Draco/Theodore; Draco/OFC (briefly)Rating:
bordellos, virginsOther Warnings:
slight drug use (wizarding absinthe)Word Count:
Theodore brings Draco to a brothel in Amsterdam for the purpose of losing his virginity before seventh year.Author's Notes:
I do believe that this would be my first foray into slash smut. But I am trying to push my boundaries and I hope that this does just that and I hope that I have done the pairing justice. Special thank you to cryptaknight
and also to the mods for letting me delay my posting. The title was a google search for the Dutch word for desire/want/crave. I don't speak Dutch, so forgive me if I'm wrong.***Summer 1997 - Amsterdam
"This is ridiculous," Draco folds his arms across his chest while Theodore draws a pattern on a stone wall. Behind him, and he tries not to turn his head to watch too much, the women of Amsterdam's red light district sway in tall windows, calling for patrons.
"It's not," Theodore replies as the wall starts to shift and turn, revealing a passageway. "It's a holiday. You're going to get very drunk. Possibly shagged. And you're not going to think about that monster living in your house."
They're seventeen. Draco only just and Theodore a few months from eighteen. His friend has the choice of leaving school early, of avoiding this whole damn thing, but Draco knows that he won't. Theodore will stick it out, if anything, to keep his friends safe. If he wasn't so disgustingly ambitious, a trait that Draco actually quite admired in his friend, he would have labeled Theodore a daft, noble Gryffindor.
They step together into the wizarding side of the district, a place that Draco had been unaware of until earlier that afternoon. The windows here are more ostentatious. Charms are used. Women are levitated and floated around. There is no subtlety as their 'wares' are on display for anyone walking by. Draco reddens and shifts uncomfortably. He's not used to such a blatant sexual display and glancing over at Theodore things are even worse because it looks like his friend is
used to it.
Or if he isn't, he's making a bloody, good show of not appearing disturbed.
By the time they reach a door with the word Sirens
emblazoned across the wood, Draco is sure that his face is an obnoxious shade of purple. Theodore knocks three times and before Draco can protest and call it quits, a brightly painted woman greets them. She looks first to Theodore, observing him for a long period, her eyebrows raising as her gaze moves from head to toe. She appears satisfied and gives a slight nod.
Her opinion seems to change when she gives Draco the same once-over and lets out what he can only describe as a derisive snort. Draco finds this wholly unfair. Sure he doesn't have Theodore's high cheekbones and intense blue eyes, but he isn't anything to sneeze at. They're both handsome, he feels, in their own ways.
Draco opens his mouth to make a pithy comment, but is cut off by the coins that Theodore is holding out.
"Marit," he says with a decisiveness that surprises Draco.
He wonders if this is some Dutch word he doesn't understand, but quickly realizes that it's merely a name when a small, dark-haired woman appears after being beckoned. She's pretty enough, he thinks, with a round face and pink cheeks. He supposes it's alright that all she's wearing is a corset that is little more than a waist cinch, pushing her breasts up but making no effort to cover them in the slightest.
At least her breasts are nice looking, round with pink nipples.
Marit turns and leads them down the hallway. Draco tries finding somewhere else to focus gaze, somewhere that isn't the curve of her bare bum. Except every inch of Sirens
is covered with risqué artwork and all of it magical and moving. Draco's face heats up again and he decides that at least a bouncy, bare bum is easier to look at than a painting of a 16th century wizard burying his face between the thighs of a squirming witch.
Once they are in Marit's room, Draco starts to have second thoughts. Sure he mentioned that he didn't want to die a virgin in this war. Sure he told Theodore every panicky secret about hating Voldemort and hating that the Dark Lord had chosen the Malfoy home and that everything happening now was because his father was too spineless to make a stand. But he wasn't sure about all of this. Paying a woman for sex just... didn't seem like something he would do.
"Have a drink," Marit says, pushing a glass of green liquor into his hands. She offers one to Theodore as well.
Tossing it back without a thought, Draco is overcome with a fit of coughing, so much so that he doubles over and Theodore has to slap him on the back. Firewhisky this is not. "Merlin's beard, what the hell is that?" he gasps.
Marit chuckles and lifts her own glass. "You are not familiar with wizarding Absinthe," she says with a smile. "It will... relax you."
Warmth and something else, something that seemed to spin and float in a strangely pleasant way, starts to spread out from Draco's stomach. He tries to think about whether or not he's heard of wizarding Absinthe, but his brain pirouettes away from the subject, keeping it just out of reach. He sits down heavily on the bed, the glass slipping from his fingertips and hitting the rug at his feet. He isn't sure if he likes the feeling. He isn't sure if he hates it either.
Marit's hands are on him as she kneels on the rug, sliding fingers along his thighs and then tugging his shirt from the waist of his trousers.
Draco grabs the bottom of his shirt and holds it tight. "Wait," he protests, his voice sounding so very far away.
Theodore and Marit exchange a look. Hers is confused, his is something indiscernible. Compassion maybe? Draco keeps his hands against the bottom of his shirt. He's not ready. The ugly scars on his chest, from the sectumsempra curse that Potter threw at him, are still angry and pink. He's not shown them to anyone since it happened and he doesn't want to start now.
"It's alright if you want to go slow," she says with a smile, giving his trouser-clad thigh a kiss. "I'm very gentle. And I like young men."
Draco's head is spinning and incoherent thoughts bubble and roil all around inside of him. Shaking his head again, he pushes at her, hoping that it's gentle because he just can't tell anymore. He doesn't think he can do this. Not with her. Not now. He's not ready. There's too much he's not ready to expose to anyone, let alone some strange witch from the Netherlands.
Casting a panicky look to Theodore, Draco tries to find the words.
But it is Marit who puts a stop to everything. She turns to Theodore, hands on her naked hips and tilts her head. Draco isn't sure if they are actually talking or just having a conversation with their eyes. And can't help but admire her boldness.
"I don't force," she says simply and gestures to Theodore with an angry flick of her fingertips.
Whether she means to have them leave, Draco doesn't know. Theodore merely holds up a calming hand and moves from the armchair he'd been draped across to sit on the bed. The pair of them had been in a similar position only a few nights before. Different bed. Definitely a different ambiance.He's going to live here, Theo. The Dark Lord. He's going to be here every moment of the Summer. I barely survived being at Hogwarts knowing he was around...
"I can't do it," he says, flattening his hand against his chest. He can feel the bumps of the scars and drops his hand away almost recoiling from himself. "I don't want her touching them. I don't want to remember that they're there."
There's a moment when he thinks that Theodore will agree that they should just leave. Part of him wishes that he weren't such a coward and would just let Marit have her way with him. Part of him wants to flee. A very surprised part of him only now realizes that it isn't Marit's fingers that are undoing the buttons of his shirt, but Theodore's. There is even more surprise when he realizes that he did nothing to prevent it.
"They're not as bad as you make them out to be," Theodore says, regarding him carefully. He holds out a hand to Marit who climbs onto the bed sitting on her knees beside him.
Draco flushes and closes his eyes, not wanting to see the expressions on either of their faces. A lone fingertip draws a line from his throat and along his collarbone. Lips touch his shoulder. A hand slides across his waist and under the waistband of his trousers. He supposes it isn't so terrible. Marit is, as she had said, gentle. Her small hand delves deeper, curling slender fingers around a cock that hasn't quite decided if it's hard.
"Shall I invite another?" she asks.
Draco's eyes fly open and he looks at her in shock. But she's looking at Theodore and he realises, sheepishly, that the question wasn't directed at him, but his friend. He opens his mouth to say something encouraging, something along the lines of Theodore not wasting his time sitting here, but Marit's stroking fingers are tangling the words up in his head. More so than the absinthe had.
"No," Theodore says simply.
There's a strange sort of look on his face and Draco notices that Theodore's breathing seems shallow. As if he's trying not to even move and break what has formed around them. One of his hands is already resting on Draco's hip. Theodore's gaze doesn't break away when Marit leans in to kiss the spot under Draco's jaw, but he feels his friend's fingers curl slightly and a muscle below Theodore's eye does a little twitch.
Whatever was in that absinthe is still causing his mind to float and Draco reaches out for something to tether him. He finds it in the front of Theodore's shirt. Only instead of holding on as he'd expected to do, Draco starts to pull his friend closer. He isn't sure where the decision to kiss Theodore came from. Just that it felt like a good idea and he wanted something to focus on besides the steady motion of Marit's hand along his cock.
Surprisingly there is no resistance.
Their mouths meet and Draco finds himself swept away in the surprise of it all. He's not unfamiliar with the concept of kissing, of course. But this is a far cry from the awkward pecks goodnight that he'd bestowed upon Pansy after various Hogsmeade weekends and holidays home to Wiltshire. Those were stiff and formal. They were type of kisses that were expected of a pureblood courtship.
This, most certainly, is not.
At first it's a mere press of lips against lips. But when they move, do they ever move
. Theodore's mouth wildly slants across his own, all teeth and tongue. It steals his breath and draws a rumbling groan from deep inside Draco's chest. He's never felt his heart race like this, not even while flying. It only takes a moment or two before Draco is matching the pace, his hands clasping desperately to the back of Theodore's head, fingers carding through light brown hair. Draco's tongue pushes back; his teeth nip. He suddenly finds himself wanting to hear that same groan coming from Theodore and he desperately wants whatever is happening to last forever because it makes sense.
It all makes sense
When they come up for air, Draco opens his mouth to say something. He feels like he ought to say something.
But no words seem to form.
Theodore doesn't help matters by pressing his mouth against Draco's parted lips.
Marit seems to fade from their equation of three and it quickly becomes just two. Draco barely notices her pull away or the close of the bedroom door. There's a fleeting thought of her time being wasted, though she has
been paid so it probably isn't all that bad. The thought vanishes in a wave, drowned out by hands that remove clothes and skin that presses against skin.
Draco knows the mechanics of sex. At least, he knows the mechanics of sex with a woman and while he has never had the opportunity, he understands what friction does. This is definitely friction and quite suddenly it is something much more preferred than anything he had ever considered with anyone else. Their legs entwine and their bodies are fit together so completely other so that when Theodore rolls his hips, Draco's respond in kind. Somewhere between their hips, their cocks slide up against each other and Draco can't stop himself from groaning at the heady sensation of it all.
He doesn't last long.
With a strangled cry he comes, twisting his hips away. The sheets take the brunt of the stain and while he tries to catch his breath he is vaguely aware of Theodore's body going stiff, arching back with a shudder. Warmth slides across Draco's belly and instead of contemplating the enormity of what has just happened, he slides his hand to the back of Theodore's neck and pulls him close, their mouths crashing together.
"I didn't know," he gasps. "That you were... that I was..."
"Only for you," Theodore responds, sliding his mouth down along Draco's neck and along his chest.
The scars that had worried him before seem to be of little concern at this point. Draco is less focused on them and more focused on the wet press of Theodore's mouth and losing himself in the warmth of it. And when that mouth envelops his cock, Draco feels a strange sort of relief. Tumultuous fears of the upcoming year and what was going to happened didn't seem to be of any import.
He knows that later they will have to return to England. That Theodore will go back to Hogwarts and Draco will be stuck in a war he never really wanted to be part of.
For now they just stay tangled in the sheets. In a bed in Amsterdam. Where nothing has to matter but the here and now.