There’s a sky in Draco’s living room. Not a proper one, but not not a proper one either. It’s all very confusing, and Harry’s had a long day.
“It’s the sky,” he says, and then bites his lip, because he knows what’s coming and— yeah, Draco’s mouth is curling into a smirk already. Fuck.
“Really?” Draco says. He reaches over and pulls Harry’s glasses off his face, sliding them onto his own. (Harry sometimes thinks his life would be easier if he just shacked up with one of those perfectly nice women who are always stopping him in the street and telling him how dashing he looks in his Auror's robes. Because Draco isn’t nice. Draco is an arsehole.) “Merlin!” he squints. “You’re right, Harry. I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”
It’s awfully sarcastic, and awfully hot, and also one of the reasons Harry knows he would never leave Draco for one of his many suitors. He loves it when Draco’s a prick. Preferably not to him, but anyway. If Harry voiced this thought aloud, Draco would surely come back at him with some delicately veiled nonsense about ‘beggars, and their inability to choose’.
“You’re hilarious. I meant why. Why the sky. And give me back my glasses.”
Draco makes a petulant noise, but obliges. “The sky for the stars, Harry. Obviously.”
“You did this —” Harry gestures to the inky, twinkling blackness swirling where Draco’s high, white ceiling and poncy (elegant, fuck you, Harry) tierd chandelier used to be “— so you could look at the stars?”
“Study them,” Draco corrects.
Harry presses his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose, and then his temples. Ron once told him that it’s exactly what Professor McGonagall used to do when they were called into her office and she was too tired to scold (and he’s right), but sometimes that’s how he feels with Draco, so there. “Why?”
Draco shrugs elegantly. “Academic curiosity.”
“Draco, you’re mad,” says Harry. “How much did this cost? Is it even legal? Fuck, this is like, fucking, ridiculously complex charmwork.”
“No it twasn’t. Draco.”
“One simply had to read Hogwarts; A History” (Harry’s not even being dramatic when he says that this inspires traumatising flashbacks) “familiarise themselves with the Charms used on the ceiling of the Great Hall —”
“— those are part of the castle’s ancient magic, you fuck —”
“— and hire a specialist to replicate them.”
“A specialist?” Harry says.
“Mm. Hideously expensive, but I’m happy with the results,” Draco says. He ponders the night sky above him lovingly.
“A legal specialist?” Harry prods.
Draco turns back to him with a wicked smile. “Ask me no questions and I shall tell you no lies, Auror Potter.”
“For fucks sake,” Harry says, adopting his disapproving-McGonagall pose once again. “Why don’t you just go outside, Draco? Or do a Transparency Charm?”
“Don’t be dim, Harry. London’s far too polluted for a Transparency Charm to be any use. I wouldn’t be able to see anything. And I can’t just ‘go outside’” — Draco somehow manages to convey his disdain for the concept through an air quote — “It’s chilly.”
Harry sighs again, and releases his temples. “Right. So you spent I-don’t-think-I-want-to-know-how-many Galleons for an I-don’t-think-I-want-to-know-how-illegal Charms specialist to come and replicate an stupidly complex, potentially dangerous ancient Mirroring Charm on your living room ceiling, because you want to look at the stars, and it’s too cold to go outside.”
Draco looks at Harry for a second, and then says, “Study the stars.”
“You’re ridiculous,” says Harry. “Lie down, I’m getting some wine.”
Draco gives him what starts out as a smirk but, seemingly unintentionally, ends up a lopsided smile, and Harry makes his way into the kitchen and tosses his robes over a chair.
His boyfriend is utterly unhinged when it comes to his academic endeavours, and Harry’s not quite sure why he likes it as much as he does. Granted, it’s not so endearing when Draco does idiotic things like insist he doesn’t need to sleep, he’ll just take Revitalising Potions every six hours and that way he can study for his law school exams for three days and nights straight.
In times like those, Harry just wants to pick Draco up and shake him until he agrees to take better care of himself. And then make him some tea and read to him in bed. So maybe it is endearing, but less in a you’re-absolutely-mental-Draco, snog-me-right-now kind of way, and more in a let-me-stroke-your-hair-until-you-fall-asleep kind of way. Whatever.
Wine. He’s supposed to be looking for wine.
“This open Pinot alright?”
“Utter piss. Get the Malbec next to the fridge. And hurry.”
When Harry hands him a glass, Draco makes a disapproving hmph. “These are white wine glasses, you pleb.”
Harry sighs. “As much as I love listening to you call me an idiot,” he says, and it sounds like sarcasm, but it’s kind of not (Draco can probably tell), “I had something else in mind.”
Draco’s not really paying attention, too busy wrinkling his nose in disgust as Harry has the utter gall to pour red wine into his crystal flute.
“I think you should tell me about the stars,” Harry says.
“Oh?” Draco resigns himself to his fate, and takes a tentative sip of wine. The bloody drama queen.
“Yeah,” says Harry. “Will you?”
“Gladly,” Draco says, reclining on one of the only things kept from the Manor when he packed everything up after Narcissa moved to France. A sprawling Kashan rug, with intricate swirls in dark teal and navy and pale gold.
Draco told Harry he was hesitant to bring anything of Wiltshire into his new flat. He wanted a good, proper, fresh start. But “it felt criminal to leave it, you know? It’s so beautiful. And I knew it would look even better on my floorboards”. Harry knows he’s not an arbiter or style, or whatever (hence; Draco choosing all of his outfits for every event no exceptions since they started dating) but he thinks Draco was right. The rug is very nice.
(“Give me some of your cologne to spray it with,” Draco requested, after Harry had helped levitate the thing into place and unfurl it beside the hearth. “It still smells like the Manor. I want it to smell like home.”
Harry’s not sure when he started smelling like home to Draco, but he likes the thought. Expensive cologne and lemony shampoo and old books and lots and lots of coffee has started smelling rather like home to him, too. Draco would call him an insufferable sap if he knew, which would be hypocritical, but that’s never stopped him before.)
Harry settles beside Draco, who’s propped up on one elbow. He looks very nice in the fire-light (in every light) with blunt shadows the colour of melting and warmth moving over his sharp features. He’s wearing Muggle clothes, as he always does when he attends uni; grey woolen trousers and a loose white shirt unbuttoned to his deep clavicles and rolled up at the sleeves. The other students must think him awfully posh. Harry’s seen them on occasion, when he walks with Draco to the campus, in trainers and joggers etc. But then again, Draco is awfully posh.
“That’s Sirius,” says Draco, pointing to the brightest star in the swirl above them. It’s a little dizzying, lying on the solid ground beside the fire, surrounded by the familiar scent of wine and warmth and Draco, but looking up at so much deep, dark sky. Harry pushes his knee further between Draco’s.
“The Dog Star,” he says fondly.
“Yes,” agrees Draco, closing his knees tight around Harry’s. “It’s part of Canis Major. See the way it goes back there, and then into the tail?”
“Mm,” Harry says, following Draco’s hand — a pale, elegant line moving above him, letting himself melt into the smooth, polished sound of Draco’s voice and the taste of his expensive wine (which tastes exactly the same in the glasses he grabbed, thanks.)
“It’s part of the Orion family. Orion’s just above it, right there. Past Lepus and Monoceros.”
“How do you know all this shit?”
“I read. You should try it,” Draco says. Then looks far too pleased with himself and adds, “once you learn how.”
“I know how to read,” Harry frowns.
“I do,” Harry insists.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Draco says, and turns his face back to the sky/ceiling. “That’s Gemini. You can see Pollux at the tip, right there.”
Harry squints carefully. “What’s it supposed to be?”
“It’s the Dioscuri. Sons of Zues. Castor and Polydeuces,” says Draco. “That’s my star sign, you know. And yours is there. Leo, just by Jupiter. The star Regulus is at the tip.”
“It’s a lion, isn’t it? Like Gryffindor.”
Draco sighs, and tangles the hand that’s not curled around this wine glass in Harry’s. “What else would it be? We’re compatible, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our star signs,” says Draco. “We have love compatibility.”
“You follow astrology?” Harry says incredulously.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Lovegood mentioned it to me. Of course she would believe in that Muggle nonsense.”
“Right,” Harry muses. “But you don’t?”
Draco gives him an abhorring look. “Of course not,” he says.
“Of course not,” Harry echoes, willing the corner of his mouth not to twitch.
Draco sets his wineglass aside and drops his head onto Harry’s outstretched arm. “Muggles have no idea what they’re talking about when it comes to the stars. Not even Wizards do, really. Centaurs are the only beings that truly understand how to interpret them. Stars reflect the future, not the past or the present, you know?”
“Seldom,” Harry says. “If ever.”
Draco looks up at him. “Harry, I have no idea what you’re talking about. As per usual.”
That feels rather like stones, glass house, and so on to Harry, but he lets it slide, and presses a kiss to Draco’s forehead.
“Shall I keep going?” Draco says.
Mm, yes. Because, here’s the thing; Harry likes that his boyfriend is smart.
He likes that Draco is passionate and articulate, and he likes that he can talk to almost anyone.
He likes that he sometimes doesn’t understand Draco’s jokes, and that on occasion, his sarcasm is so profound that Harry really can’t tell whether he’s being serious or not. He likes it when Draco says something awfully dry, and he has a feeling that he’s just been insulted, but can’t be quite sure.
He likes that Draco reads Muggle literature (he didn’t stop trying to pester Harry into reading The Picture of Dorian Gray for fucking weeks. “It’s like, so completely gay, Harry. But not really. Read it or die by my sword”. Harry tried, and didn’t get very far. Draco ended up reading it to him, and Harry was happy with that compromise) and listens to political podcasts. He likes that Draco researches alchemy while he’s studying at law school, just for fun — that he’s a fucking swot, basically (perhaps even more so than Hermione, though it would send both of them into a strop if he ever voiced this opinion aloud.)
Sometimes, when Harry’s brought home a casefile to review in the evenings, he’ll ask Draco to explain a paragraph of legal jargon to him, just to hear him talk, and see him wave his hands in that expressive way of his.
Harry thinks Draco’s intelligence is sexy as hell.
Harry also likes it, however, when Draco gets… hmm. Harry’s friend Lachlan from five-aside-Quidditch, who is really fucking fit and who Harry and Draco have on occasion invited into the boudoir (Harry doesn’t think he’s ever laughed so much as when Ron and Hermione walked in on the three of them. Ron essentially carked it right there in the doorway, and Hermione couldn’t look at him without blushing for weeks. His friends are so fucking square, and he loves them terribly for it), calls it sex-dumb. Draco, when’s he’s emerged from said haze post-fuck, calls it cock-drunk. Harry doesn’t know what to call it, but he thinks it’s utter perfection.
Draco’s muscles twitch when Harry strokes his thigh, alternating little circles with the pad of his thumb. He presses a few kisses along the slim column of Draco’s throat, exposed with his face turned skywards.
“You’re not concentrating,” Draco scolds.
“Am,” says Harry. “Keep going.”
“As I was saying, Cancer’s just by the Moon, which is why you can’t see it as well. But it’s got the Beehive Cluster, which has, hm, thousand stars, or something.”
Harry brushes Draco’s cock with his knuckles, softly enough to retain plausible deniability in the face of an accusation. He is a junior Auror, after all. “Is that a star? (brush) Or a constellation?”
“Neither,” Draco drawls. “It’s a cluster. Obviously.”
Harry snorts. “You sound like Snape when you say that.” His knuckles ghost over Draco’s cock again.
Draco adopts tortured expression. “Please don’t talk about Severus when I’m hard.”
“Half. Shut up. You’re a horrible student, you know.”
“Now you really sound like Snape.”
“Harry.” Draco’s got his stern voice on. Harry likes it, because he likes watching Draco’s cranky resolve slowly crumble under his touch.
Draco wriggles a little. “Don’t call me lover. It’s vile.”
“But you are my lover,” insists Harry, shifting his hand so it’s teasing the head of Draco’s cock through his wool trousers. “Keep telling me about the stars, lover.”
“Harry, you’re not funny.”
“Sorry,” Harry snorts, moving his hand back down to Draco’s thigh. Draco bites his lip. Harry notices.
“Stars,” he prompts.
“My favourite,” Harry says.
“Naturally. The Dragon. Eighth biggest in the night sky.”
“Tell me more about the Dragon.”
He does, and as much as Harry loves listening to his voice, he thinks the whole rant might sound better if it were interspersed with a few whines. A moan, or two. Harry’s not fussed.
“It’s got the Spindle Galaxy, by the— fuck , Harry.”
“Go on,” Harry says, palming enthusiastically at Draco’s cock. Already sensitive, it swells keenly at his touch. Harry keeps his expression impassive. He’s not doing anything, just listening to his lovely boyfriend tell him about the stars. It’s wholesome.
“You’re a menace,” Draco complains, but it’s slightly breathless.
“Pot,” says Harry. “Kettle.”
Draco whines a little. Harry knows he must be feeling constricted, his semi trapped behind the waistband of his trousers. Draco doesn’t like leaking on his expensive clothes, usually. Tonight he doesn’t protest.
“Keep talking, Draco.” Harry kisses Draco’s temple gently. He likes the feeling of the softly buzzed hair on his lips. “I’m listening.”
“Mm,” Draco says. Harry takes his hand in the one that’s not on Draco’s cock and presses his lips to each knuckle.
“Go on,” he insists.
“Ladon,” Draco blurts.
“Ladon,” Harry repeats, dropping Draco’s hand back to the rug and refocusing on the warm bulge in Draco’s trousers.
“Greek mythology. That’s the name of the— nghh, Harry — the dragon.”
“That’s good, pet.”
“The Hercules constellation, shit, it’s up there. Near Draco.”
Harry tugs at Draco’s flies, pulling his red, leaking cock from through the placket.
“You’re really fucking hard."
“I know that.”
You know everything, Harry wants to say. Instead he smirks, and wraps a fist around Draco’s cock. The sarcastic tilt of Draco’s mouth melts back into something pliant and soft.
“Good. Keep going.”
“There was something about apples. Golden, fuck. Golden apples,” Draco babbles. Harry swipes a thumb over his slit, and Draco ruts desperately into his fist. “Fuck,” he whines. “I can’t, Harry.”
“Can’t what?” Harry says, jerking Draco’s cock with what he knows must be frustrating languor.
“Can’t think,” Draco pants. “While you’re doing that.”
Harry releases Draco’s cock, and is met with an irritated mewl. “How about this,” he says. He tugs at Draco’s waistband and he lifts his hips obligingly, letting Harry pull his trousers and pants down to his delicately muscled thighs. “On your back, pet. Good.”
Draco shifts on the rug. His bare arse is sensitive (and doesn’t Harry know it.) Harry crawls down to prop himself between Draco’s legs. “I’m gonna suck you,” Harry tells him, taking hold of Draco’s cock once again and lazily pumping the base.
“That’s — fuck! — that’s nice of you.”
“Mm. You’re going to talk,” Harry says. “And I’m going to suck you. And finger you until you cry.”
“Like that, pet. And if you stop, I’ll stop.”
Draco whines, this time.
Harry tightens his grip around the base of Draco’s cock. “Do you understand, love?”
Draco nods fervently, eyes shut tight. “Yes. Yes, Harry.”
“Good.” Harry releases his cock and tongues the slit, eliciting an easy hiss from Draco. “Start talking, then.”
“Ngh,” says Draco. “It’s fucking, part of the shit. Part of the 12 Labours.”
Harry wordlessly (because his mouth is rather preoccupied) slicks his fingers and traces Draco’s rim, working a finger into the first knuckle.
“Hercles, no, fuck, Heracles, had to steal them, fucking Merlin, Harry.”
Harry fucks his finger in further, twisting and curling and twisting and curling and sucking Draco further every time his words go broken and babbled.
“He, oh, fuck, again Harry please, killed Ladon and — Hera placed his, ah, image in the sky, around the North Pole.”
Hm. All this Greek mythology stuff is actually quite interesting. Harry will have to remember to ask Draco about it another time. You know. When he isn’t sucking his brains out through his dick, or something.
When Draco lapses into moaning, Harry pulls off him and laves eagerly at the head of his cock. “Tell me another one. A constellation.”
“F — fuck, Southern Cross.”
Harry frowns up at him. “Wouldn’t that be in the southern hemisphere?” Draco’s hips buck uselessly under Harry’s arm.
“Don’t care, fuck, Harry."
Harry sucks him back down with a chuckle, working another finger in beside the one already stroking at Draco’s prostate.
“There’s the fucking, ah, the minor constellations” — Harry scissors his fingers — “Merlin’s fucking, please, minor constellations.”
Harry hums around Draco’s cock in approval, bobbing steadily with one hand wrapped around the base and the other fingering him into pure liquid want.
“Leo Minor, oh, and Canis Minor,” Draco chokes out, throwing his arms above his head and writhing his hips. Harry finds his prostate and strokes gently, first with one finger, then — “shit, wanna come, please, n-northern facing” — with two, drawing his mouth off just enough to circle Draco’s weeping slit and — “Harry! Going to, fuck — f-follows the hunter, shit, Orion” — taking him back down to the base.
It’s when Draco’s utterly incoherent nonsense dissolves into nothing that Harry pulls his mouth off with a pop. Draco bucks upwards, keening desperately, murmuring into the crook of his own elbow. Harry can’t even fucking understand him anymore, and it’s brilliant.
“Mphh,” Draco says, and since Harry knows his noises, he knows this one means ‘please’.
“You know the rules, pet,” Harry says, gently licking at Draco’s cock.
“Nghh,” Draco says.
“Didn’t catch that.” Harry licks again.
“Hate you,” he thinks Draco mutters.
“How about that one,” Harry says, pointing to a brightly blinking constellation towards the corner of the ceiling. Draco’s eyes are hardly open. But whatever. “What’s that one called, love?”
“Oh, fuck,” Draco moans, as Harry teases his rim.
“Constellation oh fuck. Was that on the syllabus at Hogwarts? I don’t remember studying it in Astronomy, somehow. Granted, I didn’t pay much attention, but—”
Draco moans again, babbles something that sounds an awful lot like “shut up,” and rocks his arse back against Harry’s finger. Harry draws it away.
“Please,” Draco murmurs. Harry rubs the rough pad of his thumb across Draco’s soft, pale thigh.
“I want to give it to you, pet,” he says. “Wanna make you fucking squeal.”
“Yes,” Draco whines. “Yes, make me fucking— oh, make me sob, Harry, please.”
“Gladly,” Harry says. “As soon as you start talking.” Draco buries his head further into his outstretched arm and whimpers.
“C’mon, pet,” Harry enthuses, delicately tracing Draco’s bollocks. “Want to hear your beautiful voice.” He presses a few chaste kisses across Draco’s perineum and up his shaft, slick and dripping. “Love your voice, Draco (kiss). Love hearing you talk (kiss). Makes me fucking hard (kiss). Speak, pet.”
“Planets! Shit, there are planets.”
“Good boy,” Harry says. He’s probably as pleased as Draco is, when he sinks his mouth onto his cock and pushes his finger back in till the knuckle. Well, perhaps not quite, judging by the way Draco cries desperately and squirms down onto his finger, but almost. He does love sucking Draco’s cock. Loves taking him apart and feeling the warm, wet heat of Draco’s arse around his fingers. Fuck, he’s hard.
Draco babbles, something utterly undecipherable about Mars, and shit, Harry won’t be able to listen for much longer without shooting off in his jeans like a fucking teenager.
“Second from the, ah, ngghh, the sun.” Even Harry knows that’s wrong, and he thinks he probably only paid less attention in Divination than Astronomy.
He releases Draco again. “Come, Draco,” Harry says, and takes him back into his mouth.
Draco does; Harry lets him buck and writhe and fuck up into his mouth and cry, hot desperate streams hitting the back of his throat. Harry waits until Draco’s finished, hips fallen back to the floor, and pulls off him with a delicate kiss.
“So good,” Harry says, collecting the remnants of Draco’s spunk from his lips with his tongue. “So good for me pet.”
Draco mewls softly as Harry takes him by the waist, turning him over to rest on his knees and elbows, and scrabbling about for his wand to Vanish both their clothes. He’ll get in trouble for that later (Vanishing wrinkles the wool, you commoner.)
“Gonna fuck you now, Draco,” Harry says — Draco moans and pushes his arse back into Harry’s hips — “within an inch of your life. Gonna shag your brains out.”
“Yes! Harry —”
“Going to wreck you, pet. Want you full. Want you dripping.”
“Going to fuck you so hard you can’t talk. Can’t think . Can’t think of anything but my cock filling you up, yeah? Making you feel good.”
Harry slicks his cock and slides into Draco in an easy, languorous thrust, fingers pondering the dimples on either side of his spine before finding purchase on slim, delicate hips.
Draco arches with a whine, rutting back into Harry and falling further onto his elbows.
“What’re you thinking about, pet?” Harry says, fluid rocks back and forth.
“Nghhh,” Draco moans.
“Good. So full, aren’t you love? No room in that pretty little head of yours for anything but my cock, is there?”
“No, f— mm, Harry.”
“Want you to come again for me, yeah?”
Draco whimpers. “Mm. Yes.”
“So good for me, Draco— fuck,” Harry hisses, kicking his thighs wider and fucking into him fast and deep. He hears a tinkling smash, and suddenly everything smells like wine, as well as sex and sweat. Ah, fuck. It’s not on the rug, just the floorboards, but still. Dead. When Draco comes out of his haze, he’s so very dead.
“Ngh, Harry, Harry, love,” Draco babbles. Harry can hardly hear him, but he knows Draco’s I’m-about-to-orgasm-voice, and he feels distinctly like he’s missing out.
Which won’t do. “Gonna flip you over pet. Want to see you come again,” Harry says, pulling out, flipping warm-pliant-beautiful Draco over and thrusting back into his supine form.
Yes. Fuck, yes, this is better. He can see Draco’s eyes, glazed and rolling, and the wonderfully slack sculpt of his lips, and the deep, high flush of his cheekbones.
“So beautiful,” Harry says. “Mine.”
“Mmph,” Draco agrees, making a boneless attempt to wrap his legs around Harry’s back. “Yours.”
Harry feels himself go taut, grunting out a string of curses as he comes inside of Draco, leaking about his cock and in rivulets down Draco’s thighs.
Harry takes Draco’s cock in hand — a quick stroke, “come, pet,” and Draco makes a tragic little sound and releases over his stomach, and his ribs, and his very expensive rug. Which now smells like wine-and-sex too and Harry thinks it’s a definite improvement.
He doesn’t pull out straight away, instead falling forward onto Draco’s slick chest, listening to the sounds of him breathing and coming down beneath him, lazily mouthing at the salty-pale skin of his shoulder.
“Oxygen,” Draco mumbles, soundly completely hoarse and spent and indecently fucked-out.
Harry laughs, but it’s really just an exhale. “Fair.” He slides off and out of Draco and curls him into his side, stroking the damp hair from his forehead. “I suppose I should thank that Charms specialist."
“What?” Draco slurs, pushing his face into Harry’s neck, bleary.
“Nothing,” Harry says, and then sternly to his cock; don’t get hard again, you fuck.
They lie for a while, Draco with his eyes closed and Harry looking at the stars a little but at Draco the most, until an arm shifts beneath his.
“There is spunk,” Draco murmurs, “everywhere.”
“S’yours,” Harry points out.
Draco grunts in objection, and nibbles languidly at Harry’s collar bone.
“Mm,” Harry says. When Draco gets nippy after a fuck, it means he’s sentient enough to be pampered.
Harry drags himself up, leaving Draco curled on his side on the rug, and goes to the kitchen to get a glass of cold water (no ice, just a Chilling Charm) and some of that French dark chocolate (two pieces per orgasm) Draco likes.
He says it revitalises him, and Harry doesn’t doubt that, and it’s better than his former habit of going out onto the balcony for a smoke after a shag, but he is rather sceptical about the part where he has to feed it to Draco like he’s the crown fucking prince of Wizarding Britain.
When Harry returns to the living room, Draco is frowning lazily up at him. “Did you spill wine on my floor?”
Harry sits down once again and pulls Draco between his legs, back to chest. “Of course not.”
“Bad,” Draco murmurs, taking the glass of water between his lips eagerly. “Bad Harry.”
“Yeah,” says Harry.
“You know,” Draco says thoughtfully, as Harry casts Cleaning Charms over his come-splattered chest and plies him with chocolate and forehead kisses. “I’ve always wanted to fuck under the stars.”
“I understand the appeal,” Harry says. The sky above them is somehow denser than that of the Hogwarts Great Hall. Not pellucid clouds drifting below a high, arched ceiling, but a real slab of deep, dark, opaque night. In Draco’s living room.
“It’s the disparity, don’t you think?” Draco says, and Harry knows the chocolate must’ve done its job if Draco can use words like disparity without blinking once again. The pretentious twat. “The sky is so boundless, and sex is so intimate.”
“I could listen to you waxing philosophical all night long, you know.”
“Hm. Of course, you could, but wouldn’t you miss seeing me fucked into complete senselessness?” Draco says. “Cock-drunk?”
“Both have their merits,” Harry admits.
Draco says, “How about this,” and twists himself so he can press his bare chest to Harry’s and nuzzle at his neck. “I’ll talk about the stars until you get hard again, and then you can edge me ‘till I can’t even remember which direction they’re in.”
Fuck. Harry’s cock makes a valiant effort to swell again beneath Draco’s thigh. “Yes,” he says. “Please.”
When Draco makes to stand, still deliciously, beautifully naked and smelling like Harry’s tingling magic and rich dark chocolate, Harry frowns in confusion.
“I thought we were going again? There was talk of edging you senseless. Et cetera.”
Draco smiles that lopsided thing that, despite its own best efforts, is far too genuine to be a smirk. “As much as it soothes my aesthetic sensibilities, this rug is murder on my bare arse. Onward, yes? To the chambre, lover. Et cetera awaits.”
“Don’t we have to stay here?”
“Why would we?”
“The sky?” Harry gestures upwards. Really, isn’t he supposed to be the derpy of the two?
Draco’s mouth curves wickedly. “Do you think me a complete imbecile, Harry?” he says. He takes Harry’s wrist and pulls him to his feet. “There’s one in the bedroom, too.”