Author: Me! tes_aidan
Summary: After the war, to save himself from starving, Draco agrees to a seedy photo shoot.
Pairings: H/D in fantasy, Draco/Self (masturbation)
Disclaimer: Not mine, wish they were, blahblahblah, creative parody law...blahblahblah, characters, scenes, situations changed more than 10% protecting this as original artwork from prosecution by law and blahblahblah, you get the drill. They're original creations of JK Rowling, I don't care who else owns rights to them, because they're JKR's original characters, meaning no one else can own them, not even the companies that published them, no matter what the law says so NYAH!
The click of a camera. The feel of cold air on a naked body. Draco Malfoy closed his eyes and tried to ignore the sensation of eyes roaming across his scarred and bare flesh and instead forced himself to think of better times. Times before the ministry took everything he owned. Before the wizarding world refused to hire someone with his name. Times when he had friends. And if not hope, then at least he never went hungry.
Fingers ran across his chest, spreading oil over protruding ribs and an in curved stomach that stood testament to his months of hunger that led him to this job.
"You need to look like you want it," the director of the shoot said. A thick hand closed over his flaccid cock, and the only thing that kept Draco from sobbing was that at least he knew it no longer belonged to Voldemort. No...the Dark Lord was dead. The Dark Lord could never use him that way again (except in his nightmares, which never left him alone). "Think of something hot. Something that makes you want to fuck."
What could turn him on anymore? The memory of Blaise's head bobbing over his cock as his hands were tied to the bedpost? Those had been good times. But Blaise had disappeared after the war, when he had inherited money from his real father after coming of age. Rumor had it that his mother had seen a goldmine in her own son and his body was now buried somewhere in the Indies. Think of fucking Pansy? No...no, that just made him go limp. The one three way with Crabbe and Goy--no...no...that just brought back memories and made him want to scream. What was left? What was there that could get a reaction? The only thing he had felt since the end of the war was desolation and loss. Pardoned for his crimes after Harry spoke up for him, but left without a home, without a family, without friends or money or a life. And only left breathing because some bastard Gryffindor with messy hair and the greenest of eyes decided to have mercy.
Fucking Harry Potter. Should have just let him die. He had nothing left to live for. He was left with nothing. Just a rotten name, a dark alley to sleep in, starvation, and a hand around his cock that was trying to stroke a reaction out of it.
"Come on, lad, what's the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of getting fucked?"
Harry. Because Harry had fucked him. Not literally, but had fucked him over so badly by not letting the ministry kill him. He would never think of Harry really fucking him. Though, that thought triggered a vision of Quidditch calloused fingers stroking over his limp flesh, and bitten pink lips tracing circles over his neck. Slowly biting up to his ear. Draco's name murmured in tones of breathless desire instead of cruel scorn...
Draco's eyes shot open in shock as he realized he was aroused.
"That's it. Whoever they are, they're one lucky little fuck, you know that?" the director asked, tugging the head of Draco's penis. Draco whimpered, horrified as his mind continued on. Images of the Golden Boy finding him where he slept on the streets when he couldn't sleep his way into a bed; taking pity on the broken soul and taking him home. There, Harry would hold him. Give him a real bath and kiss him gently in a way that no one he had sold himself to had. And Draco would submit. Pull Harry on top of him and cry as their bodies became one. Beg Harry to keep him, to not make him go back out there, to not make him have to sell his body anymore just so he wouldn't starve. And Harry would agree. Would kiss away his tears and Draco would finally be loved--like he hadn't by his parents, like he hadn't by Voldemort or his friends, and like he definitely wasn't now.
"That's it," Draco heard in the background as the Director stepped back. "You got this on camera?"
"Stroke yourself. Come on, kid."
Draco threw an arm over his face as tears broke free from shattered glass silver orbs. His wrist was grabbed and jerked back.
"Don't hide from the camera," the director snapped harshly. Shaking, Draco closed his hand around himself, blocking out their voices, sinking himself into the daydream.
It wasn't his grip, but Harry's. Harry was on top of him as Draco cried, whispering warm reassurances and pressing kisses over the salty streams on his cheeks. Then moving down his neck, lapping at the hollow. Draco tilted his head back, imagining he could feel the butterfly ghost of that tongue, and moaned. His hips jerked up, eyes squeezing tighter. The voice of the director whispering commands to the photographers became Harry's low chuckle at Draco's inability to hold still. The clicking of cameras the clicking of the top of a lube bottle that Harry was pouring onto his fingers. The rustle of movement across the linoleum floor the sound of sheets shifting as Harry moved between his legs. Draco spread his thighs open to give the apparition in his head more room. It wasn't a camera lens taking pictures there. It was Harry's eyes only.
And it was Harry's lips that would ghost over the tip of his erection, as he mouthed the word, "mine".
Draco came hard, screaming out the name without thought, hips arching off the podium as his cum stained his chest and his world exploded.
When the debris started to settle, he realized that it wasn't Harry's bed he was in, and there were no arms that would wrap around him and hold him as he cried. Instead, there was laughter.
"He's fantasizing about Harry Potter!" one camera man exclaimed.
Draco just rolled onto his side and cried, hugging himself, because there was no one else in the world to do it for him.
Onto the Sequel?