lomonaaeren (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lomonaaeren) wrote2010-03-30 03:07 pm
lomonaaeren) wrote2010-03-30 03:07 pm
Entry tags:
[one-shots] 'Come Slowly, Eden' (2/2), R, for amour3559
Second part of a two-part one-shot.
The Perfect Kiss
Malfoy had stolen his vision.
Harry lay awake in his bed with his arms folded, staring at the canopy and brooding on that, until the small hours of the morning. Then he fell asleep, but his dreams were full of ruined kisses, so all he ended up doing was waking up and brooding about it some more.
It wasn’t fair.
Harry had had small dreams. They didn’t come together. Sometimes he looked at Malfoy and thought about dating him, but then he would think of all the things against that. And sometimes he thought about fucking Malfoy, but he only seemed interested in Zabini, and he would probably laugh if Harry asked him. And sometimes he thought about letting Malfoy fuck him, which might work better, but there was no means to ensure the entire school wouldn’t be snickering at him the next day.
Well, until he started to think about Memory Charms and his mind wandered away in pursuit of some other goal that dissolved into kisses.
So, the point was that he didn’t know how this would work, but Malfoy had stolen his chance to find out. Their first kiss had been after a fight that no one had won—unless Harry chose to forget about the times that Malfoy had pinned him—and which Malfoy had started instead of Harry.
There had to be a way to get the vision back, but Harry didn’t think of one until noon, when he looked across the Great Hall at Malfoy laughing with his friends (Goyle had ended up with a bowl of soup on his head, but he did that every day, so Harry didn’t see what was funny about it) and suddenly the realization clicked into his head.
Malfoy liked to do things first. He had hated it when Harry became Seeker for the Gryffindor team because he knew that he wouldn’t become Seeker for the Slytherin one until the next year. He had kissed Harry first, and he had set up that trick with Zabini and the Polyjuice so that he could see how Harry felt first.
Harry could do nothing about the fact that his kiss would be a second kiss. But he could make it the first good kiss between them, the one that Malfoy would remember. It would burn his memory of the first to ashes and replace it.
And the moment Harry thought that, he knew where the first kiss had to happen.
*
Draco frowned at the note that had been delivered by a school owl earlier that day. Outside the place you went during sixth year, six-o’clock.
He knew exactly where that was, of course, but the number of people who also did were limited. Unless his secret had received wider circulation than he thought.
He had watched the faces of the Slytherins surrounding him for most of the day, trying to learn if he had to be wary of them, but they all seemed intent on their schoolwork, and Draco had got scolded for not being so. At least he heard no snickers, no insinuating whispers about what he had done during sixth year, and failed to do.
Six came, and Draco slipped away from dinner and made his way up to the seventh floor, his hand tight on his wand, his frown increasing.
He had to pass a small alcove on the way there, with a tapestry hanging in front of it, and he had always been careful of it, because it was a perfect place for an ambush. This time, he wasn’t careful enough, and someone grabbed him and dragged him behind the tapestry.
Draco tried to drive his elbow into his attacker’s side, or spin around and confront him with dignity. But the attacker was too fast and too strong, and Draco found himself hurled against the wall. He bit his lips against whatever potion would soon be forced on him and squirmed, once again trying to bring his wand up between them.
Lips slammed onto his, and Draco found himself soundly kissed.
His mouth fell open in surprise, and his attacker’s tongue darted inside. Draco would have liked to bite down, or gag, or otherwise pretend that the taste was horrible, but the most incredible flowing sensation invaded his limbs, and he moaned before he thought of it. He reached up with one shaky hand and placed his fingers in his attacker’s hair, but he couldn’t push his head away as he’d planned to; this was too good.
The wild tangle of hair told him who it was well enough. Even then, though, Draco couldn’t muster up enough strength to push him away. His arms fell open, his legs fell open, and he tried to buck and rub upwards while standing still to concentrate on the flavor of the kiss at the same time.
The need for air finally drove them apart. Draco gulped in air as hastily as he could, and then leaned forwards to reach for Potter’s mouth again. Who cared that it was Potter, when it was that good? It was the kind of kiss Draco had dreamed of sharing with Blaise or Pansy, only they had unfairly got together before giving him the chance to see if they could kiss like that. For once, the universe had decided that Draco should get compensation for one of his losses, and he was all for it.
But Potter rested his hands on Draco’s shoulders and held him back. Draco felt himself flush with both anger and shame. Had he done something wrong? Was this an ambush by Gryffindor House in general, and were Weasley and Granger going to spring out of hiding to yell at him in a moment?
“I told you,” Potter said in a quietly insistent voice, “that I had the idea first. Have you ever had another kiss like that?”
“No, never,” Draco said, anxious to get the stupid words over so they could go back to the sweet, sweet taste. “Come here.” He moved away from the wall, because Potter wasn’t holding him firmly enough to keep him there, and seized Potter’s shoulders in turn.
“Not even the one in the corridor?” Potter gasped. But Draco ignored the words, as they were both more words and incredibly stupid, and began the kiss again.
He was half-afraid it would taste bitter and fiery like the snog they had shared before, the one Potter had just reminded him of, but now that they had found the sweetness, Draco didn’t think he would misplace it again. His hands massaged Potter’s shoulders, tracing the lines of bone under flesh, and Potter moaned into his mouth and grabbed his neck. Draco found he even liked that, the fingers slamming home and locking together, pinching, torturing, hurting, worrying his flesh between them. Everything about this experience was incredible. Everything about Potter was marvelous and fantastic.
Then Potter shoved up and turned them so that Draco was against the wall again, kissing him.
Draco didn’t much care as long as he could continue learning about Potter’s hands and mouth, but it was the principle of the thing. He waited until Potter was drowning more than he was, sidestepped neatly, grabbed Potter’s shoulders, and taught him how stone felt with only a thin layer of cloth to protect him from it.
“Ger—off—” Potter said into his mouth. That was what Draco could make out, anyway, past the groans that trembled there and the violent way Potter bit his lips and tried to crawl into his body.
“No,” Draco said, and twisted past another attempt to unseat him. Then he kissed Potter hard enough to make his lips ache and split, and small trickles of blood ran into his mouth and wormed their way past his teeth.
“Bastard,” said Potter, or at least the word that would be “bastard” without a lot of consonants, and the kiss blurred the room around them, the dart and curl of tongues turning hot enough to make Draco’s muscles weaken.
He didn’t lose his head, though, and he pushed back when Potter once again tried to reverse their positions.
“Just let me,” Potter panted, not finishing the sentence. His eyes were wide and wild behind his glasses, his hands making empty gestures in the air. His tongue wagged as though it were drawn to Draco’s like a filing to a magnet. Draco smiled, enormously pleased. He should look this way all the time. I should make him look this way all the time.
“No,” he answered, and shoved and pulled and leaned, and Potter surrendered to the kiss again for a few moments instead of thinking about his lost control. Draco gloried in it. This was another contest, one he stood at least a decent chance of winning, one that would have a better outcome than their last kiss in the corridor, one that he never wanted to end.
Then Potter hooked a foot between his legs, hopped sideways, and pulled Draco with him. They crashed to the floor in a mass of limbs and gasps. Draco didn’t think Potter had meant that to happen, but he had banged his elbow and was in no mood to be charitable.
“Idiot!” he panted, lifting and shaking his head to remove the stars from his vision. “What do you—what—”
Potter rolled on top of Draco and almost viciously reclaimed his mouth. Draco grunted encouragement and worked his leg around Potter’s right hip. It was much better than the last kiss, when Potter’s spell had frozen him and he didn’t have room to move.
Then Potter pulled himself up, smiled down at him, and said, “That was a lot better, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Draco said, mindless, reaching for him.
Potter dodged his grasp. “Come and find me when you think you can top that,” he said, and marched out of the alcove, leaving Draco witless, dazed, annoyed…
And hard enough that he didn’t cast more than a Silencing Charm before he reached down and brought himself off.
The Questions
“Why are you staring at Malfoy, mate?”
“Malfoy just glared at you! What are you going to do about it, Harry?”
“Did something happen? Because you’ve been looking at Malfoy and then away all morning, and…”
Harry buried his head in his arms with a groan. One thing he hadn’t anticipated when he started playing this game with Malfoy—the game he was determined to win—was his friends’ questions. He had been as careful as he could, and yet it seemed they watched over everything, from the way he turned his head to the way he ate his breakfast, a lot more than he had thought they did.
Or else Ron was just as obsessed with Malfoy as he was, because Ron was the one who had noticed the glare. Maybe Harry ought to consider him a rival for Malfoy’s affections.
If Malfory had affections. Or passion. Or daring. It had been three whole days, and Malfoy hadn’t yet approached him with some way to top the kiss. And as wonderful as that kiss had been, Harry knew Slytherin arrogance. Malfoy ought to have thought of something and implemented it as a plan, no matter how pathetic it actually was.
“Are you all right, mate?”
Harry raised his head and smiled dimly at Ron. “Fine.” He made himself pick up his fork and eat some of the potatoes on his plate, fiercely resisting the urge to glance over at the Slytherin table. It would serve Malfoy right if Harry just lost interest in him altogether, or at least didn’t pay any attention to him for the rest of the day.
But it was too late to forget about Malfoy. Harry knew that from the way the vision fluttered and blazed in his head, following him around and popping up in his mind to keep him awake in History of Magic.
The vision was of Malfoy sprawled on the floor of the little alcove near the Room of Requirement, his hair splayed around his face, his mouth a brilliant, sucked red and his legs falling open so that Harry could see the bulge between them clearly.
Harry knew he could cause that, now. He knew that Malfoy would yield to him without so much as a murmur, opening his legs and his arms in welcome. That meant Harry couldn’t resist the temptation to cause it again, and again, and again.
If Malfoy didn’t come up with something soon, then Harry would have to go find him again, that was all, and give him more incentive.
“Why are you so flushed, Harry? Are you all right?”
Hermione didn’t usually speak that openly in the middle of class, even if Binns was droning on about another goblin war and wouldn’t notice. Harry sighed in exasperation and nodded to her, crossing his legs in the meanwhile so that there was no chance of Hermione getting a glimpse of what he, er, “felt” right now.
“Yeah, I am.”
Hermione wrinkled her brow. “But you look like you have a fever. Maybe you should go and see Madam Pomfrey after class. And now you’re squirming around in your seat,” she said, watching Harry’s movements with what she probably thought was an expert eye. “Did someone cast the Bladder-Restraining Curse on you? I know some Slytherins were practicing it the other day. And—”
“For God’s sake, Hermione,” Harry hissed, so exasperated that he spoke the truth without thinking, “I’m flushed for the same reason you came to Transfiguration flushed the other day, all right?”
“I—oh.” Hermione blinked and leaned back in her seat. She had, indeed, walked through the door with every sign of an intense snogging session still on her face. Ron hadn’t bothered to show up at all. She cleared her throat and glanced away, and Harry smirked with a sense of triumph.
But only until Hermione, who had been scribbling away industriously on what he thought were her notes, slipped him a piece of parchment as they left the class. Harry glanced down at it, and saw it was a list of book titles. The Joys of Safe Sex. A Wizard’s Guide to Wanking. Spells for Protection and Pleasure.
“I think you could use them,” Hermione said.
Harry went out to the Quidditch pitch. Flying around in circles was better than screaming at his best friend in the middle of the corridor.
But better still would have been snogging Malfoy, if the git could just find his fucking courage.
*
Draco smiled slowly and peeled himself away from the wall as he saw Potter dash towards the doors that led out from the school. Well, well, well. He had thought he would have to wait forever for Potter to escape from the company of his constantly monitoring friends.
But he was outside now, alone. And Draco had his plan.
He walked out into the pitch and stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting patiently for Potter to glance down and notice him. It did seem as if it would take a long time. Potter soared in furious circles and tried zigzags that Draco wouldn’t have attempted on his best days, let alone in a light rain like the one that was falling now.
Then Potter saw him.
He came driving in on his broom so powerfully that Draco licked dry lips and wondered if this was a good idea. But he had already waited as long as he could, considering his own sexual needs. He held his ground, not even flinching when Potter popped off the broom and covered the distance between them in three long strides. He grimaced, instead of flinching, when Potter poked him in the chest like the uncouth being he was.
“Listen, you—you,” Potter said. “I want to know what the fuck you think you’re playing at, making me wait so long—”
“I’d like to fuck you in a bed,” Draco murmured. “Did you know that?”
Potter paused, his nostrils flaring to the point that it made him look like a startled horse. Then he stepped closer and peered at Draco’s face. “Look,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re playing at.”
Draco smiled. He could feel Potter’s breath now, and it made him dizzy and braver than he ever had been.
“I don’t play at fucking,” he said. “You’re the one who’s forced me to play more games than I am comfortable with or care for, these last few weeks.” He swayed forwards, and Potter imitated him without seeming to realize what he was doing, so that their noses were a shadow’s breadth from brushing against each other. “I don’t want to play at this. I’m telling you what I would do.”
Potter’s hoarse gasps were the only response.
“I’d like to push you into the bed,” Draco said, “one of the comfortable ones that actually has enough room for two people. One like my bed in Slytherin, perhaps.” Potter’s eyes flared as if he was about to say that his bed in Gryffindor was big enough, too, but Draco wasn’t inclined to listen to any such nonsense at the moment and went stubbornly on. “I’d pull your shirt up first, because I’d like to taste your chest.”
Potter stared at him with his mouth dropping open slightly. Then his teeth clicked together as he looked away. “It tastes like skin,” he whispered. “It’s nothing strange.”
Draco laughed, knowing that the low sound and the way it threaded through the darkness were bringing them ever closer together. “Unless you’ve tasted your own chest, I think you ought to let me be the judge of that.”
Potter nodded, dazed, and for a moment seemed to struggle with the emotions that were doubtless rising in him. Then he whispered, “Go on.”
Those were the words Draco had been waiting for. He gave Potter a lazy, appreciative smile, making sure to let his eyes burn as he considered Potter’s tangled hair, his narrow face, his lean but strong body.
He began again in a lower and breathier voice, trying to let the visions form in his head and spill directly out his mouth. “I’d flick your nipples and suck them until they stood upright. You’d like that. There aren’t words for how you’d like that. You’d writhe under me and beg for more, but I wouldn’t have to listen to the begging, because I would be in control and able to decide how fast we went.”
He could hear the whistle of breath through Potter’s mouth now. Potter shut his eyes and tilted his head back with a little shudder.
“Oh, you like that, as well,” Draco said, and regretfully had to set aside the fantasies that came bubbling up then. He would finish this one first and see how Potter reacted. “I’d move down your body, slowly, slowly. We would both know where I was going, but there wouldn’t be any way for you to rush it. And by the time I finally touched you, you’d be begging and moaning, little broken words dropping from your lips, words that I’d treasure forever.”
Potter gave a whimper then. Draco stared at him, transfixed, the ache between his own legs suddenly so prominent that he thought about stepping forwards, touching Potter, and letting nature take its course.
But he’d promised himself that he would win this time. So he cleared his throat and continued. “I’d stroke you slowly. I’d twist my fingers near the head, and leave them there until you begged again. And then I’d order you to spread your legs, and you would, because there’s just no choice, it’s what we both want and that’s most important, don’t you agree?”
Potter’s eyes rolled open, so glazed that Draco had to squeeze himself. He wouldn’t have lasted, otherwise. As it was, his words came out more rushed than he had wanted them to.
“I’ll reach back down,” Draco whispered, husky beyond bearing, “between your legs, towards your hole. I don’t think you’ve ever had a finger there before, have you? But I’d give you more than a finger. You’d feel that first, circling you, but then another one would come in, and you’d writhe and stare up at me nervously, wondering how many I meant to put in. The answer is: as many as I want. But I’d tug on your balls and bend my head down first.”
Potter had his hands balled into fists at his side, his hips thrusting forwards in little jutting motions.
“My tongue flicks out,” Draco said, and magnetism seemed to draw him closer to Potter, his steps across the ground between them as irregular as the way Potter’s hips thrust. “It touches the head of your cock. And at the same moment, a finger slides inside you, and you can feel it there, burning, pressing in—”
Potter gave a sob, turned, and fled. Draco started to go after him, determined to win, though maybe, if he’d made Potter run, that was his victory.
But then he saw Potter’s legs go out from under him, and he fell to his knees, head tilted back as he shook, his hands braced on the ground in front of him and curling as he ripped up grass blades, a weak cry emerging from his throat that Draco understood well.
It was all Draco needed. He dropped to only one knee, but he came, too, his neck flexing as he tried to wrap up the rush of his desire in his thoughts and understand it, both this intense pleasure and this intense wanting after it.
When he looked up again, hand instinctively reaching out, Potter was gone.
A Decision to Come To
That was…
That wasn’t supposed to happen, in Harry’s view.
Well. Of course it had happened, and Harry had to deal with it the same way he’d had to deal with Malfoy kissing him in the corridor and then staying away from him for three days after Harry kissed him. But this one was a little harder to deal with. For one thing, no one had ever talked him to orgasm before.
No one had ever caused an orgasm for him before, not like that. Harry had honestly thought he would get out of Hogwarts without someone here doing it, too. After all, he had the rest of his life to become an Auror and fall in love with someone on a dangerous mission and get married in a rush of heat afterwards.
Harry, staring at the canopy of his bed, shut his eyes and carefully forbade himself to remember that he had fantasies that silly.
But the question remained. Exactly what was he going to do now?
There was the inevitable option. He could give in and acknowledge that Malfoy was going to win at least some aspects of their contest. He could go to him and beg for those words to become reality. That would have its good aspects. He would get the crawling need that seemed to have taken up residence in his belly satisfied, and he would get to see Malfoy lose control.
But part of him still wanted the victory. He had to outshine Malfoy at this as at everything else, or he wouldn’t respect himself in the morning.
He would have tried already, but for lack of a plan. He couldn’t talk like Malfoy. He couldn’t challenge him to some sort of duel in public. He could try another kiss, but it probably wouldn’t make Malfoy come in his pants, and even if it did, it would only be equal to what Malfoy had done to Harry, not superior.
In fact, he thought, rolling over and pushing his face into the pillow as if either ideas or sleep were there and could crawl into his head via his eyelids, part of the problem is that I’m not a Slytherin. I would come up with a wonderful and cunning plan if I were. But I’m much better at Quidditch and dying to save the world and making Voldemort understand why I defeated him. The obvious things.
Then Harry paused.
Why couldn’t the obvious become subtle when the person you were doing it to didn’t expect it? Malfoy was too Slytherin. He would make those plans and get the better of Harry if he could until the end of time, but his plans hadn’t always worked, either. When he’d dressed up as a Dementor, he hadn’t thought about the obvious consequences—the way that Harry tended to react to Dementors.
Harry smiled. He had the idea.
Now, the only thing was to pick the place. He didn’t want to do it somewhere too public, because he didn’t want to humiliate Malfoy. He wanted to win over him, and win him over.
And then Harry knew. He settled back into the pillow, humming, and thinking of the expression on Malfoy’s face when he realized what Harry was doing.
Thinking about Malfoy necessitated some heated wanking before he fell asleep, but still. It was worth it.
*
Draco kept his eye on Potter for the rest of that week. He wanted to be ready when the inevitable next move came.
But it didn’t come. He might as well have ceased to exist as far as Potter was concerned. Potter trained with his Quidditch team, ate in the Great Hall, ferociously studied for the NEWTs under Granger’s direction, and continued to display a frustrating if minor talent in Potions. He would catch Draco’s eye and smirk or blush, sometimes, but he didn’t make a move.
Come on, Potter, Draco thought, staring one day at the back of his neck. I don’t know how much clearer I can be. Give me some excuse to tumble you on a bed already.
Potter turned around and smirked.
Draco stared, lips parting slightly. Is it going to be here? Here and now, in the middle of Potions? His heart beat faster, both with nervousness and excitement. What would his parents say? What would the papers say? What about the disappointed witches and the wizards Draco knew of who would want Potter for themselves?
But smugness was under all of that, lapping through Draco like acid. I’m the one who got him. More to the point, he fell for me before I fell for him. Who else in the wizarding world can claim that?
But Potter turned back to his cauldron and cast something into it. The cauldron smoked. Draco didn’t even have the anticipation of knowing the cauldron would blow up in Potter’s face any moment, because this potion was supposed to do that at that particular moment in time.
Draco clenched his fists. He wouldn’t be drawn. He wouldn’t. He’d already made his move, and now it was Potter’s turn. Draco wouldn’t be the one doing all the chasing, not when Potter had been the one with the silly little crush in the first place.
So he forced himself to ignore Potter back, as hard as it was, and even thought things were working pretty well when the Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match came along and spoiled all his fine ignoring.
In the Air
Harry checked the hang of the scarlet robes over his body and smiled at his reflection. The enchanted mirror promptly started to coo at him about how handsome he looked, but Harry rolled his eyes and flicked his wand to shut off the voice. He hated the stupid thing.
Robes. Check.
Broom. Check. Harry had bought a new Firebolt for himself on his eighteenth birthday, not caring when Hermione made a shocked face over all the Galleons he was spending. He ought to be able to do what he wanted, for once.
Determination.
More than check, Harry thought, winking at his reflection and spinning away from it.
He walked towards the door of the bathroom with his head held high, and opened the door to find the bedroom full of chaos. Ron was yelling that he couldn’t find his gloves, and Hermione was yelling at him for yelling at her. Neville stood in a corner as though he’d lost all the courage he’d gained in the war, his face red. Harry suspected that someone had already yelled at him. Seamus and Dean were arguing at the top of their lungs about whether the Chasers were actually any good after only a few months of practice.
“Pay attention!” Harry shouted.
Amazingly, they did, even Ron and Hermione spinning around to face him. Harry cast a Summoning Charm into the silence, and Ron’s gloves zoomed out from under his bed. Harry handed them to his friend with a raised eyebrow. Ron had the good grace to duck his head and murmur something sheepish as he slipped them on.
“We’re going out to play Slytherin today,” Harry said, glancing around from face to face. He didn’t have the whole of the team here, but that didn’t matter. In a way, this was a testing ground for the speech he would make to the team when he had them assembled. “And they’re going to give us a battle. It’s no good disguising that, since we aren’t very prepared. But we’re still going to win.”
“That’s the spirit, Harry!” Seamus cheered, waving his arms in the air. Dean thumped him on the back of the head when he would have gone on.
“Can’t you see he’s going to say something, mate?” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth, when Seamus turned to him in indignation.
“Thanks, Dean,” Harry said, not bothering to hide his grin. “We’re still the better team. We work together, and every member of the Slytherin team wants to be acknowledged, so they go too far in acting on their own.” He saw Hermione opening her mouth—she had been disapproving of that kind of talk for months—and hurried on. Hermione just didn’t understand Quidditch and the importance of team spirit. “Don’t worry about us. I guarantee that Slytherin will never know what hit them.”
One Slytherin in particular, he thought proudly as he went downstairs to find Ginny and the rest of the team.
There was no way that he would let Malfoy win this match; he wasn’t that big a fool, or a sap. But he would hand him something else today, something that Malfoy would value more than a victory if he was lucky.
*
There were seven red-robed figures on the field, but Draco’s eyes immediately sought the smallest and scrawniest, who had scraggly black hair projecting every which way from his head, and stayed there. He knew they walked forwards, knew they stood there for Madam Hooch’s speech about the rules, and knew that the rest of his team was nodding and grunting in unison, but he was utterly incapable of looking away from Potter.
Potter noted the direction of his gaze and smiled lazily. Draco found himself tensing up. The smile could have been mistaken for one of the teasing smirks that he had given Draco in Potions, but Draco didn’t think so, not this time. Something was different about it, something that made his muscles ache. He shifted around and attracted Madam Hooch’s disapproving stare.
“Do you have to use the bathroom, young man?” she asked.
Draco quickly shook his head as Potter’s fellows snickered. Potter himself didn’t make a sound. He stood still, and his breathing had quickened slightly, but Draco knew that only because of the way his lips parted and how some of the hair near his face fluttered.
The stillness took Draco, too, as he stared at Potter, and when the call came, he nearly didn’t swing a leg over his broom before the balls leaped into the air.
But when he was aloft, his strange reactions blew away and he settled over the broom with a satisfied little nod. Yes, this was where he was meant to be, permanently if he could. The wind whistling around him, the robes ruffling around his head, the way he had to balance and turn and make progress to the side before he could rise…they were all right and responded to the deepest notes in his soul.
For the first time, Draco wondered about becoming a professional Quidditch player after leaving school. He hadn’t thought he was good enough, but he had a quiet confidence that he knew only came from skill.
Then Potter breezed past him and destroyed it all.
Draco was consciously competent, Potter unconsciously competent. He made the same motions Draco did in half the time. He glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes were so bright that they made Draco blink, feeling as if his own weren’t really open.
Potter made his broom dance in the air and opened his mouth. Thanks to the volume of wind roaring past him, Draco wouldn’t have heard him if he shouted, and the git knew that. He mouthed the words instead, and Draco couldn’t help reading his lips and translating the words that way.
I’m going to give you something you’ll never forget.
Then Potter zoomed downwards, and Draco kicked his broom like a reluctant Abraxan and followed, not thinking twice about it. It could have been a feint to distract him from the true direction of the Snitch. He didn’t care. His gaze was locked on Potter’s arse and the red robes streaming from it.
Down, up, down, up, and then sideways and upside-down, Potter led him a merry chase. Draco tried to keep his eyes peeled for a sight of gold, but he barely knew how the game was progressing. Everything he wanted was right there in front of him, and he was going to have it.
Exactly how he would grasp it, on the field in front of everyone—in fact, the focus of hundreds of staring eyes—Draco had no idea. He didn’t care, either. He would figure out some plan later.
Potter turned around and looked at him, closed one eye in a slow wink, and then begin to spin in a corkscrew-like figure. It would be extraordinarily difficult to try and get close to him, but Draco could still follow, and right now, he wasn’t in the mood for anything else. He hovered not far from Potter’s side, darting right, darting left. He felt a thrill when he realized it would look to the spectators as if Draco were herding Potter. It would take an angle in the air itself to tell who was leading.
That’s all I want, he tried to tell Potter by means of his grip on the broom and his wide eyes and the cock that had hardened between his legs, pressing against the wood of the shaft with exquisite pain. For you to follow me for once, for us to be equal.
Potter glanced over as if he’d heard him, winked again, and then snapped a hand up. Draco knew what he would see before Potter turned his hand over. Tiny mad wings fluttered through the cage of his fingers.
Draco gritted his teeth and tried to bear the sour pain of loss and the worse bitterness of the idea that Potter had only lured him up here to distract him.
As the roar broke from beneath them and the crowd surged to its feet, Potter leaned towards Draco. He must have cast some sort of charm, because his voice was as clear as if they’d stood on the ground together in utter silence.
“I can’t give you the Snitch, or the game. But I can give you something else.” His eyes were brilliant. “If you’re strong enough to come to that little alcove in the dungeons you hid in last week and take it.”
His intention shone in his face like light from a blade.
Draco was gaping and still trying to come up with an answer when Potter skimmed towards the ground like a swallow, his team surrounding him and pinwheeling around him in an explosion of ridiculous Gryffindor enthusiasm.
On the other hand, he didn’t need to come up with an answer, did he?
Not when the heat between his legs answered for him.
A Meeting Most Splendid
It wasn’t easy to slip away from his insistent teammates, but on the other hand, they wanted to celebrate the game more than any of the individual players, and when the rest of Gryffindor mobbed them, Harry saw his chance. He had already shucked off his robes and was carrying them in one hand, to make it harder for people to follow him, and he’d shrunk his broom and stuck it in his pocket.
There was a gap between two bodies, which he slipped through.
Then he was hurtling up the long stretch of grass towards the doors of Hogwarts, and into the school, and down towards the dungeons, and then along the corridors. His body did all that before he thought to pause and check over his shoulder to see if anyone was pursuing him.
Nobody.
Harry grinned and slowed to a jog. He was already near the alcove where Malfoy had run on the night when Harry had seen “him” kissing Parkinson. Harry walked the last few steps and began to set up privacy wards and Notice-Me-Not spells. He would have gone to the Room of Requirement, but Ron had talked about having a celebration there. Harry wanted a place that no one would find them in or know about.
Especially since I’m not sure how long this is going to last, he admitted to himself, as he turned and conjured a thick cloak edged with fur to cover the floor.
Was he sure that he wanted to do this? Harry halted, staring at his wand for some minutes, and then shook his head impatiently and increased the covering of fur and cloth on the floor, as well as casting some Warming Charms. Then he stepped outside the alcove so Malfoy could see him and peered down the corridor.
Yes, he was sure that he wanted to have sex with Malfoy. What came after that, he wasn’t sure about, and couldn’t make any decisions about, because they needed Malfoy’s input as well as his. But the initial step…
Harry shivered. The dreams had flashed through his body like storms of fiery rain for weeks. Seeing Malfoy in his Slytherin-green robes today had been almost more than he could bear, especially after he noticed the way Malfoy was practically drooling over him. His cock ached as he thought about it, and Harry put a hand down to squeeze himself, trying not to stroke, so he wouldn’t ruin the fun before Malfoy ever got here.
He was sure that he wanted this part. That was enough, for right now.
And then he saw a glimpse of pale hair around the corner, and straightened up, unable to prevent the smile that spread across his face. “You’re late,” he called. Malfoy came into view still wearing his Quidditch robes, and Harry raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t even bother to change?”
Malfoy scowled at him. “Unlike some people, no one cares about what I’m wearing right now,” he said in a dangerously low voice.
“I do,” Harry said, and stepped out to meet him. There was no reason to hesitate, no, and now that Malfoy was here, he could give in to all the greedy impulses that his cock was sending to the rest of his body. He began to fold back the robes from Malfoy’s neck, staring him steadily in the eye, and brought up his hand so that he could rest two fingers in the hollow where Malfoy’s pulse beat madly. “I care a lot.” And he leaned forwards until his lips brushed Malfoy’s.
Malfoy made a greedy little moan and took control of the kiss, pressing Harry back and down and sideways until they reeled into a wall. Harry didn’t know where the wall was, and he didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around Malfoy and yanked him close, grinding against the hardness of hipbone and cock and wand, grunting because trying to get enough breath to speak right now was impossible.
This time, Malfoy’s moan sounded like a sob. He pulled at Harry’s shirt, and Harry pulled at his robes, and when he looked up, Harry saw that they were safely within the spells covering the alcove, so that was all right.
When he turned back, Malfoy had the superior little smirk on his lips that Harry had seen the first day of school, and it made his heart race with the memory of what this boy had been and dreams of what he might be. The words that emerged then were utterly natural, and no one had better dare to tell him otherwise.
“Fuck me.”
*
Draco would have laughed with triumph, but there was a kind of blazing hardness in Potter’s face that prevented that. Besides, he might take it the wrong way.
Instead, he snaked his tongue out and around Potter’s collarbone. Potter gabbled his response and seized Draco’s head, dragging his mouth up so that he could kiss him again. Draco enjoyed the harsh meeting of teeth and tongues, but Potter’s words still echoed in his head, and he was doing his best to fulfill them.
“Slow down,” he breathed, dragging his fingers through Potter’s hair and watching in smug glee as Potter’s eyes fluttered from the simple touch.
Potter blew his breath out, then nodded in response and started stroking Draco’s shoulders. Draco rolled his eyes. “Not that slow,” he said, and tore Potter’s shirt as he yanked it off with a satisfying ripping sound.
“Malfoy!” Potter yelled, and Draco took out his wand to cast a Silencing Charm, the one kind of spell missing from Potter’s little arsenal that blocked the corridor. He couldn’t do anything else. His eyes were busy feasting on the sight that was Potter’s chest.
So, all right, it wasn’t nearly as manly or heroic as Draco had thought it would be, with spindly little muscles and sparse curls of hair. But he remembered that this was Harry Potter, whom Draco would never have thought that he would see like this, and he remembered the way Potter had kissed him and fought with him and glared at him with blazing eyes in the past and looked at him in the Quidditch game, and he had no problem getting hard.
“Going to suck your nipples,” he told Potter, and leaned forwards.
“Who says—what?” Potter spluttered, and Draco thought that his brain hadn’t caught up with his body yet, because he sure as fuck didn’t object when Draco got his mouth in place.
Draco sucked furiously, tugging as if he wanted to rip the nipple right off Potter’s body, and then bit. Potter gasped and seized the back of his head, holding him in place while he rubbed shamelessly against Draco’s hip.
“Get those bloody trousers off,” Draco whispered, though since his voice was muffled against Potter’s skin, he wouldn’t blame the git for not understanding him. He began to pull at Potter’s trousers.
Potter attacked his robes at the same time. But since Draco was wearing shirt and trousers under the Quidditch robes, he had twice as far to go.
And, Draco had to admit, he wasn’t much help. He groped and twisted and pulled until Potter’s trousers and pants were down, and then he froze, staring at the long, slender cock in front of him that had already flushed the color of strawberries. He moaned, and wasn’t ashamed.
Potter shuffled his weight. Draco thought he was probably blushing from the flush that ran the length of his body, seeming to touch the tip of his cock, but he couldn’t look up and see.
He couldn’t do anything but drop to his knees, open his mouth, and reach out.
Potter said, “Hang on, you’re not naked yet—” and then he went silent in a most gratifying way. There was a squeak, and he rose on his toes, which was only not gratifying because his cock seemed to be trying to poke the back of Draco’s throat out. There was a thrust, and a moan, and a whole series of thrusts.
Draco lashed and curled his tongue, trying vaguely to remember the one time he’d done this before, to a Ravenclaw who was drunk on his feet and promised Draco it would taste good. It hadn’t, but the Ravenclaw was a sweaty sot who couldn’t even be bothered to bathe. Potter was cleaner.
It occurred to some part of Draco’s brain that Potter had just come from a Quidditch game and probably wasn’t clear. The rest of Draco’s brain told that part to shut up.
Oh, but it was wonderful, it was, the way Potter’s cock slipped and turned in Draco’s throat, the softness and slickness of the head contrasted with the greater hardness of the shaft, and the warmth. Draco had always thought the important thing about blowjobs was how warm the other bloke’s or girl’s mouth was. But no one had ever told him, or he had forgotten, about the blood-heat of the cock, how it seemed to generate its own coat of warmth that Draco had to break through in order to taste everything, feel everything, experience everything.
He ran his tongue curiously up the vein in the underside of Potter’s cock, and Potter cried out and came.
Draco coughed and reared back, feeling as though someone had just dropped a load of boiling salt into his mouth and given him no chance to say whether he wanted it or not. He gagged and spat and moaned until Potter reached out and thumped him on the back, saying, “It’s not that bad.”
Those were exactly the right words to say, though probably Potter didn’t know why. Draco gave him a look that he knew was stony—he couldn’t help that—and demanded, “Who else have you done this with? Or two?”
“Um, no one,” Potter said, looking blank. “I was—er, am—er, fuck, I was a virgin, all right?”
A deep satisfaction settled itself in Draco’s stomach, but that just left another question, if the first one had to go unanswered. “Then how do you know it’s not that bad?” he asked.
“I hope it isn’t,” Potter said, “considering what I’m going to do to you.” And he knelt on the floor and ripped at Draco’s Quidditch robes, so that they were discarded before Draco thought about it, and started on his trousers and pants.
“I thought you were going to let me fuck you,” Draco said, dizzy and gasping at the very thought of his cock inside Potter, no matter what hole it went in.
Potter only grunted in response—Draco would have to remember that his intellectual prowess declined quickly during sex—and tore open his pants at last, sinking his mouth on Draco’s cock.
Draco arched and opened his mouth to cry out, though no cry emerged. It was bliss, blinding and racing, comet-like bliss with a side of pain where Potter’s teeth scraped, though he wasn’t sure that he could find the breath to say so.
Potter backed off, coughing, said, “Malfoy, you don’t half have a strange taste,” and then curled his tongue out again and began to suck and swallow alternately.
Draco once again wanted to ask how he knew, and again his questions drowned in the glory of what was being done to his cock. His head rocked back, and he reached down and latched his hand firmly into place on Potter’s hair. Potter moved away in irritation, but Draco followed, his fingers curling, his body instinctively seeking the warmth.
This was—
He was going to need more of this. He was going to need this until the world broke open and the sun dropped from the sky. Potter had stopped the word from ending once, when he killed the Dark Lord, and now he would just have to stay around and keep Draco’s own personal world from ending, too.
Because it was Potter, and it was wonderful.
The Powers of Pleasure
Harry was usually languid after orgasm. He had expected to want to lie down and sleep after he finished with Malfoy, which was one reason he had wanted Malfoy to fuck him. If he’d already come, he’d be relaxed, and it seemed like that would be a good idea if Malfoy’s cock was actually going to go inside him.
But instead, his body was buzzing with energy, lighting him up from the inside like a star, and he couldn’t rest until he shared some of it with Malfoy.
He could have kissed him or wanked him off, but he needed to show him, and it would take too long to do that with hands. (Or so Harry thought. The thoughts had made sense at the time). So he showed him with his mouth, and once he got settled into the rhythm of swallow, suck, swallow, suck, it seemed to work well.
And Malfoy seemed to like it a lot.
Harry rolled his eyes smugly upwards and watched Malfoy leaning against the wall, his hips rising and falling, his hands clenched at his sides, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his eyes—when they were open—an even darker grey than normal with lust. Malfoy met his gaze briefly, but then his eyes slid shut again as Harry flicked the head with his tongue, and he howled.
Harry braced himself, knowing what that probably meant and determined to give Malfoy as much pleasure as he could.
And to win, of course.
Malfoy came down his throat, his body twisting and thrashing, his cries abbreviated, as if he couldn’t find the breath to give them. Harry relaxed his throat as much he could and gulped, breathing frantically through his nose.
It worked—barely. It wasn’t something Harry would want to do again until he got the chance to practice some more.
Of course, the best practice is sucking Malfoy, Harry thought, as he wiped his mouth and sat back on his heels, waiting for the moment when Malfoy would look at him and see that Harry, unlike a certain prissy little Slytherin, had managed to swallow it all. Which means this needs to happen again.
There was such a lack of opposition in Harry at the thought that he knew what he would decide even before the eagerness flared in his chest like a sunburst.
I want him.
He leaned up, opened his mouth to show Malfoy that it was empty and therefore he didn’t have to worry about that salty taste he hated so much flooding his tongue, and then kissed him. Chest to chest, sticky cocks rubbing against each other, fingers clutching greedily—and Malfoy was doing just as much clutching as Harry was—they kissed until Harry’s lips felt numb.
“Well?” he asked, when they broke free and Malfoy had let his head fall onto Harry’s shoulder as if he were exhausted and couldn’t hold it up any longer. “Do you want to do this again?” He picked up a few strands of Malfoy’s hair and took delight in twining the spunk that was still on his fingers through it. “Because I sure as fuck do.”
*
Draco closed his eyes and labored to speak. That had been a far more exhausting experience than he’d thought it would be.
It was just—Potter—
Potter had tugged Draco along after him the way he had drawn Draco in the Quidditch game, because he was a master flyer and not following him would be unthinkable. Draco wondered if it would be like this after every time: his muscles trembling, his throat feeling scraped by the necessity of breathing, his mind tumbling and whirling among myriad possibilities.
Oh, I hope so.
Draco braced his hands on Potter’s elbows and drew back enough to look into his face. Potter stared at him, a small smile pulling at his lips. His eyes were tender, or maybe that was Draco’s wistful thinking—
Then Potter reached up and pushed back a few strands of hair from his forehead, and leaned in for another kiss, this one long and slow.
Oh. All right, then. Draco blinked and cleared his throat, and said, “I—how could I walk away from this?”
“Not quite the romantic love-speech I might desire,” Potter said judiciously. “But you’re you, and that’s enough.” His smile broke across his face. Draco caught his breath. He didn’t think he’d ever noticed how bright Potter’s smile was, or maybe it had never been this bright before. It spoke of a lot more sweat and groping and sucking and probably fucking in the near future. “It’ll do.”
Draco leaned forwards and kissed Potter again, cradling the back of his head again, showing how gentle he could be.
Then Potter had to take over control from him and show Draco how gentle he could be, down to light, teasing little strokes against his cheeks.
But Draco was determined not to be beaten like that, so he shoved Potter against the wall and caressed his lips while staring into his eyes.
“Listen, you wanker,” Potter said, running his fingertips over Draco’s neck and speaking through gritted teeth, “I’m the Gryffindor around here, and you’re the Slytherin. I’m supposed to be the loving and adoring one, and you’re supposed to lie back and accept my gestures while watching me through half-lidded eyes.”
“As if I’d let you win,” Draco snarled, and watched the light in Potter’s eyes flare and spark at deeper and deeper levels, a fire at the core of his being.
Yes, this was how it was supposed to be, Draco thought in satisfaction as their mouths met again. They were entangled, struggling, never letting the other win more than a momentary victory.
But always, no matter what they did, together.
The End.
The Perfect Kiss
Malfoy had stolen his vision.
Harry lay awake in his bed with his arms folded, staring at the canopy and brooding on that, until the small hours of the morning. Then he fell asleep, but his dreams were full of ruined kisses, so all he ended up doing was waking up and brooding about it some more.
It wasn’t fair.
Harry had had small dreams. They didn’t come together. Sometimes he looked at Malfoy and thought about dating him, but then he would think of all the things against that. And sometimes he thought about fucking Malfoy, but he only seemed interested in Zabini, and he would probably laugh if Harry asked him. And sometimes he thought about letting Malfoy fuck him, which might work better, but there was no means to ensure the entire school wouldn’t be snickering at him the next day.
Well, until he started to think about Memory Charms and his mind wandered away in pursuit of some other goal that dissolved into kisses.
So, the point was that he didn’t know how this would work, but Malfoy had stolen his chance to find out. Their first kiss had been after a fight that no one had won—unless Harry chose to forget about the times that Malfoy had pinned him—and which Malfoy had started instead of Harry.
There had to be a way to get the vision back, but Harry didn’t think of one until noon, when he looked across the Great Hall at Malfoy laughing with his friends (Goyle had ended up with a bowl of soup on his head, but he did that every day, so Harry didn’t see what was funny about it) and suddenly the realization clicked into his head.
Malfoy liked to do things first. He had hated it when Harry became Seeker for the Gryffindor team because he knew that he wouldn’t become Seeker for the Slytherin one until the next year. He had kissed Harry first, and he had set up that trick with Zabini and the Polyjuice so that he could see how Harry felt first.
Harry could do nothing about the fact that his kiss would be a second kiss. But he could make it the first good kiss between them, the one that Malfoy would remember. It would burn his memory of the first to ashes and replace it.
And the moment Harry thought that, he knew where the first kiss had to happen.
*
Draco frowned at the note that had been delivered by a school owl earlier that day. Outside the place you went during sixth year, six-o’clock.
He knew exactly where that was, of course, but the number of people who also did were limited. Unless his secret had received wider circulation than he thought.
He had watched the faces of the Slytherins surrounding him for most of the day, trying to learn if he had to be wary of them, but they all seemed intent on their schoolwork, and Draco had got scolded for not being so. At least he heard no snickers, no insinuating whispers about what he had done during sixth year, and failed to do.
Six came, and Draco slipped away from dinner and made his way up to the seventh floor, his hand tight on his wand, his frown increasing.
He had to pass a small alcove on the way there, with a tapestry hanging in front of it, and he had always been careful of it, because it was a perfect place for an ambush. This time, he wasn’t careful enough, and someone grabbed him and dragged him behind the tapestry.
Draco tried to drive his elbow into his attacker’s side, or spin around and confront him with dignity. But the attacker was too fast and too strong, and Draco found himself hurled against the wall. He bit his lips against whatever potion would soon be forced on him and squirmed, once again trying to bring his wand up between them.
Lips slammed onto his, and Draco found himself soundly kissed.
His mouth fell open in surprise, and his attacker’s tongue darted inside. Draco would have liked to bite down, or gag, or otherwise pretend that the taste was horrible, but the most incredible flowing sensation invaded his limbs, and he moaned before he thought of it. He reached up with one shaky hand and placed his fingers in his attacker’s hair, but he couldn’t push his head away as he’d planned to; this was too good.
The wild tangle of hair told him who it was well enough. Even then, though, Draco couldn’t muster up enough strength to push him away. His arms fell open, his legs fell open, and he tried to buck and rub upwards while standing still to concentrate on the flavor of the kiss at the same time.
The need for air finally drove them apart. Draco gulped in air as hastily as he could, and then leaned forwards to reach for Potter’s mouth again. Who cared that it was Potter, when it was that good? It was the kind of kiss Draco had dreamed of sharing with Blaise or Pansy, only they had unfairly got together before giving him the chance to see if they could kiss like that. For once, the universe had decided that Draco should get compensation for one of his losses, and he was all for it.
But Potter rested his hands on Draco’s shoulders and held him back. Draco felt himself flush with both anger and shame. Had he done something wrong? Was this an ambush by Gryffindor House in general, and were Weasley and Granger going to spring out of hiding to yell at him in a moment?
“I told you,” Potter said in a quietly insistent voice, “that I had the idea first. Have you ever had another kiss like that?”
“No, never,” Draco said, anxious to get the stupid words over so they could go back to the sweet, sweet taste. “Come here.” He moved away from the wall, because Potter wasn’t holding him firmly enough to keep him there, and seized Potter’s shoulders in turn.
“Not even the one in the corridor?” Potter gasped. But Draco ignored the words, as they were both more words and incredibly stupid, and began the kiss again.
He was half-afraid it would taste bitter and fiery like the snog they had shared before, the one Potter had just reminded him of, but now that they had found the sweetness, Draco didn’t think he would misplace it again. His hands massaged Potter’s shoulders, tracing the lines of bone under flesh, and Potter moaned into his mouth and grabbed his neck. Draco found he even liked that, the fingers slamming home and locking together, pinching, torturing, hurting, worrying his flesh between them. Everything about this experience was incredible. Everything about Potter was marvelous and fantastic.
Then Potter shoved up and turned them so that Draco was against the wall again, kissing him.
Draco didn’t much care as long as he could continue learning about Potter’s hands and mouth, but it was the principle of the thing. He waited until Potter was drowning more than he was, sidestepped neatly, grabbed Potter’s shoulders, and taught him how stone felt with only a thin layer of cloth to protect him from it.
“Ger—off—” Potter said into his mouth. That was what Draco could make out, anyway, past the groans that trembled there and the violent way Potter bit his lips and tried to crawl into his body.
“No,” Draco said, and twisted past another attempt to unseat him. Then he kissed Potter hard enough to make his lips ache and split, and small trickles of blood ran into his mouth and wormed their way past his teeth.
“Bastard,” said Potter, or at least the word that would be “bastard” without a lot of consonants, and the kiss blurred the room around them, the dart and curl of tongues turning hot enough to make Draco’s muscles weaken.
He didn’t lose his head, though, and he pushed back when Potter once again tried to reverse their positions.
“Just let me,” Potter panted, not finishing the sentence. His eyes were wide and wild behind his glasses, his hands making empty gestures in the air. His tongue wagged as though it were drawn to Draco’s like a filing to a magnet. Draco smiled, enormously pleased. He should look this way all the time. I should make him look this way all the time.
“No,” he answered, and shoved and pulled and leaned, and Potter surrendered to the kiss again for a few moments instead of thinking about his lost control. Draco gloried in it. This was another contest, one he stood at least a decent chance of winning, one that would have a better outcome than their last kiss in the corridor, one that he never wanted to end.
Then Potter hooked a foot between his legs, hopped sideways, and pulled Draco with him. They crashed to the floor in a mass of limbs and gasps. Draco didn’t think Potter had meant that to happen, but he had banged his elbow and was in no mood to be charitable.
“Idiot!” he panted, lifting and shaking his head to remove the stars from his vision. “What do you—what—”
Potter rolled on top of Draco and almost viciously reclaimed his mouth. Draco grunted encouragement and worked his leg around Potter’s right hip. It was much better than the last kiss, when Potter’s spell had frozen him and he didn’t have room to move.
Then Potter pulled himself up, smiled down at him, and said, “That was a lot better, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Draco said, mindless, reaching for him.
Potter dodged his grasp. “Come and find me when you think you can top that,” he said, and marched out of the alcove, leaving Draco witless, dazed, annoyed…
And hard enough that he didn’t cast more than a Silencing Charm before he reached down and brought himself off.
The Questions
“Why are you staring at Malfoy, mate?”
“Malfoy just glared at you! What are you going to do about it, Harry?”
“Did something happen? Because you’ve been looking at Malfoy and then away all morning, and…”
Harry buried his head in his arms with a groan. One thing he hadn’t anticipated when he started playing this game with Malfoy—the game he was determined to win—was his friends’ questions. He had been as careful as he could, and yet it seemed they watched over everything, from the way he turned his head to the way he ate his breakfast, a lot more than he had thought they did.
Or else Ron was just as obsessed with Malfoy as he was, because Ron was the one who had noticed the glare. Maybe Harry ought to consider him a rival for Malfoy’s affections.
If Malfory had affections. Or passion. Or daring. It had been three whole days, and Malfoy hadn’t yet approached him with some way to top the kiss. And as wonderful as that kiss had been, Harry knew Slytherin arrogance. Malfoy ought to have thought of something and implemented it as a plan, no matter how pathetic it actually was.
“Are you all right, mate?”
Harry raised his head and smiled dimly at Ron. “Fine.” He made himself pick up his fork and eat some of the potatoes on his plate, fiercely resisting the urge to glance over at the Slytherin table. It would serve Malfoy right if Harry just lost interest in him altogether, or at least didn’t pay any attention to him for the rest of the day.
But it was too late to forget about Malfoy. Harry knew that from the way the vision fluttered and blazed in his head, following him around and popping up in his mind to keep him awake in History of Magic.
The vision was of Malfoy sprawled on the floor of the little alcove near the Room of Requirement, his hair splayed around his face, his mouth a brilliant, sucked red and his legs falling open so that Harry could see the bulge between them clearly.
Harry knew he could cause that, now. He knew that Malfoy would yield to him without so much as a murmur, opening his legs and his arms in welcome. That meant Harry couldn’t resist the temptation to cause it again, and again, and again.
If Malfoy didn’t come up with something soon, then Harry would have to go find him again, that was all, and give him more incentive.
“Why are you so flushed, Harry? Are you all right?”
Hermione didn’t usually speak that openly in the middle of class, even if Binns was droning on about another goblin war and wouldn’t notice. Harry sighed in exasperation and nodded to her, crossing his legs in the meanwhile so that there was no chance of Hermione getting a glimpse of what he, er, “felt” right now.
“Yeah, I am.”
Hermione wrinkled her brow. “But you look like you have a fever. Maybe you should go and see Madam Pomfrey after class. And now you’re squirming around in your seat,” she said, watching Harry’s movements with what she probably thought was an expert eye. “Did someone cast the Bladder-Restraining Curse on you? I know some Slytherins were practicing it the other day. And—”
“For God’s sake, Hermione,” Harry hissed, so exasperated that he spoke the truth without thinking, “I’m flushed for the same reason you came to Transfiguration flushed the other day, all right?”
“I—oh.” Hermione blinked and leaned back in her seat. She had, indeed, walked through the door with every sign of an intense snogging session still on her face. Ron hadn’t bothered to show up at all. She cleared her throat and glanced away, and Harry smirked with a sense of triumph.
But only until Hermione, who had been scribbling away industriously on what he thought were her notes, slipped him a piece of parchment as they left the class. Harry glanced down at it, and saw it was a list of book titles. The Joys of Safe Sex. A Wizard’s Guide to Wanking. Spells for Protection and Pleasure.
“I think you could use them,” Hermione said.
Harry went out to the Quidditch pitch. Flying around in circles was better than screaming at his best friend in the middle of the corridor.
But better still would have been snogging Malfoy, if the git could just find his fucking courage.
*
Draco smiled slowly and peeled himself away from the wall as he saw Potter dash towards the doors that led out from the school. Well, well, well. He had thought he would have to wait forever for Potter to escape from the company of his constantly monitoring friends.
But he was outside now, alone. And Draco had his plan.
He walked out into the pitch and stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting patiently for Potter to glance down and notice him. It did seem as if it would take a long time. Potter soared in furious circles and tried zigzags that Draco wouldn’t have attempted on his best days, let alone in a light rain like the one that was falling now.
Then Potter saw him.
He came driving in on his broom so powerfully that Draco licked dry lips and wondered if this was a good idea. But he had already waited as long as he could, considering his own sexual needs. He held his ground, not even flinching when Potter popped off the broom and covered the distance between them in three long strides. He grimaced, instead of flinching, when Potter poked him in the chest like the uncouth being he was.
“Listen, you—you,” Potter said. “I want to know what the fuck you think you’re playing at, making me wait so long—”
“I’d like to fuck you in a bed,” Draco murmured. “Did you know that?”
Potter paused, his nostrils flaring to the point that it made him look like a startled horse. Then he stepped closer and peered at Draco’s face. “Look,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re playing at.”
Draco smiled. He could feel Potter’s breath now, and it made him dizzy and braver than he ever had been.
“I don’t play at fucking,” he said. “You’re the one who’s forced me to play more games than I am comfortable with or care for, these last few weeks.” He swayed forwards, and Potter imitated him without seeming to realize what he was doing, so that their noses were a shadow’s breadth from brushing against each other. “I don’t want to play at this. I’m telling you what I would do.”
Potter’s hoarse gasps were the only response.
“I’d like to push you into the bed,” Draco said, “one of the comfortable ones that actually has enough room for two people. One like my bed in Slytherin, perhaps.” Potter’s eyes flared as if he was about to say that his bed in Gryffindor was big enough, too, but Draco wasn’t inclined to listen to any such nonsense at the moment and went stubbornly on. “I’d pull your shirt up first, because I’d like to taste your chest.”
Potter stared at him with his mouth dropping open slightly. Then his teeth clicked together as he looked away. “It tastes like skin,” he whispered. “It’s nothing strange.”
Draco laughed, knowing that the low sound and the way it threaded through the darkness were bringing them ever closer together. “Unless you’ve tasted your own chest, I think you ought to let me be the judge of that.”
Potter nodded, dazed, and for a moment seemed to struggle with the emotions that were doubtless rising in him. Then he whispered, “Go on.”
Those were the words Draco had been waiting for. He gave Potter a lazy, appreciative smile, making sure to let his eyes burn as he considered Potter’s tangled hair, his narrow face, his lean but strong body.
He began again in a lower and breathier voice, trying to let the visions form in his head and spill directly out his mouth. “I’d flick your nipples and suck them until they stood upright. You’d like that. There aren’t words for how you’d like that. You’d writhe under me and beg for more, but I wouldn’t have to listen to the begging, because I would be in control and able to decide how fast we went.”
He could hear the whistle of breath through Potter’s mouth now. Potter shut his eyes and tilted his head back with a little shudder.
“Oh, you like that, as well,” Draco said, and regretfully had to set aside the fantasies that came bubbling up then. He would finish this one first and see how Potter reacted. “I’d move down your body, slowly, slowly. We would both know where I was going, but there wouldn’t be any way for you to rush it. And by the time I finally touched you, you’d be begging and moaning, little broken words dropping from your lips, words that I’d treasure forever.”
Potter gave a whimper then. Draco stared at him, transfixed, the ache between his own legs suddenly so prominent that he thought about stepping forwards, touching Potter, and letting nature take its course.
But he’d promised himself that he would win this time. So he cleared his throat and continued. “I’d stroke you slowly. I’d twist my fingers near the head, and leave them there until you begged again. And then I’d order you to spread your legs, and you would, because there’s just no choice, it’s what we both want and that’s most important, don’t you agree?”
Potter’s eyes rolled open, so glazed that Draco had to squeeze himself. He wouldn’t have lasted, otherwise. As it was, his words came out more rushed than he had wanted them to.
“I’ll reach back down,” Draco whispered, husky beyond bearing, “between your legs, towards your hole. I don’t think you’ve ever had a finger there before, have you? But I’d give you more than a finger. You’d feel that first, circling you, but then another one would come in, and you’d writhe and stare up at me nervously, wondering how many I meant to put in. The answer is: as many as I want. But I’d tug on your balls and bend my head down first.”
Potter had his hands balled into fists at his side, his hips thrusting forwards in little jutting motions.
“My tongue flicks out,” Draco said, and magnetism seemed to draw him closer to Potter, his steps across the ground between them as irregular as the way Potter’s hips thrust. “It touches the head of your cock. And at the same moment, a finger slides inside you, and you can feel it there, burning, pressing in—”
Potter gave a sob, turned, and fled. Draco started to go after him, determined to win, though maybe, if he’d made Potter run, that was his victory.
But then he saw Potter’s legs go out from under him, and he fell to his knees, head tilted back as he shook, his hands braced on the ground in front of him and curling as he ripped up grass blades, a weak cry emerging from his throat that Draco understood well.
It was all Draco needed. He dropped to only one knee, but he came, too, his neck flexing as he tried to wrap up the rush of his desire in his thoughts and understand it, both this intense pleasure and this intense wanting after it.
When he looked up again, hand instinctively reaching out, Potter was gone.
A Decision to Come To
That was…
That wasn’t supposed to happen, in Harry’s view.
Well. Of course it had happened, and Harry had to deal with it the same way he’d had to deal with Malfoy kissing him in the corridor and then staying away from him for three days after Harry kissed him. But this one was a little harder to deal with. For one thing, no one had ever talked him to orgasm before.
No one had ever caused an orgasm for him before, not like that. Harry had honestly thought he would get out of Hogwarts without someone here doing it, too. After all, he had the rest of his life to become an Auror and fall in love with someone on a dangerous mission and get married in a rush of heat afterwards.
Harry, staring at the canopy of his bed, shut his eyes and carefully forbade himself to remember that he had fantasies that silly.
But the question remained. Exactly what was he going to do now?
There was the inevitable option. He could give in and acknowledge that Malfoy was going to win at least some aspects of their contest. He could go to him and beg for those words to become reality. That would have its good aspects. He would get the crawling need that seemed to have taken up residence in his belly satisfied, and he would get to see Malfoy lose control.
But part of him still wanted the victory. He had to outshine Malfoy at this as at everything else, or he wouldn’t respect himself in the morning.
He would have tried already, but for lack of a plan. He couldn’t talk like Malfoy. He couldn’t challenge him to some sort of duel in public. He could try another kiss, but it probably wouldn’t make Malfoy come in his pants, and even if it did, it would only be equal to what Malfoy had done to Harry, not superior.
In fact, he thought, rolling over and pushing his face into the pillow as if either ideas or sleep were there and could crawl into his head via his eyelids, part of the problem is that I’m not a Slytherin. I would come up with a wonderful and cunning plan if I were. But I’m much better at Quidditch and dying to save the world and making Voldemort understand why I defeated him. The obvious things.
Then Harry paused.
Why couldn’t the obvious become subtle when the person you were doing it to didn’t expect it? Malfoy was too Slytherin. He would make those plans and get the better of Harry if he could until the end of time, but his plans hadn’t always worked, either. When he’d dressed up as a Dementor, he hadn’t thought about the obvious consequences—the way that Harry tended to react to Dementors.
Harry smiled. He had the idea.
Now, the only thing was to pick the place. He didn’t want to do it somewhere too public, because he didn’t want to humiliate Malfoy. He wanted to win over him, and win him over.
And then Harry knew. He settled back into the pillow, humming, and thinking of the expression on Malfoy’s face when he realized what Harry was doing.
Thinking about Malfoy necessitated some heated wanking before he fell asleep, but still. It was worth it.
*
Draco kept his eye on Potter for the rest of that week. He wanted to be ready when the inevitable next move came.
But it didn’t come. He might as well have ceased to exist as far as Potter was concerned. Potter trained with his Quidditch team, ate in the Great Hall, ferociously studied for the NEWTs under Granger’s direction, and continued to display a frustrating if minor talent in Potions. He would catch Draco’s eye and smirk or blush, sometimes, but he didn’t make a move.
Come on, Potter, Draco thought, staring one day at the back of his neck. I don’t know how much clearer I can be. Give me some excuse to tumble you on a bed already.
Potter turned around and smirked.
Draco stared, lips parting slightly. Is it going to be here? Here and now, in the middle of Potions? His heart beat faster, both with nervousness and excitement. What would his parents say? What would the papers say? What about the disappointed witches and the wizards Draco knew of who would want Potter for themselves?
But smugness was under all of that, lapping through Draco like acid. I’m the one who got him. More to the point, he fell for me before I fell for him. Who else in the wizarding world can claim that?
But Potter turned back to his cauldron and cast something into it. The cauldron smoked. Draco didn’t even have the anticipation of knowing the cauldron would blow up in Potter’s face any moment, because this potion was supposed to do that at that particular moment in time.
Draco clenched his fists. He wouldn’t be drawn. He wouldn’t. He’d already made his move, and now it was Potter’s turn. Draco wouldn’t be the one doing all the chasing, not when Potter had been the one with the silly little crush in the first place.
So he forced himself to ignore Potter back, as hard as it was, and even thought things were working pretty well when the Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match came along and spoiled all his fine ignoring.
In the Air
Harry checked the hang of the scarlet robes over his body and smiled at his reflection. The enchanted mirror promptly started to coo at him about how handsome he looked, but Harry rolled his eyes and flicked his wand to shut off the voice. He hated the stupid thing.
Robes. Check.
Broom. Check. Harry had bought a new Firebolt for himself on his eighteenth birthday, not caring when Hermione made a shocked face over all the Galleons he was spending. He ought to be able to do what he wanted, for once.
Determination.
More than check, Harry thought, winking at his reflection and spinning away from it.
He walked towards the door of the bathroom with his head held high, and opened the door to find the bedroom full of chaos. Ron was yelling that he couldn’t find his gloves, and Hermione was yelling at him for yelling at her. Neville stood in a corner as though he’d lost all the courage he’d gained in the war, his face red. Harry suspected that someone had already yelled at him. Seamus and Dean were arguing at the top of their lungs about whether the Chasers were actually any good after only a few months of practice.
“Pay attention!” Harry shouted.
Amazingly, they did, even Ron and Hermione spinning around to face him. Harry cast a Summoning Charm into the silence, and Ron’s gloves zoomed out from under his bed. Harry handed them to his friend with a raised eyebrow. Ron had the good grace to duck his head and murmur something sheepish as he slipped them on.
“We’re going out to play Slytherin today,” Harry said, glancing around from face to face. He didn’t have the whole of the team here, but that didn’t matter. In a way, this was a testing ground for the speech he would make to the team when he had them assembled. “And they’re going to give us a battle. It’s no good disguising that, since we aren’t very prepared. But we’re still going to win.”
“That’s the spirit, Harry!” Seamus cheered, waving his arms in the air. Dean thumped him on the back of the head when he would have gone on.
“Can’t you see he’s going to say something, mate?” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth, when Seamus turned to him in indignation.
“Thanks, Dean,” Harry said, not bothering to hide his grin. “We’re still the better team. We work together, and every member of the Slytherin team wants to be acknowledged, so they go too far in acting on their own.” He saw Hermione opening her mouth—she had been disapproving of that kind of talk for months—and hurried on. Hermione just didn’t understand Quidditch and the importance of team spirit. “Don’t worry about us. I guarantee that Slytherin will never know what hit them.”
One Slytherin in particular, he thought proudly as he went downstairs to find Ginny and the rest of the team.
There was no way that he would let Malfoy win this match; he wasn’t that big a fool, or a sap. But he would hand him something else today, something that Malfoy would value more than a victory if he was lucky.
*
There were seven red-robed figures on the field, but Draco’s eyes immediately sought the smallest and scrawniest, who had scraggly black hair projecting every which way from his head, and stayed there. He knew they walked forwards, knew they stood there for Madam Hooch’s speech about the rules, and knew that the rest of his team was nodding and grunting in unison, but he was utterly incapable of looking away from Potter.
Potter noted the direction of his gaze and smiled lazily. Draco found himself tensing up. The smile could have been mistaken for one of the teasing smirks that he had given Draco in Potions, but Draco didn’t think so, not this time. Something was different about it, something that made his muscles ache. He shifted around and attracted Madam Hooch’s disapproving stare.
“Do you have to use the bathroom, young man?” she asked.
Draco quickly shook his head as Potter’s fellows snickered. Potter himself didn’t make a sound. He stood still, and his breathing had quickened slightly, but Draco knew that only because of the way his lips parted and how some of the hair near his face fluttered.
The stillness took Draco, too, as he stared at Potter, and when the call came, he nearly didn’t swing a leg over his broom before the balls leaped into the air.
But when he was aloft, his strange reactions blew away and he settled over the broom with a satisfied little nod. Yes, this was where he was meant to be, permanently if he could. The wind whistling around him, the robes ruffling around his head, the way he had to balance and turn and make progress to the side before he could rise…they were all right and responded to the deepest notes in his soul.
For the first time, Draco wondered about becoming a professional Quidditch player after leaving school. He hadn’t thought he was good enough, but he had a quiet confidence that he knew only came from skill.
Then Potter breezed past him and destroyed it all.
Draco was consciously competent, Potter unconsciously competent. He made the same motions Draco did in half the time. He glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes were so bright that they made Draco blink, feeling as if his own weren’t really open.
Potter made his broom dance in the air and opened his mouth. Thanks to the volume of wind roaring past him, Draco wouldn’t have heard him if he shouted, and the git knew that. He mouthed the words instead, and Draco couldn’t help reading his lips and translating the words that way.
I’m going to give you something you’ll never forget.
Then Potter zoomed downwards, and Draco kicked his broom like a reluctant Abraxan and followed, not thinking twice about it. It could have been a feint to distract him from the true direction of the Snitch. He didn’t care. His gaze was locked on Potter’s arse and the red robes streaming from it.
Down, up, down, up, and then sideways and upside-down, Potter led him a merry chase. Draco tried to keep his eyes peeled for a sight of gold, but he barely knew how the game was progressing. Everything he wanted was right there in front of him, and he was going to have it.
Exactly how he would grasp it, on the field in front of everyone—in fact, the focus of hundreds of staring eyes—Draco had no idea. He didn’t care, either. He would figure out some plan later.
Potter turned around and looked at him, closed one eye in a slow wink, and then begin to spin in a corkscrew-like figure. It would be extraordinarily difficult to try and get close to him, but Draco could still follow, and right now, he wasn’t in the mood for anything else. He hovered not far from Potter’s side, darting right, darting left. He felt a thrill when he realized it would look to the spectators as if Draco were herding Potter. It would take an angle in the air itself to tell who was leading.
That’s all I want, he tried to tell Potter by means of his grip on the broom and his wide eyes and the cock that had hardened between his legs, pressing against the wood of the shaft with exquisite pain. For you to follow me for once, for us to be equal.
Potter glanced over as if he’d heard him, winked again, and then snapped a hand up. Draco knew what he would see before Potter turned his hand over. Tiny mad wings fluttered through the cage of his fingers.
Draco gritted his teeth and tried to bear the sour pain of loss and the worse bitterness of the idea that Potter had only lured him up here to distract him.
As the roar broke from beneath them and the crowd surged to its feet, Potter leaned towards Draco. He must have cast some sort of charm, because his voice was as clear as if they’d stood on the ground together in utter silence.
“I can’t give you the Snitch, or the game. But I can give you something else.” His eyes were brilliant. “If you’re strong enough to come to that little alcove in the dungeons you hid in last week and take it.”
His intention shone in his face like light from a blade.
Draco was gaping and still trying to come up with an answer when Potter skimmed towards the ground like a swallow, his team surrounding him and pinwheeling around him in an explosion of ridiculous Gryffindor enthusiasm.
On the other hand, he didn’t need to come up with an answer, did he?
Not when the heat between his legs answered for him.
A Meeting Most Splendid
It wasn’t easy to slip away from his insistent teammates, but on the other hand, they wanted to celebrate the game more than any of the individual players, and when the rest of Gryffindor mobbed them, Harry saw his chance. He had already shucked off his robes and was carrying them in one hand, to make it harder for people to follow him, and he’d shrunk his broom and stuck it in his pocket.
There was a gap between two bodies, which he slipped through.
Then he was hurtling up the long stretch of grass towards the doors of Hogwarts, and into the school, and down towards the dungeons, and then along the corridors. His body did all that before he thought to pause and check over his shoulder to see if anyone was pursuing him.
Nobody.
Harry grinned and slowed to a jog. He was already near the alcove where Malfoy had run on the night when Harry had seen “him” kissing Parkinson. Harry walked the last few steps and began to set up privacy wards and Notice-Me-Not spells. He would have gone to the Room of Requirement, but Ron had talked about having a celebration there. Harry wanted a place that no one would find them in or know about.
Especially since I’m not sure how long this is going to last, he admitted to himself, as he turned and conjured a thick cloak edged with fur to cover the floor.
Was he sure that he wanted to do this? Harry halted, staring at his wand for some minutes, and then shook his head impatiently and increased the covering of fur and cloth on the floor, as well as casting some Warming Charms. Then he stepped outside the alcove so Malfoy could see him and peered down the corridor.
Yes, he was sure that he wanted to have sex with Malfoy. What came after that, he wasn’t sure about, and couldn’t make any decisions about, because they needed Malfoy’s input as well as his. But the initial step…
Harry shivered. The dreams had flashed through his body like storms of fiery rain for weeks. Seeing Malfoy in his Slytherin-green robes today had been almost more than he could bear, especially after he noticed the way Malfoy was practically drooling over him. His cock ached as he thought about it, and Harry put a hand down to squeeze himself, trying not to stroke, so he wouldn’t ruin the fun before Malfoy ever got here.
He was sure that he wanted this part. That was enough, for right now.
And then he saw a glimpse of pale hair around the corner, and straightened up, unable to prevent the smile that spread across his face. “You’re late,” he called. Malfoy came into view still wearing his Quidditch robes, and Harry raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t even bother to change?”
Malfoy scowled at him. “Unlike some people, no one cares about what I’m wearing right now,” he said in a dangerously low voice.
“I do,” Harry said, and stepped out to meet him. There was no reason to hesitate, no, and now that Malfoy was here, he could give in to all the greedy impulses that his cock was sending to the rest of his body. He began to fold back the robes from Malfoy’s neck, staring him steadily in the eye, and brought up his hand so that he could rest two fingers in the hollow where Malfoy’s pulse beat madly. “I care a lot.” And he leaned forwards until his lips brushed Malfoy’s.
Malfoy made a greedy little moan and took control of the kiss, pressing Harry back and down and sideways until they reeled into a wall. Harry didn’t know where the wall was, and he didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around Malfoy and yanked him close, grinding against the hardness of hipbone and cock and wand, grunting because trying to get enough breath to speak right now was impossible.
This time, Malfoy’s moan sounded like a sob. He pulled at Harry’s shirt, and Harry pulled at his robes, and when he looked up, Harry saw that they were safely within the spells covering the alcove, so that was all right.
When he turned back, Malfoy had the superior little smirk on his lips that Harry had seen the first day of school, and it made his heart race with the memory of what this boy had been and dreams of what he might be. The words that emerged then were utterly natural, and no one had better dare to tell him otherwise.
“Fuck me.”
*
Draco would have laughed with triumph, but there was a kind of blazing hardness in Potter’s face that prevented that. Besides, he might take it the wrong way.
Instead, he snaked his tongue out and around Potter’s collarbone. Potter gabbled his response and seized Draco’s head, dragging his mouth up so that he could kiss him again. Draco enjoyed the harsh meeting of teeth and tongues, but Potter’s words still echoed in his head, and he was doing his best to fulfill them.
“Slow down,” he breathed, dragging his fingers through Potter’s hair and watching in smug glee as Potter’s eyes fluttered from the simple touch.
Potter blew his breath out, then nodded in response and started stroking Draco’s shoulders. Draco rolled his eyes. “Not that slow,” he said, and tore Potter’s shirt as he yanked it off with a satisfying ripping sound.
“Malfoy!” Potter yelled, and Draco took out his wand to cast a Silencing Charm, the one kind of spell missing from Potter’s little arsenal that blocked the corridor. He couldn’t do anything else. His eyes were busy feasting on the sight that was Potter’s chest.
So, all right, it wasn’t nearly as manly or heroic as Draco had thought it would be, with spindly little muscles and sparse curls of hair. But he remembered that this was Harry Potter, whom Draco would never have thought that he would see like this, and he remembered the way Potter had kissed him and fought with him and glared at him with blazing eyes in the past and looked at him in the Quidditch game, and he had no problem getting hard.
“Going to suck your nipples,” he told Potter, and leaned forwards.
“Who says—what?” Potter spluttered, and Draco thought that his brain hadn’t caught up with his body yet, because he sure as fuck didn’t object when Draco got his mouth in place.
Draco sucked furiously, tugging as if he wanted to rip the nipple right off Potter’s body, and then bit. Potter gasped and seized the back of his head, holding him in place while he rubbed shamelessly against Draco’s hip.
“Get those bloody trousers off,” Draco whispered, though since his voice was muffled against Potter’s skin, he wouldn’t blame the git for not understanding him. He began to pull at Potter’s trousers.
Potter attacked his robes at the same time. But since Draco was wearing shirt and trousers under the Quidditch robes, he had twice as far to go.
And, Draco had to admit, he wasn’t much help. He groped and twisted and pulled until Potter’s trousers and pants were down, and then he froze, staring at the long, slender cock in front of him that had already flushed the color of strawberries. He moaned, and wasn’t ashamed.
Potter shuffled his weight. Draco thought he was probably blushing from the flush that ran the length of his body, seeming to touch the tip of his cock, but he couldn’t look up and see.
He couldn’t do anything but drop to his knees, open his mouth, and reach out.
Potter said, “Hang on, you’re not naked yet—” and then he went silent in a most gratifying way. There was a squeak, and he rose on his toes, which was only not gratifying because his cock seemed to be trying to poke the back of Draco’s throat out. There was a thrust, and a moan, and a whole series of thrusts.
Draco lashed and curled his tongue, trying vaguely to remember the one time he’d done this before, to a Ravenclaw who was drunk on his feet and promised Draco it would taste good. It hadn’t, but the Ravenclaw was a sweaty sot who couldn’t even be bothered to bathe. Potter was cleaner.
It occurred to some part of Draco’s brain that Potter had just come from a Quidditch game and probably wasn’t clear. The rest of Draco’s brain told that part to shut up.
Oh, but it was wonderful, it was, the way Potter’s cock slipped and turned in Draco’s throat, the softness and slickness of the head contrasted with the greater hardness of the shaft, and the warmth. Draco had always thought the important thing about blowjobs was how warm the other bloke’s or girl’s mouth was. But no one had ever told him, or he had forgotten, about the blood-heat of the cock, how it seemed to generate its own coat of warmth that Draco had to break through in order to taste everything, feel everything, experience everything.
He ran his tongue curiously up the vein in the underside of Potter’s cock, and Potter cried out and came.
Draco coughed and reared back, feeling as though someone had just dropped a load of boiling salt into his mouth and given him no chance to say whether he wanted it or not. He gagged and spat and moaned until Potter reached out and thumped him on the back, saying, “It’s not that bad.”
Those were exactly the right words to say, though probably Potter didn’t know why. Draco gave him a look that he knew was stony—he couldn’t help that—and demanded, “Who else have you done this with? Or two?”
“Um, no one,” Potter said, looking blank. “I was—er, am—er, fuck, I was a virgin, all right?”
A deep satisfaction settled itself in Draco’s stomach, but that just left another question, if the first one had to go unanswered. “Then how do you know it’s not that bad?” he asked.
“I hope it isn’t,” Potter said, “considering what I’m going to do to you.” And he knelt on the floor and ripped at Draco’s Quidditch robes, so that they were discarded before Draco thought about it, and started on his trousers and pants.
“I thought you were going to let me fuck you,” Draco said, dizzy and gasping at the very thought of his cock inside Potter, no matter what hole it went in.
Potter only grunted in response—Draco would have to remember that his intellectual prowess declined quickly during sex—and tore open his pants at last, sinking his mouth on Draco’s cock.
Draco arched and opened his mouth to cry out, though no cry emerged. It was bliss, blinding and racing, comet-like bliss with a side of pain where Potter’s teeth scraped, though he wasn’t sure that he could find the breath to say so.
Potter backed off, coughing, said, “Malfoy, you don’t half have a strange taste,” and then curled his tongue out again and began to suck and swallow alternately.
Draco once again wanted to ask how he knew, and again his questions drowned in the glory of what was being done to his cock. His head rocked back, and he reached down and latched his hand firmly into place on Potter’s hair. Potter moved away in irritation, but Draco followed, his fingers curling, his body instinctively seeking the warmth.
This was—
He was going to need more of this. He was going to need this until the world broke open and the sun dropped from the sky. Potter had stopped the word from ending once, when he killed the Dark Lord, and now he would just have to stay around and keep Draco’s own personal world from ending, too.
Because it was Potter, and it was wonderful.
The Powers of Pleasure
Harry was usually languid after orgasm. He had expected to want to lie down and sleep after he finished with Malfoy, which was one reason he had wanted Malfoy to fuck him. If he’d already come, he’d be relaxed, and it seemed like that would be a good idea if Malfoy’s cock was actually going to go inside him.
But instead, his body was buzzing with energy, lighting him up from the inside like a star, and he couldn’t rest until he shared some of it with Malfoy.
He could have kissed him or wanked him off, but he needed to show him, and it would take too long to do that with hands. (Or so Harry thought. The thoughts had made sense at the time). So he showed him with his mouth, and once he got settled into the rhythm of swallow, suck, swallow, suck, it seemed to work well.
And Malfoy seemed to like it a lot.
Harry rolled his eyes smugly upwards and watched Malfoy leaning against the wall, his hips rising and falling, his hands clenched at his sides, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his eyes—when they were open—an even darker grey than normal with lust. Malfoy met his gaze briefly, but then his eyes slid shut again as Harry flicked the head with his tongue, and he howled.
Harry braced himself, knowing what that probably meant and determined to give Malfoy as much pleasure as he could.
And to win, of course.
Malfoy came down his throat, his body twisting and thrashing, his cries abbreviated, as if he couldn’t find the breath to give them. Harry relaxed his throat as much he could and gulped, breathing frantically through his nose.
It worked—barely. It wasn’t something Harry would want to do again until he got the chance to practice some more.
Of course, the best practice is sucking Malfoy, Harry thought, as he wiped his mouth and sat back on his heels, waiting for the moment when Malfoy would look at him and see that Harry, unlike a certain prissy little Slytherin, had managed to swallow it all. Which means this needs to happen again.
There was such a lack of opposition in Harry at the thought that he knew what he would decide even before the eagerness flared in his chest like a sunburst.
I want him.
He leaned up, opened his mouth to show Malfoy that it was empty and therefore he didn’t have to worry about that salty taste he hated so much flooding his tongue, and then kissed him. Chest to chest, sticky cocks rubbing against each other, fingers clutching greedily—and Malfoy was doing just as much clutching as Harry was—they kissed until Harry’s lips felt numb.
“Well?” he asked, when they broke free and Malfoy had let his head fall onto Harry’s shoulder as if he were exhausted and couldn’t hold it up any longer. “Do you want to do this again?” He picked up a few strands of Malfoy’s hair and took delight in twining the spunk that was still on his fingers through it. “Because I sure as fuck do.”
*
Draco closed his eyes and labored to speak. That had been a far more exhausting experience than he’d thought it would be.
It was just—Potter—
Potter had tugged Draco along after him the way he had drawn Draco in the Quidditch game, because he was a master flyer and not following him would be unthinkable. Draco wondered if it would be like this after every time: his muscles trembling, his throat feeling scraped by the necessity of breathing, his mind tumbling and whirling among myriad possibilities.
Oh, I hope so.
Draco braced his hands on Potter’s elbows and drew back enough to look into his face. Potter stared at him, a small smile pulling at his lips. His eyes were tender, or maybe that was Draco’s wistful thinking—
Then Potter reached up and pushed back a few strands of hair from his forehead, and leaned in for another kiss, this one long and slow.
Oh. All right, then. Draco blinked and cleared his throat, and said, “I—how could I walk away from this?”
“Not quite the romantic love-speech I might desire,” Potter said judiciously. “But you’re you, and that’s enough.” His smile broke across his face. Draco caught his breath. He didn’t think he’d ever noticed how bright Potter’s smile was, or maybe it had never been this bright before. It spoke of a lot more sweat and groping and sucking and probably fucking in the near future. “It’ll do.”
Draco leaned forwards and kissed Potter again, cradling the back of his head again, showing how gentle he could be.
Then Potter had to take over control from him and show Draco how gentle he could be, down to light, teasing little strokes against his cheeks.
But Draco was determined not to be beaten like that, so he shoved Potter against the wall and caressed his lips while staring into his eyes.
“Listen, you wanker,” Potter said, running his fingertips over Draco’s neck and speaking through gritted teeth, “I’m the Gryffindor around here, and you’re the Slytherin. I’m supposed to be the loving and adoring one, and you’re supposed to lie back and accept my gestures while watching me through half-lidded eyes.”
“As if I’d let you win,” Draco snarled, and watched the light in Potter’s eyes flare and spark at deeper and deeper levels, a fire at the core of his being.
Yes, this was how it was supposed to be, Draco thought in satisfaction as their mouths met again. They were entangled, struggling, never letting the other win more than a momentary victory.
But always, no matter what they did, together.
The End.