HD 'Caffeinated' Part 2
Draco was thrilled to the bone. He'd gotten tickets to the upcoming semi-finals of the International Union Quidditch Association match, and the Ministry—thanks to his redoubtable Headmistress—was actually allowing him to attend and to escort a guest of his choosing.
"Potter! What're you up to Saturday evening next? I've a pleasant surprise for you!"
Potter turned his dull eyes from his register and glared at him, soullessly. Draco noticed Potter's hands were trembling faintly; he was grey and pasty and looked as if he hadn't slept properly in a week. Still very attractive, of course, but perhaps not currently at his best, Potter was, even through rose-tinted spectacles.
"What? Are you ill, Potter?" Draco exclaimed, frowning his consternation. "You look simply repellent—should you even be here?"
"Cutting back on my caffeine intake, Malfoy," Potter growled, his sullen face a far cry from the sunny visage he usually treated F&B's clients to. And sometimes even Draco as well, according to no particular rhyme or reason Draco could figure. "Tell me what you want, Malfoy, or go and die; I don't care."
"Well!" Draco huffed, offended. "See if I invite you, Potter, and after I've made this special effort to obtain a VIP box seat and all—"
"For what?" Potter cut him off with no remorse. "What're you blabbering on about now, Malfoy?"
"Quidditch, Potter! I've excellent seats at the InterUnion match," Draco explained. He paused, and cleared his throat before staring Potter straight in the eye and stepping into the offensive. "Would you care to, er, go with? It's this Saturday coming—we'd have to Apparate from here as soon as you're off, but we could manage a meal in London after, if you'll Side-Along us back. I've curfew rounds, of course, but Flitwick'll cover for me, I'd think," Draco hurried to explicate. "I did him a favour with a simple potion for Googling Grimbley removal from Hufflepuff common room not long ago, so he's in my pocket right now, and then Headmistress is forever after me to get out and about and not fritter my life away in the dungeons, so—"
"Do shut it, Malfoy," Potter said ruthlessly, cutting him off at the nub. "No."
"But—but, it's Quidditch, Potter!" Draco protested, brows beetling in confusion. "You adore Quidditch! And this is no local pick-up game, either; this is serious play! Come on, Potter—do!"
"Go away, Malfoy."
Draco blinked. He looked down at the latest Guide he'd picked up for, er, well, guidance: Who Apparated My Gouda? And How Do I Retrieve It? and then back up at Potter in confusion. "I thought…I thought," he stammered. "You—"
"What?" Potter demanded, glaring. He clenched his hands into fists and pugnaciously squared off his jaw. "What did you think, Malfoy? That you could turn on the old Malfoy charm and I'd fall into your hands like an overripe plum? That I was easy, just because I happen to work in a retail establishment? That you'd get one over on me at last, playing this little game of yours, flirting and sending me presents?"
"What?" Draco was aghast. This wasn't a game! "No, Potter!" he began, meaning to say exactly that, but Potter was on a regular tear, and he wasn't stopping.
"You're a nasty, small-minded wastrel, Malfoy! A real git! Not content with harassing me all those years in Hogwarts, now you have the utter bollocks to come and pester me at my workplace! And act as though you always want to shag me soon as look at me—"
"I do," Draco admitted, having recently absorbed several eye-popping 'self-help' lessons about emotional honesty, "but—"
"That's just what I mean, Malfoy!" Potter ranted. "No respect! You couldn't care less how I feel about it; it's all about you, just as always, isn't it? Well?" Potter seemed to expect this rash misstatement to be confirmed—as if! An irked Draco sneered at him, reverting under pressure to a few of his older, more unfortunate habits.
"Hardly!" Draco growled, elevating both his nose and his eyebrows in a lofty manner. "I care very much how you feel, Potter," he stated forthrightly, frowning mightily and looming. Draco wasn't at all vertically challenged; there was an art and science to his looming. Even Seventh Years had been known to quail miserably. "In fact, I care so much I'm here every bloody weekend, attempting to force you to at least speak with me civilly, if not actually step out in my company! And you—you have the bloody nerve to assume I'm taking the piss! How dare you, Potter?" Draco was enraged—except for the cold, still section in the centre of his gut, which was quietly observing all his efforts to coax Potter into appreciating him—wanting him—be shot to flinders like so many shattered balsa aeroplane models. "I really meant that, damn it all to Hades! I've meant everything I've said to you, Potter! I am sincere!"
"Pfft! Bosh!" Potter snorted. Then he clutched his head.
"What's wrong, Potter?" Draco asked immediately, his ominous looming segueing into instant anxiety over Potter's evident agony. "Headache?"
"Yes!" Potter hissed and rubbed at his temples irritably, grimacing. "Now, fuck off!"
"Oh, no, Potter, you come along," Draco ordered, and grabbed Potter's elbow. "This way; I know just the thing."
"What? No! Let go, you wretch! Leave me be to die my miserable death, Malfoy—the last thing I want is your help!"
"Wrong again, Potter," Draco replied, unequivocally, marching his captive over to the coffee bar and the bubbly young Witch manning it. "You do, in fact. I teach Potions, Potter—Potions! And, for some time now, I've suspected you've been self-medicating with all this caffeine you constantly consume. Anna Molly!" he claimed the attention of the flibbertigibbet Charmed-blonde teenage Witch who ran the café counter on Saturdays. "One tall decaf treacle-flavoured single-shot cappuccino, if you would, with sugar-free chocolate sprinkles and skim."
"Piss off, Malfoy!" Potter was still protesting and gamely attempting to wrestle his elbow away from Malfoy's immoveable grip. "Let go!"
"Coming right up, sir!" Anna Molly sang cheerfully, beaming. "So nice to see the two of you together, at last!"
"Thank you," Draco returned politely, blithely ignoring Potter's fruitless attempts to depart. "And thank you again," he added, when she handed the tall pasteboard cup over. "Now, Potter, sit your fit arse down and drink this, please. I think you'll find it helps considerably."
Potter, glaring, did just that, perching on a nearby stool with a miffed thump. Grabbing the cup, he took a long draw, almost inhaling the deliciously fragrant molasses-and-java-scented beverage up his nose in his hurry, his nostrils flaring with undisguised joy over the aroma. Draco developed an inconvenient boner immediately, simply watching Potter's lashes flutter.
"Hmmm," Potter moaned, cradling the cup as if it were the Grail of Arthur's Quest, magically returned from Avalon. "Oh, thiss'iss'ssoo good, Malfoy; yesss!" He was practically speaking in Parseltongue; Draco was practically creaming his trousers.
"Oh, Merlin, Merlin, Malfoy—you're a fecking Potions genius!" Potter admitted, after three more deep swallows that caused his lean, tanned throat to work like a pro's. There was a dot of whipped topping on the tip of his nose and one lonely sprinkle. Draco salivated and gulped, gagging to swipe the sweets clean with a flick of his own tongue. Potter sipped again, shifting trim hips on his stool in bone-deep satisfaction, his face visibly brightening with pure, sensual pleasure. Draco's regular respiration ceased altogether, his eyes bugging out.
"Mmm!" Potter breathed, almost orgasmically, "I could maybe even shag you for this idea, Malfoy," he admitted in a jesting, merry voice, and Draco had to clutch clumsily at the café counter simply to stay upright, he was so dizzy from not hyperventilating.
"Gods, Potter!" he gasped. "Don't stop!"
"Ummm, Malfoy," Potter purred, apparently oblivious to Draco's distress, twirling his nearly emptied cup fondly in capable hands that were used to treating tomes ever so carefully and gazing at it with great admiration, "now, what was it you were saying about Quidditch?"
Fingers! Draco thought, in code. Mouth! Throat! Arse!
Potter had consumed nearly three-quarters of the beverage and Draco simply couldn't bear it a moment longer; not and retain his tenuous grip on sanity. This was his chance—possibly his one and only—and he was bloody well taking it firmly in hand. "Where's the Men's lav in this place?" he demanded desperately of the ever-helpful Anna Molly, mentally willing Potter to remain in his excellent mood.
"Oooh, Mr. Malfoy!" she squealed, fluttering her eyelashes and peeping coyly up at him. "This is soo exciting—it's finally, finally the right moment for you two lovebirds to come together and I get to be right smack in the centre of it, helping you along! Do swear you'll both sign a serviette for me afters—please, pretty please? As a sort of souvenir for the other girls?" she begged artlessly. "We've all been your fans for ever so long, Harry—Mr. Malfoy!"
Draco gaped blankly at her, not at all comprehending ruddy squeaking females who bounced their bosoms in excitement for no sane reason he could discern. He only wished to roger Potter through the buggering wall—imminently. Yesterday, even.
Potter's lips issued that remarkable noise of appreciation again—the humming trill that went straight to Draco's cock—and he drained his cup to the dregs, tipping his head back to do so and exposing the lickable length of his tanned throat. Draco nearly swallowed his own dried-out tongue. Surging forward, he clutched fiercely at Anna Molly's hand, squeezing it.
"Men's?" he pleaded helplessly of the excitable bint, his handsome face contorted into a rictus of barely leashed desire. "Please?"
"Oh—oh! Right back there, Mr. Malfoy!" Anna Molly waved a careless hand toward the rear of the shop. "Do enjoy yourselves! I'll keep guard; don't you worry about a thing!"
"Right—er, yes, thanks. Do that, will you? Come on, Potter! Hop it!"
Draco firmly removed the emptied vessel from Potter's languidly caressing fingers, yanked him back on his rubber-soled feet, and steered him even more firmly in the direction of the promised loo. "I can't stand it anymore," he muttered darkly, as they quick-stepped through the discreet archway that separated it from the main sales floor. "Salazar, I'm so through with this idiotic fucking about, Potter!"
"Mmmm?" Potter eyed him lazily—beatifically, even—as he trotted along, apparently so affected by the light dose of xanthene after hours of deprivation, he was now quite malleable, even pliant. Then he crooked his dark slashing eyebrows at Draco, dispelling that fanciful notion back to the rubbish heap of Draco's discarded fantasies. "Malfoy? Erm…what're you doing? I've a trolley to price out yet—I can't be taking a break."
"Yes, you can, Potter," Draco replied shortly, resolved and grim as a Grim. "You are. Right now."
He slammed the lav's door shut behind them, locking and warding it so it would take a bloody battalion of trolls armed with bludgeons to get through, and shoved Potter bodily up onto the sink's edge. "This minute," he continued, inwardly blessing the particular chemical makeup of caffeine dependency with all his thudding heart. Potter still looked sufficiently off—excellent!
"No more delaying; no more Mister Nicey-Nice Hufflepuff Malfoy, Potter," Draco announced, just to makes things crystal clear. "I'm done with all that roundabout shite, believe me—these Guide chappies can bog off! Raise your arse up now, Potter—that's it."
"What?" Potter's pleasurable remnants of daze were rapidly changing to a fully alarmed puzzlement as Draco commenced ripping his Muggle denims and briefs down over his incredibly toned arse, his sadly scarred and knobby knees, and then straight off his trim ankles, taking his trainers with them. "Huh, Malfoy? What's going on? Why're you taking my clothes off?"
"I said, that's it, Potter," Draco replied, ripping Potter's apron over his head and flinging it away. Potter's t-shirt followed in short order, along Draco's own neatly pressed trousers, kicked under the sink. "New motto, Potter: shag first, be sensitive and caring later!"
"Oh!" Potter exclaimed, a remarkably sly and knowing grin flickering 'round his foam-speckled, heat-reddened lips. He licked them. "I get it now. Well, if you put it like that, Malf—mmph!"
"No, Potter," Draco growled, detaching his lips from Potter's for one brief instant to inform his companion succinctly of the next step in his newly updated and highly personalized plan of Potter-management. He snapped thumb and ring finger sharply, the sound ricocheting off the tile. "Lubricius! I'm going to put it like this!" And then he shoved two slippery fingers into Potter's newly available arsehole and twisted like a champ, reaching for the nub of nerve endings he fucking well knew was in there, beckoning him, just asking for his masterful jiggle.
Potter arched his spine so far back his head whacked the mirror and moaned much more loudly than before. "Oh, that's brilliant!" he admitted, panting lightly. "That's very, very good, Malfoy! Absolutely smashing!"
"Yes; yes, it is, Potter," Draco agreed, vehemently. "Very!"
He crooked his digits, and slipped in yet another slick finger, shoving his own briefs down frantically with his other hand. Potter gave a delicious roll-and-wiggle on the lip of the counter, scooching backwards, and then drew his knees up, gripping the backs of them and exposing himself. Draco slavered like a winded sheepdog, his much-abusing tongue nearly falling out of his spinning head.
"Potter! Fuck, Potter!"
"Oi, Malfoy! Move it along there—I'm waiting," Potter responded, which was most awfully encouraging. Draco gathered up his all hard-won confidence at this arcane wooing business—and his tormented prick—and substituted it for his fingers after one final spin-and-twiddle in the blessed name of half-arsed penile-ready preparation. Potter's cock—nicely flushed and hard as marble, the only part of him that wasn't uniformly golden—bobbed insistently against Draco's navel as he muscled his hips forward, frantically shoving.
"So?" Potter asked, between choppy gasps, as Draco kept up his lurching surge, gritting his teeth in concentration, "You—ah! Jesus, Malfoy!— you mentioned Quidditch? Would —this—be a—date?"
"It is, indeed, Potter," Draco allowed, his balls smacking noisily into the cleft of Potter's phenomenal—now that he knew it so much the better, having just been intimately acquainted—Golden Saviour arse. "Gods fucking Salazar, it is!"
"I could—maybe! Fucking Hades!—do that," Potter admitted, breathily, lolling his head against the poor, abused mirror. "Maybe—I might—yessss! Shag me like that, Malfoy!"
"Draco—call me Draco," Draco ordered, slamming into reverse and then switching gears again with a rollicking grind that meant business. "If we're—oh, my fucking Merlin!—going to be dating—then do call—me—Dracooo!"
"Oh, fuck—oh, shite! Yeah!" Potter agreed, his green eyes rolling far back in their sockets. "Oh, yeah! Yeah-yeah-yeah! Draco! Draco-Draco-Draco!" he chanted. It was bloody marvelous to hear.
"Accio whipped cream!" Draco shouted, overcome mid-stroke with a sudden, queer and utterly irresistible urge to cover Potter's glorious abs with it, perhaps in celebratory ritual. "Accio sugar-free chocolate sprinkles!" he added, for good measure. Both of them handily ignored the metal vent hatch slamming open to facilitate the speedy delivery of these items. Better that, Draco determined, than having gaping peepholes punched through the lavatory's door.
"Draco?" Passion did not prevent Potter from raising his dark eyebrows in doubtful query. "Er?"
The aerosol dispenser slapped into Draco's outstretched hand with a 'thwap', followed closely by the sprinkle shaker, which Draco wandlessly spelled to hover till he needed it. "I've a mind to consume you, Potter—make you mine—all mine," he admitted, by way of cursory explanation. "Any objections?"
"Uh, um." Half-lidded eyes blinked at him, gradually widening in some species of shock. "Well…I'm not so sure about that…" Potter hesitated, cocking his head, dreamily glancing back and forth at the dispensers and the point between his wide-stretched thighs at which Draco was sawing into him with a nearly religious fervour. "I've—I've not done—whoa, there, Draco! Slow the feck down, will you?"
Draco did, entirely intent on Potter's next move in this quick-step gavotte of love.
"Um," Potter blushed. "Kinky things before. You're, erm, my first—"
Draco revealed all his teeth in a gloriously possessive manner. "First?" he encouraged. He encouraged with his dick, and by using his teeth on Potter's nipple.
"First!" Potter groaned, arching. "Unngh!"
It was all exceptionally unreal, this moment, Draco realized—he'd thought they'd work their way up to this slowly, but the Guides had advised to go with his instincts and his instincts were stating clearly that Potter was his. So, yes—all omens said he should be claiming Potter on a permanent basis right as of this very moment. And he would, bugger it! Screw 'going slowly'—sod all those courting do's-and-don'ts!
Still, Draco was gentleman enough to gave the man one last opportunity to object to his methods, as he slowly and hypnotically shook the can of cream, readying it.
"What say you? You want me?" Draco increased his in-out motion and added 'sideways, with a shimmy', as a means of subtly encouraging Potter to make the correct—and really, the only conceivable—choice. "You need me? Need my cock shoved up your hungry arsehole, every chance we get? Saturdays, Sundays—weekday nights? At luncheon?"
Potter still seemed a bit uncertain, so Draco hit his nicely nearly hairless chest with two short, chilly blasts of sweet fluffy froth. Potter flinched upon impact, causing a nice reverberation down below, and Draco licked him, long and hot—as in, bent right over and took the cream off his nipples with a tongue talented in all manner of persuasion.
"Well, fuck, Draco!" Potter was nodding—or that might be a sudden loss of muscle control; either way, it looked like agreement to a delighted Malfoy. "Oh-my-fucking-bloody-stars-fuck YES, Draco! Do that again!"
"Brilliant!" Draco exulted and let loose with the whipped cream in gay abandon. In seconds, Potter's washboard abdomen and flinching thighs were covered with it, and then Draco added the sprinkles, ever so slowly, matching thrust to shake. "Fucking delectable, Potter!" he admired, when he was finished, still pounding slowly away at Potter's prostate. "I'm going to bloody well eat you right up, you sexy git!"
"Do!" Potter begged, practically gargling. "Oh, please! Harder! More! Anything you fucking well want, Malfoy, but harder, for fuck's sake!"
"Will!" Draco assured him, and took Potter's sticky cock in hand, bringing him off whilst lapping and thrusting—which simultaneous motion lasted precisely twenty-two seconds, after which Potter shrieked through his nose and came like flood.
"Ah!" Draco grimaced, his dick buffeted by the waves rolling through Potter. "Oh! AH!" he shouted, and let himself go at last, plunging like a blooded stallion, arse cheeks clenched tighter than a virgin's knees and sporting a fine whipped-cream mustache.
Twenty minutes later…
"Dating does not automatically lead to life-long commitment, Malfoy," Potter argued testily, zipping up. He'd spelled the damage to his clothes back in order, removed the stickiness and dessert toppings and efficiently located his shop apron—farthest stall over, but fortunately not actually stuffed into the john—all in two minutes flat.
"Yes. Yes, it does, Potter," Draco was adamant. "We've made great strides here today. I refuse to give ground." Muggle courtship rites were remarkably similar to Wizarding ones, from all he'd absorbed, and as he'd just taken Potter's virginity, he was obligated—wait!
"I'm not a bloody land bridge, Malfoy," Potter was saying dryly, "nor are we playing Muggle Risk™. No ground has been given here."
"You were a virgin, weren't you, Potter?" Draco demanded, suddenly deeply suspicious. "I mean to say, you were certainly reluctant enough in the beginning. I quite thought you didn't care for me."
Now that he'd mentally stepped back and truly considered recent events, certain details weren't ringing quite true with Draco's shiny 'virgin territory' theory, whether Potter claimed Draco was his 'first' or no. The way Potter sucked him off during the second round, for instance; that was far too perfect to be solely the product of 'beginner's luck', no matter how bleeding lucky the git actually was.
"Potter?" Draco frowned heavily when an avowal of previous chastity wasn't instantly forthcoming. He beetled his pale brows menacingly at Potter and loomed methodically.
"Er," Potter looked shifty all the sudden. "How do you mean, 'virgin', exactly? Is this a hang up of yours, Malfoy?"
Draco stared at him grimly, pondering whilst he put the last details of his garb to rights, and weighed the depth of his innately bred sense of possessiveness against the breadth of his understandable requirement to be first in all things. This was a quandary. But not in any way insurmountable.
"Are you seeing anyone currently, Potter?" he asked instead of answering, narrowing his eyes to vicious molten slits of steel. Jealousy—thus far not a notable entity in their relationship—had raised its monstrously malformed head. "Or recently? In fact, exactly how many men have you been with, last count?"
"Only you," Potter replied quickly. "So far." He smiled—and it was that sly one Draco thought very dodgy.
"Hmm," Draco murmured, and continued on with his jealousy thing, unconvinced.
Potter then made a quite a business of washing his face and hands whilst Draco digested recent findings. Then he watched as Potter fussed with his hair, combing it back with his dampened fingers, and Draco was instantly distracted, eying the flyaway strands avidly, gagging to be the one to perform that little service. But Potter wasn't finished his thought yet, apparently. He cocked an eye at Draco's reflection in the still smeared mirror.
"Er—and, um, for the foreseeable future, as well, Malfoy. Perhaps."
The twat flushed ever so faintly, admitting that, and grinned lopsidedly at his own damp face, eyes aglimmer with some unholy light. When he glanced back up to meet his brand new lover's assessing stare in the mirror, the flush had faded and his eyes were brimful of teasing challenge, instead. "Providing, of course, you can keep that kind of fascinating intensity going strong, Malfoy. Can you?"
"Oh, not to worry, Potter," Draco replied magnanimously, for once completely confident of his both his inventiveness and his prowess—in that particular arena. Flexible was virtually his middle name, these days. "But you, now—you're sure of this, Potter?"
Having decided at last that territoriality was what was truly crucial to his health and mental welfare, Draco crowded the sneaky little git of a Boy back against the damp lip of the sink, pressing himself insistently all down the length of Potter's shapely backside through the apron strings. "No take-backs? No skiving off dates just because you have a sudden fancy for winding me up or cockblocking me out of spite, Potter? Because, you realize, I simply shan't stand for that nonsense. I've told you I was serious about you, you bloody alluring little pipsqueak, and I fucking well meant it."
"Draco," Potter turned about and looked up at him, the movement sending him conveniently into Draco's embrace. "Look, you squinty-eyed, overfed berk, thus far and to date, my life's been pretty much an open book—just ask anyone; they'll tell you—and I've learnt from nasty experience I'd rather not be forced to tell lies if I don't have to, so…if I've said it, then likely I meant it, alright? Ease up, arsehole. I'm serious enough."
"Yeah?" Draco nuzzled his beaky nose into Potter's kiss-bitten neck and attempted to quell his alarmingly goofy grin before Potter clued in on just how nerve-wracked courtship rites—any variety—left him. But still...the whipped cream had been fucking-fun-tastic. He'd do that again at the drop of a bowler! "You're sure about that, Potter? And—and you'll go to the Quidditch match with me? No lie?"
"Yes," Potter murmured, casually brushing his lips through Draco's hair, whilst pinching his arse fondly. "It's fine, Malfoy, really; I fancy you anyway—have for a while now, for some reason. Must be off my nut, but hey, that's how it goes, sometimes. Now, let me get back to my register and you can bugger off away till I'm done. Go pick up the one WizIdiot Guide™ you're actually going to need, prat."
"Which one's that?" More silly grinning. Draco fondly gnawed on Potter's nape to hide it. Potter's all-over responsive blush and low moan sent his pulse pounding in his matching ears. "And when are you finished here, exactly?"
"The Pureblood Idiot's Guide to Modern Wizarding Dating, 13th Edition," Potter's voice was smiling; Draco's own grin grew in knee-jerk reaction. "You've got some serious revision still ahead of you, nit. And it's three—I'll be expecting you, right?"
Draco finally revealed his shite-eating grin to Potter in all its cheesy glory. "I'll be waiting," he promised indulgently. He petted Potter's hair just because now he could.
"See that you are," Potter replied, returned to all business abruptly via a glance at his watch. "And bring me along a cuppa decaf, will you? Extra whipped cream."
Draco's eyebrows rose in gentle query. "Off caffeine so suddenly, Potter? That's unusual. Withdrawal can be upwards of a fortnight, according to the Muggle studies."
"Oh…" Potter quirked his lips and tilted his chin, glinting up at Draco in a very inviting way. "Well, I rather think I've found a new drug of choice, Draco—don't you?"