Draco Malfoy hated parties.
They were an absolute waste of time, especially when no one wants him there. Of course, his mother would disagree. But it was so evident on their faces, the disgust for him and his family. Especially his father: the man who faked loyalty for the power of it all. They avoided him like a herd of sheep, circling around him.
He glanced at his watch: a half-past seven. Thank Merlin. Within the 30 minutes, he is going to dart out of this stupid place, with its stupid attendants, and find some bloke to shag. But he certainly wasn't going to linger out in the open, where every one of his movements felt like being dissected under a microscope.
He snatched a glass from a passing platter before embarking through the halls. The walls were adorned with extravagant paintings, flanked by walls covered in rich red satin, creating an opulent atmosphere that engulfed him as he wandered. He found himself standing before a massive portrait that overlooked the ballroom floor. The figure depicted seemed to lack a face, though it could have been obscured by the shadows of the drapes—or perhaps he was too drunk to tell. However, the lower half of the figure was intricately detailed: a gray suit adorned with silver thread formed intricate patterns around the buttons, a green snake-shaped lapel pin was fastened midway, and a gold band adorned the ring finger.
Draco chuckled, tipping the glass forward, “Good day, sir.”
The model remained motionless.
“Don’t you think you had too much?”
“What?" Draco shot up, his eyes darting around to see if the portrait had somehow gained a mouth. Looking up, he leaned back, nearly losing his balance. A hand pushed onto his shoulder, steadying him, and swiftly snatched his glass. "Hey!" He stared, dumbfounded, at his now-empty hand before his gaze shifted to the hand wrapped around his waist. His eyes widened as he noticed the distinctive white scar on the wrist, a sudden realization hitting him. His stomach churned as he spun around, confronting the figure before him. "Potter."
Standing before him was the notorious savior, Harry Potter. Of course, it had to be him. There was no way an ordinary person could gather so many leaders in one room without starting a war.
“Malfoy.” Potter whispered, a hand snaking up his back, “Fancy seeing you here.” He took a sip of champagne, his gaze unwavering on Draco.
“Oh?” he spat, “Should I leave you to your beloved, oh Mr. Savior?”
Potter’s hand gripped his neck, pulling tautly on his hair. A whimper escaped Draco's lips, feeding into Potter's grasp. “And go where? To a bar? To some random bloke?”
Draco pushed against him, but Potter proved stronger, his muscles flexing under his futile resistance. His hands roamed Potter's chest, searching for any weakness.
Potter leaned closer, his breath exhaling warmly against Draco's skin. “Like what you feel?" he murmured, a hint of mischief in his tone.
“Let go, Potter. It’s none of your business where I fuck.”
“Then fuck me.”
“What?”
Potter flashed his stupid handsome lopsided grin, “What? Scared?”
“I don’t fuck, Potter.” Draco rolled his eyes, “I get fucked.”
Potter's grip tightened and his gaze dug into him, building with some emotion Draco couldn’t tell, because of his goddamn spectacles. “How many?”
“What?” Draco licked his lips, trying to hear anything over his roaring heartbeat “I-uh-I don’t know.”
Potter’s face fell.
Shit.
Potter dragged him by the neck. Draco bit back tears as Potter pulled him along like a disobedient dog.
"Potter," Draco pleaded as Potter produced a key. With a determined stride, he guided them to a nearby door, swiftly unlocking it before pushing Draco inside. The door slammed shut, followed by the harsh clang of the key being forcefully jammed into the lock until it was rendered useless, trapping them both. Fuck. "Look, I'm sorry for anything I've said or done.”
Potter stalks towards him, the intensity in his gaze sending shivers down Draco's spine. He began to undo his own tie, each tug increasing the tension in the air between them.
Draco's mind raced as he desperately searched for the right words. What the hell did Harry want him to say? Then, suddenly, his head banged against the table.
"Fuck, Potter!" he exclaimed, his frustration boiling over.
"How many?" Potter growled, looming over him. He planted a kiss on Draco's pulse, his voice dripping with menace. With a swift motion, he pulled Draco's hands over his head and tied them, restraining his movements. Potter's gaze narrowed as he retrieved a flower vase from somewhere above Draco and positioned it between his bound hands. Draco thrashed against him. Potter's hand darted to his breast pocket, retrieving a knife from his breast pocket and stabbed it into the table, the blade coming perilously close to Draco's face. "And it better be a fucking number this time."
"Potter," Draco gasped as Potter tore open his suit, using his teeth to pull off his tie. His breath hitched as Potter bit into his chest, sucking slightly. He attempted to ignore the heat burning in his lower abdomen and instead focused on the shredded remains of his Armani coat.
"Answer me," Potter murmured against his skin, demanding Draco's attention.
"I don't—" Draco began, his mind swirling with fragments of encounters: three in London, maybe two or was it one in Diagon Alley, and then... oh God. A whimper escaped Draco as Potter’s lips landed on his bulge.
"I don't know. Really, Potter," Draco pleaded.
Potter tsked, baring his teeth against Draco's skin.
“Really, I'm sorry, Pot—" Draco stuttered, then, with a wild surge of confidence, he muttered, "Harry."
Potter paused, a surprised chuckle escaping his lips as his fingers traced along Draco's waistband. Draco's breath caught as he felt the cool touch of Potter's fingertips against his skin. With a slight arch of his back, Draco eagerly anticipated Potter's next move, but it was always just a teasing brush, never quite reaching where Draco yearned for them to go. The repetition of the tantalizing motion left Draco on the edge of frustration, craving more with each touch.
"Yes, darling?" Potter teased, his voice dripping with playful mischief.
“Don’t call me that.” Draco retorted.
"Huh, sweetheart?" Potter murmured, beginning to suck just above his waistband.
Draco felt tears prickle in his eyes. He bit down on his lip, hoping to draw blood, anything to prevent himself from begging. He squeezed his eyes shut until stars danced behind his eyelids. The sensation, a mixture of pain and pleasure, intensified as Potter’s fingers finally unbuckled his belt.
"What's wrong, honey?" Potter’s breath whispered against his cheek.
Draco gasped, his eyes fluttering open. Potter’s face loomed before him. He seemed captivated by Draco's attempt at denial. Potter ran his thumb across Draco's lips, tracing the contours gently. His eyes smoldered with pleasure. Then, he pushed his thumb into Draco's mouth, pressing down on Draco's tongue, then releasing it abruptly.
"Suck," Potter commanded. Draco obeyed without hesitation, delicately pulling on Harry's thumb, then lightly biting it, before giving it a gentle lick as it withdrew from his mouth.
“Just like that, love.” Potter purred.
Draco frowned, “What’s wrong with you? This is beneath you.”
Harry chuckled, “Yes, I love when you’re beneath me.”