The Second Half is Always the Shortest
Harry/Draco | NC-17 | 3100 words | 22 February, 2009
Betas: MANY THANKS to aldehyde, abusing_sarcasm, weasleywench, and pandoras_chaos, for finding the many, many issues with this fic. *facepalm*
Warnings: None. Unless you count public sex. *shrug*
Spoilers: The sequel to " Fuck the Opera", but can technically be read separately.
Summary: Draco convinces Harry to finally go to the opera.
Notes:
Eh...still not my best as far as logic goes, but we all know we're only here for the sex, right? And I tried to at least make that interesting! :D This is a birthday present for my girlfriend, icyaurora8, whom I love more and more each day! Happy Brithday, baby! xoxox
***
"We are not having this argument again, Potter."
"I just can't believe you're bothering with trying to get me to go. Again."
They are standing in their office in a déjà vu-like moment that borders on creepy, with Harry holding up a garment bag like it's going to attack him, and Draco standing near his only escape route. The window behind Harry doesn't count; it isn't real.
"Potter." Draco says it with a tone that means, 'I've already won this argument, why are you fighting me?'
"No."
"Harry..."
"No."
Draco swaggers over to Harry, and already, Harry knows what is coming. The same thing that always comes when Draco is intent on getting his way.
Draco's arms snakes around Harry's waist, and Harry looks pointedly away, dropping the arm that is holding the garment bag.
"Potter. Harry." He kisses Harry's temple. "I really want to go. It's a beautiful opera...I think you'd like it."
"I think you're mental. Draco, you know I'm going to fall asleep...how is that going to be enjoyable? For either of us?"
Draco is nuzzling Harry's neck, and Harry tries not to shiver at the spikes of pleasure that cascaded down his side. "How about this?" he breathes against Harry's neck. "If you go, I'll make it worth your while."
"Oh, really?" says Harry, feeling his resolve weakening.
"Yes." It's only a gust of air against his ear, but it nearly undoes Harry as he leans into Draco's arms.
"If I fall asleep, don't say I didn't warn you," Harry finally yields.
"You won't fall asleep. I promise." The words are laced with something that makes Harry finally look at his boyfriend.
"I hate you."
"Yeah, but it makes for fucking fantastic sex."
"Oh, shove off, Malfoy," Harry scolds, pushing the blond away, but the words have no bite.
Draco is smiling sultrily at Harry and his eyes have that 'I've won' gleam. "I'll meet you out in the hall in a few minutes."
"What, aren't you going to stay for the strip show?" Harry teases.
Draco shakes his head as he backs up to the open door. "No. I don't want to give you the opportunity to distract me."
"Are you saying I have some kind of power of persuasion over you, Malfoy?" Harry says as he tilts his head and starts to reveal his neck and chest by removing his day robes and button-down.
Draco scoffs. "Certainly not. But I know you'll do anything to get out of it, and I'm not giving you the opportunity to make me miss the opera. Again. I'll be waiting on the other side of the door. If you decide to try and make a run for it, it won't work."
"Damn," Harry mutters under his breath. Draco closes the door behind him and leaves Harry to stare at the garment bag grudgingly.
"I hate the opera."
***
Harry had been right. The opera is boring. Despite reading the program and Draco's whispered mutters about what is happening into his ear every so often, Harry has a hard time paying attention. Mostly due to the language barrier more than the music or anything else. Sitting still so long is not helping matters.
Just as Harry feels himself starting to nod off a little, there is a warm hand on his thigh, and his eyes blink open and turn to the man sitting next to him, looking far too gorgeous in his dress robes to be natural. Draco isn't looking at him, but instead, rather intently at the stage. Harry really doesn't understand the appeal of the opera. Sure, the theatre's nice, and the private box seats are pretty nice too, but just sitting here and watching something happen has never been Harry's thing. He's more of a doer than a thinker, something he knows Draco knows about him. Yet, even after the rather pleasant happenings of a few weeks ago, which was a godsend in Harry's eyes, since he didn't have to then endure this singing in languages he doesn't understand, Draco had insisted that they see the opera before it left London.
A shift in the warmth seeping into his thigh is what pulls Harry out of his reverie, and he looks to Draco again, but the blond is still watching the play. Harry glances down to his lap where Draco's fingers are now tracing small circles on his inner thigh. A little thrill goes through Harry as he realises a few things.
Draco is staring intently at the stage, but all Harry is focusing on now is the maddening little scrape of cloth on his knee as Draco's fingers circle around. He feels the minute shift in the palm on the top of his thigh as the fingers inch upwards, pressing maddening patterns closer and closer to the slow heat building in his groin.
Harry presses his own palm against his other knee, hoping to gain some control over his hormones, but now he's convinced that Draco is doing it deliberately, and it is a pleasant distraction from the somewhat obnoxious sustained notes that carry up from below.
Draco's fingers are now teasing the rapidly hardening bulge in Harry's trousers, and Harry can't help but fidget a little in his seat.
"Stay still," Draco whispers in his ear, and the heat of it makes Harry shiver against his will, but he obeys the best he can. Harry wishes to flex up into the touch, but knows that if he were to try such a thing, the fingers would withdraw and Harry would sit in agony for the rest of the evening. Already, he can't wait until intermission, so he can take Draco into the small entryway that leads to their box and fuck the life out of his infuriating boyfriend.
As Harry gets lost in the maddening pressure inside his pants, and the almost-painful rub of fabric against his erection, the fingers do retreat, like some horrible mocking of his inner thoughts, as if Draco knows how much it would cost to just stop. But then he does something Harry could never have thought of, never have dreamed of. Draco slides his tall form out of his chair and crawls, on all fours, to kneel in front of Harry. Harry gapes down at him stupidly, and is greeted with a devilish grin that has Harry wanting to die a sinner.
"Keep watching," Draco mouths, and Harry knows he doesn't mean to watch his boyfriend do whatever it is his boyfriend is about to do. Harry snaps his eyes up to watch the actors on stage, the music drowning out the moan that he can't stop from escaping his lips when Draco's hands slide up his thighs and cup the boner that's threatening to cause a loss of blood to the rest of his body as it hardens even more.
Draco's nimble fingers are working their way up under Harry's robes and gently tugging the zipper on his trousers down. Harry is forced to take deep breaths through his nose and stare at some blank spot on the stage to keep from groaning audibly over the music. The blond's long digits wiggle themselves inside the gape the unfastened zipper has created to brush sinfully lightly over Harry's cock, which is still trapped in the confining space of his pants. They tease and stroke against Harry's pants, and Harry feels himself leaking a cool spot onto the fabric, but it does little to relieve the heat pooling in his groin.
Harry only sees it out of the corner of his eyes, but he can feel as his robes are lifted, and see the blond head disappear beneath the dark fabric, and nearly comes with the thought of his own boyfriend, the person who wanted to see this opera so badly, is going to forego actually seeing the opera to suck off his reluctant partner right in the middle of it.
Harry can feel the slide and tug of Draco unfastening Harry's belt, and almost hears the soft clink of metal as it hits against the button on his trousers. He feels the 'pop' of the button released, and it affords just a hint of relief for the ache on his cock, but not nearly enough.
Harry's hands are clawed, clenched tight on the armrests of the posh chair, and they are becoming sore with the effort, and slick with the sweat gracing his palms. Draco's hands are on his hips, and it takes Harry a moment to come out of the dizzying state of mind he's created for himself and realise that Draco wants him to lift his hips, so the blond can pull down his trousers. Harry moves almost automatically, but his mind is screaming, "Everyone will see!" in loud, clanging voices, but not only are his trousers down to his ankles, but his boxers are as well, and now, with the confines on his cock gone, there are the new sensations of Draco mouthing kisses along his length, and the almost-silky sensation of his heavy velvet robes on his arse and balls.
Harry is sweating now, and he can feel it all along his hairline and dotting his upper lip. He swears he can feel it curling the hair at the nape of his neck, and wishes his robes weren't so heavy.
Draco's tongue is licking the head of Harry's cock now, and as the blond takes him fully into his mouth, Harry bites his lip, thinking it will bleed, and the pain distracts him from making a sound.
He finds himself slouching in his seat, pressing Draco back to an awkward angle due to the small space between his chair and the side of the box. Then one of his boyfriend's hands is exploring the skin of his balls, teasing and even pulling a little, and Harry just knows he's going to explode soon, if Draco keeps doing what he's doing.
And, as if Draco reads Harry's mind again, what he's doing changes. His hands tug on Harry's hips again, and Harry lifts them up obediently, but Draco only drags them forward, so Harry is hardly sitting anymore and nearly falling off the edge of the chair. Harry wonders how this is going to help him get off, nearly falling out of the only thing holding him up, but his thighs fall open as far as his spacious robes will allow, and Draco is shifting; one hand stroking up and down his aching length, while his mouth travels southward and is teasing Harry's clenching entrance.
A babble of nonsensical words is a steady stream in Harry's head, and he's glad for the loud music and long-winded notes ringing out from below as small "oh"s spill out of his throat against his will, because Draco's tongue is probing, licking and laving at Harry's hole, and the danger of being caught has finally caught up with him and he realises that his boyfriend is the most evil, talented, and wicked man on earth.
Harry isn't really listening to the music, but it seems to be rising in a crescendo of noises and voices, and Harry feels his orgasm coming, and it's nearly there, but then Draco suddenly isn't, and the theatre blacks out as intermission is called. The lights come up and the blond is sitting back in his seat, hair neat and perfect, and looking completely normal, as if he hadn't just been tongue-fucking his boyfriend beneath his robes in a public place, leaving him completely pantless, hard, unsatisfied and dishevelled, and almost falling out of his seat. Harry stares at his partner, completely horrified and under great mental distress at the possibility of now being blue balled, and oh, it's starting to hurt.
Draco smiles at him with guile, and pats his thigh as Harry painfully tries to right himself in his seat, still achingly aware of the fact that his pants are around his ankles.
"Enjoying it?" the blond asks, and Harry's eyes widen at the audacity.
"Not, really, no," Harry bites out, trying not to wince as his heavy balls shift in an unpleasant way.
"Well, I'm going to go to the loo, and then get some champagne. Would you like to join me?" Draco says as he stands, smoothing his robes down his torso.
"No!" Harry exclaims incredulously, thinking his boyfriend is being intentionally mean.
Draco shrugs. "Suit yourself."
Harry blinks, his jaw slack with mind-numbing devastation as his boyfriend walks away, leaving him, literally, with his pants down. He can't move. He can't even really think. How could Draco do this to him? He had been so close, he would have come by the time the lights went down, and he'd be sitting here satisfied instead of in so much pain from lack of ejaculation that he thought he might die, and in too much shock to do anything about it.
Harry sits there like that, his mind a constant stream of babble and incredulity during the entire intermission, which is fifteen minutes - far too long for his liking.
Draco comes back carrying a glass half-full with champagne, and Harry wants to take it and break it over his head. Draco downs it quickly, though, as the lights dim and come back on while a chime sounds, signalling the end of intermission. He sits back in his chair, setting his champagne flute on the floor, far out of Harry's reach, which makes Harry think perhaps Draco really does know what he's thinking, because there's a smirk on those pink, wet lips, and Harry wants to wipe it right off.
"Don't worry, Harry. The second half is always the shortest." And Harry nearly loses his fragile cool.
The lights dim again, to black this time, and Harry still sits there in pain, biting his lip and thinking that the carved pattern on the arm of the chair he's clinging to will forever be imprinted on his palms because his boyfriend is an unbelievable prick to beat out all other unbelievable pricks around the world, and Harry thinks he might really be starting to hate the blond now.
So intent Harry is in his plotting for revenge that he jumps when Draco whispers in his ear, "On the floor. Now."
Harry glares at the blond, but pries his aching hands away from the wood they've been clenched around, and slides painfully down to the floor, kneeling in front of the box wall. He feels Draco kneel down behind him, straddling his calves, and is glad that they are in the top-most box, and the only people who might be able to see them are the people on the far side of the large theatre, who are all watching the action below.
Harry feels the slide of velvet on his skin as Draco pulls his robes up. Harry doesn't hear it, but he can feel the brush of Draco's fingers on his arse as the blond unzips his own trousers, and Harry's breath quickens. Draco can't possibly think of doing...
But Draco is doing, and Harry realises all the probing and licking and laving his boyfriend was doing earlier was in preparation for this, and Harry has to put his hands up against the box wall when Draco's cock pushes into him, slowly and even painfully, as Harry had been so upset earlier that any feelings of relaxation are now gone completely.
"So tight," Draco breathes in his ear, and Harry feels himself coming undone all over again, even as it crosses his mind that Draco cock-blocked himself just so he'd feel better when he fucked Harry later.
Fuck, Harry hates his boyfriend.
Draco's strokes are slow, so very, very slow, but Harry knows it's so the movement doesn't draw anyone's attention. It feels like they are fucking for hours...it even comes to the point that Harry has seen at least two set changes while Draco's been buried inside of him, but he can't calculate how much time has passed.
Draco is doing that thing that he does when he fucks Harry; that quiet litany of dirty words and phrases that almost disgusts Harry with their verbosity and implications, but Harry's libido drinks it up, and it goes directly to his throbbing cock that is rubbing against the velvet on the front of his robes and bumping into the box wall.
Harry only knows to brace himself against the wall to keep Draco's driving movements minimal, but he uses it to push back into him, and soon, Draco's movements are sharper and quicker. The music reverberating off the walls around them seems to be coming to another crescendo, and Harry can feel the build-up in the air; a slow burn that flows through the entire audience as the play comes to a head, and Harry is feeling it deep inside of him, as Draco now fucks him in faster, surer strokes.
Draco's hand sneaks beneath Harry's robes to take a hold of his cock, and Harry falls back against the blond, the cock inside of him going deeper than before. Harry comes, a cry breaking free of his throat, but Draco's other hand is clamping over Harry's mouth, and the scream is lost behind long, pale fingers and amidst the voices harmonizing around them.
It's hard to breathe, with his partner's hand over his mouth, and Harry is feeling dizzy. Then Draco pumps his hips up once, twice, and then a third time as he spills himself inside of Harry, and even bites down on Harry's neck to stifle the sound, leaving a mark Harry knows will be an angry red for at least a week.
They sit like that for a moment, too boneless to do much else, but Draco eventually withdraws and arranges his own clothes, moving back into his chair, and Harry is struggling to get his pants back up and his robes back down and his gloriously wet and aching arse back into his chair, as the lights in the theatre go out again, and it's the end of the play.
When the lights come up, Harry is in his chair, running a hand through his hair a few times, knowing it won't help. He looks over to Draco, who is smiling genuinely at him, showing teeth.
"So, Harry," Draco says as he takes Harry's hand in his, "how'd you like the opera?"
Harry smiles back, and hopes his thoughts show in his eyes. He fucking loves the opera.
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