Title: Terms of Endearment
Author: AmoretteHD / @heyitsamorette
Characters/Pairings: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17 / Explicit
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Spanking and praise (May 2018)
Other Warnings/Content: dirty talk, slut shaming, bottom!Harry
Word Count: 4,500
Summary/Description: Harry doesn’t realize how much he enjoys Malfoy’s affection and adoration, until he gets it.
Author's Notes: Writcraft, I wanted to write you something positively filthy, so this is for you! Thank you to the mods for inviting me to the com, it has been really fun so far. One million thank you’s to Palendrome/Nerdherderette for betaing on short notice and making this legible.




He really shouldn’t be here, Harry thought, ignoring the anxious knot in his stomach as he stepped out of the Floo. This was the last place he should be visiting after a long, grueling day at work. What he really should do is dash back into the fireplace and go to his own flat, run a hot bath, reheat the leftover pork loin and mash from Molly’s Sunday roast. In fact, why didn’t he turn around right now? He could; he had time before he was spotted.

“Potter,” came a clipped voice.

Harry’s lips quirked—oh well, too late now. “Hi,” he said as he took off the coat of his Auror uniform and tossed it over the armchair by the fireplace.

Malfoy walked in from the kitchen carrying a drink. His green silk bathrobe with cursive DLM monogrammed on the chest was the reason Harry called him a twat, not to mention his fur-lined slippers and Ralph Lauren pyjamas.

“Did you even get dressed today?” Harry asked.

“I decided to work from home.” Malfoy took a sip from his crystal tumbler.

“So, no.” Harry plopped onto the sofa that faced the hearth, legs spread wide, and nearly sighed in relief. It had been such a bloody long day, and the crackling fire reminded him of Hogwarts and sleepy Sundays in December.

“Oh, yes; just barge into my home and make yourself comfortable while you take the mickey out of me.”

Harry spread himself out even more on the sofa. “Just get me one of those, will you?” he gestured to Malfoy’s drink.

Malfoy stood over him and looked down, half-smirking. “So rude, Potter.” The way he said Harry’s name always sent an odd shiver up Harry’s spine, leaving him weirdly agitated. “Not even a please?”

Harry held his gaze and then, very deliberately, said, “Please.”

Something happened behind Malfoy’s eyes and he pressed his lips together. Without another word, he went back into the kitchen, and a moment later, he was back with the drink—a twin glass filled halfway with whisky, from the looks of it, and possibly a tiny bit more than he usually poured, but Harry could be mistaken about that.

Malfoy sat on the coffee table facing Harry and handed him the glass. He crossed one leg over the other, and his foot brushed Harry’s calf. Apparently, they were both going to pretend not to notice.

“I take it you went on a raid today?”

“How can you tell?”

Malfoy snorted. “Trust me, Potter, it’s rather obvious.” His eyes roamed slowly, like molten lava, from Harry’s face down to his chest and stomach and then to his parted legs. “You’re covered all over in filth. Bruised, cut, shirt ripped, hair disheveled… although, I suppose the hair is typical.”

“Do I really look that bad?” The whisky stung his throat and filled him with warmth, and Harry nearly sighed because that was exactly what he needed.

Malfoy considered him for a moment, then raised his glass to his lips. “Yes.”

Harry smiled. “I should have gone home and showered,” he mused out loud, echoing his earlier thoughts, glad that the burn of the whisky masked some of the discomfort in his chest.

He didn’t want to consider, in any direct way, why he came straight to Malfoy’s after work more often than not. It was unusual because Harry liked being alone after a stressful raid or long, tiresome stakeout. He enjoyed his little flat with his shelves full of Quidditch books and his large fireplace and squishy sofa. He had painted the walls yellow. It was quiet, cozy, and warm.

On the other hand, Malfoy’s flat was all sleek lines and hardwood floors and very thin rugs, as though he was afraid of comfort. However, Harry had started to think of it as the most comfortable place in London, and he wondered, not for the first time, when exactly that had happened.

He and Malfoy weren’t even friends. Or, at least, that’s what he insisted to Ron and Hermione, who were his actual friends. Malfoy was just a work colleague. The DMLE had brought in the Unspeakables for one job nearly seventh months ago, and it wasn’t Harry’s fault that he and Malfoy had had to work so closely on the project. He didn’t have to tell Ron or Hermione that he still saw Malfoy regularly, even though that case was long solved. He didn’t have to do anything; it’s not like he was obligated to disclose every detail of his life.

Besides, he was only really here for the free whisky, which Malfoy always had plenty of. He collected a lot of foreign alcohol, too: strongly spiced gin from India; the sweetest sake from Japan; smooth cognac from France.

“So what is this tripe, then?” Harry asked as tipped the glass back.

“This, my dear, is good old Ogden’s.”

Harry’s soft chuckle came from deep in his chest, where what felt like fireflies danced manically behind his ribcage. He always got tingles all the way down to his toes whenever Malfoy called him ‘dear’, and although he knew Malfoy didn’t mean it in any sort of way, it still managed to make Harry squirm. He found himself wanting to say things that would get Malfoy to call him that again.

“I should have known. Ogden’s is so…”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, an amused smirk playing on his mouth.

Pretentious. Posh. Poncy. Harry cleared his throat. “...lovely.”

“I’m glad to hear you think so.”

Malfoy knew full well Harry didn’t think so. But he let Harry get away with most of his snark, and Harry rather enjoyed it, this easy back and forth they fell into. Malfoy shifted in his seat and the toe of his slipper traced accidentally down Harry’s calf.

Harry swallowed. He should go home.

Then Malfoy’s expression changed to something earnest, his brow creasing. “Tell me about the raid.”

That—that was why Harry would stay right there, sat on Malfoy’s sofa. That was why he drank Malfoy’s whisky, an amber syrup that made his mind hazy and his body sated and relaxed. It was why Malfoy’s polished flat felt as comfortable and homey as his own. Whenever anyone else asked him about his day, he was always too tired and impatient to find the words. But, inexplicably, he loved to tell it to Malfoy. He always found he couldn’t tell him enough.

Maybe a tiny part of it—just a small, irrelevant bit—was that he wanted to show off.

“Well, I managed to dodge both a Stinging Hex and a Blood Boiling Curse.”

“Did you now?” Malfoy dragged his finger around the rim of his glass. “Of course you did; you’re a big, tough Auror,” he teased.

Harry lowered his chin, unable to stop from grinning. He wished he could also stop blushing, but the heat blooming in his cheeks was inevitable.

“Fuck…” Malfoy breathed.

“What?” Harry asked, and when he looked up, Malfoy’s gaze was so intense, it was almost physical.

“You’re just so…” Malfoy sucked in a breath through his teeth and shook his head. He ran a hand along his already slicked back hair, which needed no fixing whatsoever.

“I’m so what?” Harry asked, his heart pumping.

But Malfoy had already regained his composure and retook control of the conversation. To Harry’s shock, he leaned forward an inch and reached out his hand, softly drawing his thumb across a cut on Harry’s cheekbone. His touch was more sure and solid than Harry would have imagined it to be.

“And what about this one?” As soon as he asked, Malfoy removed his hand, and Harry wished he hadn’t.

“Stinging hex.”

Malfoy pouted in mock concern. “You poor dear.”

As Harry exhaled, a low, strange sound left his throat.

Malfoys eyebrows drew together. “Are you quite alright?”

Harry wasn’t. He realised his fists were clenched at his sides, that his cock was growing heavy between his legs.

“I love it when you call me that.”

God, if only it hadn’t come out sounding so guttural. He would have been more embarrassed, however, if his blood didn't feel so hot and bothersome as it coursed through his fucking veins.

In contrast, Malfoy seemed frozen to the spot, mouth parted as if he couldn’t quite figure out what to say. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “When I call you what, Potter?”

Harry shut his eyes. “Are you going to make me say it?”

A moment went by where all Harry could hear was the crackle of the fire and Malfoy’s barely controlled breathing. Eventually, Malfoy uttered: “Yes.”

As much as he would have preferred not to, the idea of saying it out loud made even more blood pool in Harry’s groin. He inhaled deeply, then he opened his eyes and met Malfoy’s own. Fuck, Malfoy’s stare was stormy and sharp and clearly brimming with lust.

There was no going back. They had crossed the line they had been toeing for weeks; for months; maybe even years.

“When you call me dear.”

“Oh?” Malfoys voice went lower. “I see.”

Malfoy’s hand had found its way to Harry’s thigh, and Harry’s heart battered against his chest as Malfoy rested his palm just above his knee. He didn’t know that Malfoy could be so bold, or that his touch could make Harry’s skin catch fire.

“That is interesting,” Malfoy said. “I do wonder why.”

“Don’t mock me,” Harry warned, his hackles rising.

“Oh, trust me, Harry; that’s the last thing I want to do.”

It was the first time he’d heard Malfoy say his name, and it felt like being enveloped in a warm blanket. Harry brought his glass to his lips and threw it back, draining the last of the whisky in three long gulps. When he lowered it, his eyes were watering from the sting.

“You’d better slow down with that,” Malfoy said, his thumb making circles over the black trousers of Harry’s uniform. “It’s strong stuff. Might make you say things you don’t mean.”

“I do mean it.” Harry wandlessly and wordlessly sent the glass soaring to the table without breaking eye contact, and he could have sworn Malfoy shivered.

“Does it make you feel good,” Malfoy asked, “when I call you that?”

“Mmm...yes.”

Malfoy leaned forward, his face inches from Harry’s. He thought Malfoy was going to kiss him, his lips were so close, but then he paused and the only thing that moved was his hand, inching fervently up Harry’s thigh.

“Shit,” Harry hissed.

Malfoy gripped Harry’s erection through his trousers. “I would like you to take these off, Harry.”

He swallowed, his head inclining in a tentative nod. “Sure.”

A smile played on Malfoy’s lips as he pulled away, straightening back up. The space he left between them suddenly seemed massive, and Harry was eager for it to close again. He hurriedly unbuttoned his trousers, all while Malfoy looked on. When he’d got the zip parted, he shoved his trousers down to his knees, noticing the flicker in Malfoy’s eyes once his well-muscled thighs were revealed. Harry knew he benefitted massively from the physical demands of his job—the grueling workouts to remain fit, the rigorous training to stay agile. There was something deeply satisfying about how clearly Malfoy liked it.

He pushed his trousers the rest of the way and shuffled his boots off his feet.

When Harry ran his fingers along the waistband of his black boxers, Malfoy’s smirk became predatory.

“Oh, yes. Those, too.”

Harry stuck his thumb underneath the band and slowly pushed the boxers off his hips, lifting his arse to accommodate the movement. Finally, he pushed it past his cock.

It was already hard, the head pink and swollen, and it seemed to spring to attention once the waistband of his pants slid past it.

Malfoy inhaled sharply through his nose, his eyes fixed on it. “Oh, my,” he said after a moment.

“Yeah?” Harry took his cock in his right hand, lightly stroking it with his fingers and letting the waves of lust intoxicate him.

“Yes,” Malfoy hissed. “Fuck, yes.”

Harry groaned softly.

“But that shirt needs to go.”

Harry was sat in the black t-shirt he wore underneath his Auror coat and nothing else. Once he took that off, too, he would be fully naked—and Malfoy would be fully clothed.

He was so far gone, he didn’t give a shit anymore, and in fact, the disparity between them somehow made it even hotter.

Harry pulled his t-shirt up over his chest and his shoulders, his hair getting caught and rumpled in the opening. When he threw it onto the floor with the rest of his clothes, he looked back at Malfoy, and the sheer desire he saw reflected back at him made his head spin.

Malfoy’s lips were parted and his cheeks flushed pink. His eyes roamed hungrily over every inch of Harry’s skin, from his torso to his legs and back up to his biceps. Harry was surprised how unselfconscious he felt beneath that stare. He wanted Malfoy to look at him, and to like what he saw. He wanted to show Malfoy everything.

“Harry…” Malfoy’s voice was deeper than before and much more strained. Harry’s eyes darted to Malfoy’s hips, but his robe seemed to conceal any reaction he might be having, though it was bloody obvious he was affected. “You are… truly… fucking gorgeous.”

Somehow, Harry found his voice, forcing it from his throat. “Thank you.”

Malfoy shut his eyes tightly and his hand flew to pinch the bridge of his nose, remaining like that for a moment. “Christ.”

“What?”

Malfoy sighed and looked back up at Harry. “Do you even… How are you…?” He pressed his lips together and then, straightening his back, said, “Harry, I want you to stroke yourself.”

Harry didn’t think he could get any harder, but hearing such a demand from Malfoy in his smooth, haughty drawl made his cock absolutely ache. He immediately gripped it at the base, then pulled it through his fist—up and down, gathering precome at the tip and slicking it down his shaft.

He watched Malfoy watching him stroke himself, just as he was asked. It felt like nothing he had ever known, this deep-seated satisfaction forming somewhere in his gut, knowing he was making Malfoy feel—

“Are you….?” Harry choked back his words. What the hell was he doing? Had he really almost asked, Are you pleased? “You mean like this?”

“Mmm… just like that, Harry.” Malfoy’s brow creased in concentration, trying to retain control. Harry wondered how far he could push him. If he could break him down the way he was, almost effortlessly, breaking Harry.

“Do you…” Harry’s heart was in his throat as he spread his legs even wider. “Do you like that?”

“Oh, yes,” Malfoy breathed, parting his robe. “Yes, I do.”

Malfoy’s pale hand reached into the slit of his pyjama bottoms. Harry’s eyes were positively glued to the bulge that strained the fabric, waiting for Malfoy to pull out his dick. He wanted to see it, desperately. But after a few quick strokes, Malfoy withdrew his hand again.

“Show me,” Harry nearly growled.

Surprisingly, Malfoy chuckled. “Oh, that’s not how this is going to work.”

Harry panted; his strokes became faster, his fist gripping more tightly. “You won’t show me your cock?”

“Don’t worry; you’ll get to see it,” Malfoy smirked. “When you’re gagging on it.”

Harry let out an embarrassingly needy moan.

“Fuck, Potter, you’re going to make me come much too soon if you keep doing that.”

“Me too.” The heat was rising up Harry’s neck. He was getting close, something Malfoy seemed able to sense.

“Stop.”

Harry slowed down on an upward stroke and then paused, his clutch loosening. It was terrible to let go of his cock when he just needed the slightest bit more, but he bit his bottom lip hard and made himself stop. He could do this; he could show Malfoy just how much he could take. There was nothing Malfoy could throw at him that would break him first— Harry was going to ruin Malfoy’s grip on control and make him just as wild and erratic as a loose Bludger. These days, Malfoy made such an effort to remain buttoned-up and capable, professional at the Ministry and aloof everywhere else, and Harry longed for the days—so long ago, now; wisps of a stone castle and red and green ties— when just a look from him made Malfoy crazy.

Harry let go of his cock, bringing his hand away to rest on the sofa. He could feel that his chest was flushed as he breathed heavily.

“Good boy.”

Shit, shit, shit. His dick twitched and he made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He was definitely going to come if Malfoy called him that—absolutely, one hundred percent. He was on the edge anyway, and that…

“Can you please…?” Harry heard himself saying. He didn’t know what he wanted, not specifically, he just knew he wanted, and he needed. “God, Malfoy, just… please.”

Malfoy leapt from the table, and suddenly he was on top of Harry, pressing Harry’s shoulders into the back of the sofa and pinning him with one hand as the other gripped the side of Harry’s face. And his lips were on Harry’s, hot and insistent, his tongue forcing itself into Harry’s mouth. Harry opened up to him, welcoming the invasion and revelling in the taste of him, somehow both new and familiar at once. He tasted like old memories and boyhood fantasies, and of course, whisky. He smelled like expensive shampoo, like grass on the Quidditch pitch, like everything Harry had never known he’d been aching for. Malfoy’s tongue slid against his and his lips smacked against Harry’s every time he pulled away, only to come back in again and kiss Harry some more.

Harry gripped Malfoy’s hips and pushed him off, rolling him onto the sofa so that Malfoy was seated, and it was Harry’s turn to be on top.

Harry felt dazed by the time he pulled away and could breathe again. He found himself sitting bodily in Malfoy’s lap, thighs spread around Malfoy’s hips and bare chest pressing against Malfoy’s godforsaken robe. The silky material was like liquid, every graze along Harry’s nipples making them tighten, and it reminded him of just how incredibly fucking naked he was.

And yet Malfoy was still clothed. And he was running his hands up and down the muscles of Harry’s back.

“Oh, you are a terrible boy, Harry.”

Harry moaned. “No.” He crossed his wrists behind Malfoy’s neck, and he rolled his hips against Malfoy’s hips, pressing his cock against the cotton of his pyjama bottoms. The texture was almost too much for the over-sensitized skin of his shaft and balls, but he could finally feel Malfoy’s erection against his own and it was like a renewed fire in his gut. His mind was a mess and his thoughts were scattered— Malfoy had called him bad.

“Why?”

“Because you are a tease,” Malfoy said, his words spewing out low and fast like the bubbling water of a fountain. “A terrible tease who knew exactly what he was doing coming over here tonight...every night. Didn’t you, Harry?”

“I… I don’t know what you’re—”

“Oh yes, you do. You’re a slut, Harry. A terrible slut who wanted exactly this, isn’t that true?”

“No, I…” He hesitated

“Yes, it is, Harry. You’re a slut, and you know it. You have to admit it.”

“I...”

Fuck. Malfoy’s hand fell hard against Harry’s arse, delivering a slap that sent a shock wave through Harry’s entire body. His arsecheek stung.

“Harry, you’re terrible a slut.”

Harry shut his eyes. He had to slow down his heart before it beat completely out of his chest.

Another slap. Harry shouted out as the stinging multiplied.

“Say it.”

Harry made a keening sound; he was so turned on he thought he might burst. “What? I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Say it.”

Malfoy slapped his arse again, the sound sickeningly loud. When Harry didn’t respond, he slapped him again, and then again. He alternated hands, delivering blows on the other side, and Harry took the spankings with his teeth clenched and his head bowed against the shocks of pain and pure lust that roiled through his body.

Then Malfoy stopped and simply gripped Harry’s arse cheeks fully in both palms, squeezing and digging his fingers into his flesh. When Harry looked up, Malfoy was scowling, but there was a crazy storm of desire behind his eyes. A lock of hair had fallen out of place, and Harry clung to that triumphantly.

“You’re getting your precome all over my robe, Potter.”

Harry lowered his eyes and saw that, indeed, he was. There was nothing like seeing his bare cock, rock hard and red and swollen with the need to come, dribbling lines of precome all over Malfoy’s clothes. He looked so desperate and needy; so wanton and disgraced.

“I…” It came out in a whisper. “I’m sorry. I…” He swallowed, and oh god, he was going to say it. “I’m a slut.”

Malfoy growled low in his throat. He squeezed Harry’s cheeks again and parted them so roughly it hurt. “Say it again,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I’m a slut,” Harry said, his voice breaking.

“Yes,” Malfoy hissed. “Yes, you are. A horrible, dirty slut.”

“Yes.”

“A tease.”

“I am, I… I’m a horrible...”

“...terrible…”

“... a terrible slut.”

“You came over here because you wanted this, didn’t you?” One of his thumbs grazed Harry’s arsehole.

Harry lost all sense and reason. His mind was gone.

“Oh, fuck, yes.” He pushed back against Malfoy’s hands, but the fucker pulled away. “Goddammit.”

“See?”

“Oh god, yeah. I want it so badly. Fuck me.”

The filth spewed from his mouth and Harry didn’t even care—he was telling Malfoy exactly what he wanted.

“Fuck me, Malfoy. I need… I need it, I need your cock…” Harry was panting, rolling his hips into Malfoy’s, wanting to feel that hardness against his own. “I need your cock inside me.”

Malfoy seemed unable to take it anymore. He hauled Harry up and over the few inches onto the coffee table, laying him on his back.

Harry felt drunk. Perhaps he was drunk. But he knew it took way more whisky than he’d had to feel this out of his fucking mind, that only Malfoy could do this to him.

Malfoy finally pulled his cock out from between his pyjamas, stroking it with one hand. Harry leaned up to watch the pink head disappear in his fist briefly before lying back down again with a thud because Malfoy began pushing a finger inside of him with his other hand.

Harry winced against the burn, and Malfoy seemed to remember that he needed to slick up his finger, so he slid it over the wet stripes of precome Harry had left on his stomach and used that to slick the way. He managed to push one finger in, and Harry cried out and threw an arm over his eyes because even though it was moderately better, it still hurt.

“Wand,” he managed to say, though it was more breath than words. “Get your fucking wand.”

Malfoy made a grunting noise, and moments later, muttered the lubrication charm. Harry felt his arse become wet and slippery from the inside. It was a strange sensation that one could never describe, but would know distinctly. Malfoy’s finger slipped in easily.

“Ohh,” Harry mewled.

“You like that?” Malfoy demanded, far more aggressive than he had been.

“Yes!” Harry nearly bellowed. He liked it so, so much, he could barely stand it any longer. The pressure had already been building inside of him for so long. “Please, Malfoy.”

“Oh, Harry. Say it again.”

“Please!”

Malfoy slipped his finger out and Harry actually pouted. But then something else pressed against his opening, something that felt infinitely larger.

Harry found he could do nothing but let his jaw drop as the sounds poured from within him, because the sensation of Malfoy’s cock inside him was the most blissful thing he ever felt, to have that hard, thrusting length massaging him from the inside, taking more and more of him, deeper and deeper with every stroke. He was…

“Coming…. I’m coming. Oh shit, fuck—”

Malfoy groaned, then slammed his hips into Harry with such force, Harry slid against the table. Malfoy was coming too, and he thrust shallowly a few more times as he rode out his own orgasm. Harry shut his eyes and let himself be taken away into momentary blackness.

It was a long moment before Harry came to his senses again, and by that time, Malfoy had pulled out. Harry’s sweat was drying on his skin, leaving a chill in its wake. His head was still partially in the clouds, but he was getting cold, and it was bringing him back to reality by the second.

“Oh, shit,” was the first thing he could say. He forced himself up onto his elbows, and realised the hard wooden coffee table was not so nice.

Malfoy was sitting back on the sofa, breathing heavily. His cock was still out, pink and wet and starting to go limp against his abdomen. Harry wanted it, still, all over again.

Malfoy’s hair was actually slightly out of place, and that in itself was what pulled Harry out of his daze. He started chuckling, unable to contain the small bursts of it that bubbled up in his chest.

“What?” Malfoy asked.

“You look wrecked.”

Malfoy smiled, but his eyes roamed darkly over Harry’s naked body all over again. “You look disgustingly sexy.”

How the fuck was heat pooling in his gut again? This was ridiculous. “I can’t believe you got me to say I was a… a….” Harry smiled, his cheeks flushing hotly.

Malfoy delivered a grin that was positively devious. “And you liked it.”

Harry swallowed, embarrassed but too sated and blissed out to truly care. “Dick,” he added, just for good measure.

Malfoy extended his arm toward him. “Come here.”

And suddenly, there was nothing Harry wanted more. Even his chest ached as he pried himself off the coffee table and slid, for the second time, into Malfoy’s arms.

Malfoy held him close, pushing Harry’s head into the crook of his neck and leaving his hand there, heavy and possessive. Harry let out a moan he didn’t know was sitting inside of him. “That was so good, Harry.”

Shit. Harry sighed as contentment washed over him.

“You were so fucking good.”

Harry breathed in Malfoy’s scent and let it and the words wash over him. His nerves seemed to purr as he relaxed into Malfoy’s grip. He noticed idly that he was still naked and Malfoy still clothed, and that made his cock twitch despite everything, but it felt so fucking good to have Malfoy hold him like this. It was a different kind of pleasure, somehow deeper than before.

Malfoy’s hand smoothed down his spine. “You’re gorgeous, Harry.” The light-headedness returned, followed by something sweet and loving. “You’re the fucking best.”







END