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Happy birthday [livejournal.com profile] birdsofshore!!!! You are such a source of joy and humor and kindness and encouragement and thoughtfulness and enthusiasm and brain-meltingly hot smut wonderfully moving stories, and it is a constant delight to know you. Thank you for all you do, and all you give to all of us!! Here's hoping that you've got a wonderful year coming, full of good adventures and creativity and happiness. Below, a meager offering in fandom-style celebration of your birth. Hoping you enjoy, and wishing you a very, very happy birthday!!!

Title: Suit and Tied

Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 7k

Warnings/Enticements: Suit Kink, Leather Jackets, Banter, mildly dubious consent in the sense that no one gives verbal consent but mostly because they are way more into it than they are willing to admit, Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Rimming, Anal Sex, Office Sex, Light Bondage, Tension

Summary: Harry can’t get Malfoy off his mind. Or maybe he just wants to get Malfoy off. No, wait. That definitely isn't it. He just needs a few questions answered.

A/N: Many thanks to [livejournal.com profile] disapparater for a speedy and thorough beta! There was some post-beta tinkering, and any remaining errors are my own. Thanks too, to [livejournal.com profile] shiftylinguini for ensuring my ongoing attachment to this Harry’s leather jacket! And to [livejournal.com profile] birdsofshore, of course, for being born and giving me a delightful excuse to skive off for a bit and write smutty, bantery fic! While this is a sequel to Moneymaker, it is mostly smut so it can probably be read on its own!

On AO3

“What exactly did you stand to lose in all this?”

“I suppose that’s for me to know.”


Harry couldn't get it out of his head. Especially not with the eight files Malfoy had handed over still sitting on the edge of his desk, a constant reminder of the things he should’ve been doing all week instead of turning the same conversation over in his head a million times.

He blamed Malfoy, obviously. Malfoy's taunting was the sort of thing that would drive anyone to madness, and no one, including Harry, could reasonably be held responsible for resorting to technically extralegal measures where Malfoy was concerned.

Besides which, Harry hadn't even remembered that requisitioning bank records through Scotland Yard was an option until he was practically in the lift on the way up to Malfoy’s office for their first meeting, and at that point who could blame him for seeing the thing through? And if other Aurors might have been less curious, or might've declined a second meeting, or might have made fewer intimate personal discoveries along the way, well, bully for them.

It wasn't his fault, was the point.

He just wanted to understand. It didn’t make sense that Malfoy hadn’t been willing to answer. If he hadn’t had anything at all to lose, if he wasn’t invested at all, he would’ve said so, and quickly. It was probably constitutionally beyond Malfoy to avoid gloating about that sort of thing, especially after he’d got what he wanted.

And then there’d been that damned smirk, and Malfoy’s insistence that Harry meet his eye, and ‘you should try it some time.’ It wasn’t just a brush-off, Harry was sure of it. You didn't have that kind of history of getting under someone's skin, or them under yours, without picking up a few things about their tells, and Harry knew Malfoy was up to something.

And really, that was probably why the whole business was lingering in his head in the first place. Who knew what would happen if Harry tried to ignore whatever message it was that Malfoy was trying to send? Malfoy was clearly a relentless sort of a bastard with questionable motives. And Harry had done enough negotiating to know that it was best to get out in front of that sort of thing, at least far enough to know what to expect.

He picked up the files and rifled through them aimlessly. Tried alphabetising, then reverse alphabetising. It didn’t work. He wasn’t the least bit distracted.

If he could just get a bit more information, maybe that would be enough to settle the question.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen, as he had done several times a day since his last meeting with Malfoy. He’d already thought through what he’d do if he called. It would be best to say as little as possible. He just needed to get Malfoy interested enough to take a meeting. A vague sort of thing ought to do the trick. More effectively than details, even, especially for convincing Malfoy to make it after-hours when, Harry reasoned, they'd be on even footing without Malfoy's cadre of colleagues and assistants to interrupt at critical moments.

Before he could think better of it, he brought the screen to life with a flick of his thumb and started entering the number for Malfoy's secretary.

£     £     £     £     £

The building seemed even more ominous than Harry remembered without any hustle and bustle to distract from all the glass and steel and the cavernous echoing they created as his boots hit the lobby floor. Malfoy had been quicker to agree than Harry had expected, and it seemed the meeting time had helped convince him rather than becoming a point of contention. Maybe the effect of the building at night was part of it. Heartless and cold and sterile was probably the sort of thing that made Malfoy feel that much more at home after seven years spent living in an underwater dungeon. And he probably expected it to throw Harry off.

Which Harry was determined that it wouldn't. He was an adult, and a damn competent Auror, and he wasn't going to let any of this get the better of him.

He hit the button for the lifts and stepped inside once he noticed the set of doors that had slid silently open behind him.

He had a plan, he reminded himself. He would find out what Malfoy had meant, exactly. Forearmed was forewarned.

His stomach flipped when the doors slid open. It was perfectly normal, he reminded himself, to be on guard going into a negotiation. The adrenaline was an asset.

The floor was empty and the hallway was almost dark, save ambient light from the city beyond and a dim rectangle that Harry knew would be from the desk lamp, spilling out from Malfoy's doorway.

His pace picked up as he got closer and he had to remind himself to slow down. Wouldn't do to look like he was in a rush. He was almost sauntering by the time he stepped into the doorway and squared his shoulders.

Malfoy was staring intently at the newspaper, and all Harry could see was the headline, the top of his head, and the martini that sat to his left.

He coughed pointedly.

It was a long moment before Malfoy pulled the paper taut and then let it fold down over itself. "Potter.”

"Malfoy," Harry bit back.

Malfoy folded the broadsheet crisply into quarters, keeping his eyes trained on it as he spoke. "I'd usually ask to whom or what I'd owe the honour, but then, it's you."

"Drilled the manners out of you, did they?"

"Oh, Potter." Malfoy shook his head, setting the paper down.

He was wearing a three-piece charcoal grey wool suit, all of it fitting like a glove over a pale blue dress shirt, the collar starched so crisply Harry wondered if he should classify it as a weapon.

"Manners are for people we esteem." Malfoy lifted his drink in a mock-toast. "Besides which, I assume you haven't come for the company. Kate said you had additional questions about your investigation."

"I do, yes."

Malfoy took a long sip from his drink.

Without waiting to be asked, Harry crossed the rug and took a seat opposite Malfoy's chair. He pointedly avoided looking at the desk, or remembering how the smooth wood had felt under his elbows.

Malfoy set down the drink, leaned back in his chair, and waited.

"'I suppose that's for me to know,'" Harry began, repeating Malfoy’s words back to him.

"Your questions? Bit odd of you to make the trip when you don't intend on asking."

Harry felt his jaw clench. "No. That's what you said. 'I suppose that's for me to know.'"

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Might've done, among other things. Would you like me to remind you?"

Heat crept up Harry's neck and he hoped, probably fruitlessly, that it wouldn't show on his face. "I asked what you stood to lose and you wouldn't answer. Just said 'I suppose that's for me to know.'"

"What of it?"

"Surely a negotiator as accomplished as yourself understands the importance of knowing your opponent's motives."

"Trying compliments, are you? With strategy like that you could be a Slytherin first year."

"A first year," Harry repeated back, deadpan.

"Well I did say Slytherin, didn't I? It's a compliment. Clearly you think those are very effective."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"Nor was calling me your opponent, but I suppose we must all make do with our own personal best. Even if that leaves some of us with less to work with."

"You're an arse," Harry snapped, before he could think better of it.

"Depends on who you ask," Malfoy replied smoothly. "Though, speaking of arses, if we're to include those you might begin to have something to work with."

Harry felt himself freeze and had to work at moving his jaw. When he spoke, it was through clenched teeth. "Is that why you took this meeting?"

"Isn't that why you called it?"

Harry felt his teeth grinding, but he couldn't quite force them into helping make words.

Malfoy waited, then hummed. "Did you know, Potter, that since you were eleven you've done the exact same thing when you get a certain sort of angry? Your shoulders go all tight, and then your jaw, and you start flushing from your neck. It's so consistent it might be endearing, if you were anyone else."

He knew he couldn't do anything about the heat he felt creeping over his cheeks, but Harry tried desperately to relax his jaw.

"As it is, it's just telling. Not that I'm complaining about having, as you say, an opponent with such obvious tells, especially when it tells so much. Because you see, it's not the sort of angry you get when you're going to tattle or start throwing hexes around. It's specially reserved as a prelude to insults and fisticuffs, and since you seem quite unable to speak at the moment, I do believe we can safely conclude that you're half dying to get your hands on something." Malfoy smirked.

Pressure built behind Harry's eyes. He wanted to punch Malfoy in his stupid mouth.

Malfoy straightened the cuff of one sleeve, then the other. "The only question is what that something is, exactly."

Harry's heart picked up speed, and he felt his rib cage begin to thaw as blood rushed through him.

"It can't be anything to do with the files; they were immaculate. And I'll be rather surprised it's anything to do with the case, now I've reminded you about Scotland Yard. We don't have friends in common about whom you might feign concern, nor do we have any sort of ongoing social relationship, and you do your banking with Gringotts. Do correct me if I'm wrong, but that leaves two options." Malfoy leaned forward on the desk and looked Harry in the eye. "Either you're looking to diversify your portfolio which, while wise, is the sort of thing that usually calls for meeting while the bank is actually open. Or you're here for, well, I would've gone with something less crude than "arse," but that was your word, not mine."

Harry exploded out of his seat. "Fuck off," he spat. "You're so full of shit, Malfoy. I've told you why I've come. If you're just going to give me the runaround and parade your smug attempts at logic all over the place, I'll see myself out."

If anything, Malfoy got even smugger. "Fine then."

Harry's eardrums pounded with the force of his heartbeat. He gaped, then snapped his jaw shut. "You're bluffing."

Malfoy smiled. "About what?"

"About—" Harry faltered and cursed his own rashness. He might've effectively cornered himself, but he wouldn't be the first to say it, and he racked his brain for an alternative. "You want me to leave about as much as I want to go."

"Really?" Malfoy's lips quirked towards a smile. "You don't seem totally impartial on the question."

"Neither do you." It wasn't his best, but if Malfoy wanted to talk about fighting like they were eleven...

"No?" Malfoy queried politely.

"No," Harry answered, crossing his arms over his chest and watching as Malfoy's eyes tracked the leather of his jacket as it moved across his chest. "I've seen the way you look at me."

Malfoy blinked. "The way I look at you?" He paused. "And here I didn't think your body was big enough to accommodate any more ego."

Harry felt like he was taking in air properly for the first time since he'd got off the lift. Malfoy was on his back foot, just a little, and everything felt a bit righter with the world. "Yes, Malfoy. The way you look at me. " Malfoy's ears pinked and Harry could barely stop himself laughing in relief. He wasn't the only one with predictable tells. "Stupid as you might want to think me, I do have eyes."

"Can you actually see anything through lenses that thick? They're almost as dense as the rest of you." Malfoy rolled right from one insult to the next, and Harry felt his chest relaxing further.

"Glasses jokes, Malfoy? Really? Who's eleven now?"

Malfoy quirked a brow and dropped his voice to a low purr. "You know perfectly well, Potter, that there's nothing boyish about me."

"Except your insults, sense of humour, and pride, you mean?" Harry knew he was pushing his luck, that it was the sort of thing that might make Malfoy explode. He just wasn't sure whether he was hoping for it.

"If you've come to insult me, you are most certainly welcome to leave."

Malfoy's voice had grown cool, and Harry's heart sank. A wave of awareness, closely followed by anger, washed over him a moment later. He had been hoping for it. Hoping for all of it. It was just... He glanced down at Malfoy's suit, at the six closely placed covered buttons on his waistcoast and the lines of the jacket that hung open over it, and he swallowed hard. He followed the lapel upwards, taking note of the way it moved with Malfoy's shallow, rapid breath, and caught Malfoy's eye. He tried for coolness. "Am I."

"Anytime you like," Malfoy countered.

The air itself felt tight. Harry was vaguely aware of holding his breath, but breathing seemed all wrong when he knew, viscerally, as certainly as he knew his own hands, that the slightest provocation would end with him out in the street, possibly by way of the windows. And he knew that he didn't want to go.

He tried the first thing that came to mind, hoping against hope that it would be better than the laden silence. He sat back in the chair, crossing an ankle over the other knee and dropping his voice to a conversational register. "As Kate said, I have some additional questions."

It was Malfoy's turn to falter. Harry could practically see him pulling his professional facade back into place.

"If you'll answer them, I can be on my way and leave you to your evening."

Malfoy pursed his lips and paused, then nodded tightly. "Fine."

"How do you know you've retrieved the right files?"

Malfoy blinked. "You gave me names and birth years. If there had been more than one result, Kate would have asked for clarification."

"If we provide IBANs, will you be able to verify them?"

"Yes," Malfoy answered automatically. Then added, "Though I don't see why I should."

Harry's heart sped up as he summoned the courage to keep going. "Do you have any additional expectation of favours from the Ministry?"

"I have neither need of nor interest in favours from the Ministry."

Harry was almost side-tracked by the non-answer, but filed it away for later and continued on. "Do you have need of or interest in favours from any Ministry personnel?"

"What are you asking, Potter?"

Harry willed himself to lean back and drop his hands casually to the armrests. "Did you like fucking my arse, Malfoy?"

The silence between them moved from laden to explosive. When he spoke, Malfoy's voice was hoarse. "What?"

"Or my mouth?" Harry focused on the fabric around Malfoy's top button, which strained as Malfoy pushed back from his desk and stood. "Did you like fucking it?"

Malfoy rounded the desk, close enough Harry could've touched the fabric of his trousers with an outstretched finger. "Why do you ask?"

Harry looked up and caught Malfoy's eye and realised, with some relief, that Malfoy felt the strain of staying calm as entirely as Harry did. "Because I want to know if you want to do it again."

"Why?" Malfoy's voice was hoarse, but he held Harry's gaze.

"The importance of knowing the motives of one's...." Harry trailed off. He quirked an eyebrow and let himself extend a single finger just far enough to brush it over the fine, smooth wool of Malfoy's trousers.

From the tension that suddenly shot through Malfoy’s legs, Harry thought his knees might've started to buckle. "Opponents?"

"Your word, not mine," Harry answered, and reached out with the rest of his hand, brushing his knuckles over the front of Malfoy's thigh.

"Actually—" Malfoy began, then stopped as Harry added pressure to his touch. Malfoy worked his mouth wordlessly, then reached out to thread his fingers through Harry's hair.

The touch wasn't gentle, not even at first, but neither was it overwhelming. Malfoy's hand was firm and certain, and Harry took the cue to follow it, holding Malfoy's eyes as Malfoy came to stand right in front of his chair. Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

Harry licked his lips before he even realised what he was doing, and Malfoy's grip on him tightened as he pulled Harry closer.

With the space between them almost gone, Harry could smell Malfoy's cologne on the wool. With Malfoy out of his sight line, he let his eyes flutter shut and imagined what the grain of the wool would feel like against his face.

He didn't have to imagine long. Malfoy slid his hand down to Harry's jaw and ran his fingers forward along it, finally crooking one under Harry's chin and pulling him forward and down until he was almost close enough to mouth at Malfoy's flies.

Experimentally, he leaned in and tried it. Malfoy's hips jerked forward. Harry's cock strained against his pants; he hadn't realised how hard he was until he felt the bulge of Malfoy's erection brush his lips. He slid his lips over the outline of it and felt Malfoy's hand fall to his shoulder, digging in so hard that Harry could feel each fingertip, even through the leather of his jacket.

Tentatively, almost worried it would break whatever truce they'd reached, Harry pulled back and reached his hands forward. He looked up, half hoping and half afraid that Malfoy would be watching him, but he wasn't. Malfoy's head was tilted back, the long line of his neck cast into shadow, his chest rising and falling. He stilled when Harry moved, but didn't pull away.

Slowly, Harry brought a hand to Malfoy's waistband. He unhooked one clasp, then the other, and then moaned into the fabric as he discovered, in place of a zip, five small grey buttons.

The first one slid through the buttonhole with a whispered pop that Harry wouldn't have heard if he'd been any further away. The second came just as easily, and then the third, and Harry swallowed as the waistband of black briefs came into view. He had to hold himself back from pulling too roughly at four and five and was grateful that Malfoy's trousers were so well fitted that he had been able to forego braces — it meant that there was no resistance as Harry hooked his fingers over both waistbands and pulled down, freeing Malfoy's cock, which was so hard it almost hit the bottom of his waistcoat.

Harry stared, just for a moment, and then wrapped a hand around it and brought it to his mouth. The corners of his lips stretched as he sank onto it, and then Malfoy's hand was back on his head, guiding him deeper down and holding him there. Harry sucked and Malfoy moaned, deeply enough that Harry could feel it. He exhaled and began to bob his head, thrilling as his forehead grazed the buttons of Draco's waistcoat on the way down.

He tried to strike up a rhythm, but Malfoy beat him to it. Fingers threaded through his hair and Malfoy's hand held him firmly in place as he thrust up into Harry's mouth. His grip was harder now and Harry felt the pull on his scalp, but he didn't mind, not when his fingers were digging into the well-pressed crease on the back of Malfoy's trousers and Malfoy's cock was hitting the back of his throat and he was taking it, all of it, everything Malfoy threw at him. Not when it was one more sensation driving him closer to an edge he hadn't known before his last night with Malfoy, a blissful, empty depth made by the blurring together of the strain at the edge of his mouth and the tightness at the back of his throat and the pinch of Malfoy's fingers on his shoulder and the reverberations of Malfoy's groans, and his own, and the soft roughness of wool against his skin.

There was a whine as Malfoy pulled him off. He didn't realise it had come from him until he looked up and saw Malfoy, glazed but silent, staring down at him. Malfoy's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He studied Harry, and Harry would've sworn he could feel it, and then he raised an eyebrow and cast his eyes over Harry's face.

Harry nodded, eyes trained back on Malfoy's cock before Malfoy'd even wrapped his hand around it and started stroking. At the edge of his seat, Harry waited. Malfoy's hand moved faster, and Harry was torn between closing his eyes to protect them and wanting to see it happen. The decision was made for him; with a guttural groan, Malfoy came, and Harry felt the hot stripes hit his cheek, opened his mouth for more and heard Malfoy's rough exhale, though whether it was from that or his orgasm was an open question. It didn't matter, not really. Not when Malfoy was stroking himself through it, or when Harry was covered in him, or when everything felt so beautifully hazy.

Malfoy sagged back, bum hitting the edge of his desk as he sat. Harry took him in; Malfoy was, from waist to shoulders, perfectly composed. But his pupils were blown wide, and his cock was out, and he looked as deeply satisfied as Harry felt.

The silence stretched between them.

Harry's sleepy satisfaction began to ebb as they sat. He sat back in the chair and shifted uncomfortably.

After another moment, Malfoy cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was throaty and low. "Didn't know you could go that long without talking."

Harry snorted. "History of Magic." His throat was just a bit sore, and his voice sounded it.

Malfoy crooked an eyebrow. "Didn't know you go that long without talking while awake."

Harry felt one half of his mouth quirk into a smile.

It threatened to fade as Malfoy tucked himself away, at least until Malfoy cleared his throat again, drawing Harry's eye upwards, and Harry realised that Malfoy was looking back expectantly.

Harry shifted again, unsure of what exactly Malfoy was expecting.

"Yes," Malfoy said, after another long moment.

"Yes?"

"The answer to your question."

"Oh."

Malfoy crossed his arms. "You really have got worse with a challenge, haven't you? Seems you barely recognise one these days.”

"You were so sure I’d take it as a challenge?"

"That would've been obvious, once upon a time."

"Maybe your challenging has gotten worse."

"I assure you, it hasn't." Malfoy blinked slowly and ran his eyes pointedly over Harry's chest and down to his groin. "None of my skills have."

Harry swallowed. His throat was dry and tight, and he didn't think it was just from getting fucked. "That so?"

Malfoy hummed.

Harry tried, as best he could through considerable haze and without much blood flowing northward, to consider his options. Malfoy'd said he didn't recognise a challenge, then had said something that sounded like a challenge, and it probably was. But if he misread the signs… the 'through the window' scenario came back to him, and it was fairly unappetising. Particularly when his cock was straining painfully against his jeans and he was half out of his mind with wanting.

"Potter," Malfoy interrupted, "I can't believe I'm saying this to you, of all people, but I suspect you're overthinking."

Harry blinked, and looked up. He didn't think overthinking could be quite right when thought was such a challenge in the first place, but banter hardly seemed like the priority when Malfoy was making himself as clear as he might ever be expected to.

Harry stood. Malfoy didn't react as he stepped forward, nor as he moved his legs to bracket Malfoy's knees. He offered only the tiniest exhale when Harry leaned forward, slipping his hands onto the edge of the desk between Malfoy's hips and his thumbs. It took conscious effort not to press his body into Malfoy's entirely. To hold something back.

"Now you're getting it," Malfoy murmured, craning his neck until Harry felt the heat of breath and the warmth of lips against his jaw.

He wasn't exactly getting it, not yet, but he was quite sure that he'd like to be. And he was increasingly certain that Malfoy wanted it, too, and wasn't that interesting?

Though not as interesting as Malfoy's mouth as it traced a line down his neck. He felt Malfoy nudge the collar of his jacket aside as he moved towards Harry's collarbone, and Harry barely had time to anticipate the wave of pleasure that followed.

Thinking wasn't working as a strategy. Not if it meant he was so unprepared that he gasped like that and his knees buckled like that and he gave himself away so thoroughly.

At least relying on instinct to see him through was the kind of strategy he could get behind.

He flipped his hands, wrapping his fingers around Malfoy's wrists, pulling them together behind Malfoy's back, and thrilling as Malfoy's breathing sped up.

"Thought you didn't like restraints," Malfoy whispered.

"Not on me." Harry's voice sounded different as it echoed through his ears, closer to a growl. Malfoy shivered under him.

Harry scanned the room for something he could use to hold Malfoy in place. There weren't any curtains, no reason for there to be rope lying around, and he didn't want to pull his wand.

His eyes landed on Malfoy's neck, and he felt his cock twitch in his pants.

"Don't move," he ordered, and tightened one hand around Malfoy's wrists while removing the other. He hesitated for a moment before dropping his hand to Malfoy's tie. It was navy, with a tiny houndstooth print, and it felt like silk. Probably was silk. Malfoy gasped, and Harry barely bit back a moan, when Harry reached for the knot, slipping a finger inside of it to loosen it.

It slid free without struggle, and around Malfoy's wrists just as easily. Harry pulled it tight around them and took half a step back to admire his work.

Malfoy's shoulders were pulled back, his jacket hanging open over his waistcoat. Somehow, he made the stance look proud. Malfoy would, Harry thought. But if Malfoy could hide the pulsing vein in his neck or the speed with which his chest rose and fell or the size of his pupils, he wasn't trying to.

Instead, Malfoy rolled his lip between his front teeth and watched Harry carefully. Expectantly.

The heat of Malfoy's skin came through the thick cotton of his shirt when Harry laid two careful fingers on his chest. It disappeared when Harry ran them over his waistcoat, and it wasn't until that sensation, that certainty that it was Malfoy's skin underneath all those layers, had disappeared that he knew with certainty that it wasn't just that he wanted to look at the suit, or touch it, but that he wanted to take it apart. He stepped closer again, pressing himself against it — against Malfoy — and bringing both hands to the first of those six buttons. They slid open as easily as the one on his trousers had, popping free one after the next with a quiet whisper and no resistance from either the fabric or its wearer. Harry pressed in again, feeling Malfoy's body through his chest, now. He began to slide his jacket off, wanting even more of it, when Malfoy spoke.

"Don't."

Harry leaned away, startled. "What."

"The jacket," Malfoy answered, leveling Harry with a cool stare. "Leave it on."

It was Harry's turn to raise an eyebrow, more out of habit than scepticism. Something in him throbbed at that, and he settled the leather back onto his shoulders.

Malfoy nodded once, approvingly, and spread his legs, so that the outside of his thighs pressed against the inside of Harry's. "As you were."

Harry didn't waste time with speaking. He gripped Malfoy's shirt and tugged it up, pulling it over Malfoy's waistband and grappling with the buttons, moving his fingers over them quickly. As he did, Malfoy's pale stomach came into view, and a fine trail of blond hair that got thicker as Harry moved towards the collar, and when he reached the last tiny white button at Malfoy's collar, an expanse of chest that he wanted to drop his mouth too. Which he did, as instinct demanded, and found that the heat felt as good under his lips as it did under his hands. He wanted more. The second time around, he found that opening Malfoy's trousers was already close to muscle memory, and they fell to the ground with the slightest push from Harry and the tiniest lift of the hips from Malfoy, whose skin was smooth under Harry's hand, and who was already showing renewed signs of interest, concealed only by the thin cotton of his pants.

Dropping to his knees felt natural, obvious. Right. So Harry did, gripping Malfoy's hips and leaning in to mouth at the bulge in his underwear.

Harry sat back on his haunches when Malfoy hissed and pulled his hips away. "Sensitive?"

"No," Malfoy answered, his voice thick with stubbornness. Harry was certain he was lying, but wasn't going to argue the point. "Don't want to give you too much of a good thing," Malfoy went on.

"Hmm." Harry traced his fingers around the outline of Malfoy's erection without touching. "Fine then." He dug his fingers into Malfoy's hips and pulled. "Give me something else, then."

Malfoy turned with more grace than he had any right to, and Harry might've remarked on the cosmic unfairness of that, if he wasn't completely occupied with taking in the swell of Malfoy's arse under the bottom of his coat. He ran his hands back and over it, feeling the firm muscle and watching, fascinated, as Malfoy tightened and then relaxed into his touch.

And then Harry slipped his fingers into Malfoy's waistband and pulled.

In front of him, Malfoy stilled. His voice quavered. "What are you...?"

"Cleaning spell, wait," Harry murmured, fumbling for his wand.

"You're not..." Malfoy trailed off, shivering as the spell worked through him.

"I am," Harry answered. "Any objection?"

Silently, Malfoy bent forward, resting his chest on the desk and spreading his legs and, in the process lifting his suit jacket to reveal bare skin.

"Merlin," Harry whispered, running his fingers over the fine hair on Malfoy's thighs, and up, pushing the bottom of the jacket up and over Malfoy's waist and then holding the two halves of his arse apart.

Malfoy groaned when Harry's tongue made contact, and then again when Harry hummed in pleasure at the sound. Malfoy tasted like salt and skin, and his rim was tight around the tip of Harry's tongue. Malfoy tensed again, but Harry persisted, holding Malfoy open and licking a broad stripe over his hole. He heard Malfoy gasp and felt him press back, and Harry redoubled his efforts, making circles around the softening muscled, and then pushing in with his tongue, and when he looked up he could see Malfoy’s hands gripping on to his suit jacket, the wool bunched tight in his bound fingers. The view was enough to make Harry pull back, teasing Malfoy with just the tip of his tongue so he could watch how the fabric twisted under Malfoy's hands. It didn't last long; Malfoy pressed back into his mouth, rolling his hips for more.

For a few preciously short minutes, Harry gave it to him. He loved seeing Malfoy come undone, loved watching him, hearing him, as he gave in to his own desire and asked, albeit silently, for more. As he pushed back harder when Harry added a finger, and then two, and began to thrust them into Malfoy as his tongue circled the sensitive skin. But Harry's own need was pressing, quite literally, against his jeans, and if his mouth hadn't been occupied he might have begged.

Instead, he pushed back, stood, and unzipped his jeans, pushing them down, along with his boxers, and barely resisting the urge to take himself in hand. Only managing, really, because of the promising curve of Malfoy's arse and the memories of his wet hole. He bent over Malfoy, pressing Malfoy's bound hands between them, and bit his earlobe. "Gonna fuck your arse, yeah?"

He waited, feeling Malfoy's back rising and falling beneath him, feeling Malfoy's fingers scrabble at the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it taut and almost keeping him in place. He waited, watching Malfoy's flushed cheeks and his fluttering eyelashes and his plump red lips, until Malfoy nodded.

Then he moved as quickly as he could, grabbing for his wand, casting the necessary charms, and tossing it aside, his focus solidly elsewhere. He braced himself on the desk, one hand to each side of Malfoy, and pressed his hips forward until his cock slid against the crease of Malfoy's arse, then further in, and further, until he was sliding over Malfoy's hole. Each thrust elicited a tiny shudder or gasp from Malfoy, and that was almost enough to keep him going just like that, but he wanted to know, and he kept thinking, kept wondering, how hot and tight Malfoy's arse would be from the inside.

Lifting one hand from the desk, Harry shifted his angle and grabbed his cock, moving until just the tip grazed Malfoy's hole. He pushed forward slowly, and gave up entirely on suppressing the shuddering moan that reverberated through his chest as he was surrounded by tight heat. He rocked back again, and then in again, still slowly, barely hanging on to his reserve but determined not to be too rough about it.

Until Malfoy twisted, opening his eyes to glare at Harry over his shoulder. Even bound and bent over, he could manage disdain. "Fuck me," he growled. "If you're going to do it, Potter, do it right."

Harry blinked, pulled back, and slammed forward.

Beneath him, Malfoy moaned and arched, and Harry could feel Malfoy relaxing under him. Harry pulled back again and drove forward, faster this time, and Malfoy angled back to meet him. Malfoy meant it, Harry realised. He stood for leverage and gripped Malfoy's hips, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh there as he thrust into Malfoy's arse. He fell into a rhythm, his hips slapping against Malfoy's skin, his awareness of anything other than the contact between them beginning to slip away as he watched himself fucking into Malfoy's hole, as he felt Malfoy contract and relax around his shaft, as Malfoy gasped under him, almost screaming when Harry fucked into him just so.

It only urged Harry on. He slid a hand up Malfoy's side, until he was gripping Malfoy's waist, his fingers digging into the open waistcoat and the lining of the suit jacket sliding over his hand. Holding him like that, Harry could feel it when Malfoy started to tremble, was tight enough against him that he could feel the tension in Malfoy's thigh. With one hand firmly on Malfoy's waist, Harry moved the other to his cock, which was rock hard and dripping.

"Fuck," Malfoy gasped, " please."

Harry hadn't even realised how far gone he was, how deep into it he'd gotten, until those words sliced through his reverie. His whole world seemed to focus down to them, and to the tightness in his cock and the heavy heat in his hands, moving his hand furiously over Malfoy's cock until he felt Malfoy's release spill over his fingers, and then he was over the edge, filling Malfoy's arse, coming until his legs felt like they might give way, and so hard that falling to his knees and licking Malfoy cleaned seemed like a damn fine way to go.

He sank over Malfoy's back, trying to catch his breath. Part of him lingering for a moment, savouring the one raw point of contact where the skin of Malfoy's thighs pressed against his own. Even as the room came back into focus, as Harry realised there was a sofa, and a rug, and a bar, and a wall of windows, even as Harry realised that they hadn't moved from the spot where they'd struck their tentative, unspoken truce, he wanted to stay right where he was.

And might've stayed longer if not for the sudden, clipped, " Diffindo."

Harry jumped back, shocked. He'd forgotten about Malfoy's hidden wand pocket. Stupid, that. Not that he'd admit it. "What the fuck, Malfoy?"

The tie fell to floor between them. Malfoy shook his wrists out slowly.

"You could've cut me!"

Malfoy stood, rolling his wrists and then bending to pick up his trousers. "No."

"Yes," Harry insisted. "Or have you forgotten what that spell does?"

"Have you forgotten that I'm a capable adult wizard with—" Malfoy spluttered, searching for the word. "With aim."

"You just aimed a severing charm at my..." Harry gestured.

Malfoy did not turn around to see it. Didn't turn to face Harry at all. "No, I just aimed a severing charm at the fabric binding my hands." His voice took on a snide note. "Don't worry, I've had practise."

Harry goggled. "What the fuck?"

"Been there, done that." Malfoy moved his hand to his trousers, fastening them and then moving on to his shirt. Still, he did not turn around.

It was enough to jar Harry into pulling up his pants and jeans, tucking himself in and zipping up quickly. He wanted to see Malfoy's face, but Malfoy seemed determined not to look at him.

Instead, Malfoy was tucking his shirt into his pants and getting on with his waistcoat.

"You..." Harry trailed off, unsure of what he meant to say.

Malfoy pulled his coat back into place, brushed himself off, and reached for his drink. Without looking back, he went to stand at the windows.

Even with his clothes back on, Harry felt cold. "Seriously?"

Malfoy hummed, raised his glass, and took a deep sip.

"Not going to turn around?"

"The view is much better in this direction."

"For fuck's sake." Harry threw up his hands.

Still, Malfoy was unmoved.

"What are you, scared, Malfoy?"

Malfoy did turn at that, but only partway, and it was a far cry from what Harry had hoped for. His pretty flush was almost gone, and he had the same implacably cold expression he'd worn when Harry had first shown up. "Bored, actually. Are we done here?"

"You weren't bored a minute ago."

Malfoy sighed and turned back to the window. "You weren't boring a minute ago."

”I was balls deep in your arse a minute ago."

There was a pause. "As I said."

Harry began pacing, his boots digging into the soft pile. "Great. That's just great, Malfoy."

"It was all right, I suppose."

Harry closed the distance between them in a flash, coming to Malfoy's side and taking in the sharp lines of his profile. "Looked more than all right to me."

Malfoy snorted. "As though that's a high bar."

Harry stepped back, stung. "Right."

"Please, Potter. I'm cashmere, you're..." he trailed off, gesturing up and down with his glass, gin threatening to slosh over the edge. "Jeans and plain white t-shirts."

"Didn't seem to mind the leather jacket so much a minute ago."

Malfoy drank deeply and focused his attention on the skyline.

"You're a piece of work."

"Which is how one gets to the top. Not that you'd know about that."

Harry could feel his blood reach a simmer, and knew full well that Malfoy could — would — get him to boiling, given the chance. He didn't know if Malfoy's goal was another go-round or an all-out fight, but he didn't intend to give him the satisfaction either way. He turned and strode to the door.

When he looked back, Malfoy's shoulders were still framed in the low light coming from the desk, almost an outline against the window and the dark sky beyond. Harry took it in, then shoved the door open. "You like challenges so much, Malfoy? Here's one."

£     £     £     £     £

Between the sex and the fighting, Harry was so dazed that he wasn't sure, after the fact, how he'd made it outside. He remembered a buzzing in his ears, but wasn't sure if it was the lifts or his own frustration. He remembered a pounding, but wasn't sure if it was his heart or his boots against the lobby floor.

The night air hit him like a Bludger, but at least it did something to clear his head. He needed a walk, he decided.

He was halfway across Canary Wharf before he realised he'd never got an answer to his question.

"What exactly did you stand to lose in all this?"

Fuck. Malfoy had distracted him. Had put him off. Had won.

Harry started to curse his luck, then promptly turned his ire on Malfoy, who had intended it, surely. Harry couldn't go try again, not after the way he'd left things, and Malfoy had probably intended that, too.

Still. He had wanted to know badly enough to go back this time.

He ignored the voice in his head that suggested that there might’ve been more to it.

There wasn’t. He just wanted an answer, wanted to know what Malfoy was so determined to deny, and he hadn’t found out.

Except… He thought of Malfoy as he walked. Of Malfoy, with his pink cheeks and his glazed eyes and his ‘leave it on.’ With his insistence that everything had to be a fight, with his bravado, with his Diffindo. Malfoy, with his bound hands and his breathless ‘please.’

He hadn’t thought he’d got an answer.

But then again, maybe he had.
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