"Well enough," Potter says, not losing his relaxed stance, but enough of a warning in his voice to prevaricate any further discussion on the matter. Draco's not especially interested in following that conversational track; but just for a moment, he considers going through with it anyway, just to bait Potter, see those eyes flashing again.
Draco considers, for quite the first time, that he might be in a bit more trouble than he'd anticipated when it came to Potter -- or, rather, the things Draco wanted to do where Potter was concerned.
He's been quiet for too long; worse, he's been so deep in thought that he's lost track of where his eyes have landed. When he blinks, he finds himself staring at Potter's mouth, red and shiny from the pull he'd just taken from his own bottle, smirking slightly. That look, it should not be allowed; Potter should not be able to look like this, reckless, tempting, almost debauched. Fuck, Draco wants to taste that mouth.
Potter's knee bumps agains his when he shifts to let a man slide out of the booth they sit at. His legs splay wide open, the man's body momentarily cradled between them. Draco may have blacked out for a moment, because when he gets his bearings again he finds Potter grinning at him filthily, the glint of a sharp canine bared to the hazy light. Draco feels restless, skin too small for his body, jeans digging uncomfortably into a cock that hasn't been listening to sense for a while now. Potter's eyes slip lower, drag over his body like a physical caress, come to a stop over his crotch. Draco wants to grab him, manhandle him until Potter straddles his lap; wants to push Potter down on the worn velvet seat and climb on top of him, press down, bite at that spot under Potter's chin until Potter sighs and lets his legs fall open again, for Draco this time.
Bloody fuck, what is in that drink?
Potter bites at his lower lip, drags it through his teeth, lets it slip out flushed red, faint teethmarks showing. "You wanna get out of here?" he says, confident and so, so damn tempting.
Likely it's just the drugs and alcohol talking; even more likely, they'll both wake up tomorrow morning and be horrified about it (though very likely for quite different reasons). But Draco's feeling reckless, a little wild, if he's honest, and fuck, he'll take that chance.
"Hell yes," he says, and Potter--Harry--smiles at him, startlingly bright; all of a sudden that boy Draco's known and wanted for years is there again, underneath the sensual front, and he looks like all his Christmases have come at once. And damn, how is Draco possibly supposed to resist that? "Let's go, Harry."
Harry reaches over and lets their fingers tangle together, just a little, a kind of tentative that cracks right through whatever shell Draco still clings to desperately, old hurt and anger and hopelessness dissolving into fine dust at Harry's touch.
"Okay," Harry breathes, and Draco doesn't think he's imagining the relief in his voice, the bright happiness in his smile. Whatever tomorrow brings them, Draco can--will--deal with, for the chance to keep this, see where it goes, where it takes them.
Burning Bright, 3/3
Draco considers, for quite the first time, that he might be in a bit more trouble than he'd anticipated when it came to Potter -- or, rather, the things Draco wanted to do where Potter was concerned.
He's been quiet for too long; worse, he's been so deep in thought that he's lost track of where his eyes have landed. When he blinks, he finds himself staring at Potter's mouth, red and shiny from the pull he'd just taken from his own bottle, smirking slightly. That look, it should not be allowed; Potter should not be able to look like this, reckless, tempting, almost debauched. Fuck, Draco wants to taste that mouth.
Potter's knee bumps agains his when he shifts to let a man slide out of the booth they sit at. His legs splay wide open, the man's body momentarily cradled between them. Draco may have blacked out for a moment, because when he gets his bearings again he finds Potter grinning at him filthily, the glint of a sharp canine bared to the hazy light. Draco feels restless, skin too small for his body, jeans digging uncomfortably into a cock that hasn't been listening to sense for a while now. Potter's eyes slip lower, drag over his body like a physical caress, come to a stop over his crotch. Draco wants to grab him, manhandle him until Potter straddles his lap; wants to push Potter down on the worn velvet seat and climb on top of him, press down, bite at that spot under Potter's chin until Potter sighs and lets his legs fall open again, for Draco this time.
Bloody fuck, what is in that drink?
Potter bites at his lower lip, drags it through his teeth, lets it slip out flushed red, faint teethmarks showing. "You wanna get out of here?" he says, confident and so, so damn tempting.
Likely it's just the drugs and alcohol talking; even more likely, they'll both wake up tomorrow morning and be horrified about it (though very likely for quite different reasons). But Draco's feeling reckless, a little wild, if he's honest, and fuck, he'll take that chance.
"Hell yes," he says, and Potter--Harry--smiles at him, startlingly bright; all of a sudden that boy Draco's known and wanted for years is there again, underneath the sensual front, and he looks like all his Christmases have come at once. And damn, how is Draco possibly supposed to resist that? "Let's go, Harry."
Harry reaches over and lets their fingers tangle together, just a little, a kind of tentative that cracks right through whatever shell Draco still clings to desperately, old hurt and anger and hopelessness dissolving into fine dust at Harry's touch.
"Okay," Harry breathes, and Draco doesn't think he's imagining the relief in his voice, the bright happiness in his smile. Whatever tomorrow brings them, Draco can--will--deal with, for the chance to keep this, see where it goes, where it takes them.
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