I'm doing some tag maintenance on my Livejournal account and I'm finding a few fics that were never posted here, mostly because I wrote them on the spur of the moment. This is where my glove kink originated...
It was the gloves, Harry decided. They were unusual enough to draw attention, although at first glance they seemed to be simple black leather gloves. The more they snared his gaze, however, the more he noticed. They were covered in intricate stitching, most likely black silk thread, considering the owner, and seemed to follow an elaborate pattern. The more Harry studied them, the more he wondered. Was the pattern a rune? Were the gloves spelled? If so, what was their purpose?
The gloves, unfortunately, happened to be attached to Harry's once-again rival, Draco Malfoy. They had returned to Hogwarts after what some people referred to as "that unpleasantness with You-Know-Who" regardless of the fact that dozens of people had been brutally killed. Despite the heinous condition of the school, the professors tried gamely to ensure that school life basically maintained normalcy. The few "eighth-year" students were housed with the new seventh-years and inter-House rivalry remained strong, spurred along by a renewed interest in Quidditch.
Harry had succumbed to the urging of Professor McGonagall and tried out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. To his surprise, Malfoy did the same and was once again the Slytherin Seeker.
His eyes fixed on the gloves as Malfoy knelt to tighten the laces on his green leather boots. Harry flexed his hands, encased in plain brown Quiddich gloves trimmed in red and gold. Why did Malfoy have special gloves? And why were they not Slytherin colours? Why black? Were they infused with Dark Magic?
The platinum head rose suddenly and grey eyes locked with Harry's. He flushed and tried to look away, annoyed at having been caught. Instead of the patented glare, Malfoy only smirked and waggled his black-clad fingers in Harry's direction. Harry looked away then and clenched his hands on his broom. Damned Slytherin. He seemed to have bounced back quite nicely after the "unpleasantness" although his choice of friends had changed dramatically. He no longer spent time with Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini. His only friend now seemed to be Theodore Nott, whose father was also doing a stint in Azkaban with Lucius. Gregory Goyle had not returned to Hogwarts.
Harry glanced back once more—at the gloves—and found them disturbingly near Malfoy's face, wrapped around the handle of his broom just beneath his pointy chin. Malfoy's eyes were still fixed on Harry and he flushed again. Shit. Twice in as many minutes he had been caught looking at the blond.
Not that he wasn't a sight worth looking at. Over the summer Malfoy had turned into a lean, muscular god, which was particularly annoying now that Harry had discovered that, without the constant threat of death, he actually found blokes attractive. Especially tall, slender, delicious-looking blond blokes wearing black gloves.
Harry scowled and debated bashing his head against his broom handle, but the team surged forward and he realized the game was about to begin. He shook off his reverie and hurried forward to the cheering of the crowd.
Quidditch was still exhilarating. The weather was perfect, crisp and cold, with excellent visibility. He circled the pitch lazily while flicking his gaze from the sky to Malfoy, alert for any sudden movement from the blond. At one point Malfoy surged downward and Harry sent his broom hurtling toward him. Had Malfoy seen the Snitch?
When he got close, Malfoy slowed his broom and smirked at him. "False alarm, Potter."
Harry looked at Malfoy's gloves. Did they help him grip the broom? Would they help him catch the Snitch?
"Like my gloves, then?"
Harry jerked his eyes away and shrugged, once again combing the sky for a flash of gold.
"Don't care one way or the other, Malfoy," he replied nonchalantly.
"Really? Then it must be my hands that you find so fascinating."
Harry's eyes widened at the taunting words and the ridiculous surge of lust they generated. He glanced uncomfortably at the gloves once more and tried not to notice the way they curved around the wood. To his horror, Malfoy uncurled one hand and stroked it up and down the broom in a suggestive fashion.
Harry choked back a strangled cry and surged his broom forward, trying to escape the Slytherin and his bloody black gloves.
His reprieve was short-lived. It was only minutes later that a flash of gold caught his eye and he raced forward, determined to finish the game and get as far from Draco Malfoy as possible. The blond in question was suddenly right next to him, close enough that their knees bumped together. Harry clenched his teeth and put on a burst of speed that Malfoy matched. The Snitch was close, darting to and fro in front of their brooms. Harry stretched out his hand and Malfoy did the same.
The black glove brushed over the back of Harry's hand, distracting him for only an instant—an instant too long. Long, black-clad fingers stretched out and grasped the winged ball. Draco Malfoy had caught the Snitch!
Harry took his time in the showers. None of the Gryffindors had blamed him for the loss, but he felt foolish all the same. He replayed the catch in his mind for the dozenth time and convinced himself that he should have had it. Malfoy's gloves had to have been spelled. Perhaps they were enchanted to pull in the Snitch when he got close enough?
Harry dressed with sudden resolve. He needed to check out Malfoy's gloves. Most of the Gryffindors had already gone, so Harry assumed the Slytherins were also back at the castle by now, celebrating their victory. To be safe, he dragged his invisibility cloak out of his bag and slung it on before gamely trekking down the hall to the Slytherin locker room. He hoped Malfoy had left the thrice-damned gloves in his locker.
He crept into the locker room, walking carefully in case any of the Slytherins still lingered. It seemed to be deserted and he breathed a sigh of relief. The layout was opposite that of the Gryffindor locker rooms, so he was slightly disoriented when he tried to determine where the lockers would be. He turned a corner and nearly gave himself away when he stopped short with a gasp.
Malfoy's head snapped up in surprise and then a frown creased his brow when his eyes swept over and then through Harry, who held his breath and prayed his cloak had not slipped. There was a long, tense moment and then Malfoy seemed to shake himself and turned his attention back to what he was doing.
What he was doing was beyond Harry's comprehension. The blond leaned against the wall, clad only in a form-fitting white shirt, a pair of silver-grey briefs—and those gloves. One glove had wrapped in the hem of his shirt and hoisted the material up to expose the stunning grooves and dips of Malfoy's incredible abdomen. Harry's eyes caressed every morsel of bare flesh and travelled downward until they reached the delectable bulge covered—barely—by the briefs.
He shut his eyes for a moment and drew a shuddering breath, unable to process what his eyes beheld. They flew open again almost immediately. There was no way he would miss a single instant of whatever Malfoy planned to do next. Malfoy's other gloved hand slowly followed the curves and dips of his abdomen, splaying as they reached the indentation of his bellybutton. Harry wondered how the leather would feel sliding across his own skin, driven by those hands, and the blood began to hammer in his ears.
Malfoy's hand moved lower and then tucked beneath the waistband of the briefs, nearly stopping Harry's heart completely. Was it his imagination, or had the bulge grown? Harry's newfound erection was large and painful, twitching uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans.
"See anything you like, Potter?" Malfoy purred. "Besides the gloves?"