Chapter Text
Draco’s waiting for his first client of the night. Blonde hair pulled back from his face in a half-bun, tight black trousers, piercings and tattoos on full display through the mesh top barely clinging onto one shoulder. He’s got black shit smeared around his eyes, too; after this long, he knows how to work his angles, and knows better than to put any effort into his makeup when it’ll just end up getting ruined anyway.
He’s making more money than he’d like to admit, especially to the poor birds who’ve been trying to get out for years, but never able to put enough away to actually leave. They’d jump him for his coin if they knew how much he had. And it’s not like he doesn’t understand the appeal; beyond the graceful way Draco has blossomed into his mid-twenties, this long after the war, there are always hordes of unmentionables lining round the brothel to have a go at an ex-Death Eater. The skull and snake is now interwoven with other intricately detailed tattoos covering most of his body, save the face, but he doesn’t bother hiding it. It’s his money-maker, after all.
Among other features.
The night air is balmy, thick with moisture from this afternoon’s sudden shower, but not even the rain can wash the smell of debauchery off this strip. There’s a slight fog clinging around the lamps lining the cobblestone, illuminating just enough to allow the pedestrians to swaddle themselves in darkness as they seek to succour their unfavourable cravings. All manner to be found here, on Duggar’s End. Gambling, drinking, drugs, sex.
It’s the arsehole of the Wizarding world Draco was always destined for.
With the loss of the sun comes the predictability of night as the wretched masses begin their choreographed dance of approaching the brothel. Beady eyes peer from the darkness, skirting around the warm glow of the entrance; eyeing the wares but still too wary to approach. Draco leans against the leftmost lamp post, thumbs in his front pockets and genuine boredom on his face as the light above casts shadows over his features. The girls titter and seduce the passersby, but Draco just watches. Not passing judgement on their potential clients, but passively observing. He just is, and that just-is-ness is exactly his charm.
Draco’s well-aware.
He’s gotten rather good at his job. Even enjoys it sometimes. After two and a half years of whoring, there’s three lessons he’s taken to heart. One: everyone is a pervert. And there’s a certain peace that comes with. An acceptance, a benediction. An understanding of humanity at its core that warrants neither admiration nor rejection. Two: pain as a concept holds no moral value. Pain exists, and can either do something for a person, or do nothing to a person. And there’s not always a choice.
Three: Draco is unsettlingly handsome.
None of these things are within his control. Nor does he desire to control them. It all simply is. Just as he just is. Leaning a threadbare shoulder against a cool lamp post, breathing in the toxins of depravity and waiting for a predator to mark him as prey. A siren on a rock, basking in the darkness and waxing poetic in his head about the just-is-ness of it all.
But look there; a suitor approaches. Far sooner than their usual crowd that likes to dally in the shadows, perhaps unnerved by Draco’s presence, or just festering in their own denial of their nature. He watches with disinterest, marks the exhaustingly predictable hesitation, but when the first fish bites, the rest will swarm. Draco expects this figure to approach one of the girls. Duggar’s End is far enough outside of proper magical jurisdiction, and the girls take full advantage of this; there are more tits than faces bathed in warm firelight.
To his intense surprise (which is to say, any) the figure hesitantly approaches him. Usually, the girls all get picked off one by one and swanned into the brothel before anyone risks their chances with Draco. He markets himself as dangerous, after all, with all the black ink laid into his skin and the silver metal glinting at every bit of flesh one can pierce. It tends to lure more interesting clientele, after all.
Once the figure approaches close enough to break through the fog and the dark, Draco notices it to be a man. Not unusual, but the closer the man scuttles towards him, the more his face resolves in the darkness, and Draco’s eyes go wide.
It is, as all the gods of irony would have it, Harry Potter.
Looking awkward and out-of-place in his boring ensemble amidst such grime. But he barely spares a glance for the girls, singing their seductions and waggling their aspects in his direction.
What the fuck is he doing here?
Draco lifts a pierced eyebrow. Potter’s here for him. Whether he wants to drag him to a back alley and hex him senseless, or just wants a few choice words, he doesn’t know. But he’s here. In Duggar’s End. Soliciting him. He drags a slow, pointed, assessing once-over down and up his plainly dressed stature, all the way back up to those bespectacled greens that can’t seem to decide where to look.
But he’s standing here. In front of Draco.
It’s enough.
Draco tilts his chin towards the door, pushes off the lamp post, and turns towards The Depths. Not bothering to see if Potter is following as he makes two long strides to the door, pushes through them and releases the entryway light out onto the street. There’s a bit of red tape before they take… Whatever this is upstairs, so Draco gestures to the standing well beside the door.
“Drink that,” he dismisses, reaching up to pull his hair free of the elastic. Claudia, the moderator, leans around the door to his right from behind her desk, an expression of wild incredulity stretching her features as she sees it’s Draco who’s first of the night. He offers her a blithe smirk.
“W-what is it?”
Oh.
Potter’s voice has deepened somewhat. It’s surprise that finally draws Draco’s attention back to the brunette, who’s eyeing the font rather sceptically.
“Poison,” he says flatly. And Potter, predictably, twists a genuine look of concern over at Draco. Who only rolls his eyes. “It’s a cure-all for transmittable diseases. You can drink it or you can leave, it’s policy.”
Scrupulous green eyes turn back towards the bowl, eyeing it indecisively. After a beat, though, Potter takes a small paper cup from the afforded stack, dips it into the potion, and necks it. Crumples the cup in a fist and casts a shy glance back at Draco.
Without another word, he begins his ascent up the richly rugged stairs to the business floor. It’s all red from here on in, red wallpaper, red carpet, even red padded railing. To say the brothel makes five times its worth nightly is an understatement. It’s why he chose to apply.
Draco leads them into his own private room, pristinely done-up and unused – yet. Goes to the bar on the far left wall and begins assembling the necessary bartending tools. This is another skill he hadn’t expected to pick up from whoring – making drinks, acquiring drugs and how to use them, and behind the bar, an entire wall of potions for resuscitating clients from any number of different types of overdoses.
“O-oh, I’m… Fine, I just…”
Draco pauses. Sets the shaker down. Turns to face Potter, who’s wringing his sleeves in his fists and peering around the room uncertainly as Draco leans back against the bar, arms folding over his chest.
“Just…?”
He can’t deny he’s curious. Whatever could Saint Potter be doing on Duggar’s End? Hesitant green attention graces him once, twice, thrice before Potter is cautiously closing the door behind himself. It clicks shut.
Since he doesn’t want anything to drink, and doesn’t seem to be in the wrong place, Draco pushes off the bar and saunters to the bed. Sits on the edge and leans back on his hands and waits for what’s sure to be a fabulously boring explanation.
“Spit it out, Potter. I charge by the half hour so if you’re here to gloat, best get to it. Merlin knows you’re not here to fuck.”
Potter doesn’t answer. Doesn’t sit, doesn’t move but for his subtle fidgeting and just as Draco’s dancing with irritation, it clicks. He feels his features slack, and sits up slightly straighter in abject fucking shock.
“Oh… My god, you are.”
Potter winces. Blushes down at his shoes, and Draco can hardly believe what he’s seeing.
“Fuckin’ hell, if our Lord and Saviour Harry Potter has to pay to get his dick wet, what hope is there for the rest of mankind?”
Draco scoffs incredulously, suddenly keenly interested to hear just how Potter found himself here. Of all places, the brothel I work at.
“I-it’s not like that, I just…” Scarlet, fidgeting, Potter finally seems to steele himself. A muscle spasms in his jaw as he frowns up at Draco, and straightens slightly. “I need your help.”
He eyes the brunette dryly.
“Funny.” Whether he’s just taking the piss, Draco doesn’t know, but despite his sobriety he’s suddenly eyeing the liquor cabinet because he might just need a drink to get through this.
“I’m serious, Malfoy, I… I’m not having a laugh.”
Draco snorts.
“Right. Harry Potter, the Chosen One, needs the help of a whore. What’s wrong, eh? Can’t get it up? I’m no Healer, you know.”
“Would you shut up?” A smirk twists Draco’s face. “It’s not my dick I need help with. It’s everything else.”
Potter passes a hand over his crimson face and sighs. Rests his hands on his hips.
“And you need my help specifically?”
An aggravated growl, and Potter starts to pace.
“Alright, look. I wasn’t looking for you, I was looking for— well, when I saw you, it just seemed a bit like fate, so here I am and you can say no if you hear me out and aren’t interested, but I’m willing to pay whatever you want if you’ll… I-if you’ll…”
Whatever I want? Draco’s got a standard rate, just like everyone else, but if Potter’s got an odd request… Perhaps this won’t be as boring as all the others? He slowly stands from the bed and Potter stops pacing to face him.
“If I’ll what, Harry Potter?”
The brunette’s throat works for a moment as he works up the guts to finish his sentence. But when he does, it’s quiet. Almost a whisper.
“T-teach me.”
Oh.
Everything in Draco stills. The instinct to antagonise settles with his hackles as he receives the genuine vulnerability in those green eyes.
He’s serious.
“Teach you… What exactly?”
“Everything,” Potter continues quietly. “I… I’ve only ever had sex the once, and it… It was… Fine? But I… I have a reputation, you know? And I’m… Like ninety percent sure I’m also interested in guys, which I have zero experience with, and I don’t want to disappoint my partners but I’m almost— I mean, we’re the same age and I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’d like to learn how to be good at everything, so if you… If you’re interested, I’m… I’m a fast learner.”
Draco has to take a beat to process this.
“You wanna learn how to do everything? With men and women?” Potter nods hesitantly. “Fast learner or not, that’s a lot to cover in one session.”
“W-well, I was hoping it could be more of like a… Weekly thing?”
Potter’s grimacing. Bracing, it seems, for Draco to deny him. Or to tease him for his inexperience. But amusing as the situation is, Draco isn’t laughing. He’s considering it.
“Two hundred an hour.”
His grimace eases into shock.
“Wait, really?”
“Outside your budget? Non-negotiable, unfortunately, since it’s my job to be good at it, not to help others get good at it.”
“No, no, that’s fine, I just… You’re serious? You’re saying yes?”
Draco folds his arms over his chest, unsubtly sizing Potter up.
“I mean, I’m the last person I’d expect you to take lessons from, but money is money. You just have to promise me one thing.” When Potter doesn’t interject, just waits and listens, Draco continues: “No experimenting outside of our sessions until I’m confident you’re ready for the streets. If you’re to be my pupil, I won’t have my reputation tarnished if you try something with someone that you’re not ready for. Deal?”
He nods vaguely.
“Deal.”
Draco mirrors his nod.
“Fabulous. You sure you don’t want a drink? You’re writhing like a cat in heat.”
Potter scoffs weakly as Draco takes a few steps back, gesturing once again to the bar.
“M-maybe just one.”
“Sit.”
Potter doesn’t protest as Draco sidles back up to the bar, and as he assembles them simple martinis, he weighs his situation.
He can be professional about this. If that’s what Potter wants. Clinical step-by-step instruction, but witnessing humanity’s hidden depravity night after night has taught Draco how to read people too well. There are those that want nothing more than a warm body, a hole or a pole to use, and that’s easy. Some want a bit of a fight, to feel like they’re taking something instead of exchanging money for services. That’s easy, too. And then there’s the chatty ones, the miserable ones who really only want a listening ear. Draco’s no therapist, but he can play the part of victim, lover, and toy; confidant isn’t so outrageous.
It’s the first-timers that require the most effort. The once-offs who come in muttering about how they ‘never do this,’ who need a little soothing, a bit of encouragement and seduction to ease into the encounter. Draco files Potter under this last category.
“So talk to me about guys,” he invites as he joins Potter on the bed, handing off one of the martinis to him as he sits beside him. “Have you got your eye on someone? Forgive me for assuming, but there are plenty of girls downstairs who’d be eager to teach you a thing or two.”
He sips his drink as Potter eyes his own. He’s not half-bad in this lighting, at this angle. His hair has tamed a bit now that he’s a proper adult, his features still a bit boyish but charmingly so. There’s a sureness about his shape that Draco can easily imagine beneath those clothes.
“Right, erm… Well, not-not really, I… I just figured, if I’m really doing this, I might as well start with the most unknown. Dive in the deep end as it were.” An unsteady chuckle as he lifts his drink to his lips and takes a hesitant sip. Screws up his face, and Draco smirks.
“And you’re wanting hands-on experience, yeah? Not just watch and learn?” Potter glances sideways at him. “Because you don’t have to get your hands dirty if you don’t want to. If you’re willing to pay for another’s service, I could invite a volunteer. Show you how it’s done and you don’t even have to take your shoes off if you don’t want to.”
This seems to be the right thing to say, because Potter’s shoulders relax slightly.
“Y-you mean I’d just… Watch you? And another b-bloke…?”
Draco hums in the affirmative, crossing one knee over the other.
“If it’s a priority for you to remain unsullied, I’ll do what I can to explain via demonstration. I won’t say it’d be the most effective method, but it’s dealer’s choice.”
He takes another sip, eyeing Potter over the rim of his glass as he considers it. Worries his lip between his teeth. As pathetic as it is for Harry Potter to be shit in bed, Draco can’t deny it sort of tracks. Seems his charisma runs out at leader.
“Maybe… A bit of both?” He shoots a cautious glance back at Draco, as if trying to read on his face if he’d answered correctly. “I don’t… I mean, I don’t mind sex work. You don’t have to keep referring to it so negatively for my sake.”
Pleasantly surprised, Draco grins.
“Alright then. Are you wanting to start tonight? Or is this just a consultation?”
Potter stiffens.
“O-oh, erm… W-well, I mean…” Glances away. Scratches the back of his neck. Hacks an awkward laugh and takes another slug of martini, wincing as it washes down his throat. “I’m-I’m already here, so…”
Draco leans back on his free hand, resting his drink-hand in his lap.
“Here you are.”
They finish their drinks, and Draco makes them another round. Something sweeter, if Potter’s grimace with each sip taught him anything. And by now, Draco is fully in work-mode. Moving with ease, smiling warmly, generally pumping the atmosphere with nonchalance to encourage relaxation. Here, like this, it’s not so bad, is it? And of course, Potter is relaxing into it. Draco’s very good at his job, and he knows he’ll hitch and skitter again once the ball starts rolling faster, but that’s fine. It’s always these first-time types that need a guiding hand, and Draco’s already laying the groundwork.
“I assume you’ve kept up with everyone,” Draco insinuates as he toes off his shoes. Potter’s still flushed, but perhaps it’s from the alcohol now. “Any hot goss I’ve missed?”
This earns him a snort as he climbs back onto the bed, reclining back against the pillows now as Potter follows suit and shoves his shoes off. Shifts to face him on the bed, legs pulled up onto the covers.
“None that doesn’t make the papers,” he concedes with another sip of his glass. By the way he smacks his lips, Draco has to assume this drink is more palatable for him. “You ever get reporters haranguing you?”
“God, no. No reporter ever comes down here on the clock. Duggar’s End would chew them up and spit them out.” Potter hums. Studies his drink. Draco sips his own. “You should take that off.”
Green eyes sweep up to his face, peering over the top of his glasses before glancing down at himself. He can tell Potter’s about to ask ‘take what off?’ but seems to remember what he’s here to do. With another glance up at Draco, he extends his drink, hold this a moment, and Draco takes it. And then fumbling hands are stripping off the flannel, dropping it to the floor, and peeling the shirt up over his head.
Oh wow.
Not only is Potter cut, but he’s inked. It’s another surprise, but what isn’t surprising is the stag skull right in the centre of his chest, the arching antlers that reach up his chest and seem to mimic the branching scars beneath it. Killing Curse scars.
It only makes sense. Draco supposes if the Chosen One were to have any tattoos, it would be a stag. But the placement seems a bit on-the-nose to him.
“That’s gorgeous,” he comments as Potter’s ruby-red face is revealed again. He smiles wanly as he drops his shirt to the floor atop his flannel, and reaches back for his drink.
“Thanks. Y-yours are… I mean, you know you’re gorgeous.”
Compelling is how Draco would describe Potter’s torso. An even, delicate layer of hair barely obscures the art over his chest, and he’s pulled in by this compulsion to scoot forward off the pillows. Into arm’s reach as he hands his drink back.
“May I?” he asks, more for Potter’s sake than his own. Once he nods, Draco’s reaching forward with his free hand to touch his fingertips to his chest. It expands with an inhale beneath his touch, and he delicately traces the lines of the stag’s antlers. “How old is this?”
Potter glances down at his own chest.
“E-erm… Like… A year old? Year and a half?” Draco hums. Presses his palm flat against his pec. “W-what about yours? What’s the oldest one?”
Draco lifts an implicative incredulity up at Potter’s face, and he seems to realise what he’s just said. Which, to Draco’s pleasure, earns him laughter.
“Oh, right. Sorry.” He’s relaxed enough to laugh, so Draco carefully lulls him into further ease with the hand on his chest sliding up to his shoulder. “What… What’s your favourite one?”
A smirk now as Draco feels the strong muscle beneath the smooth skin of his shoulder.
“It’s on my thigh. You wanna see?”
The muscle beneath his hand tenses, and he squeezes it. Potter rolls his neck, like he’s taking the hint to relax, and he does.
“Sure.”
Draco takes another sip of his drink, and slips off the side of the bed. Places the glass on the nightstand and begins shucking off his trousers. No point just pulling them down, so he slips them all the way off until he’s left in only the mesh top and his fitted black briefs. And Potter’s just watching.
“This one,” he passes a hand over the aforementioned thigh piece. It’s a raven with roses coming out of its mouth. Harsh contrast, realistic, and detailed. Hurt like a bitch, but tattoo pain has always been a favourite of Draco’s. Especially the healing process. “Took hours, but my art is all sort of centred around the contrast of beauty and brutality, and this one just sums the concept up so perfectly, don’t you think?”
Potter might not be listening. His eyes are raking in Draco’s inked legs. So he straightens, and gives him a slow rotation.
“Wow,” he says at length. “They’re stunning.”
Draco smirks again as he reclaims his drink and his seat on the bed. A bit closer this time.
“Never took you for an appreciator of art, Potter. But then, I never took you for one who’d seek out a whore’s instruction.”
He sips his drink suggestively, and earns the exact sort of fluster he’d meant to. Potter’s wetting his lips, nearly gawking, and Draco decides to pull the mesh top up over his head. Careful not to disturb his drink as he drops it onto the growing pile on the floor.
“I…” Potter hesitates, necks another mouthful, and wipes his mouth. “I appreciate you… Taking it slow with me. And I really have no clue how this works, so… Fuck, I’m sure you’re just loving this.”
He chuckles in this self-deprecating way, like he realises how ridiculous he must seem, and sure, Draco might be enjoying this a bit more than he’s letting on, but he’s got a job to do. And he doesn’t need a translator to hear Potter’s subtext: he’s ready, but unsure where to go from here. Waiting to be led.
So Draco does.
He’s scooting closer, leg pressing from knee to ankle now against Potter’s own leg, and marking his slightly faster intake of breath. No sudden movements, not just yet, as he reaches his drink for Potter’s arm. Reading his intent, Potter lets him wind their drinks around each other, and meets his eye.
“In one, yeah?”
Potter nods. And then they’re lifting their drinks up to their lips, arms linked together as they down the rest.
“Well done,” Draco lauds, and notes the pleased little smile he earns. Internally jots down praise kink, and takes Potter’s empty glass. Leans over to set both glasses down onto the floor and then he’s back in Potter’s space. “Tell me, Potter. Is that pedestal you sit on too high off the ground to reach the lips of a lowly peasant?”
A scoff warms Potter’s features as Draco slowly leans in. It’s all chess pieces now, but he can’t deny the warmth radiating off his body is intoxicating.
“Do you always talk like that?”
Gentle, so gentle and careful not to rush things too quickly, Draco smiles.
“You don’t find it soothing?” he asks, using that silky affectation that makes Potter’s eyes gutter. “I figure if we’re setting boundaries, we might as well have fun while doing it.”
He’s close enough to smell now, and hell, Potter smells like a man. Like he takes proper care of himself, maybe even a hint of fading cologne? It’s pleasant, and he’s leaning back in to mirror him, short little breaths ghosting against his chin.
“Boundaries,” he repeats softly. “Kissing. Kissing is… Fine. You’ll have to tell me how I am at it, though.”
Draco smiles.
“Of course, Mister Potter.”
The first one is chaste. Experimental. Typically, Draco doesn’t kiss his clients. Bit too intimate for the setting, and while sex might seem far more intimate to most, it’s different. A means to an end, but kissing just to kiss isn’t common in his line of work.
The second one is Potter swaying back in for more. Which is encouraging. A bit more breathless now, and Draco reaches out for his neck to steady him. Of all the unspeakable things he’s been paid to do during his career as a whore, kissing Harry Potter might just be the most outrageous thing of them all. But money is money. And Draco’s opening his mouth to discover if Potter will follow.
He does, though reluctantly. Like he’s not sure what to do with his tongue, but that’s fine. As Draco said before, doing-not-showing demonstration is often the best teacher. So he reaches into his mouth once, tasting him, and pulls back to tie a bow on it with a kiss. Does it again, angling his head slightly, and finds Potter hadn’t been lying; he is a fast learner. He mimics him this time, meeting his tongue with his own before withdrawing it to finish off with his lips.
Not so difficult, is it?
God, it’s been so long since Draco’s had a proper snog. If a client ever wants to snog during sex, it’s usually all angry teeth and tongue and spit and claiming, but this is… Gentle. Passionate, even. Draco imagines he even tastes a hint of gratitude in this kiss, and he’s not unaffected by it.
A hand on his jaw, cradling it as Potter sighs pleasure through his nose. They spend longer and longer intervals in each others’ mouths, open lips and hot puffs of breath and spit until Draco’s sure he’s ready for the next step. And then he’s pushing him back onto the bed, keeping their lips connected until Potter’s lying beneath him, and he lifts off.
Heavy, green eyes blink up at him. Glistening lips, flushed cheeks, he’s gorgeous like this. Draco sort of wants to lean back in for more, but they’d spent long enough easing into this and while Draco would love to ratchet up his price, it just doesn’t seem fair to draw this out just for his own monetary gain.
“You are a fast learner,” he whispers. “I think this is gonna be fun for both of us, honestly.”
Potter grins weakly, hand drifting from his jaw to fall limp beside his head as Draco smiles back down at him.
“Yeah?”
Draco nods, glancing down at his chest again. He knows just how painful rib tattoos are, and he wonders how Potter took it. Did he whine and take breaks often and squeal? Did he power through it but still break a sweat? He wonders if he can get Potter to break a sweat.
“What’ll it be, Potter? Straight into the deep end? Or warmer, shallower waters?”
He offers his hips down against Potter’s own with this question, pressing their twin erections together and a gasp sails through those glistening, red lips.
“Oh,” escapes him on an exhale, and Draco stills. Waits. Watches. Potter swallows. “I don’t… I don’t know, I…” His hips curl up against Draco’s, who tilts his chin back to watch him through narrowed eyes. “I-I want…”
It’s literally his job, and Potter might as well be a virgin to boot, but Draco can’t deny a sickening amount of satisfaction for seeing him so turned on. He’s been hired to take more than a few peoples’ virginities, but this feels… Dizzyingly empowering. He leans his head back down to taste the little pattering breaths from Potter’s lips.
“Tell me,” he whispers, brushing his lips against Potter’s. “Tell me what you want. Anything.”
While he might not know just what all anything entails, but with a swallowed little whine, he pushes up to flip them over, straddling Draco’s hips and then his mouth comes crashing back down against his.
Draco groans approvingly, taking Potter’s hips to encourage him, and then hands are wandering his torso, feeling his biceps, his shoulders, his ribs. He’s snogging the breath out of Draco, and Draco’s letting him. The combination of alcohol and arousal never failed to help him break through first-timers’ hesitation, and Potter is no different.
Losing a bit of finesse, likely with his focus, Potter’s lips turn insistent as they smear from his mouth to his jaw. Teething, gnawing, licking up to his ear where he takes the lobe between his teeth. Draco’s body is working as it ought to, and he arches with a gasp to feel chills break over his skin at the bite.
“Wanna fuck you,” he rasps in his ear, and Draco almost laughs. Isn’t that rather the idea? But it only makes sense. For his first time with another man, of course he’d choose to top. Plus, it lets them skip a potentially awkward step in the process; Draco is already prepped.
“So fuck me,” he answers. “Get those fucking trousers off and fuck me.”
Potter hisses a curse, and then he’s peeling himself away to do just that. Draco props himself up on his elbows to watch, foregoing his pants for now. He wonders how many other people could boast the privilege of seeing the Chosen One naked, but as Potter inevitably resorts to leaving the bed to shed his clothes, the question vanishes from his mind because Potter…
He’s just a man, Draco reminds himself as Potter rejoins him on the bed. Spreads his knees to let Potter between them, where he sidles up, taking his thighs in his hands. Just another man.
Only he’s not. He’s Harry Potter. And not only that, but he’s well fit. Not just powerfully built, but decorated in varyingly thick hair and his cock… It’s only a cock, something Draco’s seen millions of, just it’s not. It’s Harry Potter’s cock. It’s full and thick and red and weeping between his legs as Draco makes himself glance back up at his face.
The clumsy fervour that had led him here, naked between his legs, seems to have faltered slightly because that tension is back in his features. In the angle of his shoulders. Draco reaches for his prick, pausing to let his intentions known, and Potter glances down at it. Swallows, but doesn’t move. Gasping for air, he just waits. So Draco takes it in a gentle grip.
It feels much like every other cock he’s touched in his life, but for it to be Harry fucking Potter’s makes it seem… Important. He gives it an experimental stroke, and earns a short gasp, and it’s that sound that seems to go right to Draco’s pleasure centres. His lower lip pulls between his teeth as he loosely tugs at it, and Potter watches him do it. And he can’t help but compare this unfathomable experience to every other he’s ever had.
Draco’s had plenty of high-ranking politicians, celebrities, and even a few old classmates buy his services before. He’s happy to serve as their catharsis, or whatever, but this… He’d never have guessed in a million years that Potter, of all people, the subject of his school bullying and enemy to his family’s cause would ever be included in his clientele.
Maybe this’ll be a bit of hate-fucking, too.
Which is fine.
Anything else would be strange, honestly.
But Potter’s gripping Draco’s wrist suddenly, and he realises he’s gotten a bit lost in thought, and brought Potter too close to the edge. So he splays his hand, making a show of releasing him, and Potter does the same to allow him to reclaim his appendage.
“S-sorry, I… I’m just really turned on, and you’re so fucking hot, and I… I just…” Draco smiles, easing his elbows back further. And Potter swallows.
“You’re alright. I’ll do my best to guide you, but you can do whatever you want to me.”
The words feel strange in his mouth, but Potter’s eyes go wide. Like the fucking idiot he is, and Draco’s never had to spell it out like this for anyone, but the shock in his wide, green eyes is just too tempting…
“You can do… Whatever. You want to me.” He repeats himself slowly, making sure the sentiment is well-conveyed this time, and Potter settles back onto his haunches slightly. Deflates a bit as the notion courses through him. And Draco just waits to see what he’ll do.
Potter glances down at Draco’s crotch, and he’s amenable to the fingers that hesitantly reach down to pry his pants off. He’s lifting his legs to allow it, and it’s always been so disconnected, so easy for him to separate Himself from His Body, but… Something about this time feels different. It’s not different, not any different from any other encounter he’s had with any other client, but… It feels that way.
Which is ridiculous.
He lets his legs spread back around Potter’s hips once he finally pries his briefs off his ankles, and then they’re both naked. It’s almost Draco’s natural state at this point, naked in bed with a client, but Potter is staring. Which is fine. He can look all he likes, touch and lick and fuck all he likes, but…
But it’s Harry Potter.
The Boy Who Lived.
Staring at his cock and breathing fast, shallow air as his hands start absently sliding down Draco’s thighs again.
He lets himself fall back onto his shoulders, arms reaching up above his head to stretch himself out as he waits. And Potter waits. Like he needs permission, or instruction, and Draco really doesn’t think he needs to tell him to put his cock in my arse, but as the silence stretches on, he wonders.
It was… Fine? he’d said. Draco can only assume the one time he’d fucked had been brief and anticlimactic (probably more so for the girl) but as Potter takes his own cock in his fist and spreads his knees to lower his hips, Draco redirects his focus. Lifts his knees to his chest to take him, and waits.
He’s expecting this to be brief, too, as Potter leads his erection to Draco’s spread arsehole and it’s fine, really. If it’s short, it doesn’t matter. Draco’s not expecting to get off, anyway. He’s here to break the ice, to topple the first domino and set the foundation for their future encounters. Potter mentioned a weekly visit, so if this is to be the first, it’s fine if it’s short.
Honestly, Draco doesn’t really care about getting off anyway.
The head of Potter’s cock pops into Draco’s arse, and he gasps at the sensation. It’s not new, not unfamiliar to any stretch of the imagination, but it’s never not shocking. And Potter just stops. Waits. Stares. So Draco does what he needs to, and reaches for the arm leading the hand gripping his thigh.
Pulls. And Potter folds over him. They’re staring at each other, they’re gasping for air, and Draco’s touching him. Soothing him, encouraging him with gentle hands that slide from his forearms to his biceps to his shoulders to his chest.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Just like that. More.”
Another centimetre pushes into him, and his lungs pull in another gasp. All organs functioning as they should as Potter pauses again, blinking rapidly down at him. Draco takes the opportunity to reach a single hand to his back, sliding down to his tailbone, where he pushes slightly.
Just barely. Gently, guiding him in. And Potter follows. Lets himself be pushed, in and in and into Draco, filling him up so completely, and their stuttering exhales synchronise.
“Oh god,” Potter exhales, and Draco can’t help but smile as he watches those hazy greens slide back into his head. Hips flush with his arse, and Draco’s spine arches to feel him so deeply inside, but he clings to the knowledge that this is his first time.
Harry Potter’s first time with another man.
Fucking Christ.
“Fuck me,” Draco pleads, not too insincerely. He hadn’t been lying about this being fun for the both of them, and as Potter leans his head down into the crook of his neck with a groan, he– “Fuck me, Potter, show me how you use that cock.”
There’s hot breaths warming his throat as lips find his ear, and he’s spreading his palms over a warm back, a thundering neck. Drinking in the heat he’d been sampling as it now envelops him.
“You might call me Harry with my cock in your arse,” he gasps, and Draco coughs a laugh.
“Harry,” he obliges, and feels a tremble dance through the body above him. “Fuck me, Harry, please.”
Draco makes his voice as nasal and whorish as he can, which is a fair bit, and earns another groan as Harry starts to move. Sliding out, right past his swollen prostate, and back in.
“O-ohfuck– Oh fucking hell–” Harry exhales a wordless appreciation as he works inside him, and a shiver of pleasure crackles up Draco’s spine. “Nn–nuhfuck– god, you feel so good– hnaaha–”
Draco’s jolting against the bed now as Harry fucks him. Clinging to strong shoulders as the cock in his arse teases his prostate, fuck, he’s supposed to be instructing.
“Ha-Harry– uhhnfuck– Fuckyoufeelsogood– f-flip me over– Nnfuck–”
The hot mouth against his throat steals a vicious bite, winning a yelp before Harry’s doing just that. Careful with Draco’s legs, with his cock as he keeps it inside until he’s folding over Draco’s back, who can only fist the quilts and arch his arse up against him.
“O-ohfuck–ohfuck–ohFUCK–”
Harry’s cock is pressing right on the sweet spot now, and Draco resolves to go over shit like positions and pressure and prostate later on, because his eyes are rolling back in his fucking head from the pleasure now.
“Fuck-Malfoy– ohgod– Ohhhhmyfuckinggod– OhmyFUCK–”
He’s fucking Draco in earnest now, and Draco doesn’t even have to fake the screams of pleasure he’s yielding. The sobs and the keens and the whines he’s producing. God, sometimes, Draco loves his job.
“D-Draco,” Draco shrieks, because it’s just asking too much to articulate clearly, but he hopes he gets his intent across: might as well call me Draco if I’m calling you Harry.
And Harry, thankfully, understands.
“Draco–fuck– I-I’monna– GOD-can I come inside you? Ha-ah-nn-hn–”
“Y-yeah–yeahfuck– An-anything–ah-AH–!”
For the first time in he-doesn’t-know-how-long, Draco comes first. Just the friction of the bed against his prick as Harry cants him against it, just the cock in his arse, he comes with a shout. With several shouts as his body pushes his orgasm out of it. Out and out and out in several drawn-out clenches.
“Ohfuck– ohFUCK–!” Harry comes second. Bleating his pleasure into Draco’s ear as he lowers his face to the side of his turned head, nearly deafening him, but he can’t care. He can’t do anything but come and come and come.
When they both finally collapse onto the bed, sticky and sweaty and heaving, Draco thinks it’s only uphill from here.
He can’t wait.