#older!drarry

Title: Bubbles, Scotch, & Cigars

Artist: anokaba

Characters: Harry/Draco

A/N: Commission done for @peachpety‘s  Color Me Enamored a steamy fic with Older!Drarry and a delightful mood changing bubble bath Go and read it quick! I am a sucker for bathtubs and wet wet skin, especially white shirts that become see through *sweats*.

There were so many details that just *chef’s kiss* -  the expensive clothes on shed on the floor, Draco’s tattoo, rosy nipples everywhere, Harry masturbating in the tub, and of course the shoelace sexual tension.

He picked up work as a potions master who provides for the Aurora task force and everyone in his team calls him Potter. Which confused the Auroras because they didn’t know that he and Harry were married (they don’t tell people unless they’re asked because Harry’s big on privacy.) 

Ron amuses himself by running into the potions lab and shouting "POTTER!", looking at Draco and saying "Wrong one" before walking out. He's not looking for Harry, he just likes messing with Draco, but he leaves before he can see Draco bow his head and smile because Ron’s antics do mildly amuse him and he likes being called Potter.

Hermione just rolls her eyes at these stupid boys.

“Got called in to work early, go back to sleep.” Harry’s voice is warm and and heavy Draco lets it envelop his sleep dulled senses as he rolls over into Harry’s vacated spot, hugging Harry’s pillow to his chest and pulling the duvet up over his head.

Draco however doesn’t fall back to sleep. Instead he drifts in and out of the hazy place between wakefulness and dreams as he listens to Harry hum to himself in the shower. It’s not long before the water shuts off and Harry’s bare feet are padding across the bare floor. Draco tugs the duvet down to his shoulders, cracking his eyes open to watch as Harry drop the towel. It’s been nearly fifteen years since they got together and the sight of Harry naked never stops feeling as exciting as that first time. He chews on his bottom lip as he watches Harry pull on his boxers and trousers, frowning to himself as he pulls the button shut. Harry’s gained nearly a stone since he got promoted and put on desk duty last year and though Draco knows he’s self conscious about it, there’s nothing Draco loves more than the rounded softness to Harry’s tummy—tangible proof that he is no longer fighting and finally feels safe enough to let other people do the dangerous work.

“You’re not sleeping, you’re staring at me” Harry laughs, pulling on Draco’s favorite green jumper before putting on his Auror Robes. He’s smiling at Draco, his still damp hair hanging around his face. There are grey streaks near his ears and he’s do for a trim, but Merlin is he so handsome it leaves Draco breathless.

“I might have been,” Draco lies, eyes drawn to Harry’s strong fingers doing up the ornate gold buttons near the neck. His attention is drawn immediately to a small pin near the gold Head Auror badge on his chest. It’s in the shape of a heart with pink, purple and blue stripes. Draco knows what it is, he’s seen Harry wear it to pride parades enough times over the year. But he’s never seen him wear it to the Ministry.

“It’s September 23rd,” Harry says, as if reading Draco’s mind, spelling the wrinkles out of his his robe. “Hermione said its bivisibility day. Apparently it's something the muggles started a few years ago but I thought—” he stops, fidgeting with the pride pin. “Perhaps it’s not appropriate.”

Draco knows that no matter how comfortable Harry might say he is with himself, there are always moments where he feels as if people only see one part of him. Both because of his past with Voldemort and his sexuality. He’d once told Draco that though everyone was always looking at him he felt like no one saw him. Coming to terms with his sexuality had been a long road, being open with it both in the muggle and wizarding world even longer. He knew that in some ways it was something Harry might always struggle with, feeling as if he didn’t quite fit in—too queer for some and too straight for others.

Draco swallows, throwing the duvet off and shivering at the cold. He strides across the room, swatting away Harry’s hands from his chest to straighten the pin himself. “There, perfect,” he says, stealing a quick kiss.

Harry smiles, that same boyish smile he had at twenty two. It makes Draco’s chest ache with fondness.

“I don’t completely hate you for waking me up,” Draco says, giving Harry’s hand a quick squeeze.

“You’re not half bad yourself.”

Draco smiles as Harry steals one more kiss, before wrapping his hand around his wand and Disapparating with an audible pop.

Harry and Draco have to chaperone the Yule Ball. At least this year, Harry’s wearing a suit that fits. Draco, however, always looks his finest.

For @loveyprophet​

(Read it on AO3 here)

Harry stood in the corner of the room, fidgeting with his wedding ring and spinning it around his finger—a nervous habit he’d picked up over the years.

His eyes scanned the large hall.

The decorations were beautiful: the hall looked as if it were made of ice, the pillars shimmering in the light. Chandeliers hung overhead, decorated with strings of glass beads that looked like crystal and hung like icicles. The illusion of snowflakes fell around them, but it wasn’t cold.

The large hall was filled with students, some sitting at the tables and talking quietly while others danced.

Harry remembered the oversized, outdated suit he’d worn to his first Yule Ball, nothing like his tailored suit now. He’d insisted on buying it himself—not wanting to risk Draco dressing him in some extravagant outfit. In the end he’d settled for a black suit jacket, dress pants and a charcoal grey shirt. A burgundy pocket square with a gold trim added a touch of colour to the look.

He cleaned up nice, despite the tousled mess of his brown hair.

He had intended to wear a tie, but it kept choking him. So in the end, he’d opted to go without one, leaving the top buttons of his dress shirt undone.

The only jewellery he wore was the simple gold wedding ring. He knew Draco had wanted something extravagant, and it still astonished him that his husband had settled for something as simple as a gold band. But, of course, he had to add a touch of extravagance to it and had an infinity symbol engraved on the underside.

“He’ll be here,” a familiar voice told him.

He glanced over his shoulder, smiling as Hermione stepped over to his side.

She wore an elegant silk dress, the rippling fabric shifting between shades of indigo and violet. The asymmetrical strap sat atop her shoulder, laying like a sash across half her torso and trickling down into a billowing skirt that pooled around her feet. The exposed part of the torso what made of a skin-toned bodice that was covered in embroidered flowers and leaves the same colour as the rest of the dress. To balance out the silk strap of the asymmetrical strap, a slit ran up the opposing side of her skirt. Her long hair had been pinned back from her face by hairpins decorated with diamantes, but left untied; the unruly mess of curls hanging around her shoulders.

“You look lovely,” Harry told her.

“You don’t look to bad yourself,” Hermione replied, offering him a sweet smile as she stepped over to his side. “You clean up really nice.”

Harry ran his fingers though his hair, raking back the mess of curls as he dropped his gaze to hide his bashful smile.

“And then there’s Draco,” Hermione started.

Harry bolted upright, his eyes scanning the room for the familiar face.

The sight of him took Harry’s breath away.

Draco thinks back to all the ways he’s touched Harry. Of them being nineteen and kissing, his hand sliding underneath Harry’s jumper to touch his thin waist, still skin and bones from the war. They had been terrified of everything and everyone, both of them all hard angles and unsure hands. The sheer want seeping through his heart and threatening to drown him. It had been the best thing he’d ever known.

He thinks of being twenty-two and sinking into Harry on the night they moved in together, of Harry’s tanned skin aglow in the moonlight on their bed. Harry had arched and writhed beneath Draco, his body filled out from the war but still taut from Auror training. Draco had loved all that skin and muscle on display for him, moving for him.

He thinks of being twenty-nine. Of Harry pressing into him in their garden at midnight insisting Draco was going to turn thirty with a bang, and a bang it had been. No desperation just the skilled, calloused hands of a lover who knew his body better than he knew his own.

He thinks of making love in the dark of night, not being able to see but still knowing where to touch, of cold tea and warm kisses in the morning over hurried breakfasts and of nights falling asleep in front f the hearth with his head pooled in Harry’s lap because they’re both too tired for anything more than listening to the wireless.

But this, nothing compares to this.

Nothing compares to the way Draco feels as he wraps his arms around Harry watching the flex of muscles in his back as he does, sinking into him as deep as he can go until he doesn’t know where he ends and Harry begins.  

He grabs onto the soft flesh of Harry’s stomach from behind, his fingers anchoring into the body he knows so well; into the stomach that is now soft from lazy Sundays spent sleeping the day away curled around each other instead of training, or nights spent watching Harry’s eyes light up in delight as he serves himself a second helping of treacle tart for dessert as if he will get in trouble, still all youthful exuberance despite the gray now seeping into the tips of his hair by his eyes.