Fic: Work Your Shit Out, Harry (Harry/Blaise)

[hpraremod]

Title:Work Your Shit Out, Harry
Author: kedavranox
Prompt Number: #69 (hehe) by dormiensa
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Harry/Blaise
Word Count:~3K
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Summary Harry really fucking wants Blaise. He just needs to work his shit out first.
Author's Notes: I had fun writing this! :) Thank you to my beta tamlane who was very fast and very encouraging.




Work Your Shit Out, Harry

Everyone knows Draco’s a slut. You fucked him once in the back alley of the Wiz, the little pub everyone goes to on Friday nights. You fucked him on the back Sirius’ bike because he was so turned on by all the leather and the purr of the engine. You also fucked him in Ron and Hermione’s bathroom at their New Year’s eve party. Everyone knew you were fucking him because Draco’s a loud little shit and can’t keep his mouth shut about how good your cock feels when it’s buried inside him. And all that was nice, you didn’t want anything more from Draco -he’s still a high maintenance prick- and the idea of trying to have any kind of thing with him is ridiculous because even though you shag like rabbits, you can’t fucking stand the git. And, besides, he’s a slut.

Blaise isn’t anything like Draco. The only thing those two have in common is Slytherin. And even though you wanted to, you’ve never even tried to approach Blaise because, while he’s a sexy fuck, he’s a bit aloof, and you have no idea if Blaise is someone you could even pull. He scares the shit out of you — not just because you find yourself staring at him across the room every Friday night when everyone gets piss drunk — but because when you're busy staring at him, you're jealous as fuck of the person talking to him. When his gaze slides towards you, you always look away and pretend your napkin is the most interesting thing in the word, or that you actually care what Hermione’s saying about Goblin rights or magical history.

So when Blaise corners you one night outside of the pub, you're completely flustered. It’s like you're fifteen again, asking Cho Chang to the Yule ball, and you can tell that Blaise is loving it, but you don’t know what that means. Does it mean he’s just like Draco after all, and he just wants a bit of cock? Or is he actually interested?

You walk with him down the street, hunching your shoulders because of the cold, trying your best not to sway too much, or move too close. But you want to. You’re drawn to him. You look across and he’s got his hands in his pockets, too. You wonder what his hands feel like, or his mouth. You wonder if he likes a lot of foreplay or if he just likes to get straight into it. You wonder what he looks like lying flat on his back. You wonder what he would look like if he let his hair grow out. You wonder… you have to stop yourself before you get too distracted and make an arse out of yourself like you usually do.

He leads you to the Apparition point, and you don’t know what’s going to happen when you get there. Will he ask you for Apparition coordinates or will he Side-Along with you? Or maybe he’ll just go home and leave you here alone in the cold. Maybe he’ll ask you to Apparate to his place, which would be a Big Deal, because no one but Draco’s ever seen his place. Which makes you want to see it more, because Blaise’s mystique is half the reason you want to fuck him in the first place. You want to see him in his element. Preferably naked.

The last thing you expect is for him to back you up against the wall and kiss you right there, as if he were just waiting to get you alone, out of sight, so he could snog you senseless and make you hard. But he does. And you like it. You love it. You sneak your fingers beneath his shirt and whisper his name and he kisses you on your jaw and tells you to hold on. He Apparates you both to his flat, and… his flat! Bloody hell. It’s a fucking mansion. More Muggle than you expected. A penthouse, really, with a view of the city that’s breathtaking.

He offers you a drink and you decline, thinking about your cock. He helps you out of your jacket and you do the same for him, admiring his broad shoulders and thinking what a shame it is that clothes are a social necessity. When he backs you up against the sofa you let him because no one else has ever taken control with you before and you love it. Your cock is leaking for it. When you're both naked you spend a few moments checking each other out, and then he drops to his knees and takes your cock into his mouth, straight down his throat and sweet fucking Merlin, you don’t think he even knows what a gag reflex is.

He grips your arse cheeks and you look down at him, forcing yourself to keep your eyes open because you're certain you’ll need the memory for a nice Pensieve wank tomorrow. You let him fuck you up against the wall, which is new because you almost never bottom and his cock is the size of your fucking Firebolt, but it’s good. It’s so good, and he makes you come twice. That’s never happened before. When it’s over he drags you to his bedroom and spoons with you in the bed, which is completely unexpected but… really fucking nice.

In the morning, you don’t know what to do. He feeds you breakfast. He asks you what your plans are for the day. But you're not sure if this is just a one-off or if Blaise really wants you. You stare at him over the breakfast table. His lips are still a bit swollen from sleep, and you instantly think about them wrapped around your cock the way they were last night. You look away, but your eyes drop to his hard chest, on brown nipples and supple skin, and―

How the fuck could this be anything but a one-off? Blaise is gorgeous as hell, you're well... you.Specky and still a bit scrawny (or lean, as you prefer to be called.) The scar is faded, but it’s still there. You’re in pretty decent shape but your abs certainly don’t look like his, or even Draco’s for that matter. So you drink your coffee, resigning yourself to the disappointment, wondering if maybe you could get him to fuck you one more time before he sees you off at the Floo. You pick at your eggs with your fork and then he surprises you again by kissing you softly on the lips and asking you to dinner. You eagerly say, yes.

Dinner on Saturday night turns into breakfast on Sunday morning, then an afternoon fuck on Monday, and another Tuesday. On Wednesday you take a break and jerk each other off in bed because your arsehole is sore. Blaise is actually really sweet under all the bravado and bullshit, and he doesn’t want to hurt you, so he lets you top him that night, even though he’s ‘not a fucking bottom.’

He’s almost as rich as Draco, so he never really has anything to do, which is brilliant because you can fuck all day since you never really have anything to do except for the occasional curse-breaking assignment for Gringotts.

You like it when Blaise talks about himself because he’s fascinating, and his voice is a rich baritone and vibrates in your chest when you lay sprawled with him in his bed. Blaise doesn’t seem to mind that you're fucked up and rubbish at communication and relationships. He’s surprisingly patient with you. When you're in an angsty mood he just gives you space until the drama is over, and you really appreciate that. Your nightmares don’t give him a fright like they do every other partner you made the mistake of falling asleep with, and his mouth, Jesus fucking Christ, his mouth is like velvet around your cock. He likes to talk dirty in bed and he can eat your arse for a good forty-five minutes and he’s turned you into some sort of pillow princess, but you don’t mind one fucking bit.

But, when a week of fucking turns into a month, and then two months, and you're spending more time at his than you spend at yours… you start freaking the fuck out. You start taking up assignments that take you out of Britain for a few days at a time, and then you start ignoring his owls and generally being a bastard. You hate that you always feel the urge to do this when someone gets too close, but you can’t help it.

Blaise has started to push himself beneath your skin, and it scares you to death because he’s there every minute. You think about him all the time. When you’re not with him, you wonder what he’s doing or who he’s with and you know… you know he doesn’t feel the same, because he’s Blaise fucking Zabini and he can have anyone he wants.

So when he sends you an owl — what’s going on, why hasn’t he seen you in almost a week? — you brush it off like it’s something casual and you send a response with some sort of bullshit like ‘I’m a free agent, Zabini, I’ll see you when I see you.’ When you send it with the owl your heart sinks into your toes but you tell yourself it’s self-preservation. And it is because you don’t want to feel the way you felt that time when Oliver said you were just too much and he couldn’t quite take how intense you were about something that was supposed to be casual.

So when you see Blaise on Friday night at the Wiz, he’s back to being his too-cool self and he practically ignores you for most of the night. You're not sure what to do, so you sit and brood at the bar, trying to ignore the way Ron has his tongue stuck down Hermione’s throat, or that everyone else is paired off and you’re back to being alone.

A flash of white blond hair catches your eye and you look behind your shoulder and spot Blaise and Draco, dancing together in the middle of the pub. Draco’s fucking all over Blaise. You're so angry you could spit fire, but you look away and ask the barkeep for another Firewhisky and another, and then another, and by that time, Draco has his hands on Blaise’s arse, and they’re hip-to-hip. Blaise is leaning in to say something in Draco’s ear, and you have to leave before you hex them both, because it’s your own damn fault for being such an idiot in the first place. This must mean that you were right all along, because you know Draco is a slut, which means they’re probably fucking. Maybe they were fucking all along. Blaise never said anything about being exclusive. So you were right to brush him off. He was probably glad.

You tell Ron and Hermione you’re leaving, ignoring their protests of ‘You just got here!’ and you grab your coat and storm out of the pub. You hear footsteps behind you and someone's calling your name. You can’t be arsed, so you keep walking. Someone grabs your hand and you look back and it’s Draco, and you punch him in the face before you even realise what you’re doing and he staggers back and holds his nose.

Then he looks up at you and says, ‘Well that settles that.’

You’re confused and drunk and considering hitting him again, but apparently Draco understands this because he steps back a little and raises his palms.

‘Nothing’s going on between Blaise and me,’ he says.

You laugh bitterly, appalled to find that your laughter is moist, as if you’re just on the verge of tears. Which would be stupid.

‘Looked like something to me, Malfoy.’

Draco’s grey eyes go wide and then he smirks that stupid smirk of his. You consider hitting him again, but then he says, ‘You’re calling me Malfoy again. You must really fucking like him.’

‘Fuck you,’ is all you can think to say. You start walking away, but Draco grabs your hand and you stop.

‘I told him I would prove to him that you want him,’ he says. ‘And you do. Which is why I can’t understand why you would send him that stupid letter.’

‘It’s none of your business,’ you mutter, shoving your hands into your pockets.

‘Blaise is my business, Harry,’ he says. ‘Especially when you make him feel like shit.’

You look up at that, because it hurts to hear. It’s not what you wanted. In fact, you didn’t think it was possible. You thought you were the only one who could hurt, which is dumb and selfish, but there you have it.

You might actually be a self-centred prick.

Draco nods, apparently satisfied. ‘Go to him. Apologise. Then work your shit out, Harry.’

You look down at the floor, because Draco’s been many things to you, but he’s not ever really been a confidante. Still, for some reason, you feel like talking to him about this, because you think he might be the only one to talk some sense into you. Your friends are too soft. They let you get away with too much shit. You trip over your words because you can’t really seem to find a way to explain yourself, but Draco’s expression softens and he steps closer to you.

‘You’re really fucked up, Potter, you know that?’

You definitely do.

Draco sighs. ‘Blaise really fucking likes you, okay? If you tell him I told you this, I’ll fucking hex your balls to your arse crack, got it?’

You nod, and Draco nods, too.

‘When you and I were fucking,’ he says. ‘Blaise was… not pleased with me.’ He scratches the back of his neck. ‘See, we made this pact in school. About the blokes we really, really liked. I promised never to fuck you if he promised never to fuck… well, I’m never telling you who I made Blaise promise never to fuck.’

You gape at him, torn between asking who his crush is and barraging him with questions about Blaise wanting you in school, because the thought is fucking mind boggling.

Draco smiles at the look on your face. ‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘I’m a terrible shit and I broke my promise, but I knew you liked him, so I told him to go for it.’

‘How did you know I liked him?’

‘Oh please, Harry, you're pathetically transparent. Except to Blaise, apparently.’

You kick uselessly at the pavement. ‘I thought— I don’t know... I didn’t think he’d ever want me the way I wanted him.’

‘Yes, well, time to work on those self confidence issues, Harry,’ Draco says with his usual lack of tact.

You sigh and dither about until Draco punches you lightly in the arm. ‘Go, Harry,’ he says. ‘Apologise for being such a prick. Maybe he’ll forgive you.’








So you Apparate to Blaise’s flat, and the wards still let you in… which is a good sign. You find him sitting alone on his sofa in the dark. He doesn’t say anything when you sit next to him, so you tell him everything. You tell him you’re really quite fucked up and you have possible abandonment issues that turn you into a complete prat when people get too close. You tell him the letter was absolute rubbish, and you feel terrible for even sending it. You tell him you really fucking like him a lot and you hope he can forgive you. You go on like this for about five minutes, but he still doesn’t say anything, and you feel a little sick.

You briefly consider leaving, but then he reaches out his hand and threads his fingers with yours. He kisses your knuckles, and you stay very still, afraid you might ruin it all.

‘You’re not the only one with baggage, you know,’ he says softly.

‘I know.’

He tells you he hasn’t really been with anyone in years because he’s almost as insecure as you, and you openly wonder how that’s even possible. You tell him he’s perfect, and he rolls his eyes, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased. When he tells you he fancies you, too — ‘have done, for a long time’ — you try your best not to gush like a teenaged girl... but you kind of do, anyway.

‘No more head games, Harry,’ he says.

You nod, and he leans in and kisses you softly. You wrap your arms around his neck and tell him you missed him even though it wasn’t even that long you were apart. He smiles, lowers you onto the carpet and fucks you — no makes love to you — right there on the floor, in front of his fireplace.

You might have whispered ‘I love you’ in his ear at some point, you’re not sure, but even if you did, and even if he heard you, you won’t run away again.

Especially when, a few seconds later, he whispers it back.



fin

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