Witch Weekly Could Never
Draco blinks his bleary eyes open and closes them again immediately against the offensive sunlight leaking through the gap in his blackout curtains. As he levers himself up on one elbow his head spins and his firewhisky-soaked brain throbs against his skull. Shooting pains spark along his optic nerves and down the back of his neck.
His tongue is tacky, stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his teeth taste like stale alcohol and cock. His stomach churns dangerously when he finally swallows but it settles after several long, deep breaths. He realizes he might still be a bit drunk when he looks down and finds last night’s conquest still tangled in his sheets. Apparently, Draco had been too plastered to kick him out.
He reaches for his wand to summon a hangover potion, but then the boy—because he’s at least five years Draco’s junior—makes a soft noise and stretches, all of his smooth, brown skin and lithe muscle on display. Draco takes a moment to appreciate his firm, bare arse now that he’ll (probably) remember it. Not a bad pull for the mandatory company holiday party.
“Morning,” he rasps, cracking his green eyes open and reaching a hand out to caress Draco’s stomach with a sly smile on his face. Draco watches idly as his hand trails lower and he takes Draco’s soft cock in his hand. It only takes a few moments before he’s hard again. Still got it, he thinks, smugly.
He lies back as the boy rolls over and begins to mouth at his belly and thighs. “Mm, I love your big cock, daddy,” he almost whines.
Draco grimaces. He’s no spring hippogriff, but he’s certainly no one’s daddy. “Shut the fuck up and get it in your mouth, then,” he growls, pushing the boy’s head down. He takes extra pleasure in fucking the boy’s throat just a bit more roughly than he normally would, groaning at the wet, choking sounds punching their way out of his throat.
He’s just about to spill when his mobile trills loudly on the nightstand. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore it, but as soon as it stops ringing it starts back up again. He grunts and shoves the boy’s head back down when he tries to pull away.
“What?!” He growls into the phone, not bothering to check the caller ID.
“Draco, I know it’s your day off, but—“
“Exactly, Simmons. I’m a bit busy having my cock sucked spectacularly at the moment, so kindly…fuck off,” Draco pants. The boy beams under the praise as much as he can with his lips stretched wide.
“Wait! Draco, don’t hang up! We’ve snagged an exclusive interview for this afternoon and if you won’t take it I’ll have to give it to Charles,” his editor shouts into the phone.
Draco sighs heavily and finally shoves the boy away by his shoulder, his thumb hovering over the ‘end call’ button. “Go on,” he says when he brings the phone back to his ear.
“Thank fuck,” Simmons huffs, “I really didn’t want to call Charles. Brown nosing little shit. The brief will be waiting for you on your desk with a set of pre-agreed questions. All you have to do is turn up and ask them.”
“Fine. Now, seriously. Fuck. Off.” He tosses the phone onto the floor, into the puddle of discarded tuxedos and used condoms.
“Well, it’s not going to finish itself,” Draco says icily, pumping his fist once around his aching cock. His head falls back when the boy’s swollen lips slide over him again.
*
It takes Draco several minutes to unearth the interview brief on his desk once he finally drags himself into the office. It’s buried under a sediment of half-full coffee cups, broken quills, and empty crisp packets. The walls of his cubicle are equally cluttered, papered with copies of his most popular articles:
Boxers, Briefs, or Buff: Savior Sleeps Starkers?
Chosen One Chooses Men!
Potter Parties in Paris: Proprietary Pics!
And his award-winning, long-form essay:
Harry’s Hairy Little Harry: “Exposing” the Truth About the Wizarding World’s Wiliest Willy.
When he finally slumps into one of the deep, leather armchairs in the interview lounge his headache is creeping back in. He’s already taken one and a half hangover potions but he still feels hollowed out and lightheaded. The file folder with the interview brief sits beside him untouched.
He jolts to attention when the door flies open. For one delirious moment he thinks his interviewee is the pretty boy he left behind in his flat. There’s the brown skin and the green eyes, but this person is twice as broad and sweeps into the room with a crackling, dominant energy far removed from the boy’s simpering supplication.
“Fuck me,” he breathes as Harry Potter settles himself in the armchair across from Draco.
“I think you’re supposed to ask me a few questions first,” he says with a smirk on his face. “And I’d usually insist on a drink, at least, but I’m willing to negotiate if you are.”
Draco sneers. “I didn’t realize we’d started taking interviews with graying former athletes. What’s the headline to be, ‘Senile Saviour Seeks Second Chance at Stardom’? Only, that wouldn’t be accurate would it? What are we on—pathetic grab for attention number seven? Eight?”
“That’s not half bad, actually,” Harry says, his smirk transforming into a shit-eating grin. “But I think you’ll find you’re taking an interview with a Quidditch Hall of Fame member and Witch Weekly’s Hottest Wizard of the Year twelve years running’. If anything, I’m doing your sleazy gossip rag a favor.”
“Sleazy!? How dare you. I suppose I can’t expect a lumbering imbecile with a jockstrap for a brain to understand a simple thing like journalistic integrity.”
Draco snaps up the interview brief, mentally scolding himself for having ignored it. He can make out Potter’s name and the paper’s masthead but the rest of the words are blurry. Without thinking, he pulls his sleek, black-framed reading glasses from the inside pocket of his jacket.
Potter scoffs. “Nice glasses.”
“Nice… I…” Draco feels faint with rage. Simmons must be having him on. “Let’s just get this bloody over with,” he growls.
“Take your time, I’ve got all day,” Potter says, spreading his thick thighs wide and settling his elbows on the arms of the chair, hands clasped in front of his broad chest. Draco gulps.
“Fuck.” His Quick Quotes Quill hovers at the ready as he lifts the parchment with the questions back up to his face. “Potter. Our readers are apparently desperate to know all the sordid details of your broom maintenance routine.”
“Are they?” Harry smirks again as he lifts one big hand to his face to scratch at his five o’clock shadow. “Well, Malfoy, I’m glad you asked.”
“Didn’t you write the damn questions?” Draco snarls under his breath.
Potter ignores that. “I find that a good broom maintenance routine begins with the right polish.” The quill begins scribbling furiously. “It’s important to find one with the right consistency—slick enough to ease the friction-“ Potter’s hands curl as if grasping an invisible broom and begin moving up and down in opposite directions “-but not too sticky.”
Draco tugs at his collar as the room grows several degrees warmer. “Eh, right…”
“From there, it’s all in the wrist. Top-tier competition brooms require a…careful touch. You’ve got to start slow, gentle, and work up to it,” Potter settles back into his chair, letting his hands fall to his lap without ceasing the absurd motions. “If you’re doing it right, the broom will tell you when it wants you to rub more firmly.”
“Slytherin’s sack,” Draco breathes, “I don’t think…” He shifts in his seat. His skin is crawling and it’s becoming hard to breathe.
“And don’t be shy about the bristles, they like a good tug every now and then, especially when they’ve been…unruly.”
“Potter, this is my job, if you insist on being an absolute fuckstick-“
“My number one tip, though, is to take your broom out regularly and give it a good, hard ride. They’re not meant to be shut away like some precious, delicate heirloom. They tend to have a mind of their own—really gotta break them in, you know?”
“I think we should move on to the next question,” Draco says firmly. Potter is staring at him, unblinking. He’s stopped with the vulgar gestures, but that means one hand is now resting on his chest and the other is loosely cupped around his very obvious erection.
“U-Um, right,” Draco crosses his legs in a weak attempt to hide his own rapidly-growing hardon. He was sure the boy from the holiday party had finally sucked him dry, but Potter’s intense gaze and the way his fingers are tightening subtly around his erect cock are making Draco feel like a blushing virgin. He hides his reddening face behind the list of questions.
“What is your post-match shower ritu—oh, fuck all the way off Potter, what the bloody hell are you on about?”
“Well, I reckon it’s pretty normal,” the arsehole says smugly. “I take my Quidditch leathers off one leg at a time, just like anyone else. Unless I’m feeling especially dirty, then I just Vanish them entirely.”
Draco can no longer sit still. He rockets out of his seat and wobbles on unsteady legs to the wet bar at the side of the room. Simmons keeps a bottle of good whisky around for interviews with VIPs. Draco pours himself several fingers of the pungent liquid and knocks it back despite every dehydrated cell in his hungover body trembling in protest.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, though,” Potter says to his back.
“By all means, don’t.”
“What really helps me relax after a long match is a nice, slow-”
“This is it, this is how I die, after everything…”
“-satisfying wank.”
“That’s it, I think we’ve got quite enough to be going on with.” Draco whips around to find that Harry has also risen from his seat and is now standing uncomfortably close.
“What? Scared, Malfoy? I never pegged you as a prude.”
“I’m not a prude, and I’m not scared,” he wheezes, looking anywhere but Potter’s eyes that are lasciviously trained on Draco’s lips.
“I thought this is what you wanted,” Potter says, his voice low and rough.
“Why on earth would you think that?!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says teasingly as his palm comes to rest between Draco’s legs, making Draco whimper and then grimace at his loss of self-control. “Because you’ve been writing articles speculating about my cock and my arse and all the rest of it for nearly a decade? You’ve been practically begging for a chance to confirm your theories. Look at you, you’re gagging for it.”
Draco does gag, just then, because Potter shoves two fingers into his mouth and presses down onto his tongue. When he pulls them out again, Draco gasps for air.
Potter looks half-deranged and already fucked out, and all Draco can do is nod. “Fine. Yes. Alright. Fucking yes, you worthless piece of shite.”
“That’s it, keep running that pretty mouth of yours and see where it gets you,” Potter hisses, taking Draco’s lip between his teeth and biting down hard.
Draco groans embarrassingly loudly. “Not here. Mine.” Potter nods and braces himself for the yank of Apparition.
When they land in Draco’s bedroom Potter has somehow already got most of Draco’s clothes unfastened. They stumble blindly toward the bed, all hands and mouths and biting words.
“Daddy, is that yo—” a startled voice says from the doorway. Draco’s hookup from the night before apparently helped himself to a long bath and some of Draco’s expensive Colombian espresso beans after Draco left him behind. Potter starts to laugh, loudly.
“You. Out. Find your way back to the nursery,” Draco barks.
The boy’s face crumples, and he snatches his tuxedo and shoes from the floor, his eyes flitting back and forth between the two entangled men. “Piss off, old man! I’ve had better!” he calls on his way out the front door.
“He really hasn’t, I can assure you,” Draco mumbles flatly.
“Daddy, hm?” Potter asks when he finally catches his breath. “Is that what you like, ‘cause I’ll tell you right now you will not be getting it from me.”
“No, and thank Circe. Now shut up and fuck me. I’d like to be able to tell our readers exactly how to make their golden boy squeal.”