@drarrymicrofic | wc: 279 | prompt: dream
Malfoy had Harry pressed back into the mattress, one pale hand buried in Harry’s hair, fingers tightening just enough to tip his head back and expose his throat. The other was braced beside Harry’s head, sleeve rolled to the forearm.
Then Malfoy’s mouth was on his neck, hot and wicked, biting and kissing and dragging helpless sounds out of him. Harry’s hands found Malfoy’s waist, then his back, then the fall of his hair; he wanted to touch him everywhere at once.
“Greedy,” Malfoy said, sounding pleased.
“I rather think you did.” Malfoy’s lips brushed his ear. “It’s your dream after all.”
Harry didn’t have time to think on it for too long, because then Malfoy’s hips were rolling down against his, slow and deliberate, and it was too much, heat and pressure and pleasure from every direction at once. Malfoy’s breath hitched. Harry wanted to hear it again, so he arched up into him and—
Harry sat bolt upright in bed.
The room was dark and empty. Quiet, except for his own ragged breathing.
No Malfoy. Thank Merlin. Well no, not thank Merlin. Absolutely not thank Merlin, because apparently Harry wanted Malfoy here. Wanted his hands, his mouth, his weight pressing him back into the mattress. Wanted him to—
Harry fumbled blindly for his mobile before his brain could recover any dignity.
Hermione answered after several rings, except it wasn’t Hermione.
“Mate,” Ron croaked, voice thick with sleep, “it’s four in the bloody morning. This had better be good.”
Harry stared into the darkness, painfully hard and awake. “I think I want to shag Malfoy.”
There was a long silence, then Ron said, “I’m waking Hermione.”
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