And if he was being honest, he felt like he'd always been a lot. Like the burden of his company came with far too many complications, far too many challenges for his friends and loved ones to bear. His emotions were big, his sense of duty and justice were big, his opinions of the world were big.
His body and its desires (or lack thereof) were a lot. The way he loved, obsessively, immensely, deeply, every atom of his soul devoted to reshaping itself to fit that of his beloved, was a lot (too much, always too much, and still not enough).
He was just a lot. Loving him, he reasoned, must be a fairly difficult task (it was difficult for him, so surely it would be difficult for someone else).
This dilemma tumbled around in his head as he fried some eggs and potatoes, avoiding the garlic since it did something funny to Draco's stomach. Wondering how he could possibly make himself into something less, or perhaps, if he was unable to do that, how he could give Draco enough in return for his love. Was there a way to repay someone who loved him enough to give up sex, to listen to the endless ramblings in his head, to sit and cuddle with him on the couch even when Harry's most innocent of touches caused a wave of arousal that he then ignored? How-
"Morning, love," Draco murmured, wrapping his arms around Harry's waist and leaning against him.
He swallowed around the thoughts crowding into his throat, marbles rolling around in his mouth. "Hey," he rasped, light and cheerful as he could.
Draco moved so that he was at his side, arms still around him, "what's that?" he asked softly, thumb trailing over his side.
"What?" Harry asked as he flipped the potatoes.
A finger traced the frown at the corner of Harry's mouth, brushed over the line between his eyebrows, "What's going on in that marvelous head of yours?"
"Breakfast is ready," he said in lieu of answering the question that he wasn't even sure where to begin with.
Draco caught him as he started to turn toward the cupboard for a couple of plates, "Wait," he said, throwing a stasis charm over their eggs. "Tell me?" he asked softly, eyes warm and soft, curious and just a little afraid.
And Harry couldn't stand that look, couldn't bear the thought that Draco might be wondering if it was something he'd done that had upset Harry's delicate balance inside his head. "It's just," he bit his lower lip and looked down at where Draco's hands had caught his. "I'm a lot. Asking you to live with me, to share a life with me, it doesn't feel fair to you."
He chanced a glance up at Draco only to find him staring back with that particular look of affection that made Harry want to curl up into a ball because it was too much and he wanted that affection too badly. “Darling,” Draco started.
“No,” he said, shaking his head and barely resisting the impulse to cover his ears.
“Harry,” he said, a soft huff of a laugh escaping with the sound of his name. “Light of my life,” he continued, moving closer to Harry again and wrapping his arms around his waist once more, firm chest pressed solidly against Harry’s back. “My love,” he continued.
Harry squirmed, letting out a plaintive groan.
“I love you so much,” he pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s neck and Harry couldn’t help the way his head tipped to the side of its own accord to give Draco room. “You are my most favorite human being in the entire world.” He squeezed Harry’s stomach a little tighter, “better yet, the entire universe. Getting to live with you makes me impossibly happy.”
“But-”
“No buts,” Draco replied. “I choose you, Harry. I choose this life. I want this life. And nothing you can say about it will make me change my mind.”
Harry sighed and let his body relax against Draco’s, the sweetest defeat he’d ever accepted.
“That’s more like it,” he said, holding Harry tighter. “Just love me and let me love you. What else could we possibly want?”
And when he put it like that, Harry supposed there wasn’t really anything else he could ever want.
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I saw this post, and knew immediately that I had to write a fic for it. This is my first fic above a T rating, so it was written in one sitting before I could lose my nerve. What follows is the softest, most gentle M-rated fic I think you can find. Additionally, I am very ace, and thought that I was writing Harry as allosexual, until Vukovich told me how much ace Harry came through in this fic, so please take a moment to laugh at my naïvety and then to thank @vukovich for being a wonderful beta reader and for ensuring that I tagged this properly 💜
Words: 1,828
Rating: Mature
Summary: There was a tumblr post asking who in your ship cries during sex, and I knew my answer immediately - Harry cries during, and Draco cries afterwards in secret.
Read on ao3 here
It’s all so good. Everything has been so good, for months now, that Harry can’t really figure out why it took so long for him to finally ask Draco out. He can’t figure out why multiple years of amazing friendship didn’t turn into dating and kissing sooner, not when it only took him six months to realise that his feelings for Draco weren’t just platonic. He can’t figure out why it took them so long to get here, but he’s beyond glad that they finally have.
Harry’s lost count of how many dates they’ve gone on (although Draco probably knows; he’s obsessive like that, and Harry loves that he knows that about him), or how many times they’ve kissed, or how many scorching looks Draco has given him from the other side of the room. They’ve been taking things slowly, per Draco’s wishes, although Harry hasn’t minded, and has, in fact, been delighted to watch Draco open up to him even more with every dinner and every kiss, like a flower opening so slowly into the morning sun.
Now, though, they’re here, in Harry’s bed with Draco pink-cheeked and sweaty over him, for the very first time. And it’s so good, just like everything else, just like Harry knew it would be, because it’s Draco here with him. Draco’s nerves have dissipated, and he’s radiant, leaning down to kiss Harry, making soft little noises that Harry could listen to forever, beaming and laughing, pressing his eyes shut even as his mouth falls open. There’s a strand of hair that’s come free from its queue, falling alongside Draco’s flushed cheeks, and Harry is overjoyed to watch it sway back and forth, curling up into a gentle ringlet, because that means that Draco must secretly straighten his hair, and Harry knows this now, an intimate little secret to discover even in the midst of this intimate act itself. They’ve been together for so long tonight that Draco’s hair straightening charms have worn off, and he’s comfortable enough with Harry that he hasn’t bothered to refresh them, and now Harry gets to know that there’s a wave to Draco Malfoy’s pin-straight hair, and no one else gets to have that secret.
He reaches a hand up and twirls a finger through Draco’s hair, then cups his face to simply admire him for a moment. Harry doesn’t think that anyone could ever really look attractive during sex. It’s too sweaty and red-faced and slightly gross for anyone to actually look hot the whole way through, but Draco right now is so lovely, so captivatingly beautiful, both for his red-flushed, sweaty face and for how open he is in this moment of vulnerability.
“I love you,” Harry says, before he can stop himself. He’s said it before, a few times, and he’s certain that Draco feels the same way, even if he hasn’t said it back yet. Still, Harry hadn’t wanted to pressure him right now, hadn’t wanted to risk making Draco think that he had to say it back to him at this moment because of everything else. Draco beams, though, and kisses him fiercely, and somewhere in the middle, Harry tips over into ecstasy, coming back to himself moments later with tears wet on his cheeks and more still streaming from his eyes.
They kiss some more after, and then just hold each other close, drifting in and out of sleep for a while. Draco doesn’t say anything about the tears that took a few minutes to stop, although Harry thinks he’d be well within his rights to. Honestly, who cries during sex because their boyfriend secretly has curly hair? Instead, Draco just kisses him, and runs his thumbs under Harry’s eyes to wipe away the tears, and kisses him again while fresh ones appear.
When Harry wakes up an unknown amount of time later, he can still feel the salt, tacky on his cheeks. He passes a hand over his eyes, then scrubs it across his face, before reaching out to pull Draco close to him once more. His hand meets nothing but empty sheets, still warm from Draco’s body, but rapidly cooling. And Harry knows, because he knows Draco, that he’ll be back soon. He hasn’t gone far, nor has he gone for good, and Harry is sure of it even before he sees the light shining from under the ensuite door. If Harry could be patient for two minutes, Draco would surely return to him, eager to reclaim his place next to Harry in their warm bed, and to press his always freezing toes in between Harry’s legs. But Harry’s in love with him, and everything is so good when they’re together, and he doesn’t want to be separated even for the next two minutes, and so he gets up and pads over to the bathroom door, knocking gently to preserve the quiet of the pre-dawn stillness.
“Draco?”
There’s no answer, but Harry can hear the sink running, so he pushes the door open a crack and says Draco’s name again, sees his bare back stiffen slightly at the sound of Harry’s voice. He splashes water on his face once, then turns around with a towel pressed to his cheeks, patting himself dry even as Harry steps into his space and puts his hands gently around Draco’s waist. Draco leans into the touch, but doesn’t respond in kind, continuing to dry his face, the towel now an obstacle, keeping Harry from kissing him like he so desperately wants to. Instead, Harry slips his pinkies into the waistband of the boxers Draco has put back on, and gently smooths his thumbs up and down Draco’s sides.
“Hi,” he says, still making an effort to be quiet for no reason.
“Hello,” Draco whispers back, the towel still obscuring his face and muffing his voice slightly.
“Is everything alright?” Harry gives one of Draco’s hips a gentle squeeze, and Draco sways slightly into his hand.
Draco nods, but doesn’t say anything, and the towel is still hiding his face, which means Harry is forced to judge by Draco’s stiff shoulders how much of a lie his nod was. Harry slowly pulls the towel down, revealing Draco much as he was only an hour before; his face is red and blotchy, his hair is mussed, and his eyes are closed. Unlike before though, his face is now wet with tears instead of perspiration, and Harry feels a stab of pain go through his heart at the idea that something is marring this perfect night for Draco.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, moving his hands to cup Draco’s face, almost able to see the same motion echoed between them from earlier in the evening.
Draco shakes his head, and another tear falls to meet Harry’s thumb before being wiped away.
“Nothing. I’m fine, truly I am. I don’t know why I’m crying.”
Harry wipes away another tear and tilts Draco’s chin up gently until he meets his eyes. He can’t quite parse the emotions that he sees going across Draco’s face, but he can understand, at least in part, how Draco must be feeling. Tonight was a big step for both of them, their first time together, but it was Draco’s first time ever, and Harry feels like his chest might burst with love for Draco for letting him share this moment with him. Some of that must be reflected on his own face, because Draco gives him a watery little smile and tries again to explain.
“I’m fine, it’s just…” ‘A lot’ finishes Draco’s voice in Harry’s head, but he remains silent and gives Draco the chance to say the words for himself. “A lot,” he says, with another small smile, and then his lower lip begins to quaver again. “It’s all been really good!” he hastens to add. “And I’m fine!” he says, more tears splashing down his face. “It’s just a lot, all at once.”
Harry nods his head, wipes Draco’s tears, and kisses him. It’s not one of their best kisses, Draco sniffles in the middle of it, and Harry’s pretty sure that there’s snot in his mouth, but it’s still absolutely perfect, because it’s the two of them standing together in the middle of Harry’s bathroom at some wretchedly early hour in the morning.
When they pull apart, Harry swipes his thumbs across Draco’s cheeks again and says, “I get it.” At Draco’s raised eyebrow - and, oh, what a joy, to see Draco’s dearly loved prickly little personality pushing through his tears - Harry reminds him, “I was crying earlier tonight, too.” He shrugs. “It can be overwhelming sometimes, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t amazing.”
Draco scrubs the towel across his face once more, then fits himself to Harry’s body, pressing his face into the spot between his neck and shoulder that he had been kissing earlier that evening. Draco’s nose presses into a tender area, and Harry thrills to consider that he might have a bruise there in the morning, and can’t wait to avoid all of Draco’s attempts to heal it with magic, instead letting it linger for days as a reminder of tonight. Maybe, he thinks nonsensically, he could even get a tattoo there, to preserve it for all eternity.
“I woke up and wanted to wash my hands,” Draco says out of nowhere, the words slightly muffled against Harry’s skin, “and when I saw myself in the mirror, I just. I don’t know. I guess I thought that maybe I would look different, afterwards. Which, I know that’s silly, but I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to see. And I couldn’t tell if I looked different or not. All I could think about was how I must have looked to you-”
“Absolutely gorgeous,” Harry interrupts, and Draco laughs a little before pressing on.
“And then I was thinking about how you looked at me, and, and, and you love me-”
“I do,” Harry says,
“-and,” Draco’s fists tighten against Harry’s back, and he can feel the material of the towel Draco is still holding move against his spine. Draco pulls back slightly, and looks Harry in the eye. He’s a bit of a mess, with his cheeks a chaotic pink and his eyelashes spiky from tears, but once again Harry is certain that he’s never seen anyone more lovely, “and, Harry, I love you too,” he says, and possibly some other words after that, but those are lost into Harry’s mouth, kissing him thoroughly before lifting him up, letting Draco wrap his legs around Harry’s waist, and carrying him back to bed.
When Harry wakes up the next morning, it’s with Draco curled around him, his face pressed against Harry’s chest, and the bathroom hand towel, which Harry now realises is the novelty Celestina Warbeck one that Draco got him as a joke, squashed under his armpit. It’s so strange, and so perfect, that Harry wants to laugh. It’s all just really good.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 3/3
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Characters: Harry Potter, Poppy Pomfrey, Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Lavender Brown
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Harry Potter Swears, No Sex, I'm all about that reverse-smut, No sex where you expect sex, Fluff, Gender Issues, (in the ABO sense), soft, Humour?, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Cuddling & Snuggling, Nesting, Angst?, Better sex education than Hogwarts would ever realistically have, Harry doesn't listen and catastrophizes: The Fic, Oblivious Harry Potter, Asexual Characters, (not explicitly stated as such in-fic but I tried to make it clear), vaguely murderous looming, Tom's hubris, a little chaotic, Moving In Together, Awkward Conversations, Domestic Fluff, More bones, Because Tom cannot be stopped
Summary:
Harry had assumed he was a beta. Well, he had after someone explained the absolute nonsense of secondary genders in mages to him.
Then, at the age of sixteen-and-a-half, years after most people present, Harry’s body decides it’s now an omega. It did not consult the rest of him and he’s frankly a little miffed.
(An ace ABO fic)
Second chapter: Tom's rut edition
Third chapter: Moving in together
Harry shakes his head. “I thought I did once. But I just....”
“Don’t,” Draco finishes for him.
“Yeah.”
“Hm.” Draco shifts on the couch, folding his legs underneath him, resting his chin on the back of the couch, toying his fingers through the pillow tassels.
Harry sits absolutely still and watches him, waits for him to say something longer than a couple words at a time. The heater is humming and clicking the same way it’s been doing all autumn, and the wireless taps out an indecipherable rhythm from the far corner.
The apartment is quiet and comforting in the way it always is, better than it always is because Draco’s here tonight, and they don’t usually come to Harry’s because the clicking heater annoys Draco. All the same, it’s nice. It’s being here instead of at Draco’s that gave Harry the strange burst of courage to tell Draco what he hasn’t been saying since they started dating five months ago. Which is that he doesn’t like sex.
Draco sighs and Harry blinks. “Can you explain it?” Draco asks. “I want to understand. I’ve always known I wanted to... with someone. Have sex, that is. I suppose there’s no reason to skirt around it.” Draco isn’t looking at Harry, he’s looking down at the olive green pillow tassels, but his feet are still folded up under his bum and his shoulders face Harry, so Harry isn’t worried. Not yet. “You don’t want sex?” he asks, to confirm what Harry’s already said twice.
“No,” Harry says.
“And you don’t like it?”
“Not really. It kind of grosses me out.”
Finally, Draco’s eyes lift to Harry’s. His eyebrows run straight across his face, his mouth relaxed. Harry isn’t sure if Draco is calm, or if he’s only pretending to be so he won’t scare Harry off.
“It doesn’t gross me out,” Draco says, his eyes still settled on Harry’s face. “I like it. I like being close with someone. I like knowing that every part of me is close to every part of someone else. It’s about intimacy, and feeling good.”
Harry swallows. This is the part of the conversation he’d been worried about. Not because he thinks Draco will judge him, or shun him, or think he’s weird, but because it isn’t what Draco wants. Draco wants this, and he likely wants it with Harry, and Harry doesn’t want it, so where does that leave him?
“Right,” Harry says, and clears his throat.
Draco’s eyebrows tip up at the corners. “Harry,” he says softly. He reaches his hand out, and his fingertips brush over the veins winding over Harry’s knuckles. “Don’t look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m stabbing you repeatedly with a blunt knife.” Draco smiles a little. “I’m not leaving. I don’t think you’re wrong.” His thumb rubs the back of Harry’s hand, like a soft breeze soothing down the waves of the twisting rivers of Harry’s blood thundering through his veins. “I’m here. Right here.”
Harry looks at him, all the things that Draco is. Silvered strands of hair glowing orange in the reflected light from the fire, dropping over his cheekbones, tangling around his ears. His eyelashes, too dark for the rest of his face, shadowing over his eyes. The jut of his collarbones through his shirt, the bony knobs of his knees and his elbows. His hands, warm and big and real.
“I’m listening,” Draco says. “I want to know.”
“Okay,” Harry says. “Okay.”
There is quiet in the moments and the space between them. A waiting quiet, a peaceful quiet. Harry sits in it, revels in it, the fact that they have it, before he speaks.
“I used to think that I would want sex,” Harry begins. It’s easier to stare down at his own knees as he says this, so he does. “I’m attracted to men and women, their bodies. I like their arms, their shoulders, their hands. I want their stomachs, and their chests, and their legs. Their thighs and their heels and the underside of their jaw.” Harry shakes himself a little. “That’s too general. What I want to say, is I want those things from you. I’m attracted to those things about you.”
Draco’s breath catches, Harry hears it. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but carries on with the speech he’s been whispering to his reflection for months, waiting to say it aloud for someone - for Draco - to hear.
“I want to trail my fingers down your stomach, and bury my face in your neck, and hold onto your hips. I want to kiss your thighs, the small of your back, the inside of your arm, the palms of your hands. I want to do those things to you, and I want you to do them to me.” Harry pauses. He’s never said anything like this, so blatant, so loud, so clear.
Draco, in all of the new sweet goodness that Harry has found in him, lifts one of Harry’s hands to his mouth and kisses it.
“But I don’t want sex.” Harry breathes slowly, in and out. “Genitalia makes me feel gross. It makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want it. I don’t want anything to do with it. And-” Harry takes another slow breath. “It took me a long time to figure that out. I didn’t know anyone who felt like that, the way I did. People either wanted to have sex, or they didn’t. No one felt desire for someone... but didn’t want to have sex with them.”
Harry glances up from his knees. Draco is nodding, his eyebrows drawn together in the middle, and his hands still holding firm to Harry’s.
“You know what, Harry?” Draco says.
"Yeah?”
“I’m in love with you.”
Harry’s throat goes dry. “You- what?”
Draco turns to Harry, holding his hands and looking straight into his face. “I’m in love with you. So, so incredibly in love with you.” The calm look on his face dissolves, and Harry sees Draco, truly. “I don’t care if you want sex, or if you don’t. I don’t care that you drink cheap tea, and you don’t wipe the steam off the mirror when you shower, and that you never let me tidy your hair after your naps.”
“Tidying never works,” Harry mumbles. Draco grins at him.
“Those things don’t bother me in the slightest.” Draco shuffles closer to Harry on the couch. “Because it’s you. Because-” Draco laughs, his voice cracked and full of air. “Because I’m in love with you.”
Harry’s stomach twists around and drops, and his heart thuds, and the rivers of blood winding over his knuckles are pounding, pounding, pounding.
“Harry?”
Harry can only nod. Words have abandoned him.
“You are perfect.”
“’M not,” Harry mutters, shaking his head so hard his cheeks wobble.
“You are perfect for me.” Draco tilts his head and looks at Harry so earnestly and sweetly, that all of Harry’s thoughts and doubts tumble down him and away in dizzying cascades. “I love you.”
Harry doesn’t say it back. He tips over, falling into Draco, his head tumbling into Draco’s stomach and then his lap, and he doesn’t say anything. He winds his arms around Draco’s waist, and he presses his face into his stomach, and he cries a little and whispers thank you, thank you over and over again.
He doesn’t say it back, but he knows that Draco sees it. In his breath, and the turn of his head, and the press of his fingertips, Draco knows.
1200 words, rated T. Brief mentions of past/potential sex.
Draco takes pride in his bedroom efforts.
That wasn't always the case, of course. Pansy was a disaster. Greg was an awkward experiment – he shivers just to remember it. But he began to hit his stride in Blaise. With Blaise, rather. It's not about what he does with his bits; that's just the delicious icing on the bedded cake. It's about building the mood. Touching. Once Draco discovered the theory behind erogenous zones, well, the game changed and he found his rhythm.
He is a memorable lay, to say the least.
But it seems like Harry couldn't care less for his efforts. Draco does everything right. The neck is his favorite place to start. No one invites a touch to their neck, not without complete and utter trust.
And Harry's eager for his touch, even now. He clearly loves Draco's hand on the back of his neck as they lounge together on the sofa. He leans into it. His muscles are always knotted up after working a full day in the shop. Broomwrighting is hard, physical work, the way Harry does it: every handle carved by hand, sanded by hand, stained by hand. Every twig meticulously selected with Harry bent over the workbench, brows knitted in concentration. Every rise and fall of the hand-braided twine that weaves the twigs into a tight cinch. A certified Lightning broom dominates every custom-model market, and Harry's coiled muscles carry the price.
Draco takes pride in helping him find release. Honestly, he doesn't know how Harry would survive without him...the Weasels would probably come to drag him to Sunday lunch only to find him curled up in a solid ball of twisted, achey muscles. So Draco can't understand why Harry invites a touch to his neck, then an arm around his waist, even a hand gripping his arse, but not the icing on the cake. He settles into Draco's side, a perfect fit. He hums at the kiss to his ever-windswept hair. He closes his eyes and puffs a happy little sigh when Draco crooks his arm to card his fingers through his stupid hair.
And that's it.
He pulls away if Draco goes any further. Their perfect fit is left empty and cold as Harry oh so casually shifts to the other end of the sofa, kicking his feet up into Draco's lap and holding Quidditch Through the Ages in front of his face. As if Draco can't see through it.
He asks. He immediately regrets asking, because Harry doesn't lower the book, which means he wasn't even reading in the first place. Just using it as a prop between them.
But Harry does answer, finally, and the answer leaves Draco wishing he hadn't.
“'It's not you, it's me'?” Draco manages. He feels like he's choking. Is this how it ends? Six months of living together, suffering the media storm together, braving Weasel Sunday lunches together – twenty four lunches! – and it ends here, on this blasted sofa. With the Wireless playing a Harpies game in the background. Draco doesn't think he can handle it if Weaslette scores right now.
And Harry explains. He says he's broken, “or something.” He says he thought he just couldn't keep up with Weaslette – and damn it all, the bitch scores just as he says her name and Draco slashes his wand at the radio. They're left in silence, Harry's words ringing between them. It's one of those things, Draco can hear his mother saying in his head. One of those things they have to talk about. Communicate. Ugh, it's tedious and uncouth and bloody well necessary if he doesn't want it to end here, on this sofa.
They talk long into the hour. Harry plucks up his Gryffindor courage and tells Draco all about how there's something wrong with him, how he loves Draco with every fiber of his little lion heart but he just doesn't want...that. Not from him, not from anyone. But what Draco hears is that there's something wrong with him, with his efforts, and Harry's quick to correct. Inevitably, they fight. His words are as sharp as the knife in his gut and Harry shuts down. Goes cold.
Draco settles back into the couch – he doesn't remember when he stood – and they try again. Draco can't stand a cold Harry Potter. He fell in love with his fire, his fight, and this is too much like the prickly first few weeks of their business partnership. He wheedles his way back in. He's good at that. Picking. Poking. Finding just the right words to ease them back into a conversation he very much doesn't want to have.
At some point, his anger shifts into something else entirely. Broken. Harry Potter is not broken. Who told him that? Who could look at this man, this fiery, courageous, affectionate, gentle-hearted man and see something broken?
“Just because I didn't read the instruction manual, doesn't mean you're broken,” he says, and watches in a sort of detached fascination as Harry uncoils ever so slightly.
Harry loves all of it, he tells him, “just not...that bit, so much.” Well, fine then. Draco can take care of himself, but what does Harry need from him if not his legendary efforts?
Harry takes him to bed and Draco protests all the way, offers to sleep on the cursed sofa, offers to give him his space. He doesn't want to crowd. He doesn't want to be where he's not wanted, and he's clearly not wanted in bed.
But they find their perfect fit again. There's something awkward about it, something...expectant. Draco's expecting something, Harry's clearly waiting for him to do something, but he's lost in a way he hasn't been since the disaster with Pansy. Harry speaks like he's got Longbottom's toad in his throat. He wants, needs all of it...just not that.
Draco kisses his stupid hair and tries not to wonder if it'll be the last time. It's a test he can't afford to fail but there's no bloody manual for this, despite his clever words. He holds Harry against his side and feels him relax marginally. He cups his arse – in for a knut, in for a galleon – and to his surprise, Harry doesn't pull away. He turns into it. Right... Right. Draco knows this part. Maybe he's not quite as lost as he thought, though the endgame has changed. When they snog, it's soft and warm, then a bit more warm, and just as Draco thinks he's found his rhythm, Harry pulls back.
Ah. Draco adjusts himself. Harry asks if this is okay and Draco gives him his very best sneer. When he's cooled off, he pulls Harry back in. They touch. All those places that aren't sexual but still somehow forbidden without trust. Harry craves his touch and Draco delights in teaching him a thing or two about a proper weave of limbs. It gets a bit ridiculous – he's not sure where his left leg is or how Harry's arm is simultaneously behind and in front of him – and they tease and banter just the same. Harry's skin is still the same, still scruffy on the jaw and calloused on the hands. He can still hear Harry's heart beating against his firm chest, but it's not pounding in anticipation of...something. He can still meet those fiery green eyes, though there's something more in his gaze now. Something excited, and that makes Draco feel excited – not in his pants, Merlin forbid, but in his own eyes.
“Fuck you, Potter,” he laughs, suddenly overwhelmed, and Harry grins.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Happy asexual awareness week to bi ace Harry Potter!
Damn right!!
Bi ace Harry who doesn’t exactly know how to identify while he’s at Hogwarts but who doesn’t let that stop him from asking people out and enjoying most of the attention he receives from people of all genders/no gender.
Bi ace Harry who knows his boundaries and won’t tolerate someone who disregards them. Plus once his friends find out you disrespected his boundaries oh boy are you in for it.
Bi ace Harry who has to put everything aside for horcrux hunting.
Bi ace Harry who learns new words that resonate with how he identifies after the war.
Bi ace Harry who is so comfortable in his identity by the time he’s a top auror at the Ministry.
Bi ace Harry who is a role model for all the multisexual and ace-spectrum kids at Hogwarts for generations to come.
600 words written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: Ace
cw: acephobic jerk who is very much put in his place.
"You're barking up the wrong tree, mate," a drunken man slurred when Draco sat down next to Harry with a refill. It was the other man's favorite, a long island iced tea with extra lemon.
"Oh?" he asked, arching an eyebrow and slanting a glance at Harry from the corner of his eye and watching him shrink into himself a bit.
The man nodded, “Danced with me a few months ago but wouldn’t put out.”
Draco hummed, “Yes, well-”
“And it’s not just me either. He might be the savior but that shit messed him up. He’s broken f-”
His wand was in his hand and he’d jinxed the other man’s mouth shut before he could say another hateful word. “Fuck off,” he said.
The other man looked like he was getting ready to draw his own wand, glaring at Draco.
“I wouldn’t,” Harry said coolly, finally deigning to speak but still not turning to look at the man as he took a sip of his drink. “I may be broken but I still killed the most powerful dark wizard of all time with an expelliarmus.”
The man turned and stormed away. Draco sent a mild stinging hex at him before turning back to Harry.
Harry, who was staring straight ahead at the rows of bottles of alcohol behind the bar and looking very calm.
“Harry-”
“He’s right,” he interrupted, still not looking over at Draco. “I won’t ever want to ‘put out’,” he said derisively.
“Harry-”
“I don’t want to have sex,” he said. “The thought of it makes me,” he closed his eyes and tilted his head down.
“Harry,” he said softly, curling his fingers into the hair at the base of Harry’s skull, “I love you,” he murmured.
The other man huffed a wet sob, “Don’t say that,” he whispered.
“I love you,” he repeated. “Just the way you are. There’s nothing wrong with you, you aren’t broken. I don’t need sex to make our relationship whole and perfect; I need you.”
“I’ll never want it,” Harry said, finally turning his bright green eyes on Draco. “Don’t you understand? Never, Draco. It’s not that I don’t love you too, it’s not that I don’t want intimacy and closeness, but-”
“You’re asexual,” he said and Harry blinked at him.
He tilted his head, “Yes,” he said slowly, like it was incomprehensible that Draco was recognizing this. “But I still want to be in a relationship.”
“I want to be in a relationship, too,” Draco replied. “With you. And you not wanting to have sex doesn’t change that.”
“You say that now, but-”
“I mean it,” he said softly, but firmly. “I like cuddling with you. I like kissing you. I like talking to you, and going out to dinner with you.” He gestured to the bar, “I like going out for drinks with you and dancing with you. And yes,” he said, swallowing down his fear because he wanted Harry to know how serious he was, “I find you sexually attractive, but that doesn’t mean you have to have sex with me.”
“Won’t you want-”
“I want you,” he said. “I want you just as you are, in whatever way makes you happy.”
Harry bit his lip, “What about what makes you happy?” he asked.
“You do,” he said earnestly. “We’ll figure the rest out,” he promised.
The other man took his hand in his and brought Draco’s knuckles to his mouth, pressing a tender kiss there.
And Draco knew that in the end, the only thing that mattered was that he loved Harry and Harry loved him.
