sweetprince | Wow, I'm on a roll

[	mood	\|	zen	]
[	music	\|	A Quai	]

Title: Dealing Under the Table
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. One very rich British woman and a bunch of men in Armani suits do (unless of course they're Hugo Boss). Surprise?
Summary: Harry initiates Draco to a new kink at a dinner party.
Pairing: HP/DM
Chapters: 1/1
Genre: Post-war fic
Rating: Hard R to NC-17 depending on how you spin it.

Draco hated dinner parties. He hated pulling his face into a forced smile. He hated talking about the latest trends in the stock market, the words Spell and Place 500 were enough to make him wretch. He hated enquiring after the families he cared little about. He hated the parade of wealth (the only truly wealthy people were the ones were classy enough not to flaunt it). But what he really hated about dinner parties was the fact that, as part of the social elite, he absolutely could not escape them. Not without getting saddled with the appellation "snobbish misanthropic hermit," or "skinflint bastard." The first of which, Draco probably was, but being married to a politician had forced him out like a regular old society wife.

Some old bat across the table carried on about the absurdity of the wait staff at Hermes, and Draco tried his hardest not to show his very real desire to end her life on his face. Reminder: look up deafening spell.

He took another large swallow of his wine, and pushed the food on his plate around in circles. Next to him his partner talked animatedly about the—what was it?—the new advances in wand technology. He had a wand and it worked. He didn't need to store it in a sub-dimensional space pocket, inside the breast of his suit worked perfectly fine.

Draco made a face. How was it that Harry managed to get along so well at these functions? He could charm an old lady out of her dentures if he tried. Draco had different methods. He’d have grabbed the dental pliers and pried them out of her mouth before being charming. Malfoys could be charming when they needed to be, but they got everything without it, so why should he bother?

Draco sighed and for a minute honestly considered lighting the table cloth on fire. Harry twitched like he knew what he was thinking.

Draco sighed. He wasn’t going to light the table on fire, because that would definitely make the society pages of the Daily Prophet. And then they'd be getting mail from the Performance Arsonists Union, and Pyromaniac Pornography. He'd hired a house elf that Hermione frequently tried to liberate just to deal with their daily two tons of fanmail that Harry insisted on reading. And replying. Although Draco had at last finagled him into buying the quill off that gauche Skeeter woman.

Draco felt a hand skim up the inside of his forearm under the table. It was an innocent enough touch. He shot Harry a dark look. Draco continued to eat his steak bordelaise, forearm tense under the table. It was a little frustrating to a person who most prized his vaunted composure that this was all it took to get him hard.

He listened to the society matron drone on across from him--surely an erection killer--but Harry leaned in close to reach for the salt, and Draco could smell him, the same detergent as their sheets. He drew in a quick breath and let it out quickly. He could feel Harry grinning with every fiber of his being. He hoped his eyebrows appropriately said "I hope you die right this instant."

Somehow Harry must have translated as "I hope you grope me." Draco choked on his steak when Harry's fingers drifted from his sleeve down to his crotch. His eyes teared up as he hacked and wheezed. The woman across the table looked at him with concern and actually stopped her lengthy monologue about leather purses.

Draco took a long swallow of water turned and glared at Harry, whose questing hand was now stroking him firmly through the gabardine of his trousers. He thunked his glass down on the table, ignoring the startled look leather-purse lady sent him.

Harry rested his chin in his other palm as he smirked back. Unbelievable. Utterly unbelievable. This could only happen to him. And for reasons that were completely unexplained given his extreme discomfort he was seriously getting off on it. Harry's long fingers deftly undid his zipper while all the guests chattered on around them. Draco actually had to make an effort to look pissed off.

“So, Draco darling, I hear you’re remodeling the east wing of the manor, what colors are you planning to use?” The American nyaff to the left, as he’d termed her, asked him in her curious Bostonian accent.

Draco cleared his throat, attempting to appear unaffected by Harry’s grip on him. “That’s . . .really up to Ha-aarry . . .” He finally bit out, as Harry’s thumb swirled over the head of his cock. He shifted surreptitiously in his chair, but made no move to remove Harry's wandering hand. If Harry wanted to embarrass him, he'd be damned if he let him, even as he felt his face flood with color, his entire body lighting up with heat.

American nyaff just looked at him strangely. Draco smiled as charmingly as he could manage when he was fighting not to shut his eyes and loll in his chair, and then turned away from her before she noticed anything to talk to the tabloids about. Harry laughed at a table-mate’s poor joke, completely ignoring Draco while he continued to torture him below the table. Draco was leaking and trying his hardest not to move or even part his lips. He wanted to ask, "Harry, if they figure this out, how's that goin to go over in the polls?" Harry's fingernails scraped up the underside of his cock like a response. Draco couldn't keep the small squeak squeezed back between his teeth.

Draco wondered if Harry had been possessed sometime between the cheese soufle and the steak, because this was definitely not his ordinary schtick. Harry was really bad at public affection, and public jerking off seemed like several leaps away from a mere kiss in Tottenham when they went out for a walk.

The woman across from him started up her story again, and Draco's mouth dropped open in shock. Really? Really!? He was sure he looked like an embolism was popping in his brain, how on earth could she possibly ignore it? She was just getting to the differences between kidskin and suede when Harry stopped altogether, hand tight and close against his balls. Draco was sure he was gasping like a race horse. He turned his head the slightest inch to give Harry a pained glance. Harry's tongue slid out over his bottom lip in silent mirth, and then he turned back to his neighbor, fingers still wrapped around Draco's length like he was Harry's table napkin or goddamn security blanket.

"Harry," he tried to mutter warningly, but quiet enough not to call attention to himself.

“So Draco, what do you think?” The woman across the table asked, batting her eyelashes. He jumped.

“Er . . .ungh, about what?” Harry’s hand started moving again.

“About the breeding of French poodles, of course!”

“Ah...yes...of--of course.” Draco replied intelligently as Harry’s hand sped up. “I’m not much for poodles . . . myself.” Was everybody at the table blind? Had they totally escaped Harry's jiggling right arm?

“Ah, yes, I do so like terriers.” She responded brightly.

“Ungh,” Draco choked off a moan and tried his hardest to refrain from grinding his hips into Harry’s fist. He fiddled with his napkin, trying his hardest to concentrate on folding it into even white squares rather than the fact that orgasm was quickly closing in on him.

“Breeders these days have gotten so tacky.” She babbled on. Draco nodded along, eyes wide.

Harry leaned over, his shoulder rubbing Draco’s own. “Come,” he whispered in Draco’s ear as he picked up the breadbasket with his left and currently unoccupied hand.

“No!” Draco ground out.

“What?” poodle lady asked, slightly startled.

“Er, no as in—augh—awe and mmm shock.” He replied quickly. He breathed out and gripped his silverware tightly. He turned and glared at Harry again, who slowed his hand so much Draco felt like they'd be here forever. Harry smiled back, his eyes twinkling in full Dumbledorean fashion. That, if anything, should have ruined the mood. But it wasn’t, nothing about Harry turned him off, not even the things he hated about him. A complete disaster.

Harry leaned in again. “Come for me, Draco,” his voice was low in his ear, and it shot straight to Draco’s groin. Draco closed his eyes and sucked in a lungful of air. Harry’s pace increased again to short fast strokes.

Draco knew he was a goner, but he wasn’t going down with out a fight. “Nooo,” he finally said, the sound wrenched out of him.

“Give up, Draco,” Harry said softly, the smirk upon his face totally noticeable in his tone. Draco turned his face into his shoulder and hoped the choking sound he made as he came wasn’t too recognizable as his partner’s name.

“Aww, you guys are so cute.” The hostess said as she made her rounds of the huge rectangular table. “Whispering to each other like teenagers.”

Harry grinned so hugely it split his face open. Draco looked down at his lap and then back up at Harry.

“I’m going to kill you!” Draco said under his breath. Selling this story to the opposing party might teach Harry a lesson in the next election.

“Hah, by coming on me?”

*

fini

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*grin* Loved it!

From:

Grandpa, put that sword away!

Wow, I'm on a roll

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