Fuck the Opera
Harry/Draco | NC-17 | 2100 words | 12 February, 2009
Betas: the always awesome abusing_sarcasm, who is my wet-panties partner in crime.
Summary: Draco wants Harry to go to the opera. Harry doesn't want to, and somehow, gets his way.
Notes:
Okay, so I wrote this ficlet in a day. *dies* I'm not sure how I pulled it off, only that I knew I wanted to write something, and it just kinda came out. Somewhat inspired by the fact that pandoras_chaos was going to the opera today for her birthday. Sorry this was so late getting to you, love! *squish*
***
“Malfoy, you know I hate the opera.”
Malfoy has this look on his face like he wonders why he ever bothers with Harry. “Potter, you’ve never been to an opera.”
Pause.
“That is so not the point!” Harry retorts, knowing it sounds weak.
“Then what is the point? Because frankly, you are not getting out of this. We are ministry officials, and we were invited to attend the opera, followed by a high profile event. You-“
“No, not we. YOU. You were invited.”
“-can’t just not attend and expect people not to notice,” Malfoy ploughs on, as if Harry had never spoken.
Harry sighs. “Why the hell do you care so much?”
“Potter, you’re a moron. Just put on the damn dress robes, and let’s get out of here.” Malfoy tosses him the garment bag and Harry catches it – with his face.
Shoulders sagging, Harry grabs the bag and unzips it, a small pout forming on his lips. “I’ll fall asleep! I’ll embarrass you. I know you hate that. It’s better if I don’t go.”
“Potter. I’ve been your partner for…how many years now? Being embarrassed by you comes with the territory,” he says as he watches Harry take off his day robes and toss them on his desk. “I’m embarrassed by you every time you walk into the office. Who dresses you in the morning?”
“Your mum,” Harry retorts back, grabbing the new robes and pulling them over his head, knocking his glasses askew.
“Ha ha. Hurry it up. I don’t want to be late.”
“Might be easier if you’d stop gawking at me.”
“I leer, Potter. Not gawk.”
“Whatever. Help me out, will ya? I hate these bloody things,” Harry says as his arm gets caught in the sleeve.
Malfoy huffs in that disparaging way he has and stalks over to grab a rough hold of Harry and help manoeuvre him into the dress robes like he’s dressing a child that is being particularly difficult.
“There,” the blond says, splaying his long-fingered hands on Harry’s chest, smoothing down the fabric. His fingertips linger a breath too long, and as they drop to his sides, Harry looks up and sees Malfoy looking pointedly at some middle distance between himself and Harry’s chest. Harry’s lips part and he’s about to ask what’s wrong when he sees the telltale pink flush rise up Malfoy’s neck and spread across his cheeks. Harry’s a bit dim, but something just clicked in his brain, and suddenly, he knows why Malfoy wants him to come to the opera as his partner. He realises all the jibing and strange, late-night drunken floo calls and the coffee in the morning and the way Malfoy still knows how to rile him up though they’ve been friends for years really boils down to one thing. And with that clarity, Harry thinks that maybe he should have some sort of confused, loud sort of reaction, but he doesn’t, and it doesn’t worry him, though he can’t pinpoint why, because it should, shouldn’t it?
“Malfoy.”
Malfoy’s head snaps up and he clears his throat, turning around sharply and striding to the door. “Let’s go, Potter.”
“Malfoy.”
Malfoy opens the door.
“Draco.”
“What, Potter?” Draco says, whipping around to glare rather menacingly at Harry. Harry jerks back just ever so slightly, but the flinch made the hard look on Draco’s face soften just a little.
Harry purses his lips in determination and deliberately takes a large step toward his partner. “Let’s not go.”
Draco’s brow furrows in confusion. “What?”
Harry takes another step forward. “Let’s not go,” he repeats. “To the opera.”
“Potter, why are you making this so difficult? Can we just leave?” He gestures to the door with his hand in a sweeping, ‘after you’ motion.
“I’d rather see if...”
“If what? Bloody hell, Potter, spit it out.”
“If I can make you blush again.”
“Sorry?” Draco looks quite startled at the words coming out of Harry’s mouth.
Harry is now close enough to touch his partner on the shoulder, but he hesitates. “You don’t really care if we go to the opera, Draco. You just want to go out with me. On a date.”
Draco sputters. “I certainly do not! I’m not queer, Potter! You’ve lost your marbles is what. I don’t even want to know how you came to such a ludicrous assumption, but-“
“But...? But what, Malfoy?”
“But you’re insane! Yes! Insane! I’ve been saying it for years, you know, and now, finally, I have the evidence. It’s surprising it’s only surfaced right now. Are you sure you’re not having a midlife crisis?”
“I’m twenty-five, Malfoy. I can’t be having a midlife crisis. And aren’t you more surprised that I’m not freaking out about the possibility that you’ve got a crush on me than the possibility that I’m insane?”
“Yes, but you see, Potter, the reason you aren’t freaking out is because you’re insane, so it’s really just an effect of.”
“What?”
Draco rolls his eyes and groans like it’s hurting him to speak to someone so dumb.
“Look, Malfoy, I’m a bit dim, sure, but I know what I saw. And what I felt.”
“Felt? Now what are you on about?”
Harry takes another step forward, which causes Draco to step back, his shoulder pushing the door closed behind him. He stumbles for a half-step, catching himself on the door handle, his back pressed against the marbled glass in the door.
“I noticed you didn’t argue that I saw anything,” Harry says, ignoring Draco’s immediate question. “Or that I said you might have a crush on me.”
“A crush? Don’t be preposterous, Potter,” Draco scoffs, but it lacks its usual bravado.
“I felt...something. Here.” Harry points to his chest. “You blushed. And it did something to my chest.”
“You know, your heart’s inside there. It does beat with a mighty thump every once and a while.”
Harry chuckles. “Draco, why can’t you just admit that you might like me, and I might, possibly, like you too, for all that you irritate me?”
“Big words, Potter. Might do to get your brain checked.”
“Come off it, Malfoy. I know you like me.”
“Well I know that you are an imbecile and hard to look at for too long. Please back away so I can open the door.”
“Nuh-uh,” Harry says so eloquently and leans in while Draco presses himself as flat against the door as possible. Harry catches this movement and immediately backs off, stepping back from the other man, who is, by all accounts, a few inches taller than him, and shouldn’t be leaning away from Harry like he is.
“Maybe...” Harry says carefully, “Maybe I misread the situation.”
“What?” Draco says, a little breathless.
“I’m sorry, Draco. I really thought...” He shakes his head. “Wow. I just royally fucked things up.” Harry takes another step back, looking down at the floor, his face heated. Maybe he really did fuck things up.
He hears a huff of breath like an exasperated sigh. “Well, see, Potter, that is your problem. You think sometimes. You’re much better at just doing.”
And before Harry can blink up at his partner, he’s grabbed roughly by the collar and there are warm and slightly wet lips pressed against his and with a slight pause, he kisses back, angling his head and letting Draco slip his tongue into his mouth.
They kiss like that for several moments, like a slow lolling back and forth; waves lapping against the sides of a boat, all languid and soft and perfect and unstoppable. Then Draco pulls away and says breathily, “Fuck the opera.”
Harry laughs. “My place or yours?”
But Draco’s lips are on his again, and his reply is muffled. “Don’t care.”
Harry pulls Draco to him and the kissing turns desperate, and Harry has to bite back a moan when Draco’s lips leave his to nibble at his neck.
“Oh, fuck...”
“Yes please,” Draco says in Harry’s ear, and Harry chuckles.
“Good thing I know how to think, huh, Malfoy?”
“What’s that now, Potter?”
“Nevermind,” Harry says, and pushes Draco back against the door. Draco flips them, though, and starts tearing at Harry’s robes, popping cuff buttons and nearly ripping off sleeves.
“Wanted this...so long...” Draco pants against Harry’s mouth, and Harry merely nods, his mind a whirlwind.
Harry’s glasses are knocked askew again as Draco lifts the robes and throws them over his head and away. Harry rights them on his nose with a toothy smile, which Draco latches his mouth to once again.
It’s as if Draco can’t keep his hands off of Harry and Harry really doesn’t mind. Harry’s would like to be all over Draco, who is really far too dressed, with fancy buttons and clasps, but Draco’s pulling Harry’s shirt off and unbuckling his trousers, and Harry’s hands can’t get anywhere near the blond, except to tangle in that annoyingly light hair. Which Harry now realises, is as silky feeling as it looks.
“C-can I?” Draco says between harsh breaths. “Can we?”
Harry pulls back and looks into Draco’s eyes. “Yes,” he replies, not entirely sure of the question, but figuring the answer could only be in his favour.
Then Harry is helping Draco pull off his complicated robes and Harry kicks off his own shoes and his pants are gone, and Malfoy’s own pants are around his knees and then Harry’s being lifted up, pressed hard against the cold glass at his back, and he shivers at the sensation, because Malfoy’s body on his other side is hot as molten lava. He wraps his socked feet around Draco’s torso, and Harry can feel the bruises that Draco’s beautiful fingers are leaving in the flesh of his arse, and there are mumbled spell words somewhere near his neck and then Draco is there and pushing. There’s some pain but Harry’s really not caring, because he can’t feel that over the burning of Draco’s skin and the sting of ice against his shoulders, which is now turning warm and slick with his own sweat.
Draco’s hot breath on his neck and in his ear is making him harder than ever, and Harry’s left arm comes up to attempt to grab a hold of the door frame for some leverage as Draco pushes in deep thrusts into him, and each delicious, burning, filling thrust causes Harry’s skin to squeak against the glass behind him, and his head bangs into it, with such a force he’s afraid it will break.
Harry’s other hand is buried in Draco’s hair, and then clasped around the broad, lean, pale shoulders, and then tangled in silky strands again. He’s hearing sounds like a porno movie, and realises they’re coming from his own mouth, and for a second, they catch and gurgle in his throat, until he hears similar platitudes spewing from the man wrapped around him, deep inside of him. It’s a litany of words...dirty things that makes Harry leak and almost combust between them, broken by sweet kisses and little moans that make Harry dizzy.
Draco’s thrusts become shorter and erratic, and as he comes, slick. Harry can feel it, and knows that it might be dripping on his clothes on the floor, but he doesn’t care. He forces Draco’s face back into view and kisses him hard, biting down on that proud bottom lip as he comes between them. His vision goes dark for a moment, and comes back blurry. Only then he realises the blurriness is from the smudges of Draco’s nose against the glass, and Harry takes off the spectacles and tosses them, aiming for his desk, but managing somewhere just in front of it.
He really doesn’t care.
Malfoy is breathing hard, directly into his mouth. Harry kisses him again and says, short of breath, “Good thing I thought before doing this time.”
“What?” Draco expels in a huff of air.
“If I hadn’t thought, we’d be at the opera right now, and I’d be asleep on your shoulder. You’d be embarrassed, and it really would be a terrible night for all.”
Draco chuckles. “Okay. I’ll give you this one time. But no more ‘thinking’ for you, Potter. I don’t want you exerting yourself. You might get hurt.”
Harry smiles. “I don’t mind the hurt. As long as by ‘exerting’ you mean, ‘getting the life fucked out of me’.”
Draco’s eyes light up and he smiles in return. “I think that can be arranged.”
And they kiss.
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