled past him with a small, confused sound. He found his balance and turned to stare, his pupils expanding in worry. Harry grinned, his mouth curling round savagery, looking at his Draco with those big eyes and that soft mouth, his hair falling into heat-induced disarray. He tried to be so adult, with his ties and robes and collared shirts; but he always got messy, like a little boy playing dress up.
"Aren't you sweet?"
Draco shivered unwillingly under the words, feeling the heat of Harry's heavy stare press against him, pushing him to the floor. He stayed on his feet, but it took effort. Harry came towards him with heavy, authoritative steps. A hand fell onto his shoulder, and Draco's eyelids fluttered drunkenly. He swallowed, smelling Harry's sweat.
"Down on the floor," Harry whispered.
"It's dirty," Draco whined. Then a sudden clap of thunder, and Draco's cheek was burning. Harry's eyes were angry, like some brooding god, and held none of that occasional indulgent patience that Draco liked to abuse.
He lowered his eyes.
His white-blond lashes fluttered coyly as he lowered his eyes, and Harry clenched his teeth. That cool, sweet attitude was so false; the blazing handprint on the pale cheek marked him for what he was. Heated little harlot, sly and cunning; pretending to be an ice prince, above it all, when really...
"Aah." An approving sigh as Draco sunk down, his knees hitting the dirty, pitted tiles of the floor. His head hung down, and Harry palmed the soft hair, imagining his colleagues walking into this public bathroom to see the truth of what Draco really was.
"My good boy."
Harry's voice was heavy as treacle, trapping Draco still further in this overheated wonderland. His hair was pulled harshly, tugging his head forward. He exhaled softly, and Harry's cock swelled still further, hot and swollen against its constraint.
Then Harry was fumbling, undoing his flies with the hand not holding Draco's head still. His red, angry cock sprang out, almost hitting Draco's face. He opened his mouth; it was soft around the hoped-for shape, but Harry didn't feed his cock into Draco's mouth. He kept him just out of reach. Draco strained forward, mouth tender and aching to be filled.
Harry saw Draco's lips pout around nothing, wanting his cock. No. Draco had to learn he didn't control their encounters: couldn't wander into Harry's cubicle without permission, couldn't suck Harry off as if it were his right. Harry's hand tightened angrily in Draco's hair, drawing a pained cry and forcing Draco's head back, exposing a bobbing Adam's apple, and pale skin cruelly cut off by that stupid shirt.
Harry's cock throbbed, and he longed to sheath it in Draco's heat.
He let go of Draco's hair, and the blond collapsed to hands and knees like a marionette with cut strings.
Draco was overwrought, and breathing hard. A sharp, hot pain pierced his chest at being denied. He enjoyed giving head, he was good at it, why –
Harry walked behind him. Draco felt himself tense, and Harry laughed softly. It made Draco's cheeks prickle with renewed heat, but there was no point in pretending that Harry didn't intimidate him when he was like this – although Draco still tried, sometimes.
Harry knelt behind him, and whispered a Disillusionment charm. Now no one would see him, but he was under no illusions: it was there because Harry didn't want his own dignity damaged.
There. Now no one would see Draco, and Harry could do this: peel his tight trousers down to expose his round arse and tender thighs, reach for his ever-present little lube bottle and press a slicked finger inside. Draco clenched around him, moaning softly. Harry just knew his eyes were tightly shut, his lips parted around the moan, that delectable flush rising again on his pale face. He'd learnt the way Draco looked when he did this – scissoring two fingers now, stretching the hole that was so obviously untouched between their encounters – and the memory had his cock throbbing needily.
Harry knew he shouldn't be doing this: his job with the Aurors wasn't that secure, that he could risk it this way. But the power: it sent adrenaline rushing through his veins, lust singing through his veins. He pulled his fingers from Draco, and listened to the hoarse, protesting moan. "Ssh, you'll be so full soon."
"Yes, please...." Draco groaned. Harry grinned, thinking how amazed the others would be at how polite Draco could be.
He gripped Draco's hips, not bothering to lube himself, and pushed in.
Draco groaned, the sound low and full-throated, and pushed back into the feeling.
Harry bucked once, his hips smacking against Draco's buttocks. Then he got himself under control, and aimed a hard smack at Draco's arsecheek. He left a large, burning red handprint behind, counterpart to the one on Draco's face. The blond whimpered.
"Little slut," Harry hissed. He thrust as he groaned out the words. "Pretending you're so aloof, like I'll dirty you with my touch. Do you feel dirty now?"
Draco didn't reply, just whined breathlessly. Harry narrowed his eyes, and let Draco take his weight so he could reach round. He pinched Draco's tiny, hardened nipples through his sweat-damp shirt.
Draco pushed his chest into the rough stimulation: so predictable. Harry grinned against the sweat-slick skin, and bit that pale neck as he fucked him. Draco, vocal as ever, moaned and Harry felt the vibration against his mouth as he sucked at Draco's skin.
Draco was bucking helplessly now, his body jerking to Harry's movements. Harry squeezed his nipples again, loving the way he could steal all control. Perhaps he wasn't the best Auror in history, but who could doubt Harry's power when he could do this?
He could ban Draco from coming. He could demand the truth of him.
"Are you plotting something?" he demanded.
"No – no – " Draco got out, "I'm not – "
"I'll punish you for lying, Draco," Harry warned.
"I'm not – "
The threat of punishment pushed Draco too far: with a cry, he came apart under Harry, shaking with orgasm. His helplessness against Harry's manipulations – his sweet cry – his convulsions – it all spiralled in Harry's head and he followed him over the edge.
They slipped to the filthy floor together. Harry waved his wand and cleaned it, then locked the door, finally. Draco gave a pleased rumble: Harry didn't let him use magic when they were together.
Draco smiled to himself, hiding his face in the curve of his arm. He pressed back against Harry's sweaty torso, wanting the contact.
Harry did want him; he could feel it in his touch. And since he was a hero, Harry'd never hide the person he was sleeping with; he was honest about his feelings. Soon enough, Harry would give in: would ask him out to dinner, and maybe cuddle him so that Draco could pretend to be too Slytherin to want that. Would say clumsy, but sweetly earnest things and stroke his hair.
Draco just had to be patient.
Harry draped a possessive arm around Draco, and smirked to himself at the way Draco's body went limp against him. So pliant, letting Harry hold him with a hand on his belly: so trusting. He looked so young when they did this: wide-eyed and shocked every time Harry hurt him; relaxed in Harry's arms. It was no hardship at all to keep an eye on him, and Merlin knew that needed doing. He wasn't paranoid.
Malfoy couldn't be trusted. Everyone knew that.
But if he kept Draco under his thumb, surely it didn't hurt anyone to fuck him like this.