Bottom Draco One Shots !Drarry!

Tempest

“Christ on the bleeding cross, Potter, would you keep it down?” Draco reached for the coffee carafe. It was far too light for his liking. “You made coffee, and then drank it all?”

“Great. If need be, we’ll touch base again this evening. That will be all.” Potter ended the call and slipped his phone into his back pocket. He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Good morning, sunshine.”

Draco frowned as a morbid headache pulsed in his temples. “It would be if the loud sod who’s been sleeping in my bloody guest room would actually make enough coffee for two fucking people.”

“Come off it. There should be a cup or two left in there.”

“Yeah, a cup for a child. Or perhaps two small kittens. Make more.”

Potter snatched the carafe out of Draco’s hands and knocked him out of the way with what was, in Draco’s opinion, an entirely too forceful bump of the hip. When met with Draco’s indignant expression, Potter said, “Oh, come on, Malfoy. If anyone has the right to be in a mood this morning, it’s me.”

“Fucking git,” Draco grumbled, wishing he had the energy to be furious. He had just been disrespectfully hip-checked by the man who was charged with his well-being. Well, temporarily charged with his well-being, at least.

Potter.

Irritating, loud, disrespectful Potter, taking up all of the space in Draco’s condominium with his enormous, infuriating biceps, his toned, god-like thighs, his round, perfect arse, and his stupid, handsome face. Draco could still remember how short and scrawny Potter had been in school, with his knobbly knees and silly, taped glasses. Draco had seized every moment to make fun of the speccy little git, but learned quickly that Potter had given as well as he’d received.

He also remembered Potter’s growth spurt, and how fit he’d become on the varsity football team. Oddly enough, this particular stretch of memory coincided with Draco’s discovery of his sexuality and the development of his “Potter obsession,” as Pansy always referred to it (much to Draco’s chagrin).

Not that Draco would ever acknowledge that he had a “Potter obsession,” but oh, how he wished he had been braver back then. That he’d had the stones to say something to Potter back then when he was in his prime, young and fit and free of responsibilities.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, Draco had gone off to school and Potter had gone off to the military, and they had fallen out of touch.

Until the day that Potter had returned, discharged with honors (and bullet wounds to boot), looking more fit than Draco had known was possible, with a deep, haunted knowledge in his hardened green eyes that sent shivers up Draco’s spine and, maddeningly, blood rushing between his legs. Draco’s lust had not exactly been quelled when Lucius Malfoy had snapped Potter up immediately and made him head of his extensive security detail, meaning that Draco would be subjected to Potter at nearly every turn, regardless of whether he was at home or in the states.

Babysitting Draco had not initially been part of the job description, but here they were, in Draco’s stateside flat, bickering about coffee as an ankle monitor rubbed Draco’s leg raw and house-confinement slowly drove him towards the brink of insanity.

The cacophony of an urgent news bulletin had Draco nearly jumping out of his skin. A pretty, dark-haired woman wearing a garish magenta suit appeared on-screen. “Good evening, folks, I’m Jacqueline London, and this is the Countdown to the Purge special.