A/N: Brace yourselves, trash is coming. This little one-shot is based on a prompt by MalfoysMuggleMrs and I wrote this for fun only. Just a little break from Faceless, which (compared to this) I take very seriously (and love regardless). I gave MMM a prompt in return, so make sure to check out what she made of it in Cinnamon Sugar (GW/LL with background Dramione)!

WARNINGS: graphic lemons, obscene language, overall silliness, lack of logic, and a first time attempt at writing present tense prose. Don't expect greatness and read at your own risk. You've been warned!

My choice song for this short piece is "Queere Tiere" by Sookee. It's in German I'm afraid, but the track is great and the music video definitely worth watching.

Here's the input I had:

Pairing: Drarry (*evil laughter ensues*)
Location/prompt: post Quidditch game or practice in the locker rooms. Can be AU or canon. Must be fifth year+
Noun: towel
Adjective: hard
Verb: to suck

Enjoy ;)

If you insist, Malfoy
Or: His father will NOT hear about this

Harry lets out a contented breath as the scalding water touches his skin, soothing his sore muscles. He is worn out beyond imagination and wishes for nothing more than to go up to the Great Hall and enjoy a well-deserved breakfast. With lots of sausages. And eggs. Yes, he could definitely use some protein today.

Angelina has practically threatened him to practise on his own, what with having missed so many of the regular sessions due to his signature habit of getting into trouble and earning detention on more than one occasion. But why she insisted on his training in the early morning hours of a lazy Sunday is still a mystery to him. Probably to teach discipline, he surmises. And seeing as Harry was not keen on being the last straw to break the camel's back – which would most likely stir Angelina into throwing him off the team altogether, because "a lousy Seeker is still better than a non-existent one, Potter" – he has obliged, albeit grudgingly. Who in their right mind would get up as bloody early as five in the morning on a Sunday? Even if it was to play Quidditch.

Harry turns off the shower and snags a towel from a nearby shelf, ruffling his hair before tying it around his waist. Now, where has he put his glasses? Harry squints against the steam and feels for the rims on the shelf, yet the much-needed item is nowhere to be found. He has probably left them in his locker. He lets out a frustrated groan, very likely also induced by his growling stomach, and makes his way towards the changing room.

Bumping his toe on not one, but two benches, a string of profanities escape his lips as he finally reaches his locker. Only the door is already open, blocking the view of someone rummaging inside it.

'Hey, what are you doing?' says Harry. 'Use another locker, mate.'

Harry could swear he hears an unsuccessfully stifled gasp of surprise before the figure talks back.

'This is the Seeker's locker, Potter, and I fail to see your name on it,' snarls an all too familiar voice. 'And I'm most certainly not your mate.'

Oh, fuck me. Why him of all people? Why not someone less nerve-wracking?

'I was still using it, Malfoy. Just shove off and get another one.'

At that, Malfoy shuts the door. Harry's view is still entirely blurred of course, but Malfoy is clearly in the middle of changing into his training gear; the pale skin of his torso all but glowing in the dim light. Harry can make out a green jumper currently being pulled over his head.

'Yeah?' the blond sneers, voice muffled until his head pops out. 'Make m –'

How hard is it to finish a two-syllable sentence? Very, apparently. Draco stares at his rival, dumbfounded and trying not to swallow audibly. Potter is just standing there, clad only in a towel, water droplets trickling down his shoulders, chest, abdomen … bloody everywhere! Draco forces his eyes shut as to not look at him.

'For God's sake …' grumbles Potter, pushing him out of the way. Closing his eyes has clearly been a bad idea, what with Draco almost losing his balance while stumbling backwards. However, keeping them open would be just so … distracting.

Honestly, you're being ridiculous, he thinks to himself. It's just Potter. What on earth can he possibly do?

Draco opens his eyes only half-way, watching as Potter gropes the top rack of the locker. Right, he isn't wearing his stupid glasses.

'What the hell, Malfoy? Have you gone mental or something? What are you closing your eyes for? Trying out a new technique of how not to catch the Snitch?' teases the now bespectacled Golden Boy, turning around to him, Draco immediately jerking his eyes shut again.

'Isn't it obvious, Potter? You're disturbing my sight.'

'Right,' drawls Potter and Draco can tell he is taking a step towards him. Bloody Gryffindor. 'You didn't seem to mind lately, though.'

'What do you mean?' asks Draco.

Another step.

'Oh, you know … just the looks you've been throwing me over the past few weeks.'

'Of contempt.'

Potter is standing right in front of him now. Draco can sense the humidity rising and his blood flowing.

'I doubt that.'

Why, oh why does he have to be so bloody close?

'I can see you eyeing me, Malfoy … in the Great Hall … during lessons – don't deny it.'

'Clearly you're the one who's gone mental, Potter,' he spits. 'I have no idea what you're talking about.'

'Oh yeah?' says Potter and Draco can tell he's smirking. 'I think there's something in your trousers which begs to differ.'

Oh, fuck no ...

Draco opens his eyes, only to stare into a pair of bright green orbs, much too mesmerising to be allowed existence. He doesn't dare lower his gaze, but his eyes dart down all the same, spotting the barely visible bulge concealing his half-boner; however visible enough to the sharp eye – in this case, Potter's. Draco swallows hard.

'It's alright, Malfoy,' the Gryffindor says then, his voice hardly more than a whisper. He leans in, and Draco can feel water dripping down from the boy's hair and onto his neck. 'I'm not complaining.'

Draco inhales sharply as Potter begins to nibble at his earlobe. So stunned by Potter's unprecedented move, he's practically frozen in place. The hand now fondling his crotch doesn't help in the least; on the contrary, Draco's dick is only growing stiffer and stiffer.

'Now, now, Draco,' purrs the Boy Who Lived, his mouth trailing down his neck. 'Have I rendered you speechless?'

'Fuck you,' hisses Draco, but Potter only clicks his tongue.

'I'd rather you take care of that, but if you insist …'

With that he draws a step back, removing his towel quicker than either of them could have said Quidditch. Draco wants to force his eyes shut again, but the view offered now is too luscious to resist. Potter's cock stands hard and inexorable, almost obtrusive; and why-oh-why so bloody mouth-watering. It's poking the air between them, teasing and practically begging to be touched. Draco still finds it impossible to move his limbs, so all he does is bite the inside of his cheek, watching as Potter wraps his hand around his shaft, gliding up and down, up and down …

'Like what you see?' jeers Potter, entirely unfazed by the inappropriateness of the situation. He keeps stroking his length, from root to tip. 'Malfoy, you disappoint me. I wasn't expecting you to be shy. Where's your "Scared Potter?" attitude gone all of a sudden?'

Draco is gritting his teeth so tightly it hurts. Could Potter be more vexing? How dare he make fun of him? It doesn't help that his own throbbing erection is relentlessly pushing against the seams of his trousers.

'Fuck you,' he spits again, frustrated with his own inability to do something. Anything.

'Oh come on!' groans Potter. 'I already am, cut me some slack!'

His hand is picking up speed now; Potter biting his lip and peering at his own crotch before his eyes dart back up to him again. Did he just lick his fucking lips?

'But,' he continues, panting, 'if you have such a filthy mouth and so little to say anyway, why don't you do us both a favour and nosh me off?'

Potter's bluntness is too much for Draco.

'Shut the fuck up, Potter,' he snaps. 'Do you think this is some sort of joke?'

'Not really, no.'

The raven-haired boy stops wanking immediately and instead walks up to him once again, his erection prodding his now very prominent bulge.

'I don't think this is a joke at all,' he breathes against his lips, hovering only a palm away from his for a few very long seconds before capturing them in a searing – and dripping wet – kiss. Draco's eyes flutter shut, and he hates himself for the silly, hormonal reaction, but even more so, he hates Potter for doing this to him. He has no right. He shouldn't. And yet Draco doesn't push him away. The kiss seems to melt his defences, and Draco returns it now – much to his chagrin – with more fervour than he would like to impart; his fists clenched at his side the only part of his body still trying to resist the irresistible.

As Potter pulls at his lower lip, however, Draco cannot help but snake his arms around his rival, one hand burying itself in his wet hair, the other digging into the small of his back. He couldn't have stopped it from wandering down to grope one of Potter's arsecheeks if he had wanted to.

'I see you've changed your mind, then,' heaves Potter, grinding his loins against his.

Merlin's fucking balls, how have they got into this predicament again?

'You're awfully quiet, Malfoy,' complains Potter, pulling at the hem of his jumper. 'I won't lie, your jibes are normally kind of a turn-on. Makes it hard to concentrate in class.'

Draco lets go off Potter's firm backside to raise his arms over his head and allow the Gryffindor to undress him.

'You want me to talk?' pants Draco eventually, notwithstanding a glance down at Potter's ridiculously tantalising hardness. 'Put your mouth to good use and suck my dick.'

A scarlet hue rushes to Potter's cheeks and he bites down on his lower lip in mock coyness; a gesture which – for some strange reason – pushes Draco's confidence even further.

'Did I speak fucking Mermish? Get on your knees, Potter!'

Draco gulps at his own forwardness, watching as Potter does as he was told, squatting down slowly, his breath ghosting across his chest, past his navel … when Potter's tongue darts out to trace his happy trail, Draco all but loses his mind.

'Get on with it,' he presses through gritted teeth, and Potter obliges by unbuttoning his trousers and pulling them down to pool at his ankles; his pants quickly following suit. In an odd fit of panic, Draco dreads being pushed away; a scene playing in his mind in which the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team suddenly jumps from behind the lockers to laugh at him, yet nothing of the sort happens. Potter only licks his lips while taking in the view.

'I couldn't have dreamt it any better,' he says before circling his root with his forefinger and thumb (oh my God is this really happening?), dragging his tongue all the way up his shaft (fuck yes, it's happening!), until reaching his tip and enveloping it with his lips.

Sweet Mother of Merlin.

Draco thinks he is going to faint upon the touch of Potter's hot mouth taking in his cock as though it were his last fucking meal on planet earth. How is Potter so good at this? Has he done it before? The questions soon disintegrate into thin air when the Golden Boy begins to fondle his bollocks.

'Fuck, Potter,' splutters Draco. Not knowing what else to do with his hands, he buries them in Potter's disturbingly messy hair, resisting the pressing urge to outright fuck his mouth. Potter then releases him to stroke up and down his length at a torturous pace. He looks up at him, an alluring glimmer in his eyes – was it devotion? Mere desire? Whatever it was, it was a bloody turn-on.

'Do you want me to make you come, Draco?' he asks coyly.

'Stop talking and bloody get on with it,' hisses Draco, but Potter only shakes his head.

'Say it.'

'I won't –'

'Say it.'

'I'm a prefect –'

'Oh, as if anyone cares. Say it!'

'Fine,' groans Draco exasperatedly, the hand on his dick making it all the more harder to form a proper sentence. 'Make me come, Potter.'

'If you insist, Malfoy …'

Potter then dives back in, swallowing more of his throbbing cock than before, all the while cradling his ballsack as though it were a ruddy imperial orb. Draco can't decide if he wants to close his eyes and simply relish the amazing sensation or look at Potter – Harry bloody Potter – sucking him off. Even if he'd hate himself for it later, Draco goes for the latter.

His hands find the back of Potter's head once again, only this time he is exerting pressure. When he begins to enforce a rhythm, Draco expects the bespectacled boy to object, yet he does not seem to mind – on the contrary: a deep groan escapes his lips, muffled by Draco's dick. The reaction makes his muscles clench, but only when Potter slips one finger between his thighs, finding the rippled flesh around his arsehole, does Draco come undone.

He tenses up completely, inhaling sharply as he feels pulsing waves unloading into Potter's mouth. Green eyes meet his and for a second, Draco acknowledges the way his heart skips a beat. Just for one second, until his conscience kicks back in. So Draco does the only thing he feels confident about: sneer.

'Bet you liked that, didn't you, Potter?'

'Not as much as you, apparently,' he says, licking his lips. Potter stands up, covering his mouth in a rather bitter kiss without so much as a warning. 'But you're right,' he purrs, pulling away, 'it is fun. You should try it, too.'

With that, Potter grabs Draco's hand and wraps it around his ever so stiff length, moving it up and down. Where has his bashful demeanour gone all of a sudden?

'Sit down,' he says calmly.

'What the fuck? If you think –'

'I don't think, Malfoy, I expect. Now sit on the sodding bench. Or I'll make sure your father hears about this.'

'My father will certainly not hear about this,' he spits, although Draco cannot deny that he finds being bossed around rather enticing.

Sod it.

He pulls up his pants and trousers and complies; after all, he would have all the time in the world to question his sanity later. Now all he sees is Potter's crotch in front of his face; his hardness sitting in a patch of wiry black hair, a sinful drop gathering at his tip …

As Draco takes him in all he thinks about is his taste on his tongue and his feel against his palate, Potter's chesty renderings of approval ringing in his ears.

'Right, just like that …' groans Potter. This time it is his hands which tug at his hair – Draco knows he should hate him for the act of dominance, but Salazar be damned, it was so fucking hot. He could bloody well do this all day, never leaving the changing room ever again.

'I want to shag you,' murmurs Potter and Draco feels his chest constrict. Out of panic? Anticipation? The disconcerting realisation that it actually might happen – if not now, then sometime in the near future?

Instead of answering – or accommodating the request, for that matter – Draco starts circling the sensitive tip with his tongue while pumping Potter's shaft with his hand, picking up the pace.

'I take that as a n-oh shit –'

Draco feels Potter tense up and spill down his throat; it's hot and bitter, and Draco can't help but choke upon the unfamiliar sensation. However, it still makes his own crotch tingle in the weirdest way. He releases him, looking up to the boy and drawing satisfaction from his sated expression, a pink blush creeping across his cheeks.

'You had better go back to the castle,' says Draco, picking up the previously discarded jumper, feeling very sure of himself what with having rendered Potter speechless. 'Before your dim-witted friends start to think and deduce from both our absence – oh wait – I doubt Weasley is mentally capable of such a thing.'

'Shove it, Malfoy,' growls Potter, but Draco only revels in riling him up.

'Maybe next time,' he teases, inducing an audible gulp.

'Does that mean we will do this again?'

'You wish, Potter.'