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[personal profile] birdsofshore posting in [community profile] hpkinkfest
Title: Hand in Glove
Author: [ profile] birdsofshore
Artist: [ profile] shiftylinguini
Prompt Number: S14 submitted by [ profile] nia_kantorka
Kink Showcased: Glove kink
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Summary: His fingers are cool and steady against my skin and I imagine I can smell the scent of leather on them already, expensive, addictive... but it's not enough. He traces the line of my jaw, tilts my chin up so that I'm looking into his eyes. “Should I put the gloves on?” He sounds playful, as if this is just a game between us. A bit of fun.

“Yes.” My voice is always hoarser than I expect. I never remember quite how deep the knife-twist of desire bites into me.

Warnings: Glove kink. Hand kink. Sex in risky places. Antagonism. Some hints of D/s dynamics.
Word Count: ~9k
Author's Notes: Dear nia, I hope you don't mind that my brain took your glove kink prompt and ran off with it to an entirely different place. Thank you so much for the inspiration. I'm not sure if I truly had a glove kink before writing this fic, but I certainly have one now!

I want to thank the amazing [ profile] shiftylinguini for the art to go with this fic. I couldn't believe my luck when she agreed to collaborate with me on this story and then produced such a stunning image. Massive thanks also to the patient and brilliant [ profile] dicta_contrion for beta services.

The title is borrowed from The Smiths' divine Hand in Glove, which has so many great lines in that I couldn't choose one.
Artist's Notes: Dearest Birds, thank you so very much for inviting me to collaborate on this, and for letting me get my grubby, artistic mits all over it – I didn’t think it was possible for my hand/finger kink to escalate to any greater heights, but you found a way!
Lovely nia, I hope you enjoy this <3


Now, Ministry of Magic, 2009

I swear under my breath as the memo swoops in and jabs at my ear. I don't need to open it to know who it's from; his memos are always far pointier than parchment has any right to be.

Sweat prickles at my palms as I unfold it and read the words Store cupboard, fourth floor. Now.

My chair scrapes on the floor as I stand. “Got to go.”

Head Auror Stratton frowns from across the table. “Auror Potter. Surely not right away.” His eyes dart to the head of the Russian Auror corps, who sits, stony-faced.

“Sorry.” I wave a hand, but my mind is blank as I try to think of an excuse, so I simply reach for my robes and turn away.

Stratton's eyes are narrowed as he watches me leave. I keep my shoulders straight and chin up, my boots clicking evenly across the floor and down the corridor, until I'm in the lift, and then I close my eyes for a moment, swirls of desire and something else, something darker, mingling in my belly.


Then, Hogwarts, 1996

I still remember all of the details. As if it was yesterday, instead of thirteen years ago. Malfoy was a devious bastard. That was nothing new. The difference was that I was finally going to teach him a lesson.

He knew from the start that I was after him; I saw the taunting look he threw over his shoulder as he strode towards the broom shed. He was trying to seem as if he couldn't care less – the nonchalant walk, the arrogant toss of the head – but I was used to watching him enough to notice the flushed cheeks and the way his fingers clenched around his Firebolt. We both wanted to settle it. All of the little jibes, the sneers, the occasional elbow in the ribs, the whispered Jinx in the corridor – those were not enough to satisfy the anger that grew hot and savage in my chest whenever I thought about him. I knew he was itching for it too.

I broke into a run across the muddy pitch and caught up with him just as he opened the shed door. It felt so good to see the look of surprise on his face as I shoved my fists into his chest. He stumbled backwards into the shed, the breath gone out of him for a moment, and then suddenly his boot connected with my knee and a shot of bright pain flared out and down my leg.

I yelled and reached for him, nothing in my head but the need to get my hands on him and grab and hurt and pound and wipe that fucking sneer from his face for once and for all. His breath was coming hard and fast and I threw a punch right at his jaw, but he turned his head and it only half-connected. Still felt good though. He kicked again – his fucking poncy boots hurt – and used the distraction to get one hand around my throat, using the other to grab my hair and wrench. He still had his Quidditch gloves on, and the leather felt strangely soft against my throat, like a caress, even as he tried to throttle me. Who'd have guessed Malfoy could fight so hard and dirty? He looked skinny, but it turned out he was lean and strong and I couldn't fucking breathe

I grabbed at his arms, wrestled one behind his back and from the look of it that really hurt, and it felt good, so good, to be fighting like this, no wands, no spells, just flesh and muscle and bone and spit flying from Malfoy's mouth as he tried to break free, shouting in anger and pain. I got his other arm behind his back and the bastard went to bite me, his teeth tearing at my cheek with a vicious sting.

Shit. I almost let go in surprise, but as the pain bloomed brightly, an unstoppable simmer of frustration and anger and need bubbled up inside me. I still don't know how the fuck it happened, only that one minute he was trying to bite me again, his body twisting against me with savage strength, and the next my mouth was on his, and it was urgent and fierce and hot and wrong and so, so good, like this had been coming for a long time. He still struggled against me, but his mouth said “Fuck,” and “Yes,” and “Yes, Potter,” and then one of his hands was free, and then both, and then he was pushing my hips until I was pressed right against the shelf. He was crowding all over me, and it was like I couldn't get enough of him. He smelled so good – of adrenaline and sweat and leather and some sort of posh cologne – and his mouth sang with the taste of my blood.

It all happened before I could stop and think. He was undoing the laces of my leggings and I was fumbling at his until he knocked my hands out of the way and did it for me. My cock sprang free and I felt ashamed at how hard I was, just from some rather clumsy kissing, but the hungry look of approval on Malfoy's face set wild shivers of heat racing through me. I let out a low, raw moan as one of his hands wrapped around my cock, the leather of his glove cool and supple on my heated skin. The other hand threaded into my hair and held me up as my legs threatened to give way, tugging at my scalp with a satisfying ache.

Ah, fuck... I can still feel it so clearly. It was the first time anyone had ever touched me like that. I don't know if that's why it was how it was. Why I still think about it now. Maybe everyone's first time is like that. Like something searing you, squirming its way inside you, hot and deep, to a place you never let anyone go before.

It felt desperate ‒ urgent, and a bit twisted, and unbelievably good. I needed it so badly. I thought I was going to come as soon as I felt his hand on me, and I almost did, but I managed to last a bit longer by taking turns: Malfoy wanking me, and then me pushing his hands away and returning the favour. I felt clumsy and inexperienced, but I guess every teenage boy knows how to deal with a hard cock.

I rutted up against his stomach and hip as I did it, pushing his tunic up to get at the bare skin beneath, my cock smearing precome over his smooth stomach and bony hip as he swore and panted in my ear. It still didn't take long. When he took me in his fist again, I bucked against his glove, the soft hush of the leather sweetening every pass of his hand and making his rather desperate motions seem like something tender. I kept looking down at his hands. The dark leather wrapped around my prick. I felt the moan coming out of me before I heard it, a long primitive sound that came from somewhere deep and forgotten. I tried to muffle it against the skin of Malfoy's throat, and then I came, trembling, in hot, heavenly spurts, all over his stomach. His gloved hands held me tight, the leather soft and gentle as a prayer.

As soon as I'd finished, he thrust impatiently into my hand once, twice, and then came, his face contorted. The moment it was over we drew apart, panting, and looked at each other like wary animals. Malfoy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, some of my spunk still clinging to the leather of his glove. I wanted to say something, but I had no idea where to begin. So I just stood there, staring, and after a moment Malfoy sneered and began to adjust his clothes. I remember watching as he tucked his cock away, still half hard, and then he was out of the door almost immediately and stalking in the direction of the castle, leaving me hurrying to cover myself in the open doorway.

I stayed in the shed a while. I'm not sure what was going on in my head; I remember just staring at the whorled grain of the wood on the handle of an old Comet broom and breathing in the reassuring, earthy smell of Quidditch gear. But a different image kept dancing in front of my eyes: Malfoy's hands in leather, moving possessively over my flushed skin. Then I heard the sound of voices approaching and left quickly.

I never told anyone about it. What would I have said?

When I went to the Great Hall for dinner that night I didn't look at him, not once. The next day it all seemed a bit like a weird dream, not like something that could actually have happened. But I still kept my eyes fixed forwards all the way through Potions so I couldn't see his hands, his long fingers moving capably to and fro.


Now, Ministry of Magic, 2009

I know the store cupboard – wizarding space means it's more of a store room, really. We've used it before. There are shelves covering every wall, and often random bits of junk have been dumped in there as well. Today there's a broken-looking Pensieve and an old desk, against which Malfoy is lounging.

My stomach tightens at the sight of him there. He's always so bloody immaculate. I resist the urge to straighten my tunic.

“I've been shopping,” he says, and that's all it takes for my mouth to be parched as a boiled-dry cauldron.

His smile is teasing. “Yes, I thought you'd be pleased.” He flicks his wand towards the door and I hear the lock click behind me. Then he reaches for his briefcase.

He takes his time, as if we don't have to rush. As if he hadn't just fucking summoned me from a top-level meeting for this. He looks carefully through his things, leafing through parchment and files, then takes out a rustling package which whispers a song of sweet seduction into my ear. My cock began twitching to life the moment his memo hit my face, but it's standing fully to attention now, well-trained to respond to his commands.

He turns the parcel over in his hands, then gently folds back the wrappings to reveal a pair of leather gloves, of such a dark green as to be almost black. They have a soft sheen and I can see they're as supple as a Knockturn whore, cut narrow so they fit sleek and sure over his fingers. They reek of luxury. I know the places he likes to shop. They probably cost about as much as an Auror earns in a month.

He takes off his robes and spells them to hang against the wall, while I toss mine onto the nearest shelf. Then he begins on his shirt, and I didn't think it was possible to be harder than I was already, but I was wrong. His fingers move deftly, unfastening his cuffs, rolling the sleeve up in neat folds until his forearm is exposed. First the right, then the left, the black lines of the Dark Mark standing out stark against his pale skin. I thought it would have faded now, after all this time, but it looks almost as fresh now as when I first saw it.

He's ready. He has such fucking beautiful hands, smooth skin and manicured nails, not like mine, scarred and calloused from years of battle. But nothing about Malfoy's hands are feminine. His hands are strong and capable and the jut of bone at his wrist, the sinews of his forearm, the light-gold hair there... Everything about him makes a tangled clench of hunger rise up in my chest. He takes one glove from where it lies on its wrappings and prepares to put it on. My god. I can't take my eyes off him and he knows it. My heart is beating harder than it did this morning, when I chased two Dark wizards for half a mile cross-country in the snow.

He's stalling, as usual. He holds the gloves in one palm and strokes the leather with the fingertips of the other hand. His lips look thin and cruel as they twitch into a sly smile. “Nice,” he says. “From Pennington's. Do you like them?”

As if that's not damned obvious from one look at my face. From the obscene bulge tenting my crotch. From the fact that I left my duties to come here as soon as I got his memo, no questions asked.

He brings the glove to his nose and inhales, a smile of satisfaction spreading over his face. I can imagine what he's smelling – the highly masculine, undeniably indulgent scent of fine leather. “Very nice.” He lays them over his knee, then spreads his bare hands before me as if offering me a present. “Shall I?”

A growl escapes from my throat. One day, I'll teach him not to fuck about like this. I'll walk away, let him see I don't give a stuff for his games. I know he must want it just as much as I do. Why would he risk being caught like this? Why would he go to so much effort to give me what I want? One day, I'll just ignore his memo, brush it away when it aims its pointy little nose at me, Incendio the bloody thing for all I care...

One day. But not today.

He's still waiting for an answer.

“Get on with it.” My voice is harsher than I expected and he lifts an eyebrow.

“Been a while, hasn't it? Feeling desperate?”

“Fucking come on, Malfoy. If we're doing this, let's do it. I just walked out of a meeting with Denisovitch to come here.”

His eyes are smoky-grey, like fumes curling up from a potion. He holds the glove ready, his fingers just waiting to slip inside. He speaks quietly. “You know what to do.”

Of course I do. It's not like we haven't done this plenty of times before, for Merlin's sake – but I still hesitate. I know he probably thinks it's because I feel ashamed, because I want to resist letting him know he's won. But really it's because I want to hear him say it.

He waits, the glove dangling from his hand, the opening hanging slack. It looks like a mouth waiting to swallow me up. For a moment I'm not sure if I can speak or move.

On your knees,” he tells me, softly, almost lovingly, and my legs fold and obey of their own accord.

I hit the hard floor with a thud, but I scarcely feel the jolt travelling up my thighs because as soon as I am down he is smiling, smiling and flexing his fingers and pushing them slowly into the flaccid leather, filling the holes and making them swell and stand proud. I hear the sounds my throat is making and there's nothing I can do about it. He slips the thumb in and flexes again, his knuckles shiny and prominent under their second skin of leather. Oh god, there's a buckle at the wrist and he cinches it tight, watching my face as he snicks the prong into the hole and then smooths the tongue sleekly into its loop. They sit so well, as if they were made for him. He spreads his fingers to admire the fit and smiles, cruel and devious.

He stands up and steps towards me. He reaches out for my face... but with the ungloved hand. His fingers are cool and steady against my skin and I imagine I can smell the scent of leather on them already, expensive, addictive... but it's not enough.

He traces the line of my jaw, tilts my chin up so that I'm looking into his eyes. “Should I put the other one on?” He sounds playful, as if this is just a game between us. A bit of fun.

“Yes.” My voice is always hoarser than I expect. I never remember quite how deep the knife-twist of desire bites into me.

“Well, I don't know if I will just yet. The Minister thinks I'm taking a long distance Floo-Call. I've got a good half an hour before he'll wonder where I've got to.” His hand moves to my hair, and he takes a handful and grips it gently. “There's no rush.”

“Merlin.” I scowl at him. “I've got to get back.”

“Ah, well. That's a shame. Perhaps I'll stay here by myself and enjoy them.”

He did that once, too – had me sit and watch while he brought himself off with a pair of ridiculously sleek black suede gloves, his pampered cock gliding in and out, lazy and hedonistic. I can still picture the way his come looked, smeared against the nap of the suede.

“No. I'll stay.” I could wrongfoot him. Just walk out. But his hand feels so good in my hair, his firm grip holding me steady, and I can see the bulge of his erection, jutting insolently near my face. “Do it, Malfoy. Put the other one on.” The truth is I'd say almost anything to get what I want – no. It's been five long weeks, for Merlin's sake – to get what I need.

“Very well.” He stands with his legs apart, his face taut with tension. “Get my cock out.”

I reach for the buckle of his belt. He had me do it with my teeth once, and I was so wound up that the bloody prong wouldn't come loose for what seemed like forever. This time it slips out, as easy as Accio. His cock is pressing against his fly, and I cup it with my palm as I work the buttons open. He's not wearing any underwear. I wonder if he ever does, if it amuses him to go around in those elegant formal robes, that crisp white shirt, the beautifully-tailored trousers, and then his bare cock and balls beneath.

Or whether he simply goes without on days like today, to drive me fucking crazy.

His cock springs free and it's hard and thick and heavy. I don't need him to tell me to kiss it, but he does anyway. It's solid against my lips, my nose filling with the scent of his arousal. I press the heel of my hand against my own cock, feel the pleasure pooling hotly in the pit of my stomach.

He settles his arse back on the desk, stretches his legs out in front of him and points to the floor between them. “Come here,” he says.

I move forwards on my knees until I reach him. I suppose it should be humiliating. But it makes my blood beat hot and strong at my temples.

“Lick it,” he tells me. He always sounds especially snooty when he's saying something filthy.

I work a broad stripe from base to tip with my tongue, and he watches my face as if he wants to learn it by heart. I moan at the taste of him, wanting to swallow him down, but more than that. Wanting so much that it feels like I'm hollow with it.

Malfoy pulls back and watches me intently as he holds the other glove up. My breath catches in my throat as he gently wriggles his hand into its recesses. My own hand moves over my erection, just the barest motion, and I fight against the whine that wants to spill from my mouth. He tugs the glove on more securely, bringing it snug around his manicured fingers, using the other hand to push at the dips between his fingers, ensuring a perfect fit. His gaze keeps flicking to me, apparently fascinated by my reactions, and then, at last, when he seems satisfied that the gloves are sitting just right, he flexes his fingers, admiring them.

Every powerful inch is sheathed to perfection. A profound shiver, deep and unstoppable, throbs through me and then he's at my side again, stroking my face, the smoothness of leather catching on the stubble at my jaw. His thumb slides over my cheek, gently, the way I imagine a mother's touch would feel. His fingers slip into my hair, teasing at the soft skin just behind my ear, scuffing through the hair at my nape. My mouth falls open and then the softly searching fingers sweep over my throat and come to rest against the pulse clamouring there.

I press into his touch, a whimper rising from deep inside as I seek out his fingers with my cheek, my lips. His expression looks almost indulgent as he brushes his fingers to and fro.

“I like your mouth, Potter,” he murmurs. He slips a leathered finger between my lips and I groan in ecstasy at the feel of it, creamy-soft against my tongue. It smells of power, of luxury. It calms me and rouses me at the same time, my breath coming fast and shallow, my nose and throat filling with it, heady and sensual.

Malfoy's pupils are wide, his face rapt. “Yes. Yes, suck it, Potter. Suck it, just like you're going to suck my cock,” and I do, I go down on his fucking fingers like I'm ravenous for them. Like I've been waiting five fucking weeks for this, aching for nothing more than the taste of Malfoy's fingers wrapped in leather. I close my eyes so I don't have to see his smug expression. My own cock is leaking, painfully hard, and I'm making greedy noises and leaving the glove slick with my saliva as I try to suck his fingers in further, try to lose myself in the soothing, maddening feel of the leather.


Then, Ministry of Magic, 2008

This is how it began: we were in the lifts – I was heading up to Level Two, and he was on his way to the Minister's Office. We'd passed in the corridor before, given each other the barest of nods, but this was the first time we'd arrived for work together. I remember as he stepped in, I met his eye briefly and then looked away. Apart from me and Malfoy, there were about six others in the rather small lift, and there was that awkwardness where you all stand stiffly to avoid brushing against anyone else.

Malfoy stood near the door but facing away from it, facing all the rest of us, and that seemed odd, and sort of intimidating, too. Looking back, he probably just didn't want to turn his back on the crowd. He was pretty new at the Ministry then, and, no surprise, there'd been a lot of mistrust about someone like him taking on the role. A Malfoy, assistant to the Minister? There were mutterings about dirty deals. Questions about bribery, or blackmail. But however it had happened, he'd got the job, and we all had to get used to it.

Anyway, he stood there, his stance kind of challenging, his face expressionless. I was watching him while trying not to show it. It was just curiosity – the last time I'd seen him properly was probably at his trial. He looked quite different to those grim days. He looked... sleek. Very well-dressed. I couldn't deny he had the best of the Malfoy genes. He'd always been striking, with his pale hair and angular face, but now there was something fascinating about the lines of his body and the haughty curve of his cheekbones.

I watched him pat his wand in his pocket ‒ an unconscious gesture ‒ then he began to take off his gloves. It was January, but the heating charms at the Ministry were working properly for a change. The gloves were narrow, black leather, with a button at the wrist, and as Malfoy took them between his teeth and tugged, I forgot that I wasn't meant to be staring at him openly. The leather peeled away from his fingers, and then he seemed to feel my gaze on him. I can only imagine what I looked like at that moment. I'm an Auror, for fuck's sake, trained not to show my emotions in my face, but it seemed like Malfoy took me back to a time before I'd learned to hide what I was feeling. His eyes opened wide for a second, then took on a calculating expression.

The second glove went up to his mouth more slowly, and he stopped to fiddle with the button on the way, watching my face as he undid it. I pulled my eyes away to stare at the floor, cursing the heat I could feel rising up through my chest and into my cheeks. But it was impossible to keep my eyes away from him for long. I risked a glance, and the second glove was between his teeth, the finger stretching as he turned his head sideways to pull it off. Sweet holy Merlin. I stifled a sound in the back of my mouth, biting down on– I don't know what. Surprise. Discomfort. A sharp wanting. But he saw me. He fucking saw me. And I couldn't hide from him any more than I could hide from the memory of that time, so many years ago, that one, stupid, messy, idiotic, brilliant time, pressed up against the Quidditch shed with the smell of wood and polish all around us and his fist gripping me with the heady softness, the intoxicating strength of a leather glove.

Nothing happened – not that day. Nor the next time I saw him, though the look he gave me was hot and cruel and tempting.

But he'd been at the Ministry for less than a month before I had him pressed up against the wall of the lift, just the two of us in between floors, my knee nudging his thighs apart and his hands in their fancy leather gloves gripping the curves of my arse.

And then he made me a proposition.


Now, Ministry of Magic, 2009

He looks down at me, letting his fingers fuck in and out of my willing mouth, and his face is avid. I don't know what it is about this that lights his candle. I mean, clearly he enjoys wearing leather as much as I like seeing him in it. But there's more than that. The power, I suppose. Me, a Senior Auror, down on my knees, as close as he can push me to being incoherent with longing. I think he likes the sneaking around, too. The danger. And the simple depravity of it. He's just a twisted fucker, basically. More or less what you'd expect from someone who grew up like he did.

He cups my face with his other hand and I let out a heartfelt groan. It's funny ‒ I can go weeks without needing to see him, but lately I've been thinking about it all the time. I know there are places I could go. Clubs. Where people like this sort of thing. But I don't know. I don't go for all of that, to be honest, the whips and chains and whatever it is that they do. My body doesn't crackle with want at the thought of that stuff. My body just likes Malfoy, and his bastard elegant fingers, pushing closer to the back of my throat so that saliva starts to pool in my mouth.

I never contact him myself. Even if sometimes at night I lie awake and burning for the cool touch of his hands.

At work, I often pass him in the corridor, and sometimes, if there aren't too many people around, I look at him, and sometimes I just know. Know that he can see how much I need it, how I'm hard for him underneath my uniform. How I'll be distracted all fucking day now. How I'm this close to pinning him up against the door of the Minister's Office and parting his robes so that I can rut against his bare skin, just like I did that day in the shed.

Don't get me wrong. I can get plenty of sex when I want it. But a lot of the time I don't want it. I want this.

His eyes are darker now as he pulls his fingers from between my lips, ignoring my attempts to suck them back in. Instead he offers me the back of his hand.


“Kiss it,” he tells me, and I incline my head for him, my lips brushing the glossy leather.

“Say thank you, Malfoy,” he tells me.

Fuck you, Malfoy,” I growl softly, and he laughs, and nudges his cock against my lips, instead, and I open wide and take him in.

He always tastes good, his skin clean and fresh and tantalising, rather than the bland weirdness that comes from a cleaning charm. I imagine him showering in the morning. I wonder whether he's already decided, at that point. Whether he sits there all day knowing that he's going to send me a memo at two thirty pm. Or whether he decides on the spur of the moment. I wouldn't put it past him to have access to my schedule, to know that this was the least convenient time in the whole sodding day...

But somehow that thought just makes me harder. I sigh around his cock, shifting on my knees to get comfortable, and as I relax and let him start thrusting, just small, shallow movements at first, he slides his hands over my face to cup my jaw. Cool leather slides over hot skin, and the familiar aching buzz of arousal intensifies.

“Potter,” he whispers. “Yes, that's it.”

I wrap my arm around him for a moment to steady myself. The muscles in his legs feel tense, as if he's pretty revved up already. My hand drops to my own erection, a shudder of need trembling through me.

He pulls out and takes my chin between thumb and finger as I unlace my breeches, finally letting my cock loose from its confines. It's full, and heavy, and so sensitive to the touch. It's too much, the feel of the leather on my face, the thought of how it would feel in other places. Sliding slyly over my stomach. Clasped close around my cock. Stroking steady and sweet across my arse as I imagine him fingering me with the glove – oh, dear fucking Merlin, imagine that, and my cock leaps at the thought, as guileless and eager as can be. I palm myself, roughly enough to feel like a reproach.

“So hot for me, aren't you?” He leans back, glides his own foreskin back and forth, the dark leather gleaming against the flushed length of his cock. It looks debauched. It looks fucking beautiful. “I bet you could come just from watching. Just from sucking me off.”

I probably could. Fuck, I want to come now. I'm wound so tight. “Malfoy.” It sounds like a whine. Pre-come is slicking the head of Malfoy's cock, leaking onto his fingers and glistening against the leather. “Fuck. Come on.”

He slips back between my lips, his hands gripping firmly around each cheek, his fingers sliding into my hair with each thrust. That's better. Now I can't think of anything except the taste of cock and the slippery caress of leather.

“What if I unlocked the door, now?” he whispers.

I ignore him, relishing the mild bitterness of his pre-come, the sensation of being held so securely, but then there's a click from over my shoulder and I know he's actually done it.

“What if someone came in, right this minute?” His hand clenches in my hair. He almost hisses it.

Fuck, he's crazy. Does he want to get caught? But I can't seem to care enough to stop. My mouth is full of him, and it's bloody heaven.

“What if they came in and saw you like this?”

He spreads his legs further apart and suddenly the curls at the base of his cock are tickling my face and he's there, bumping against the entrance to my throat.

“Harry Potter. Down on his knees, sucking my cock.” He leans in to bring his mouth closer to my ear. “So hard for me. Aching to come.”

He cradles my face tenderly. I love the way the gloves are so dark, so shiny, and then the contrast of his skin next to them. I can't remember if I first asked him to roll up his sleeves like that or if he just knew to do it. I can't remember anything much at all. Just that I never feel quite so alive as I do at these moments, when I'm on my knees for him with his leather-sheathed fingers stroking gently across my throat to fondle the place where my Adam's apple juts out.

“You're such a kinky slut, Potter.”

The words send throbs of bliss radiating through me. I don't know why it feels good to hear those words coming from his mouth. Words that I'd Hex anyone else for. I think I like the idea of us knowing one another in a way that other people don't. I don't reckon the Minister knows that his assistant likes wearing leather and getting sucked off on the Ministry Galleon. It probably didn't come up at the interview.

Malfoy's breath is coming faster, now, his rhythm slightly erratic. I can feel my own balls tightening, just from the loose and lazy strokes of my hand on my cock, from the thought of him getting near the edge. And, if I'm honest, from the thought of someone coming in and finding us this way. I move my hands to his thighs, taut muscles quivering under the fine wool as he pulls almost all the way out and holds still, his fingers moving, caressing my face, his thumbs stroking the corners of my mouth, his eyes intent on me.

“How about if I had you do this next time the Minister meets with the Auror Department? Under the table. Fucking your own fist with my cock in your mouth, like a filthy slut...”

His voice shakes and then he's thrusting, hard, into my mouth, his hands gripping my face so tightly it hurts, pulling me onto him, his fine pale hair flopping forwards into his face. I groan around the length of him, feel him pulsing as the first burst of his orgasm hits my throat. He's loud – louder than usual – and I wonder if anyone's in the corridor outside, and the thought makes my heart lurch with a jolt of adrenaline. I'm sucking, and swallowing, and I want to come so badly, and he's panting and still gripping my hair, his fingers digging in to my scalp, his mouth hanging open.

When he comes back to himself again, I'm looking at him with narrowed eyes. “Lock that door,” I tell him brusquely.

Instead he stands to tuck his cock away, holding my gaze as he does it, carefully buckling his belt and smoothing his shirt down.

“Lock it, and keep it locked.” It's the voice I use when I'm on duty. Shit. I am on duty, right now, this minute. I glare at him. I could lock it myself, with a word, a gesture ‒ I could do it with a thought ‒ but I want him to do what I say for once.

He settles himself comfortably back on the desk before he stretches his wand out, the polished wood sleek and fine against the dark glove. He pauses before casting. “What's it worth?” He looks amused.

“Me turning up the next time you send one of your little messages?”

“As if you'd keep away.”

Damn, he riles me. If I could find another way to get what I need, believe me, I would. Once there was this bloke, in a bar. He was wearing leather trousers, and gloves, too ‒ fingerless ones, glossy and mouthwatering ‒ and after we Apparated to his place, I suggested he keep the gloves on. He went along with it, but he clearly thought it was amusing, and then I realised I didn't like the way his magic felt. It was all smooth, and sort of bland, and‒ I made some excuse and Apparated home to wank instead.

I thought about Malfoy while I did it, just because it was the quickest way to get off.

“How about both of us holding onto our jobs,” I tell him now. “Is that a good enough reason? It's hard to get sucked off in Ministry store rooms when you've been sacked from your cushy desk job for gross misdemeanours.”

His mouth twists into a small smirk. “I'd find a way,” he says, but he flicks his wand and I hear the lock click.

I get to my feet, my knees stiff. Almost as stiff as my cock. His eyes linger on it, then move up to my face. “Strip,” he says, and something about his tone makes my skin seethe with heat. I think it's the expectation of compliance. Nobody else speaks to me like that. Not Stratton. Not even the Minister, for fuck's sake. They both talk to me with a certain amount of respect.

I pull my tunic over my head, unbuckle my boots and shrug off my breeches and pants. My cock points directly to Malfoy the whole time, like a compass of desire.

Malfoy makes a small sound in his throat, a pleased little croon, and then he's reaching for me with gloved hands and I'm arching into his touch.

Fuck. Feels like... fuck. The leather is always cooler than I remember, always softer, always more sensuous and more... it's just more. I let out a short high sound as he lets his fingers skim over my stomach. How long have we spent in here? Probably too long. His fingers raise goosebumps against my bare skin, sparking such sweet trails of delight along every nerve, lapping heat and want into each muscle, sizzling deep into the very core of me. He wraps my hot skin in cool leather and strokes, slow and languorous, and I'm leaning against him, my hands resting on either side of him on the desk, panting hot and damp against his shoulder, so close already.

“Steady...” he says, and his other hand slips around my hip and then down over the jut of my arse, cupping the muscle there. He sighs with satisfaction and my eyes close, my hands clenched on the desk. I want it so fucking much that I can't even think of the words. He knows, anyway. He always knows what I want, the bastard. The leather brushes across my arse and then into my cleft, unhesitating, as if he knows my body as well as he knows his own.

He barely mouths the incantation. The dirty sod knows a damn good lube spell, I'll give him that. The leather is suddenly slick, and his gloved finger slides across the furl of my arsehole, as soft and sweet as a first kiss.

Ahhhh. His finger slides in and I clench around him. God, oh god. We've been here too long. I know it. But the Minister himself could be breaking down the door and I wouldn't give a shit for anything except the feel of Malfoy's hands on me.

“Yes.” It forces itself out like a groan. Like something I never meant to say. “Yes, oh fuck, yes.”

Malfoy's hands are pure sin wrapped in tight, shiny leather. They're enough to make a man lose his mind. His finger slides out, slowly, as if reluctant to leave the warmth of my body. Then it pushes in again, piercing me with pleasure, a low growl building in my throat from how much I want this.

“Yes,” I tell him again, hoarse and emphatic. “Fucking yes,” and this time it sounds like an order. His other hand strokes across my throat and then his fingers are feeling for my Adam's apple, a reminder, a warning. As I swallow, I feel the cool firm length of his hand, resting there against my windpipe – not enough to make it hard to breathe. Just enough to let me know what he could do.

I don't care. I don't give a fuck as long as he keeps pressing into me, the short, harsh strokes making me want to howl for more. My cock is leaking, jerking uncontrollably. I pant against the skin of his throat, an oddly intimate feeling, my nose seeking his flesh beneath the starchy collar he wears.

More,” I force out. He pushes at my shoulder, putting distance between us, and then he pulls out, his fingers leaving my body with a slick, wet sound. A cry of raw disappointment stutters from my mouth.

“Stay like that. Don't move.” He stands up, and I move one arm to let him free, turning my head to keep an eye on what he's up to. Shit, the fingers of the glove are glistening with lube, wet and obscene, the leather even closer to black now. That was inside me, I think, and a tremor runs through me as he strokes that same gloved hand across the muscles of my back, then down, tracing a trail along the bones of my spine, his fingers lingering over every vertebra.

“Potter.” He draws my name out as if it's something filthy and compelling. He seeks out my hole again, and as he pushes into me this time it's two fingers, sliding deep and wicked, stretching me, filling me, making my back arch, jutting my arse towards him in entreaty. Oh, god, why does it feel so good? Why is it him who makes me burn like this?

“You dirty slut.” His voice is smug, but I don't care. His fingers are deep inside me and he curls them almost cruelly, bringing heat roaring to my nerve endings at every spot he touches. Another cry judders from my lips and as he drives his fingers further in, I let my head drop down and pant out deep breaths of longing.

“Spread your legs,” he tells me, and I do. I feel like I'd do just about anything. I guess it should feel shameful to stand here before him like this, but I feel so alive, my body thrumming with delicious tension. I feel fucking free, standing here letting Malfoy have his way with my arse, the cool air raising goosebumps on my flesh and Malfoy's body lean and firm behind me.

He rests his hand on my shoulder for balance as he curls his body around mine, his fingers deeper still, twisting into the core of me.

“Yes. Uh‒ yes.” I urge him on and he gives me more, moving with purpose now, opening me until I feel like he's fucking me with the glove – and as he leans into it, I feel his legs close behind me, and the hard outline of his cock against my flank.

I don't know if the dirty bastard takes potions or something, but he's always like this – his erection unfaltering, voracious, as if being hard is the norm for him. But he never has those hand tremors that go with virility potions. No, fuck, his hands are steady and sure as he unbuttons swiftly and presses into me, taking my breath away with the sudden smooth slide of it.

Ugh. Always so tight.” He grunts, well-pleased, and grips my hips, two gloved hands framing my pelvis, nudging himself deeper inside me until‒ahhh, yes. That's it. That's where we both want him to be.

Nngh, yes. Fuck. Potter. Have you been saving yourself for this?”

“No.” I grate it out, and it's not an untruth. I certainly don't abstain from sex in between our meetings. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't wait for this. Perhaps I do save some part of myself, some dark and questionable part, just for Malfoy. “Not at all,” I rasp.

He chuckles, and I see spots of light dance in front of my eyes as he thrusts into me, once, twice, eye-wateringly deep, just how I like it, ending with his body flush against mine.

It's been too long. Far too long. I want it hard enough that I can feel it for days. Want to sit at my desk and savour the ache of him inside me. See his fingerprints on me when I undress at night, small inky-blue reminders. “More. Don't stop. Fucking hell, Malfoy, I haven't got all day. I don't know what they pay you for, but they prefer me to do some actual work from time to time, you know?”

He laughs again. It's tricky to maintain the moral high ground when I'm bent over a Ministry desk with my arse high in the bloody air.

“Merlin. Would you just hurry up and fuck me?” My voice vibrates with frustration and I feel his cock twitch powerfully inside me. He pushes me down, one gloved hand on my shoulder, and then he's slamming into me, hard and unwavering, exactly what I need. His hand digs into my flesh, hard enough to bruise, and my body driven forward with every stroke.

“Ah, ah, yes,” I hear myself grunt, and hot bursts of pleasure are already building in my thighs.

“Yes, you like that.” He hisses the words out. “Oh, fuck, Potter, so tight for me. So filthy and hot.”

Christ, I'm so close already. The build up was too much. I'm going to come all over the desk. I feel my muscles tightening, nerves sharpening, ready to flood my body with bliss when I come.

Ah. Malfoy, I—”

“Fuck, Potter, not yet.” He slows to a halt with what feels like some effort. One hand wraps around my chest, the other snaking around my hip. I'm held fast in the cool, soft quietness of leather. His breath comes fast, his chest rising and falling against my back.

I'm making a noise a little like a whimper. I can feel his magic, a vivid, flickering thing, throbbing against my skin. My erection strains upward, longing for his touch, but finding only empty air.

I don't want this to be all over. God knows when the next time will be. But my balls are aching for release and I'm pretty sure I'm meant to be in Camden in about ten minutes, interviewing that dodgy apothecary bloke. Sometimes... sometimes I think about what it would be like to have a whole night with Malfoy. The things we could do to each other. But it's just a daydream. Something to pass the time on slow stakeouts.

I clench my fingers around the unyielding wood of the desk and grit the words out. “Touch me.”

His fingers trail over my skin, hardly moving at all. “Or what?” He says it softly, tauntingly.

“Don't fuck with me any more, Malfoy, or I swear I'll make you regret it.” I mean it, too, can imagine the curses sizzling from my wand, scorching my fingertips. He can probably hear it in my voice. “Touch me, now.”

His hand tightens around my hip and a rough sound catches in his throat. He reaches around to my needy, bobbing cock and this time when the leather encloses me, I moan at the fierce joy of it. It's too bloody much. I draw back, ready to thrust into the tender, thrilling circle of his hand and then he's fucking me again, his cock relentless and deep.

His hand on my cock is like balm on blistered skin. He's not so much wanking me off as fucking me into his own hand, my body buffeted by the force of each thrust. I throw my head back and a keen, ragged sound emerges, each slam of his body into mine feeling like this will be the one to tip me over.

“Yes, that's it.” He pants the words out. “Fuck my glove, Potter. I know what you like.”

But I'm not sure if he does. He thinks it's just the gloves, but oh hell, it's him, it's him, too—

Then he arches into me, strong and powerful and he lets out a frank moan, guttural and brutal and perfect, and I'm coming, great rapturous spurts of it, my body clenching around him, my cock snug and pampered in his leather fist. I cry out, one last time, the sound ripped from somewhere deep inside. Malfoy is buried inside me, making his own noises. I want to memorise them for later but I'm too far gone, my pulse pounding in my ears, my body shaky with euphoria.

Malfoy finishes grinding against me and lays his head down on my shoulder for a moment. His breath is hot and damp against my skin. We rest like that, my body full of a warm, shimmering contentment, for less than a minute, before he's pulling out and adjusting his clothing again.

I straighten up, my back protesting slightly as I turn around and let myself sink down on the desk. I have to leave. One minute, and I'll get up. There's spunk on the desk, long strands of it, and more streaked across the floor. There's also plenty over the glove, which Malfoy holds to my face.

“Lick it,” he says, and I do, of course I do. My eyes meet his silvery gaze the whole time. Not even this makes me feel ashamed, my tongue seeking out the salty drops of my own spunk and working hungrily at the leather. I feel fine. So fine. I feel fucking wonderful, in fact. He's watching me, wholly absorbed, and I run the flat of my tongue deliberately up one of the fingers, feeling the ridge of his knuckle jutting beneath the buttery softness of leather. His eyes darken and I feel the slow addictive stir of arousal ‒ so soon? ‒ and then I'm on my feet and reaching for my clothes before I can let the madness overtake me again.

Camden. Three thirty. Suspected potions ring. I can't remember the name of the chief suspect. Probably not enough time to go and check the file. Malfoy watches as I lace my breeches, a knowing smile on his face that makes me want to grab him, to push him up against a wall, and... I pull my tunic over my head, blotting out the sight of him, for a moment at least.

“Nothing better to do than watch me get dressed?” I ask.

“Nothing at present.” He speaks with studied nonchalance. “I'm meeting the Brazilian Minister for Magic in... “ He looks at his watch. “Six and a half minutes, but do by all means take your time until then.”

He runs a hand through his hair. Bastard looks perfectly groomed. Perhaps a shade pinker around his face than usual, just a subtle mottling to the skin on his throat...

I pull the straps tight on my boots, snick the buckles into place. Scoop up my robes, now slightly crumpled, and I'm done. Merlin knows what my hair looks like. Maybe I can pass it off as part of the roguish Auror appeal. So, Camden. What's that address? Am I meeting Lennox there or are we Apparating together?

I take down Malfoy's Locking Charm as if it were a child's lisped Colloportus. His peevish look makes me want to laugh, but I keep my face serious as I walk over to the desk where he's lounging.

He bites his bottom lip in concentration as he wriggles one of the gloves off, neat white teeth digging into the soft flesh.

“Listen.” My voice sounds sort of gruff. “Don't leave it so long next time.”

Malfoy looks up and raises his eyebrows. I've never commented before on the frequency of our meetings. I don't like to give him yet another reason to gloat. Then he tilts his head to one side. “No. Perhaps I won't.”

It flashes into my head again. The thought of doing... this... somewhere else. Somewhere away from the Ministry. Somewhere we could take our time. Where no-one would interrupt.

He peels the other glove away. His hand looks startlingly pale and exposed as he reveals it, inch by inch, and I feel another tendril of want coiling in my belly.

Merlin. You know what? We'd probably kill each other if we spent any amount of time together. Via exhaustion, if nothing else. And imagine the conversation in the morning. Imagine sitting down to whatever it is Malfoy eats for breakfast. Fricasseed House-elf, probably.

No, this is perfect. He folds the gloves back into their tissue cocoon and tucks them away in his case for another time. I can still feel the sultry aftermath of my orgasm, dancing lazily around my body. Perfect.

“Well, I'll be in touch.” It's an outright smirk that pulls at his mouth this time.

“You do that.” I square my shoulders and widen my stance, feeling my way back into Auror headspace. His eyes follow every move I make. In a couple of minutes we'll both be back in our roles ‒ professional, competent ‒ and no-one will be the wiser about what happened here. I wonder if Malfoy will think of this while he's with the Brazilian Minister. I'm fairly sure he's still watching as I walk away.

Concentrate, now. Camden. Parkhill Road, that's it. Apparate to just behind the Priory. Wipe that grin off your face, man. You don't need anyone wondering what Auror Potter has been doing in the store cupboard that's left him looking so pleased with himself.

The lift is empty except for a skinny wizard with a tea trolley. I wonder when the next time will be. Sometimes he memos twice in one week. Parkhill Road. Three thirty. You're late, now.. The Apparation Point is busy, and as I stand in line, keeping my face appropriately impassive, I feel my elation start to ebb away already. I feel... so tired. Tired of keeping up this bloody act. Day after day, turning up for work, just another cog in the Ministry machine. Ugh, no. Come on, man. I push away the self-pity trying to root itself in my brain. It's been a long week, that's all. I think of getting home in only a few more hours. A hot bath, a large Firewhisky and the WWN on the radio. I'll be fine.

His scent is still in my nose. I resist the urge to close my eyes and picture the way he looked as I left; it's enough to feel the dull ache of his absence in my chest. I reach the front of the queue and spin on my heel. The taste of leather clings to my tongue, soft and lingering as a sigh of regret.
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