: Another Man’s PantsAuthor
: Harry/Draco. (In a way!)Rating
: Wanking. Talking pants :DThemes/kinks chosen
: RelicsWord Count
: Draco found himself alone in his dormitory. Alone, that was, apart from the pants. The pants which already, quite without doing anything other than being cotton, well-worn and, well
, pants, had begun to take on a life of their own.
It was hard work being insane Draco had discovered, much to his chagrin. He’d thought – or rather hoped, to tell the exact truth – that once he’d taken the initial step, the sordid slide into fully fledged madness would be quick and painless. That his mind would snap and he wouldn’t have to watch
himself go insane – with all the accompanying shame and self-disgust – as he did so. Draco had always considered himself mentally strong – an Occlumens of the highest order and so on and so forth. He could cope with war and terror, and he had done. He could adapt to the scorn of society, and charm the fucking socks off those two-faced losers. It seemed though, try as he might to ignore it, to quash it and to all round exterminate it from existence, that he had a weakness. It was the most stupid weakness in the entire history of creation, but there it was. Or rather, there they
were. Watching him, despite their obvious lack of eyes. Mocking
him with their inexplicable attractive force. Harry Potter’s pants
. And if that wasn’t insanity, then Draco didn’t have a fucking clue what was.
It had started – as things so often do when you’re young and bored, with something to prove – with a dare: break into the Gryffindor dorms and steal something. It had been easy enough to accomplish. Draco’s reputation as Death Eater spawn was quite enough to terrify the common room password out of a first year in knee-socks and pigtails, and his magical disguise strong enough to fool a casual observer. Surprising Potter, who’d been rummaging around in a drawer and clad only in a towel, had been, well, a surprise, but such things worked both ways. Draco had whipped the boxer shorts out of Potter’s hands and dashed to safety before the imbecile had closed his open mouth and begun to reach for his wand. It was what came after
that was the problem. Not the cheers of the Slytherins – who’d laughed and smirked until Draco felt almost his old self again. Not the ceremonial waving of the pants – an ancient ceremony, which had absolutely not been made up on the spot to honour the occasion. But… after
. When Draco found himself alone in his dormitory. Alone, that was, apart from the pants. The pants which already, quite without doing anything other than being cotton, well-worn and, well, pants
, had begun to take on a life of their own.
“Put me on,” the pants said, in a seductive, cotton-y whisper. Except they didn’t, of course, because they were pants and had no vocal chords. But Draco felt
the evil tug of the pants – calling him, tempting him, with their silent siren call. At first he’d considered the idea that the boxer shorts were cursed, and that the sudden, irrepressible urge he felt to feel the soft cotton against his skin was magically induced. However, a few quick spells soon disabused him of that notion and he’d had to admit that the desire, and the madness, was all his own. So he’d taken that first, ridiculous step towards complete madness and, after muttering more locking spells than were entirely necessary, disrobed and put on the pants. Harry Potter’s pants
. All this explained – to a certain extent – why he was now sitting on his bed in another man’s pants, but not the strange urges which he was now struggling to suppress. And why, despite the pants, and the urges, he still felt worryingly sane and alert.
Clenching his jaw, Draco lay down on his bed, his hands balled into fists by his sides. His heart was pounding and his face felt hot. He could practically feel an embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck and chest. Harry’s Potter’s pants.
He was wearing Harry Potter’s pants
. Not only that, he was hard
in Harry Potter’s fucking pants, and mere seconds away from having a frantic wank. His toes curled at the thought. The idea of Harry, and Harry’s pants, and the thought of wanking all mixed together in a strange collage of thought. Draco wasn’t sure whether it was the sheer wrongness of his train of thought, or something else more disturbing, but picturing Harry bursting in on him right now and offering a helping hand made his cock jerk, dragging against the soft fabric of the underwear surrounding it.
One hand snaked down to tug at the pants, pulling at the waistband, dragging the fabric against his sensitive skin. The other, quite without Draco’s permission, wrapped itself around his aching cock and moved at a rapid pace. In Draco’s mind, Harry watched, mouth open, towel around his waist. Harry’s eyes widened and he licked his lips. Draco mirrored the movement, his mouth dropping open and his head pushing back as a white heat built in his thighs and stomach. He came hard and fast, gasping faintly as he did so, before his muscles relaxed and he lay still for a while, breathing deeply.
When his mind cleared from its haze of pleasure, Draco felt dirty. He wrinkled his nose, leaning over to grab his wand and casting a cleansing charm upon himself. He dressed quickly and reversed the locking charm on the dormitory door. It had been a risk, and a stupid one, what he’d just done. He’d been quick, but Slytherins were also quick – on the uptake, that was. Usually they were slower, much, much slower, of course, Draco thought, attempting to justify his actions in his own mind as he walked down the corridor, trying to act natural.
Draco slipped back into the common room and resumed his usual seat, taking control of the conversation with ease. As he talked, he felt the smooth softness of Harry Potter’s pants around his arse, and praised all that was good and great for voluminous robes. But he refused to be beaten by a pair of pants, so he restrained himself from running to the bathroom immediately to deal with his rapidly rising problem. He was Draco Malfoy, and he would vanquish his new and insane need to wank in Potter’s undies, however many orgasms it took.
Perhaps, Draco thought idly, he might even need to enlist the help of Harry Potter himself in order to test the limits of his new brain disorder. Insanity had never before sounded so fucking good.