Hurt Me, Fuck Me (Just Don't Hate Me)

Draco's stomach flips over with excitement as Potter strolls in, Weasley beside him, gesticulating wildly, both of them deep in conversation. Potter's still sweating from training, briny tracks running down the side of his face, forehead, upper lip and neck glistening with perspiration, the round neck of his grey a-shirt dark and wet with it. Potter runs the back of one hand across his brow, chuckling at something, no doubt, inane as fuck, Weasley is saying, and as his arm lifts, Draco can see the beads of moisture clinging to the wiry black hairs in his armpit.

He sticks a leg out as Potter walks past.

Stumbling only slightly, Potter catches himself and whips around, lip curling in irritation as he shoves his glasses higher up his sweaty nose and glares at Draco through the fashionable, square frames, green, green eyes practically shooting sparks at him. "What the fuck is your problem, you slimy shit?" he hisses, and Draco's cock gleefully twitches to life in his pants.

"Oh, I'm looking at him," Draco drawls, leaning one shoulder on the cool metal and crossing his arms.

Weasley struts forward, pushing into Draco's personal space and huffing his hotly into his face, one grubby finger stabbing at Draco's sternum. "Listen here, Malfoy--"

"Ugh, Weasley, get away from me with your sewer breath--"

Draco registers the loud crash of skull against steel before he actually registers the pain blooming across the back of his head – Potter still has his arm shoved into his throat, his teeth bared, his nostrils flared. His arm is sweaty too, and is damp against Draco's freshly washed skin, the fine dark hair pressed flat under the salty sheen. Draco can smell the musk of Potter's sweat, a hint of his spicy antiperspirant under it, all thrown together with a hit of peppermint from the Toothflossing Stringmints he'd been sucking on all through training that day.

Draco is fervently grateful for having already showered and changed into free flowing robes because he's now completely and blissfully hard and some part of his brain frets that his erection is tenting his robes and that Potter is seconds away from noticing and then he would know--

"Either stop being a shit," Potter spits, "or stay the fuck away from us." He releases Draco and pulls back, only very slightly out of breath, the expression on his face more disappointed than angry. "It's been over two years, Malfoy, for fuck's sake."

Weasley snorts. "You've seen what's on his arm, right, Harry? So what if it's been two years?"

Potter turns back to Weasley after another burning, somewhat searching, look at Draco, and the two of them carry on towards the showers, Draco watching the stiff lines of Potter's back.

"Still can't believe they let Death Eater trash like that train for the corps--"

"Ron..."

"Just saying, mate."

Not surprisingly, Draco's erection has waned a bit.

And then Potter's sighed murmur carries over to him, "He's just an arsehole. Leave it."

Well...that helps a bit.

~

Draco can't for the life of him pinpoint when exactly this had started.

Maybe it had been sometime around the second week of Auror training, when Potter had politely requested Draco to budge over so he could reach the pot of tea in the break room, and Draco had automatically snubbed him and asked him to take his orphaned arse elsewhere. The tips of Potter's ears had turned red, the slow spread of rage making Draco's skin tingle with anticipation even as regret had bloomed in his chest.