"Like that, d'you, Potter?"
No one should be sexy whilst eating a chopped salad. No one. Neither that nor khao phat, either.
It should be illegal.
No. 'Draco Malfoy', the Wizard, the man, the bloody Unspeakable, should be marked 'illegal', as a substance, as a highly addictive consumable. Oh, how Harry wished he were indeed a consumable! Suspiciously sexy, intriguingly fit, mysteriously well put-together…and his lips were berry-coloured and shiny with fish sauce. Harry wanted to grab him and rub his person all over him and then snog him right across the table-meant-for-two they shared. Salt and sweet and sour and all that at once and he, with his tongue plunging deep into the sheer sensation of it.
No, he wanted more than anything on earth to fuck that mouth. Crude, rude, now. Ram his dick deep down; plug up those softly smiling (shyly smiling?) lips with his salty musky flesh. His swollen-to-painfully hard flesh.
It begged for it, that mouth. Begged for him to cram the smart comments and the greenish curry dripping off Draco's artfully chopstick-twined noodles back down that long white throat with his sodding painfully enlarged prick and bloody well will Draco Malfoy to swallow it all—to give Harry what he'd spent days and nights aching for with every fibre of his being. Relief, damn it! He craved relief!
No one should be allowed to suffer monstrous inconvenient boners at the lunch table, unsuspected by their fitter-than-fit fucking unbelievably munch-worthy dining companions. No one!
No one should be allowed to entertain the wild, crazy ideas Harry was entertaining, either. Not over luncheon; not on a third date.
Possibly not till after the sanctity of marriage...or at least until expressly invited by the objet d'amour's own lips to partake.
"Want some?" Draco asked of him next, innocently enough. He gestured to his array of small plates. "It's meant to be shared, Potter. Have a little of my miang kham. It's tasty."
Harry stifled a groan. What he wanted! Draco shouldn't be allowed to ask of him what he wanted, not when the likelihood of it happening (right here and right now, in the Plum Duckling, at eleven twenty on the dot) ranged from infinitesimally small to absolutely nil. Nay, sub-zero.
"Um," he gulped. "In a moment, sure."
So shiny, those lips. Glistening. And they moved in the best of all possible ways as Draco sipped his Thai iced tea through his paper straw.
Sucking—it should be illegal, Draco Malfoy sucking things. Inanimate things, that is. He should only be allowed to suck people's dicks. That mouth demanded it.
Harry's, specifically, primarily. Exclusively…maybe.
"Thanks," he added vaguely, lost completely in the polite nothings and swallowing down his forgotten bite of 'Three Flavours Fish'; focusing instead solely upon Draco's aristocratic nose. They were only on their third true date and there it was, that nose, rising hoity-toity just above that seductively bowed thin pink mouth and was it woefully wrong of him, to be captivated by a pair of sharp-cut nostrils and the wafting aloft of the slightly pointy tip as Draco stared across at him with ironically raised eyebrows? Pursing those lips?
"Um...mine?" Harry flung a hand 'round at his: seasoned fish and tom ka and yam and all the little dishes that came along with (the proprietors of the Plum Duckling were more than generous with their condiments) and twitched a black brow back hopefully. "Please! Try mine, too," he made haste to offer. "Help yourself, please. Plenty of it."
Draco's eyebrows were sodding gorgeous. Up they went as his eyes narrowed, glancing at the table briefly before finding Harry's dumbstruck gaze again as he nodded warily.
"If you like," Draco replied.
"I like." Harry gawped, spellbound. Even them he found sexy to the extreme, all the exquisite speaking blond twitch-and-tilt evil rascally ways of them, those bloody eyebrows, and Harry still retained some rather wicked memories of them beetled darkly at him, back at Hogwarts.
"I like," he repeated, faintly, stupidly. Blinking to beat the band.
This wasn't Hogwarts, no. Not any more.
"I will, then. In a moment."
Draco smiled, directly at Harry. The skin round his eyes (oh, Merlin, those eyes!) crinkled and the long pale sweep of luxuriant lashes fluttered down.
It was rather captivating. Harry jolted in his plush seat, his toes curling.
He pondered for a second as to how his dining companion might react (theoretically) if he simply launched himself bodily across the small space between and rolled all those glorious parts and appendages straight beneath the sweep of mustard yellow-dyed tablecloth and dove the fuck in; if he tackled the sodding illegally fit bod fiercely and ripped those natty trousers down Draco's quite probably creamy-skinned thighs so he could get his paws on them. Removed all that excess cloth with a furious combination of biting teeth and sticky, grabby fingernails, scraping—and then climbed right the fuck into Draco Malfoy, the narcotic substance, straight through every single available orifice. What he wanted! Oh, now that was likely illegal, yes!
Harry blushed. He couldn't for the life of him stop it, though it was likely woefully naive.
He should be terribly shamed, really he should. It was bloody criminal, what he thinking.
But then...Draco smiled a second time, just in that particular way. Shyly (yes, that was 'shy'. Harry should know: he saw it in the mirror often enough, those same tells.)
Harry fell in love again. Fathoms deep. It was the fifteenth time in a quite rapid progression he'd done that (last known count) since the very first time they'd deliberately stepped out together (and he'd asked Draco first! Hah!) and he was accustomed to it now—the floaty feeling in his gut, the sense of spinning widdershins, as if in the midst of a backwards Wronski.
Harry fell in love again, and dearly hoped Draco Malfoy might consider falling in love as well.
Over Thai. Their favourite.
Right here. Right now.
"This is fair, yeah?" Draco asked of him casually, musing with his fork aloft, along with that chin of his. "The food." He seemed entirely unaware Harry was suffering a major emotional breakdown over his spicy fish plate. "Fond of this place; come here often." A decisive nod punctuated that. "Food's really quite decent and lots of it, for the price. Too, I've always enjoyed the subtle way they have here with the lemongrass. And the cilantro. Good stuff, what?"
"Y-Yeah," Harry swallowed; he was cognizant he was making cow's eyes at the man seated across from him. "Yes." Couldn't help himself, really. "Very. Um, er. Thanks for this," he tacked on, remembering to be polite. Polite was good. He made a better impression when being polite than not. Even addled...slightly. Even when plagued by lust. "Luncheon, yes. I don't usually manage to tear myself away from the office, so…"
"Well, you should," Draco frowned at him, fiddling with his Rangoon fretfully. "Everyone needs to eat decently now and again. Besides, it's my—"
"Your?" Harry was impelled to prompt when Draco stopped, taking a small bite and chewing upon it thoughtfully. "Your, er, what?"
Intensely curious as Harry was as to what precisely this luncheon out was all about, he went a bit hazy when Draco smiled at him yet again. 'Treat', Draco had just announced, as if he were the happy recipient of such from the likes of Harry Potter.
"Actually...?" Draco tapped his nose with a passing fingernail, glancing away for a moment.
Harry was well aware he was rapidly becoming an utter blithering fool for those smiles. This he knew, as he knew all of Draco's person was highly suspicious, horribly tongue-worthy and likely illegal. Chewing, swallowing, bits of spinach in his beautiful teeth at the moment..but still! No one should be that fit—no one.
"My pleasure…Harry," and the answering grey gaze was as idiotically dreamy as his own dazed one and bore no relation to steel nor storm clouds nor anything icy-cold at all. "I was about to say it was my pleasure." Harry drew in a sharp breath; Draco flushed, just a hint of pink across his cheekbones. "Um. I—I rather enjoy the chance to...treat you. When I can. When you allow, that is. Er? Thank you." He ducked his chin down, his pointy gogeous chin, the one Harry wanted to kiss. "For that. This."
Harry fell in love all over again, leaning forward eagerly, trailing his robe's cuff in his sauce. With Draco Malfoy, to be exact. It happened with alarming regularity, recently.
There was hope! Burning, beautiful hope!
Gallant to the last, Harry resolved not to let this opportunity pass unnoticed. Faint heart, fair Draco—all that!
"I could," he swallowed hard, because there was this horrid lump stuck in his throat. He gulped again, sucessfully dislodging it.
"I mean, we could, maybe…"
"Maybe have another, er, later? A meal, I mean." He blushed brick-red as he spoke; likely Draco would've had enough of him come noontime but it couldn't hurt to ask…could it? Faint heart, fair Draco and all that rot. Look where he'd gotten already, right? And what a ruddy Fair Draco there was seated across from him! Well worth the battle!
"Oh, ah," Draco hedged, dubious. His noodles slipped their sticks. "...Um?"
"Um," Harry stumbled on verbally, tenacious, "I know this Greek place in Mayfair—I could take you there. Tonight. It's Muggle, but it's awfully decent, really—"
"Trying to fatten me up, Harry?" Draco, all at once himself, completely, teased him, drawling as he sat back at his ease. And oh, the grin! Those lips, the way the nostrils flared, ever so elegantly, the set of chin and cheekbone and that fringe of his, filtering forward in translucent strands even as Draco drew back from the table just a bit, loose-limbed and elegant. "I'm all for it—don't get me wrong—but maybe not another seven-course meal all in one day, alright? I'll get fat."
"Uh-huh, oh, no…m'kay," Harry nodded whilst also shaking his head. Confusing manuvuer but then he was confused, just a bit. Had they a fourth...date? "Can't have that, no."
Or what? Precisely?
"But?" Harry pressed forward eagerly, fish all but forgotten.
He'd have agreed to eating his dinner atop the Eye wearing a tutu if that was what that particular Malfoy face suggested, just in that way—in that flirtatious, knowing and, above all, warm manner. He'd have agreed to eat boiled hippogriff and liking it and who was he fooling here? No one! Nothing left but to run amuck, then. "Was just that it's—it's good, there. You'd prob'ly like it." He shrugged, eyeing his fish. "I..think."
And I want you to, his mind chirped (fortunately silently). I want you with me because I am bloody gaga and falling fast—
"Tell you what," Draco gestured with his tall glass of iced tea, the dollop of cream swirling into the burnt cinnamon-coloured liquid like so much Squid ink in lake water. "Come to mine tonight instead. We'll have something light—omelette, perhaps? Salad. You can look over my…etchings. It'll be more...more cosy."
"Cosy?" Harry perked up, practically jouncing on the edge of his seat. "Etchings?" he breathed. "Your's?"
"I've a rather nice collection, if I do say so myself."
Draco seemed well chuffed with himself.
But, Merlin's Bollocks! Harry was in alt.
Even he knew what that meant—the etchings!
"I just bet you do!" Harry muttered under his breath. "Fuck me!" Aloud, though, or at least conversationally unmuted, he blurted, "Sure! Yes!"
"Oh, gods, yes," Harry gurgled. "Abso-bloody-lutely. I adore...etchings."
"You do." Draxo returned this sally flatly, observing his errant noodles with a critical eye as they twirled hypnotically. "Really."
"Yes, really. Bring 'em on, Malfoy."
Fuck him! Harry exulted. Maybe he would get what he wanted, after all! And a little more anticipation never hurt anyone, did it? Likely drive him to arse-end over, but, oi! Was worth it!
"Etchings, excellent," he added, not knowing when to stop, or if to stop. Grinned like there'd be no tomorrow at Draco's widening eyes. "I do savour a good etching every now and again," he went on, determined. "The charcoal, the parchment, the ambiance...ever so." He blinked. Meaningfully. "Romantical. I like that, actually. Not much of a knowing ponce when it comes to art; can't say as I know what it is, much, but I know what I like and especially when it's the simple stuff. Etchings, yes. Uh?"
"Uh." Draco opened those thin pink lips of his, his eyes solely focussed on Harry's as they moved. "Uh?"
"So, oh, yes—count me in on that," Harry nodded emphatically. "Take you up on it, come to yours. Thanks."
"Oh." Grey eyes blinked at him for a moment, seemingly a bit stunned by Harry's fervour. "Well. Good. It's a…date. Er, another, yeah?" Draco smiled (again—again! Not that Harry was counting them or anything, no…) "Two in one day. That's a record, isn't it? Good on us."
At Harry's open-mouthed stare, Drasco smiled again, indulgently.
"Ah, look," he carried on, quickly. "I'll pick you up at the Atrium at half five, alright? Bring you home with me; we'll toss some sort of meal together, okay? Sounds like a plan."
"A…plan…" Harry had to force his bum to remain politely attached to his chair. The urge to leap was unbearable, but he was made of sterner stuff; just ask...well, ask anyone, really. "Yes, good, super. A fantastic plan, that. I like it."
Their eyes met and held, and Harry wondered if perhaps Draco could see into his head. Whether Legilmens would tell him of Harry's desires. Guiltily, he rather hoped so. This was gruelling, the knowing-not-knowing bits. Worst part of feeling like this, ever. Except...exhilarating too.
But he'd take it, no complaints, if it meant having the chance to spend his lunch break with those lips—that nose—hmm…the body below it.
"Harry? More of this? You'll like it, I think."
Malfoy offered Harry something tentacle-laden and fried on a stick.
"Delicious stuff, this. Here, do."
Harry closed his eyes briefly. Merlin. He so very much wanted, it was alarming. He was literally suffering from it. Beautiful torture. Yeah, that was it.
"Th-thanks...er, no. No, I'm—ah? I'm good. Had enough."
He wondered if Draco realized it—what he did to Harry, just by breathing in and out, poking up glass noodles on the lacquered sticks and twirling them—sitting a hand's reach away and smelling like heaven, his manly tang mixing in with the lemongrass and the red curry paste scents. The basil, the cocoanut and the mint odours that permeated the Plum Duckling as much as the mustard-yellow and persimmon décor both assaulted and soothed Harry's eyeballs.
He rolled them about, deriding himself; love had turned him terribly fanciful. Likely Draco would laugh himself sick if he were to poke about Harry's brain. No—definitely he'd gain a chuckle over it. Harry's mental faculties—usually rather decent, thanks—had long since turned to mush. Like so much ho mok pla, yes.
"Um?" Draco eyed him. "You've stopped eating. Finished already?"
"What—what? Er, no!" Harry gabbled, putting his own cutlery back to good use. "Just thinking, that's all. Just…that."
"Mmm," Draco hummed. "Mmm-hmm." Scooping up a taste of his second entrée, he offered it across the table to Harry, the fragrant mound poised just before Harry's parted lips. "Eat, Harry. Don't think so hard, not right now—it'll likely hurt and we're not in the Ministry. Just…partake, alright? Try a bite?"
Sixteenth time, falling—and counting. Harry closed his eyes and opened his mouth, more than willing.
And the bite of something Thai and complicated exploded across his tongue, just as Draco Malfoy had overtaken all his senses, good or otherwise…and it was damned tasty, yes.
"More," he demanded, after swallowing. "Please, more. Whatever that was, I like it. Give me...give me more, please."
"Thought so." Draco Malfoy, smirking, was entirely illegal from his shiny hair down to his shiny shoes. Especially when his eyes gleamed in just that way. "Spicy stuff, hey? That…can…indeed be arranged. Later, yeah? When you come see my...etchings."
Best. Luncheon. Out. Ever.
…It took Harry two hours to sort out the mess he made of his files, after. It required a wank in the loo. No, two. But it was worth it. Well worth it.