Prompt: I hate that I want you. (I took first place on this round!)
Word Count: 292
Harry hates Malfoy. He hates him because he is cruel and cowardly, smug and sarcastic, defective and dangerous.
He hates Malfoy’s narrow gray eyes and his grasping, greedy hands. The way he grabs Harry by the collar and shoves him across the room, even though they are both WAY too old for this shit. The way they tumble over the furniture and land hard on the floor. The way Malfoy strips him bare. The way Harry never says no.
Harry hates the curl in Malfoy’s lip and the snarl in his voice and that Malfoy acts so desperate sometimes it hurts.
He hates the way Malfoy whimpers in his sleep.
Harry hates that Malfoy regards him like he is nothing more than a fool, a useless spec of dust, a body. But Harry knows better. (Harry hates that he knows this too.)
Harry hates that he can’t kick Malfoy out of bed, that he fries him breakfast in the morning, that Malfoy empties his cupboards of his sweets and jams. That his house feels so empty after he goes.
Harry hates the way Malfoy’s caustic words hurt more than they should, that he wishes the bruises that he finds dotting his body never fade, that he could forget.
But he thinks that he hates it most when Malfoy is agreeable, when the bed is warm and the flesh willing, and all Harry can think of is Draco, Draco, Draco. More, more, more. And please. And Draco says yes, yes, yes and Harry.
That’s when Harry thinks maybe, just maybe this might grow into something more. Maybe this could work.
But Harry knows better.
Harry hates Malfoy because it’s better than admitting the alternative -- that Malfoy is someone that he could love.
Prompt: Fuck Me. Fix Me.
Word Count: 285
Draco couldn't move fast enough.
"Malfoy. Malfoy. Hey…"
Someone was screaming.
A sudden burst of light burned Draco's eyes just as a pair of arms reached around him and held him back, held him tight.
"Hey, hey. Calm down," a voice said into his ear.
Draco gasped, his chest pounding. “I can't. I need… to go. You don’t understand. He…" Draco stopped himself as he saw for the first time that he was lying atop a strange bed, sheets tangled around his bare legs. He caught his reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall, an electric lamp illuminating his terrified expression and the concerned face of the man holding him back.
"Turn out the light," Draco snapped, flushing and turning away, remembering now that he had met Potter at The Leaky, both of them drinking more than they frankly should have and Potter coaxing him home. He never meant to sleep over. And now he had humiliated himself.
"You were dreaming," Potter said.
"Obviously." Draco wondered if he could still make a break for it, but faster than he could have imagined Potter had him turned around so they were now facing each other.
"Hey," Potter repeated, nudging Draco's chin up with his hand.
"Stop saying that." Draco wrenched his chin away. "And I said, turn out the fucking light. Wizards shouldn’t have electricity."
Potter smirked as he reached to turn off the lamp and scooted close again. For a panicked moment Draco thought he was going to be cuddled.
"You're shaking," Potter whispered. "I can fix that for you." His eyes gleamed in the dim light as he reached between Draco's legs. "Stay?"
Draco fell back against the sheets. "Stay," he agreed.
Prompt: You’re great in bed, but you’re still an arse.
Word Count: 200
They dress in silence. Harry pulls on his trousers and robes, buttoning them quickly, and makes one last ditch effort to smooth down his unruly hair before flying down the stairs. Draco takes longer but only just. Buckles are buckled, fasteners snapped. He pauses to adjust his collar and then he too is out the door. It slams behind him.
There are no endearments, no promises. Neither say goodbye.
Harry Floos to the Ministry and takes one look at his paperwork-strewn office and finally exhales. Seeking solace in his work, he sits down at his desk and picks up a quill. The memory of Draco, kneeling on his floor, bound and begging, accosts him immediately. His quill breaks. He remembers kissing Draco goodnight.
Draco returns to the Manor. He eats breakfast with his mother, buttering his toast while she chatters about marriage and duty. He sees the bruises on his wrists and his thoughts wander. How he fell asleep in Harry's arms.
He excuses himself.
He runs a hot bath, then a cold shower, and finally uncorks a bottle of Firewhisky and toasts to his doom…
For he knows, as surely as does Harry does, where he will be sleeping tonight.
Title: A Thin Line
Prompt: Enough with this.
Word Count: 250
They make a stunning pair. Dressed head to toe in black; his dark hair is clipped short and for once, neat. Her robes are the palest of blue, all the better to show off her creamy skin and red hair. They enter the ballroom to a chorus of flash bulbs. All eyes are on them.
Draco has Harry cornered in the garden. It's exactly the way Draco likes him, up against the wall, squirming and penitent. "You smell like her."
"Stop it. It's not what you think."
Like hell. "How short were her robes? Is she that desperate to keep you happy?"
That earns him a hard shove. "That's enough," Harry says. His robes are mussed and so is his hair. It's a small triumph, but it is something. "You know how it is."
In a society where breeding is everything they make a very good match. Both thin and rich, no one can miss the diamond on her finger. There is a round of applause.
Harry wishes he were a better man. That he could keep his hands to himself and his mouth shut. "Do you love her?"
Draco's eyes are closed but that may have something to do with the hand pumping his cock. Harry presses closer. "I didn't hear you."
Now he has Draco's full attention. "Shut it, Potter."
"You give me shit, and you go and get yourself engaged."
"That's enough!" Draco's mouth is a thin line. "You know how it is."
Title: A Way With Words
Prompt: Forgive me, heal me.
Word Count: 449
Harry thought it was appropriately melodramatic the way it was raining buckets on the day he stood on Draco's doorstep to
The door finally swung open. The house-elf took one long look at Harry and did not budge. Of course not.
Harry put on his game face. "Draco Malfoy. Please."
"Is Master Draco expecting you?"
They both knew the answer. Master Draco was not expecting him.
Harry was sure he would be in for a long, soggy wait when the house-elf stepped aside. Harry thought he heard the words be careful fall from his lips.
Harry found Draco in the drawing room. His legs primly crossed, he was sitting on an old-fashioned-looking settee, the fingers of his right hand drumming a fierce rhythm on the upholstered arm. Harry wanted to take that hand and…
"You're dripping all over my mother's prized Persian rug."
So he was. Harry looked regretfully down at the puddle under his feet before replying, "There's a reason why I'm here."
Draco looked grim. "It better be good."
"Yes," Harry said, and he paused. This was the first time he had seen the inside Draco's London home, such a visit certainly OFF LIMITS. As if Harry wasn't already on shaky ground. "I'm not good with words."
"I'm not good with waiting."
"Heh," Harry said, and before he could stop himself he was straddling Draco, holding him down.
Draco squirmed and bared his teeth. "So this is why you're here."
"No." There was a row of tiny buttons running down the front of Draco's robes, buttons that were surely there to taunt Harry. With shaking hands, he managed to open four, baring Draco's pale throat. He bent down, pressing his lips against the tender skin, suckling it in.
Draco arched beneath him. "Liar." But he was hard. Harry could feel Draco's erection pressing against his thigh.
Harry bit back a groan and forced himself to stop thrusting back. "Draco, I mean it." He sat up in an effort to create some distance. "That's not why I'm here." But how he wanted Draco. Right now. Stripped bare and open. He felt a little dizzy, words spilling from his mouth. "I can't live without you. I'm sorry. I --"
"Keep talking." But Draco's hand had started to do miraculous things inside Harry's trousers. Harry moaned.
"Potter, you came all over my mother's prized Victorian settee."
Harry swatted him on the head. "You talk too much."