Obviously, I have to pick trick!
Well well well, you pick naughty, hmm?
Very Horror Potter Show
“Isn’t this a little too—” Draco bit his bottom lip, tried for a word that wouldn’t make him want to vanish in embarrassment. “Tight?” was the terrible option he landed on.
“Hmm? No, you’re fine.” Potter was barely even looking at him. In his fishnets and the—ah—garters, and with the eyeliner Pansy was cruel enough to give him, he looked… Draco, dry-mouthed, truly lacked the vocabulary.
“It’s only,” he tried still, idiot, idiot, all flushed cheeked and sweaty with his torso on display and covered in, ugh, glitter, “it’s only—I don’t see why it has to be so short.”
Potter’s eyebrow rose. Did Draco mention the lipstick? He was wearing lipstick, and everything in the world was sticky and terribly hot. “You watched the film, yeah?”
“Of course I did. Pans and I sang along to every—but that’s not the point at all. It’s, Potter, it’s terribly skimpy!”
Rolling his eyes, mumbling something. When Draco begged his pardon, Potter repeated, a little too loud: “I said if anything it’s not short enough!” then, realising, and his pretty face going darker: “Er. I mean—I mean. You should wear gold more often.”
“Wha—” Draco’s cheeks were scorching hot. Also Potter was. Also, ah, he forgot where this was going. “Potter, you’re—very close.” And coming closer. This look in his eyes, a smouldering-predator type of thing, with the slightest of curves to his lips and the vest nearly bursting on his stupidly-buff chest. The pearls added something else to it that Draco had no name for, that made swallowing hard.
Hard, everything was—Potter smirked, and his hand was, ah, so shockingly close that Draco did the only reasonable thing and grabbed it for a huge lick. He didn’t notice he was sucking on Potter’s middle finger before he heard the gasp, and then, ah, quite, ah, surprised himself, he popped it out of his mouth and took the index one.
“What,” Potter said, gaping and beautiful, “are you doing?”
Draco shrugged. In the golden ‘shorts’ (read: bikini bottoms) he felt hardly like himself and very, very hard-ly. “Getting in character?” he tried through the mouthful.
Potter laughed, a hearty thing, and rolled his eyes in a strangely fond way. “It’s just a Halloween party,” but he cupped Draco’s cheek anyway, and he smelled like leather and sweat and cheap makeup, and he was everything Draco could see.
The costume was extremely short and obscenely tight. In it Draco barely felt like himself, barely felt anything but for this—heat. Probably less the swim trunk’s fault and more Potter, the horror, the wanker, the… wonderful fiend who was busy marking his way down Draco’s neck. They might be late to the party, and Draco wholly, completely and utterly didn’t care.
