2
Blaise moaned, mouth stretched obscenely wide around a silver spoon heaped thickly with chocolate mousse. His tongue licked out and enveloped the creamy mass, delving into the rich depths of it and painting it around his mouth like one of those smug Renaissance bastards.
Draco gagged. “Fuck’s sake, Blaise, close your mouth. Do we have to see that?”
Blaise mmphed indignantly. “’Scuse me? I’ll have you know my eating habits have often been described as—" he swallowed thickly, “— erotically deliberate and affecting.” He dropped his spoon reluctantly to dab at a corner of his lips with his napkin.
“Yeah. By people who want to get into your pants,” Draco snapped, leaning away from Blaise and his shameless mouth.
Pansy frowned. “Everyone wants to get into his pants.”
“Exactly!” Draco said irritatedly. “We’re the only ones whose opinions he can trust. And I say,” he tapped his foot on the floor in emphasis, “it’s disgusting.”
“Ah, Draco,” Blaise said, clutching at his heart. There was still a smudge of chocolate mousse at the side of his mouth. “You are so cold to me now. So cruel. I remember a time when you used to look at me with soft grey eyes, so trusting over your green Slytherin tie. I remember how you used to blush when we made eye contact. I remember thinking how, for a virgin, you were surprisingly adept at—”
Draco gave a strangled cough. “Jesus!”
Pansy giggled. “Oh, calm down, Draco. Don’t get all antsy just because Potter’s here too.”
Draco’s mouth fell open. He looked around at Blaise, eyes unconvincingly offended. “Wha—you think that’s—you think I--? I don’t care about Potter! I couldn’t care less! Could- not- care- less.” He gave Pansy an emphatic stare. She stared right back at him, lips pressed into a firm line, and his voice broke into a high, embarrassing whine.
“Why does he have to be heeeere?”
Blaise grinned. “It’s karma. Or like, fate. The universe is telling you that you should’ve gotten with him at Hogwarts. This is course- correction. Go flirt with him.” He sat back expectantly, eyes wide and flicking towards Potter’s back.
Draco sat stiffly in his chair, refusing to even spare a glance at the broad back or head of dark, tumbled curls—
Which, by the way, had fuckinggrowntolikeshoulderlengthbysalazar—
But who even cared?
Not Draco.
He gritted his teeth. “I’m not going to go flirt with him. I- I don’t even fancy him!” It was a weak admission at best. “I just want to fucking get out of here.”
“Look, Draco, I’ll be honest,” Blaise said, resting his elbows on the table. “It’s weird that you feel this uncomfortable around him. The only possible explanation for that is that there’s something- a residual tension- between the two of you. You know the best way to get rid of tension?”
Draco groaned. “No, but I can see where this—”
“Fuck it all out.” Blaise ploughed on as though he hasn’t spoken. “Works every time. Trust me. Just go over there, sit your pretty arse down, give him a smile and a patented sneer in quick succession, and he’s putty in your hands. You’re dressed to pull, anyway.” He gestured to Draco’s fitted suit trousers—they clung to his arse almost criminally well—and stark black shirt that brought out the clean pale lines of his throat. “It’s all in the stars! Just go, get it out of your system, and come back Potter- free. Let’s face it, we all know he’s been your only real wank material for years. Maybe it’s time you…” he raised his eyebrows delicately. “I don’t know. Move on?”
“Why is everybody always telling me to move on?! Did you ever think maybe the old stuff has staying power?” Draco said hotly, and paused.
What?
He buried his head in his hands. “God, I can’t do this right now! I don’t know what I…”
A firm grip landed on his arm. He looked up, and barely suppressed a yelp. Pansy’s delicate face, dark eyebrows and fine lips were inches away from his own, incisors bared in a fierce expression.
“Draco Malfoy, Blaise and I are sick of watching you brush off date after date, guy after guy, just because you had a crush on Potter in school! No—” she held up a hand to stem his protest. “You don’t have to admit it. But we both know it’s true. You’ve never moved on from him! You hated him and wanted to snog the shit out of him so much that you thought about him all the fucking time. He became like a living fantasy to you, and nobody else can ever compete! So go out there, shag Potter, and when you come back we need you to realise that he’s probably not even that good in bed. You guys might not even be compatible. And then,” Pansy’s fingers came up to grip his chin. “You. Move. On.”
Draco met her eyes, throat rough from alcohol. His head swam, and he nodded once, jerkily, hardly believing what he was agreeing to. His legs felt shaky as he stood up, fabric clinging tightly to his lean thighs and fingers coming down to fiddle with the material of his shirt. He slid his chair back, moving out from behind it so slowly he felt like he’d been hit with a drugging spell. His blood thumped sluggishly in his ears, pulse a fluttering beat that he could feel like the panicked roll of a drum. His eyes were fixed on the wooden- panelled floor.
Draco kept his eyes glued to the ground, slowly doing a half- turn and making his way over to where Potter was sitting- or rather, in his eyeline, the thick chair legs. He shoved his hands in his pockets, throat dry, and stood awkwardly behind Potter’s chair, just out of sight. Madly, he wondered if it were too late to do a good leg workout for some extra muscle enhancement. He settled for a frantic, rather unsubtle arse flex under the clinging fabric of his trousers, and was rewarded by an explosive snort from behind him, undoubtedly from either Pansy or Blaise. Draco dragged his eyes up the chair legs, painstakingly dragging over the polished base and back of the chair, the armrests, and then there was the broad line of Potter’s shoulders, a silkily clinging shirt, pale neck exposed a fraction of a centimetre above the collar. Dark, thick hair curling round his temples, ending in an unfairly endearing peak at the nape of the neck. His back muscles were tense, still under the shimmering shirt, and then they fucking shifted, moving like oil under silk, a lean ripple that made Draco’s throat all the drier.
Draco opened his mouth, and closed it again.
He traced his tongue over his lips, suddenly so slack, and fiddled with his trouser pocket lining.
His brain was filled with fuzzy white silence.
And then, as if from the depths of his subconscious, summoned from the very last dregs of his schoolboy self, came—
“I always did take you for a ditchee on a date, Potter.”
The back stiffened, shoulders tensing even more than before, and a hand reflexively shot up to his hair, fingers spreading and raking reflexively.
He turned.
Draco had half been expecting it to be in slow- motion, like one of those old Muggle films, but it wasn’t, and it was far too quick for him to adjust, and all of a sudden he was staring at the twenty- year old face of his schoolboy crush.
His first thought tumbled, choked off, out of his mouth before he’d even had the chance to fully form it.
“I—you’re the same—you haven’t grown?” it came out as a strange half- question, and in hindsight it was definitely not the best thing Draco could have said.
Potter always had been sensitive about his height.
He flushed, drawing upwards as best he could with his torso twisted around in his chair, and retorted, “I’m still tall enough to jinx that wand out of your hand so quickly it decides it’d rather be mine.”
Which Draco thought was disproportionately aggressive. And therefore replied in kind.
“Don’t rub that in my face! The stupid wand didn’t know what it wanted—probably just felt like practicing some of the more basic spells for a change.” He stepped closer to Potter, hands still deep in his pockets. “Some of us have a more diverse range than just Expelliarmus, you see.”
“I’d rather overuse Expelliarmus than be the first one to fire off an Unforgivable!” Potter spat. His shirt gaped open at the front as he swung his body round entirely, and Draco watched with a slack jaw as he straddled the back of the chair and faced Draco. His hands- Draco refused to look too closely at them- gripped the armrests firmly, fingers splayed and white- knuckled. His legs were spread wide and his pelvis canted forward almost suggestively, though he knew it was not on purpose, just for balance.
Sadly, this was the most alive Draco had felt in years.
It was kind of incredible, actually. He felt like just asking Potter if he could wait just a minute, so he could step away and maybe have a mediwizard confirm what he knew but couldn’t quite believe—that his pulse was racing faster than the time Blaise had found a baby Hippogriff crouched in Draco’s walk- in wardrobe.
This entire time, he hadn’t looked Potter in the eyes. He’d gotten a flash of unruly hair, red lips parted in retort, pale skin, but quickly looked down. Where, to be frank, he hadn’t found much solace. Because—what was Potter wearing?
It wasn’t that it was bad - not in the slightest.
But it was just so. Fucking. Much.
Smooth, golden skin, planes of it, like so much unmarred silk. Potter’s shirt was buttoned almost obscenely low, toeing the line between inappropriate and just really goddamn hot, and aforementioned skin was just… everywhere, dipping and pooling in shadows and there was the tiniest freckle that Draco really should not be able to see, Jesus…but Christ was he happy that he could. He was transfixed, gaze flickering over the hollow of Potter’s throat, and the curls that just grazed his shirt collar, and the rest of his luscious skin, slipping out of reach under that accursed joke of a shirt. Part of Draco wanted to grab it and tear it off, maybe give it a shake for daring to obstruct his delicious view. But part of him was incredibly grateful that it was there, however half- heartedly, so he could maintain some semblance of decorum.
And then there were the jeans clinging to Potter’s strong legs, legs that were wrapped around the back of the chair in such a way that made Draco’s blood rush somewhere south of his stomach. He resisted the urge to cover his crotch ashamedly at the sight of the smart, thick heels on Potter’s leathery boots. He wanted more than anything to see him stand up, to admire the turn of his calf and the thick, suckable curve of his thigh muscle under those jeans, accentuated to tearful perfection by the wedge heel.
Draco cleared his throat, unable to look upward into Potter’s eyes. The legs around the chair tightened imperceptibly as Potter shifted forwards, still wrapped suggestively around the bloody thing, and now Draco was fucking jealous of an inanimate object.
Draco flinched, realising he’d been staring for at least twenty seconds, and straightened, finally staring Potter determinedly in the eye. To his surprise, he was met with not aggression or annoyance, but humiliation. Hot embarrassment was thick in Potter’s gaze, and Draco frowned, feeling like he’d suddenly missed a step. He was filled with the urge to smooth that expression away, tilt those lips up and make his green eyes sparkle.
“…is something wrong?”
Potter blinked, and the shadow behind his eyes cleared away. “What?”
Draco gave an awkward wave of his hands and wanted to Avada himself. “Nothing, I—nothing? You just looked… sad.”
It sounded ridiculous when he said it. They’d just been fighting, and Draco had never cared about Potter feeling sad before.
Potter scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”
Draco shoved his hands back into his pockets. “No, I just… no.”
One of Potter’s dark eyebrows flicked up so exquisitely delicately that Draco was painfully reminded of how gay Potter was. He remembered reading about it the year after the war. The Prophet had had a field day with it. God, would everything about this boy always make him feel so fucking twisted up in knots? There was a squirming, tight ball of genuine pain in the pit of his stomach. He was so bloody confused.
“No? No, you weren’t serious?”
Draco winced. “I…”
“I- I…” Potter mocked, a smile twisting the corner of his mouth, and it just teetered on the line of sarcasm and real, intimate scorn. Draco’s stomach tightened.
“You’ve lost your wits since we were kids, Malfoy,” Potter smirked, smile stretching to become fully fledged and beautiful. Draco watched it blossom and felt like screaming.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” the other man demanded.
“What are we doing?” Draco said, words rushing out of him like he’d been unbottled, somehow.
Potter swallowed, green, green eyes tracing the movement of Draco’s hands as he raked them through his hair in a sudden fit of frustration. It was the first time he’d appeared even slightly affected by him this whole conversation.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Potter said guardedly. “I myself was about to ask for the bill and leave, having been as you so kindly put it, ditched. Then you came over and proceeded to throw me back into sixth year, both conversationally and, y’know,” he quirked his lips. “Hormonally.”
Draco’ throat was dry, suddenly. “What does that mean?” He was terribly conscious of Pansy and Blaise a few metres behind him, undoubtedly straining to listen.
Potter licked his lips- God, he kept drawing attention to them- and Draco felt faint. His mouth was so, so red, slick and pouty as though he’d been biting his lip a lot, and next to the milkiness of his skin and the sharpness of his jaw… he was the most arousing thing Draco had ever seen in his life.
“You can’t seriously be denying how… we were that year,” Potter said, gesturing between them. Draco panicked, as he always did when it came to a case of gay accusation.
“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” he said haughtily, lifting his chin. His heart hammered beneath his shirt, and he wished he could loosen his collar.
Potter grinned disbelievingly, a laugh huffing out as though unbidden. He raised his eyes to the ceiling “Why’re you here, Malfoy?”
“Wha—” he spluttered. “You can’t—I just asked you that!”
“And I gave you a hint. Which you denied. As guiltily as a sixteen year old kid.”
Draco started to sweat profusely. “I…”
Potter rolled his eyes. “You’re clearly not ready to face it, and I have no idea why else you would be here, so…” he raised his hand as though to catch the waiter’s attention, and Draco saw his lips in slow motion, almost shaping the words ‘the bill, please?’
“WAIT!” Draco grabbed his arm senselessly, gaze trained on Potter’s. The other man’s vivid eyes went wide, mouth dropping open slightly. His eyes went instinctively to where Draco’s hand was encircling his forearm, fingers spread wide over the pale, lean expanse of his forearm.
“I’m here because I—” Draco took a breath, eyes fixed on Potter’s. “Because I… I like you.”
Potter squinted at him, jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. “That’s really the best you can do?”
Which opened up a whole egotistical can of worms.
Draco’s hand tightened on his forearm angrily, and with an immediacy that slackened Draco’s mouth, Potter’s lashes fluttered down. The movement looked almost reflexive, his lips parting on a sharp inhale. His body, wrapped around the seat, went utterly pliant and his legs spread unconsciously to shift his pelvis even closer to the back of the chair, pressing up against it obscenely.
Draco was completely still.
His breath was coming slowly, deeply, and even as he felt pure arousal rush to his crotch he could feel his eyelids dropping lower, hazy visions of Potter’s legs spread, spread, spread, arse pushed pleadingly, desperately up, replaying in his mind’s eye.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
He swallowed, and some dim part of his brain that was still functioning noted that Potter mirrored the action, the outline of his Adam’s Apple bobbing slightly as he ducked his dark head further.
Draco physically could not speak. All his energy was going into not getting an erection right there and then, and the images of Potter… open for him, were too much. It was all too much.
Seconds were ticking by, and Potter’s lashes were still feathering down. Draco couldn’t see his eyes, and his hand was still splayed tightly over his forearm, both of their wrists tense.
Say something, he urged himself desperately. But there was a blank space behind his mouth, no words to string out and fill the silence with.
After a few agonising seconds, he cleared his throat, making his voice soft. “Potter.”
He looked up, and Draco sucked in a breath, clenching his stomach not to just come at the sight. Potter… his cheeks were flushed, schoolboy- flushed, and the green of his eyes was glossy with a desire that unfurled a thick, hot tendril in the pit of Draco’s stomach. His lips were redder than ever, bitten and slicked by a tongue that Draco could just barely make out, lips parted sweetly as they were. He wanted to lick deep into that mouth, stroke that dark hair back and bite that lip, tease it out between his teeth. He wanted to wreck him, muss up the beautiful glaze that was Harry Potter and make him shake, moan his name over and over in that fucking infuriatingly rough baritone.
Potter did not say a word, hand frozen mid- air, and his face was galvanised by an emotion so akin to humiliation Draco thought he might get up and just leave right there. But then, with an exhale that made him turned him on unbelievably, Potter brought his other hand up to cover Draco’s wrist, squeezing it hopelessly, fingers stroking over the light hairs on his arm and nails grazing his skin. Draco’s breath caught.
“Malfoy,” Harry whispered, and his voice was imploring, “Let's... please. Just.... let's go.” His eyes were deadly serious, intent on Draco's own. That part of Draco that lay still, had lain still for a long, long time, broke forwards with seamless decisiveness.
Harry, was all he could think, the collision of his past and present almost dizzying him.
When he spoke, his voice was low and calm, grasping Harry's hand tightly. The slide of their palms over each other sent an electric thrill up his arm, shuddering down his spine.
"Come on, then,” he murmured, bending to whisper into Harry’s ear. His hands grazed suddenly over his shoulders, and then with a finality that slammed into Draco like a fist he was curling his hands round Potter’s broad shoulders, helping him up, leading him from his chair.
As they walked, Draco drew his wand from his pocket, slashing his signature into the air and sending it flying over to the waiter with a flick - that was Potter's cheque dealt with. His hand was sure and possessive on Harry’s back, wide over the muscles he’d admired from his own seat, and their tension made something primal and boiling start to churn inside him. He pressed Harry even closer to him and began to walk swiftly towards the exist. The sheer surreality of what they were doing struck him like a wave - he glanced sideways at Potter's strong profile, and was hit by a fist of pure desire. He had to content himself with sliding his arm fully around Potter’s waist as soon as he could; God, it was tiny, deceptively slim, and he could feel- Salazar help him- the tiniest, most luxurious softness at his hips and stomach, lean back muscles giving way to… love handles?
Jesus fuck. They needed to get out of here this instant.
“Malfoy,” Potter murmured, seemingly for the sake of saying it. Draco wanted to ask him to call him by his first name. He wanted to kiss him, let his hands push into Potter’s luscious hair, maybe pull—but they were in public, damn it, and Draco let out a sound of pure impatience.
With some semblance of dignity, they managed to make it to the stairwell, and then he sensed movement somehow, spine rippling to tingles- there was a voice whispering in his ear, Pansy’s voice. He half- spun, only to see the delicate bluish glow of her Patronus hovering by his shoulder.
“Good luck, Draco,” the bird spilled into his ear. “Don’t rough him up too much; we know what you get like.”
The hummingbird, having delivered its message, zoomed off over the tables to its mistress. Draco looked briefly over his shoulder to catch Pansy’s eye, sparkling wickedly, and gave her a wink. Next to her, Blaise was smug- faced, mouth still smeared liberally with chocolate. Draco couldn’t bring himself to turn away from Harry for too long, giving them both a lascivious grin. Vaguely, he registered both their expressions turn to mild shock, and realised he’d dealt them a bit too much sex energy in that grin.
Oops.
Sheer, unadulterated excitement started to pulse in his veins, mixing in with the heavy tangles of desire and want, creating something rather like a time bomb. He felt like he was about to explode, but remained upright, jealously bringing Potter closer and closer to his body until his hair- smelling irresistibly of warm apple and musky boy- was tickling his nose, tipped down as it was. They started up the stairs, in tandem, Potter's warm breaths stirring the skin of Draco's throat just subtly in a way that was driving him insane. Just then, Draco was struck by an irresistible spike of mischief. A wicked, highly tempting idea flashed into his mind.
He glanced down at the boy in his arms, smirking hard, and reached his hand just a little further around his waist, pulling him in impossibly tight. Harry did not say a word. Draco pressed a hot breath into his hair, shifting as his fingers reached around, around—
And pinched that exquisite, pudgy, soft roll of fat clinging to the lean skin of his hips..
Potter gasped into his shirt, hand coming up to fist desperately in the dark material as they walked slowly towards the door. Hot breaths panted helplessly into Draco’s shirt. Draco could sense Muggle eyes on them- he tensed, and then melted soothingly as he felt Potter stiffen in reaction. God, his entire body was attuned to this boy gasping in his arms, clinging and glossy- eyed. He wanted to destroy him, and then mouth at his love handles while he lay whimpering in the aftermath. His fingers plied the soft flesh of Potter’s hip, as he gasped outright, and Draco felt a great pulse of blood rush inevitably to his cock, and then- sweet Salazar- his left hand came away from where it had somehow tangled in Potter’s hair. He opened the door wide. In a tangle of limbs and breath and stormily conceived desire, they stumbled through it, out of the restaurant, and into the cool ambiance of London at night.
**********************************************************************************
Harry felt drugged, kind of, swimming in this haze. His breath kept catching and he was faintly aware that he was mewling, little wounded whines muffled in the black fabric he was pressing his face into. The only clear, real thing was the person attached to that shirt, the person who was filling his nose with pines and smoke and cold, clean cologne.
Something about him, a basic faculty that allowed him to deflect and raise his eyebrows and tell guys he wasn’t interested, had rusted over. He could only stumble weakly into a waiting cab—even as experienced wizards, they were far too drunk to Apparate—and press his face into the smooth column of Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy. It was Malfoy he was doing this with, Malfoy he was breathing hotly into. The supercilious, posh, bigoted blond boy from school with peevish, beautiful eyes. But, God, there was too much to think about from their school days, and he didn’t want to consider any of it. The place where Malfoy’s grip had been burned like a brand on his left arm, strong and insistent.
Malfoy was climbing in, talking to the driver, one long leg still sprawled out of the door. Harry, sitting dazedly in the cab, tried to catch his breath, focus on something. The throbbing in his stomach did not abate, sharpened to something almost painful as he stared at Malfoy’s pink mouth, shaping words his brain slid over like so much impure water. He was jolted half- back to reality by the sound of Malfoy’s voice.
“…yours?”
Harry frowned. “I—what?”
“We going to yours?”
“Uh, I…” Harry was flooded, suddenly, with a cold sense of reality. He shifted, the neediness clawing at his stomach only worsening. He tried to think clearly. Home…they were going home together. He bit his lip, and with a rush, felt Malfoy shift beside him, hand palming over his crotch almost unconsciously.
Concentrate, Harry.
Ron and Hermione’d be at The Burrow, Ginny too…which meant she’d definitely be up at the crack of dawn, barging into his room. They couldn’t go there; Harry didn’t know if he could explain to them that he’d had sex with their school nemesis because he was now insanely hot and Harry couldn’t stop imagining—well, imagining. So where?
He looked at Malfoy.
“I don’t think we can…”
Malfoy’s eyes dimmed, and he chewed his lip. Harry wanted to sob.
“My friends are at ours…”
There was a hot, desperate feeling clutching at Harry, sending waves of prickles rolling over him like a tide. He stared hungrily at Malfoy, who looked rather like someone had just kicked him in the balls. An urgency coursed through Harry, as though every second the taxi driver stared at them impatiently, he was losing the other. He clenched his teeth, foot tapping anxiously. His breathing harshened, and then, as a quiet exhale, he bent towards the driver.
“Number 12, Grimmauld Place.”
They pulled away from the curb. In silence of the back seat, Harry was suddenly stiff, knees pressed tightly together. He ground the toe of his right boot into the floor, heel high and twisting. He didn’t dare look up at Malfoy, who was equally quiet.
“Where…?” Malfoy asked gently.
Gently. Malfoy. Harry couldn’t reconcile any of it with the boy he’d known. Except, obviously, the blazing hotness.
Yeah, that had always been there,
“Family.” Harry swallowed thickly, “Family home.”
Malfoy raised his brow. “I think I’ve heard—“
“The Black family home.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“That will be why, then.” Anybody else would have laughed awkwardly, but Malfoy just stared out of the window, grey eyes intense.
He didn’t look the slightest bit affected by Harry all of a sudden, and there Harry was, sweating and blushing and yearning, practically canting his hips up he was so desperate for it.
The taxi was silent; ruminative on Malfoy’s side and frustrated on Harry’s. He was incredibly close to tearing his own hair out. The hunger in his stomach had not abated, but now his mind was racing familiarly, and he missed the slick blur of arousal, where his thoughts had run together like a rainbow river of diesel. Madly, the urge to curl into Malfoy- lick up his throat and grind on him, was rising steadily, a churning wall of desire. Christ, he just felt so fucking needy, like he wanted to be petted and warm and just…close. Was this what a few soft words had done to him?
Harry shivered. Fuck. He needed to get a grip. He fumed to look at Malfoy, breath catching from the pure want he felt buzzing at his fingertips. But Malfoy was still staring absent-mindedly out of the window, and fuck. Harry was normally . . . not clingy, but he felt it like a punch to the gut. That mewling, pleading side of him wanted to curl up and sob, let the hot wet inlay of tears on his cheeks soothe him. Catharsis. Not an orgasm- fuck, he was so bloody hard – but still. Release. God, but he wanted to get fucked, goddamnit, and
Malfoy was still staring out of the bloody window. Disproportionate hurt surged up, welling in his eyes, and he curled his hands into fists against his skinnies.
“Do you still…” Harry’s throat tightened. The age old instinct to provoke Malfoy was warring with this new, powerful urge to dip his head and please him. He tried to go for a pleasantly neutral tone, something sick churning in his gut.
“I mean, I understand if you don’t want this – to do this – anymore.”
Malfoy, with unbelievable speed, turned to face him for the first time.
“Do you not?” He asked, and his voice was so fucking gravelly, two octaves deeper than his usual pitch. It sent a grating murmur down Harry’s spine, and he squirmed happily. The hurt evaporated. He licked his lips slowly, watched Malfoy’s eyes trace the movement. He grinned.
“I do,” he said, swallowing a giggle. “Just checking.”
Malfoy grinned back, predatorial and intense, and his left incisor was just off- kilter. He looked like a lion, maybe, or a degree of lion that was colder, paler. More dangerous. Harry wouldn’t ever tell him, but he’d left ‘ferret’ in the dust. To call this man a ferret would be laughable- barely even worth the effort of trying.
Barely.
No, Harry, you want to get laid tonight, he reminded himself, but couldn’t suppress a smirk. Malfoy, misinterpreting it, openly eyed Harry’s legs. He silently sent a quick prayer of thanks to Ginny for her charm work.
The cab cut through black, glistening roads, pools of rainwater gleaming silver in the lamplight, and it was really a beautiful night, Harry thought. A sense of delicious peace pervaded him. As Malfoy’s hand slowly reached over to curve around Harry’s knee, Harry’s stomach tightened, curling up and knotting beautifully, and his cock throbbed. With a complete abandonment of his fear that the ferocious desire pulsing through him was not reciprocated, he shifted over to Malfoy, jeans sliding over the leather, and placed his own hand on the leg of Malfoy’s trousers, palm sliding over the fabric.
Malfoy inhaled sharply, and cast a quick, hot glance at Harry. Harry couldn’t keep his eyes off the pink bow of Malfoy’s lips, the smoothly planed curve of his neck, the wildness of his eyes under the slant of his brows. He wanted to tangle himself in the other man, get lost in him entirely, and his hand was needily tight on Malfoy’s thigh.
The other man’s breath was deliberately slow, intent dark in his eyes, and his hand tightened to mirror the desperation of Harry’s grip. Harry wanted to explode from it all, the coil of desire that saw him canting his hips forward. He was a hair away from grinding against the seat shamelessly.
The cab screeched as it paused at a traffic light, and Malfoy turned to look at him. Harry caught his breath at the sight. They stared at each other wildly, hands still on each other’s legs, and Malfoy’s brow furrowed lightly, as though he were in pain, as his gaze travelled over Harry’s lips, his jaw, his hair, and then over his shirt and legs that were pressed together in the seat.
Harry blushed hotly, but did not avert his eyes, and from between them there arose a new sense of being, as though they’d wanted each for so long, been through so much, years of history had clouded their view of one another. Now, it was like they were seeing each other freshly for the first time in… God, since Harry had refused that first handshake from that pale, grey- eyed eleven year old who’d shouldered in front of him with easy, firstborn- son confidence.
Harry searched Malfoy’s face for a trace of that blonde boy he’d met outside the Great Hall. His face was still expressive, still pale, but somehow matured, effortlessly lovely now. He’d grown into his eyes, too, Harry thought. Where they’d been enormous in school, grey and haunted, now they fit his face, elegantly cool.
Fuck, he thought. Fucking Malfoy.
A snort escaped him, and Malfoy grinned in response, eyes glued endearingly to Harry’s mouth.
“What?” He said, warm breath tickling Harry’s cheek.
“Nothing,” Harry said, a smirk tugging his lips up. “I just—”
A loud screech interrupted him- they lurched forwards in their seats, seatbelts hauling them backwards as the cab swayed forwards, and braked.
The driver’s voice, muffled and faintly annoyed, arose from behind the smudged panel of plastic.
“You alright here?”
Harry peered out of the window, chest tightening as he recognised the familiarly imposing height of Grimmauld Place, gargoyles leering down from warped iron banisters.
“Yep,” he said shortly, and opened his door onto the road, closing it quickly and dodging an oncoming car to duck around onto the uneven pavement.
Malfoy was coming out the other side, making to lean into the passenger window, his fingers thumbing through his wallet. Harry saw the greenish- silvery slide of Muggle money through his fingers and froze, strangely arrested by the sight of Draco Malfoy counting out five- pound notes for this cabbie.
It was one of those bizarre confluences of his two worlds, the ones that used to happen when they were in school and Dumbledore would pay a visit to Privet Drive, or the time Uncle Vernon had a shouting fit about Dementors. Now Harry was an adult, he’d assumed his worlds would mingle effortlessly, Muggles going about their business in London as he strode about across the street behind the invisible distinction of the wizarding world.
But now… now here was this pureblood, highbrowed and fair- skinned and shamelessly aristocratic, magical fingertips sliding over Winston Churchill’s miniature plastic face. It occurred dimly to Harry that he should offer to pay instead, but then Malfoy was turning to him, leather wallet in hand, and he was obscenely attracted to him, so much so that he didn’t think he could move in any direction, much less speak. He was galvanised, lips dry as Malfoy came towards him. His grey eyes were half- shielded by blond hair, and he looked almost… shy. He was worrying his lip, not sensually (though it was definitely one of the more adorable things Harry had ever witnessed) but anxiously, teeth sliding over his bottom lip and reddening it.
Harry suddenly realised the reason for his pensiveness in the car.
Malfoy was nervous.
He stepped closer, mouth clumsy. “Are you ok?”
Malfoy’s gaze was sure, but he was still chewing his lip.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice was a little gravelly. “It’s just…”
He swallowed thickly.
“How long have you wanted this?” Malfoy said, looking up. His eyes were unwavering, and filled with an honesty that made Harry catch his breath in the cool evening air. It carried a tang of rain and iron, the scent of London at night, and Malfoy was so bloody beautiful in the weak lamplight.
Harry licked his lips. “I…” Shit. Did he say it? Would it drive him off?
Fuck it.
“Since the last couple years of school,” Harry replied, trying to keep his voice steady. He shrugged, falsely nonchalant. “Longer, maybe.”
Malfoy stared at him, lips parted, and Harry had to ask him.
“How… how long have you?”
He was desperate not to let his vulnerability show. God. What if Malfoy said he didn’t want it? What if he said he’d never liked Harry before? What if he—
“So long.” There was a weighted pause. “Fucking thousands of years, Potter, God. So long.”
And Harry’s stomach tightened and melted, throwing itself on the floor and wailing. The emotion swelling in his throat quickened his breath so he was panting, pulse fluttering, and Malfoy was staring at him with limpid pools of silver for eyes. That was desire, Harry knew it, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He crossed the distance between them in a step and a half, hands reaching instinctively for Malfoy’s waist, and when the other man met him halfway it was pure relief, cool water in the desert. Harry burned for him, chests pressing together with the urgent need of two people utterly absorbed in one another, and he wanted more, so much more, nothing was enough. Not the slide of his lips over Malfoy’s exposed neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake, not the possessive splay of Malfoy’s hand over his hip, not even the breaths they were exchanging, hot need misting closer, mingling, gasping…
Their mouths met with an easiness that made Harry tremble, and why had they ever argued, why had they ever shouted in hallways and glared and spat insults across classrooms when they could have been doing this, tongues sliding over one another with a wet, filthy friction that turned Harry to absolute jelly, and Draco was groaning into his mouth as his tongue ghosted over Harry’s lower lip, licked into his mouth like he was devouring him. Maybe he was. They were melting into each other, Harry’s hands sliding up to tangle in Draco’s hair- fucking God, it was so soft- and both of Malfoy’s hands were on his back now, moving lower and lower, pressing them together as their mouths moved over each other fiercely.
Harry gasped into Malfoy’s mouth as his hands slid over the curve of Harry’s bum, and he ground himself instinctively forwards, letting his neck bend backwards. Malfoy kissed him harder, deeper, never letting up and allowing him only snatches of breath between their lips. As Harry swayed backwards, head weighted by desire and legs weak, Malfoy chased him, holding him up with strong hands on his arse and waist. He was fucking everywhere, and Harry was starting to grind harder, unconsciously, completely lost in it.
He thought he would have come there pretty quickly, hips held possessively by Malfoy’s large, insistent hands, shirt sliding up to bare skin that Draco was looking at like he wanted to lick it up. But just as Harry opened his lips on a desperate moan, caught up in Draco’s lips, the other man pulled back.
His breath was coming quickly, and when he hummed Harry’s legs shook a tiny, embarrassing bit, because his voice was rough and deep, like he had a whole new range for arousal that only Harry had heard.
It was hotter than it sounded. With a possessive flash that saw him pressing his cock forward into Malfoy’s own and grinding, he swore nobody else would ever hear it again. Malfoy’s breath shivered out in a gasp, and he laughed, the vibrations going straight to Harry’s cock.
Aroused past all recognition as he was, he scowled up at Malfoy. He could feel himself straining against his jeans, and silently dragged in a breath, heart pounding. He was so bloody weak, muscles flooded with a languid ecstasy that made him want to just dissolve into Malfoy, be swallowed up by him. The other man smirked, a slow quirk of his lips that spread upwards into something entirely too sexy. Harry stared.
“Should we go inside, Potter?” His grin widened. “Or do you want to ravish me out here?”
Harry bit back a responding grin. “I was rather hoping you’d be doing the ravishing, actually.”
Malfoy’s lashes lowered for a second, and when he looked back up his gaze was dark.
“Inside.”
Harry swallowed, trying desperately not to just fall to his knees there and then.
Get it together, idiot.
It was with a shuddery exhale that he turned to the front of Grimmauld Place, closed his eyes, and visualised the house. And then, with a great rumbling slide of bricks, numbers thirteen and eleven were shunting aside, and number twelve bloomed in the middle, stones somehow more weathered- looking than the rest.
Harry bit his lip, daring a glance at Malfoy only to stare at him alarmedly. He’d turned horribly pale all of a sudden. Harry spoke tentatively, unsure of what the problem was.
“Want to come in?”
Malfoy turned to him, and his grey eyes were… hollow.
“My Aunt Bellatrix inherited this house.”
A chill of horror stroked Harry’s spine.
“She was meant to, yeah.”
The other man’s eyes squeezed shut for a half- second. “She inherited it automatically. Before you and Dumbledore removed her from the magical equation.”
Harry stared at him. “Did she…?”
“She made me come with her,” Malfoy gritted out. “To pay it a visit. I didn’t recognise it before… the way it revealed itself reminded me… I just remembered.”
Harry’s throat was suddenly horribly dry.
“Do you still want to come in?”
Malfoy looked ghost- white, the shadows under his eyes prominent.
“Yes. No, I—No. I don’t know.”
Panic and hurt started to churn in Harry’s stomach, a cold tossing weight of unpleasantness. He didn’t know what to say.
“I can make you, um, a cup of tea?”
Malfoy’s head snapped around to him, and his eyes were thick with something Harry couldn’t place. The glaciality of his gaze made Harry want to flinch.
“Tea?” Malfoy mocked.
And, fuck. That stung.
“Is that what we’ve come to, Potter? Tea?”
Harry stepped forward, anger flushing his cheeks. “I was just trying to be polite, Malfoy. Jesus. I don’t have to fucking make tea if you don’t want it, you just looked—”
“I don’t need your damn pity, Scarhead,” Malfoy spat, and had Harry really ever seen anyone but the boy he’d been at school with? There he was, in the venomous tone and the haunted eyes and the sick pallor.
Harry wanted to curl up and disappear. The last dregs of arousal were still throbbing in his belly, but now he was prickling with anger and fear and he really needed a shower. The pulse of nervous adrenaline in his ears told him this could go very wrong very quickly.
His lips were dry; he licked them, trying to calm down.
“Okay. I’m going to pretend you’re not acting like a child, and invite you in. I didn’t know you’d been here with—”
Malfoy stiffened.
“Her. I’m sorry. Really. We don’t have to… but I think it would be better for you to come inside.”
A pause. And then Malfoy nodded slowly, jerkily. The rabbiting of Harry’s heart allayed slightly. He stepped up to the doorway, muttering an ‘Alohomora,’ and the door swung open with a squeal of rusty hinges.
A plume of smoke curled out from the doorway as the corridor was revealed, thin and tapering. The portraits lining the walls went on for so long that the painted faces became indistinct. A ripple of murmurs spread along the paintings; some of the inhabitants who had been snoozing awoke with a jerk to glare at Harry and Malfoy, muttering to their neighbours.
Harry stepped inside, feet ginger, and the carpet exhaled a puff of dust. He sincerely hoped the house was not in as bad a state as it had been the summer before their fifth year. He suppressed a shudder. Now Kreacher had died… he didn’t like to think what kinds of ruin the house had fallen into.
Now that he was really thinking about it, it wasn’t the sexiest place to bring someone.
He half- didn’t want to turn around and look at Malfoy. He felt suddenly very stupid, and cold, and why would anyone want to do anything with him, Harry, in this grimy, creepy house with snooty portraits ogling them from all directions?
If he were Malfoy he’d turn around and walk out there and then.
The leaden weight dulling his heart grew still heavier, and the slow syrup of self- hatred started to ooze through him.
He willed himself not to fall apart.
It had just been… a really fucking long night. The only thing he wanted was to get fucked until he wasn’t thinking about anything at all, until their sweat burned off his anxiety and self- consciousness. He wanted Malfoy above him, caging him in, inside him.
He wasn’t sure it was reciprocated. The kiss outside had been fucking amazing, doubtless, but the house being Grimmauld Place had thrown Malfoy. Was still throwing him. Harry could feel it, could feel hostility jabbing at Harry’s back like glass. Sex was probably out of the question. Tea was… even less likely.
God, was it insensitive to be thinking about getting fucked by someone who was remembering something as awful as Malfoy was?
He began to walk down the corridor, not looking behind him to see Malfoy was following. The brush of cool air against his back told him that, in any case, the door had been closed. He couldn’t hear anything… but then his own footsteps were silent too. He’d never met anybody as quiet as him on foot, especially as the wood in this place had to be decades old.
He shivered.
Once he got to the kitchen, Harry turned awkwardly, sending a spark of his magic flaring out so the lights flickered on.
It wasn’t in too bad a state, shockingly. The coppery shine of the pots and pans hanging from the ceiling wasn’t dulled, just thickened by faint tangles of cobwebs, downy- soft and catching the light slightly. The table was thick with dust, though, and Harry didn’t want to even breathe near it. A layer like that would be enough to give anyone asthma.
Malfoy stood in the entrance stiffly, eyes darting around the kitchen like he didn’t recognise it.
And he probably didn’t, Harry realised. He and Bellatrix had visited Grimmauld Place the summer after fifth year; when he, Hermione and Ron had been living here, Kreacher had completely cleaned the place up.
Kreacher… Harry thought sadly, but didn’t have time to linger past the memory of his excellent French onion soup before Malfoy spoke, his voice cautious.
“It looks different.”
Harry offered him a smile, a small quirk of the lips. “Yeah, the house- elf turned the place around when we were on the run, staying here.”
“House elf?” Malfoy asked, arching a brow and looking around at the dust.
“He died,” Harry explained, feeling a twinge at his heart despite the start Kreacher and the Order had gotten off to.
“Oh…” Malfoy said, face scrunching. He looked unsure of what to say. “I’m sorry?”
It was ginger at best, tentative, but Harry pushed past it. Malfoy had probably never considered house- elves equals in his life. This was something, surely.
“That’s fine. He was old, and I think he was glad to go. He was happy when we were living here, but none of us stayed, obviously, and he got lonely—”
“You could’ve,” Malfoy interjected, and he sounded genuinely curious.
Harry looked up. “What?”
“You.” Malfoy walked further into the kitchen, leaning back against a counter with his arms crossed. “You could’ve lived here. In a different place to your friends.”
Harry put his tongue in his cheek, considering. “No, not really, though,” he said eventually. “I mean, I suppose I never gave it a load of thought, but… I wouldn’t have wanted to.”
Malfoy only had to raise a brow for Harry to plough on, his hands coming up to gesture tiredly as he spoke.
“I just… after it being the three of us for so long, isolated from everyone, I think I got used to that. Not… in a weird way. Just. They did too. I couldn’t break the habit, and to be honest we didn’t need to. The Burrow’s got a lot of rooms, for all it’s not massive.” He shrugged. “We like it.”
“And you don’t ever want your own place?” Malfoy asked, hands bracing himself on the counter behind him. He looked easy there, comfortable against the dust- specked black granite, and somehow it made Harry’s chest loosen, seeing him standing there in the kitchen like it was his home. Like he belonged.
When Harry spoke, his voice was rough. “I… I don’t feel that way now, but,” he swallowed. “Maybe if I- if I met the right person I’d want to be…” He tailed off, knowing he was biting his bottom lip, unable to stop.
There was silence from opposite him, but not the oppressive kind. It was thoughtful, more like, but weighted all the same.
Harry heard the seam of Malfoy’s lips part, a strangely intimate sound in the empty space, and he looked up.
The other man looked as though he were about to say something, as though he wanted to, but he was struggling to find the words. He looked right back at Harry, his eyes torn with some strange emotion that Harry wanted so badly to understand.
They stared at each other across the kitchen. Harry was hyper- aware of Malfoy’s hands braced behind him on the counter; the experienced dueller in him wanted to see them in front of him, visibly empty; the rest of him just wanted them. He felt strung incredibly tight, tense. Waiting for one of them to make a move.
With a slow, dragging precision, Malfoy turned his head to the side, his profile lit by the weak streetlight- glow from the kitchen window.
“The right person?” Was all he said, words carefully nonchalant.
Harry wanted to lick into him, dissolve all his tension. He compromised by moving closer, taking a step towards the other man.
“Yeah.” It was too breathy, like a whisper, but he couldn’t help it. His voicebox felt like it was closing up, stomach screwing itself tight. “If, you know, there is one.”
Malfoy’s lips curled upwards, still looking out at the window. “Of course there’ll be one, Potter. There’ll be one for you. The universe wouldn’t let the Golden Boy go without a soulmate.”
Harry felt his brow furrow involuntarily, and he took another step, hands restless at his sides, wanting to reach out and touch.
“The universe has done a lot worse.”
And that did get Malfoy’s attention. He looked back, and his lips parted slightly in what had to be shock. Harry was only inches away, closer than even he’d realised. He saw Malfoy’s lashes flutter down, thick and dark blonde. Darker than his hair. It felt like he was trying to regroup, pull a mask back up.
Harry didn’t want that.
He inhaled sharply, softly, and crossed the last little gap between the two of them, his right hand coming up to grip the back of Malfoy’s neck, and the left darting up to cup his cheekbone, feather- light. Cautious. Gentle.
Malfoy looked at Harry through his eyelashes, and the seam of his lips was still parted slightly, like he hadn’t recovered yet, like Harry wasn’t letting him.
Good.
Harry bit his lip, nosed forward slightly, and with an exhale of something like surrender, he pressed his face into the crook of Malfoy’s neck, breathing into it softly. His hand loosened on Malfoy’s cheekbone, sliding down to grip at his black shirt.
The cords and tendons beneath him tensed, Malfoy’s chest buttressing with a shocked inhale, and he was utterly still underneath Harry. Stiff, even. Harry was just starting to panic, breath coming faster and humiliatedly into Malfoy’s bare skin, when Malfoy’s arms came up around him, holding him to his chest.
Large hands spread across his back, warm and a little clumsy. Shocked, maybe. They pressed Harry to him, one sliding up to tangle in his hair. Malfoy breathed out gently, and his head came down to nuzzle Harry’s head, lips opening to press warmly against his hair. It was completely bizarre, and completely beautiful, and Malfoy smelled like nighttime and smoke and skin. Without meaning to, Harry opened his mouth slightly just as Malfoy shifted unconsciously, pressing him closer, and then Harry was kissing the curve of Malfoy’s shoulder, open- mouthed and languid.
Malfoy gasped above him, and Harry felt warm breath on his hair, Malfoy’s hands sliding down his back to grope him through his jeans, and fuck—
Harry bit down, sucking on Malfoy’s pulse point, laving over it until Malfoy tipped his head back with a very un- Malfoy groan that made Harry want to quite literally jump him. Need pooled in his stomach, throbbing want that went straight to his cock.
Harry came up for a breath, tongue flickering over the mark he’d made, and looked up at Malfoy. The sight of him made his breath catch. Malfoy’s head was thrown back, eyes shuttered closed, the strong line of his throat completely exposed, disappearing down into his shirt that Harry wanted all of sudden to be off. He released his grip on Malfoy’s shoulders, fingers sliding down nimbly to unhook Malfoy’s buttons, and then Malfoy’s head was flying forward, eyes open and dark and watching Harry with a hunger that made him flush and bite his lip, focusing on the buttons with concerted effort.
When Malfoy’s shirt popped open, Harry slid it off his shoulders, feeling the planes of skin beneath brush his knuckles as he cast the material on the floor. His burst of confidence receded somewhat, presented with the overwhelming sight of Malfoy before him, shirtless and panting, hair mussed beautifully. Malfoy seemed to sense Harry’s uncertainty; he grinned down at him slowly, and the pure desire of it was softened with just enough sweetness that Harry went completely slack, syrupy want loosening him until he was utterly pliant. Malfoy caught his face up in his hands and kissed him hard, full of teeth and the filthy slide of tongue, and the sharper spike of something lanced through Harry until he was groaning into Malfoy’s mouth, their lips never ceasing. Harry felt Malfoy’s fingers on the buttons of his own shirt; Malfoy was smiling slightly into their kiss as his fingers slid the silken material off Harry’s shoulders, and it made Harry’s stomach explode with butterflies.
As Harry felt cool air hit his shoulders, his nipples, the lower planes of his stomach, he felt Malfoy’s hands come up to cover him, big and warm and wonderfully soothing, sending ripples of goosebumps and want alike over Harry skin as they kissed. Malfoy pulled back suddenly, lips an obscene shade of red, and Harry couldn’t suppress a grin at the sight of him. He looked… fucking unreal, and Harry told him so.
Malfoy shook his head, the smirk disappearing off his lips. The look in his eyes was incredibly intense, sombre, as he stared at Harry, his exposed chest, his hair, his mouth…
“Jesus Christ, Potter,” he whispered. “You’re going to be the fucking death of me.”
And Harry bit his lip, his grin threatening to split his face in two.
“My pleasure.”
And Malfoy groaned, half- aroused, half- mocking. Harry surged back into him, their chests pressing together, Malfoy’s hands desperate in his hair, squeezing over his hips, his stomach…
Fingers on his buckle, but Harry didn’t pause as he mirrored Malfoy’s actions, both of them unzipping the other, breaths huffing into each others mouths as they kissed fiercely, hotly. They stepped out of their trousers, breaking away from one another, and Harry’s struggle with the skinnies made Malfoy snort. Harry flipped him an entirely unconvincing middle finger, but Malfoy’s red lips were irrepressibly happy, smug, bitten raw. Harry was not charmed.
“Your own fault for wearing tights out, Potter,” he said snottily. Harry wasn’t even slightly fooled.
“Please. You should be thanking these jeans,” Harry replied archly. “I saw how you were staring at them. Or, rather, what’s under them.”
Malfoy’s eyes darkened under the mess of his hair, staring at Harry with his lips parted a little.
Fuck. That should be illegal.
“If I’m thanking anything, it’s the boots,” he muttered, and Harry laughed outright, nodding slowly.
“I suppose you’re right. Ginny’s work.”
A dark frown from Malfoy, which was entirely predictable and…
A little adorable. Harry wasn’t stone, after all.
He grinned. “No need to be jealous, Gin’s as gay as we are.”
Malfoy snorted. “I’m not jealous, I just…”
His eyes glided over Harry, and they felt like stroking fingertips, landing obviously on the bulge in Harry’s boxers. He stared for so long it was entirely inappropriate, and Harry wanted him so badly it felt painful.
“Maybe a little,” he finished lowly, still fucking staring, and Harry walked towards him, tipping the other man’s chin up.
“Not to be cliché, but…” he murmured.
“My eyes are up here?” Malfoy finished for him. The faintly sarcastic edge of his voice was enough to make Harry’s flush redouble its efforts.
Malfoy bent his head closer so their lips were almost touching, breath ghosting across Harry’s lips as he felt his eyelids slide down in bliss, mouth parting unconsciously…
Malfoy spun them suddenly, hands sure and firm on Harry’s lower back in a way that made Harry’s eyes fly open in shock and arousal. Malfoy crowded him back against the countertop, pressing their hips together hard so that Harry was completely trapped, his hands coming up to grip Malfoy’s biceps.
If pressed, he wouldn’t deny that this wasn’t completely horrible.
However, Malfoy was definitely not allowed to know that.
Harry huffed, staring up at Malfoy and shoving his melting stomach further down.
“What the fuck, Malfoy?” He said abrasively, pushing at Malfoy’s arms that were caging him in.
(Again, if pressed, he would have to admit that he was not exactly using his full strength.
Sue him.)
Malfoy smirked, a slow drag of the lips that made Harry’s heart pound hard against his ribcage. He struggled to stay resolute.
“You didn’t like that?” Malfoy asked, tone insouciant.
Harry glared, fighting the urge to go completely pliant.
“No, I didn’t. Don’t fucking manhandle—
Fuck! Jesus Christ--"
Malfoy had rolled his hips, pressing what was definitely an erection against Harry’s own cock, their boxers sliding over one another, the delicious friction sliding Harry’s eyes closed as he moaned unconsciously.
The weight of Malfoy against him, the hard press of their cocks together, that rolling… Harry was wrecked. His breaths were coming raggedly, and he couldn’t think of anything except the pleasure. When his lashes fluttered open slightly, Malfoy was grinning down at him, unbearably smug.
“Didn’t like it, huh?”
Harry swore weakly.
Malfoy leaned closer, so they were completely pressed up against each other along their entire bodies. His breath was warm when he whispered against Harry’s ear, hips rolling infinitesimally, enough to drive Harry completely crazy.
“That’s what I thought.”
And then he was rutting against Harry with no reserve, breaths harsh and loud in Harry’s ear.
It felt fucking unbelievable. Harry was groaning, burying his face in Malfoy’s shoulder as the other man moved, and their skin was slippery with the sweat of it, dewing over and sliding as they grew hotter. Harry’s head was scrambled, and he was completely hard, his cock straining and jolts of pure pleasure straining up his spine as they rutted together. Harry could barely move except to meet Malfoy thrust for thrust, and he bit down on Malfoy’s pec in a gasp, ecstasy flashing through him, a honey- thick warmth flooding him, and he couldn’t do anything but chase the pleasure.
Malfoy moaned above him, voice absolutely ruined, low and roughened as he swore.
“Bloody hell, Harry…”
Harry shuddered at the sound, gripping Malfoy tighter, and their rutting was shorter, tighter, more frantic now. Harry could feel himself seizing up, spasms of pleasure making him jerk, and their rhythm was spangled with desperate gasps and uncontrollable twitches.
“God,” Malfoy gasped. “God, I’m going to… I have to…”
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, gathering his strength, and with the shreds of his will he placed his hands flat on Malfoy’s chest and pushed, properly now.
Malfoy staggered back, eyes wild and desperate, confused. He looked ludicrously hot, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to tease, to draw it out. He grasped Malfoy by the arms, and spun them again so their positions were reversed, Malfoy with his back to the hard stone of the counter, and Harry before him. Malfoy’s breaths were shuddery, his brow furrowed.
“Potter – Harry – what’re you—?"
Harry cut him off by dropping to his knees.
Malfoy inhaled sharply, the muscles of his lower stomach defining themselves suddenly.
“You don’t have to—”
Harry looked up at him, hair falling over his eyes as he licked his bottom lip, slow and deliberate.
“I want to, though.”
Malfoy’s eyelids slid half- shut; he gazed at Harry with a frightening mixture of awe and tenderness. After a long pause, he bit his lip, bringing his hands back to lace behind his head and tipping his gaze back. His hips leaned back against the counter, erection pressing forwards, and his voice was deep and lazy as he spoke.
“Have at it, baby.”
Harry swallowed, drinking in the sight of Malfoy above him like that, so fucking… cocky and arrogant and bloody beautiful.
Baby.
His hands were sure on the waistband of Malfoy’s boxers, dragging them down until they pooled around Malfoy’s ankles, his cock springing free to hang heavily between his legs, stiff and flushed.
Harry licked his lips nervously, bending forwards, and he was breathing hotly over the tip, gazing up at Malfoy through his lashes, waiting for a reaction.
A flicker of the jaw was all he got.
Harry dipped his tongue out so it flickered over the head of Malfoy’s cock, slipping into the slit and licking lightly over the pre-come that had collected there.
Malfoy shuddered visibly, head tipping further back and the muscles in his arms straining as his hands cushioned the back of his head. He looked… desperate for it.
Harry grinned, and took Malfoy’s cock in his hands, licking over the base in broad, flat strokes until Malfoy groaned aloud.
“Fucking hell, Potter—”
Harry let his teeth graze Malfoy’s foreskin—
“Harry! I mean Harry, fuck, please.”
Harry took pity on him. He took a breath, relaxing his throat, and sucked the tip of Malfoy’s cock into his mouth, adjusting, sucking his mouth tight, and then moved up, slowly taking it in. The weight of it was thick and unfamiliar in his mouth, and Malfoy was big—he took a second, his hands covering the remaining inches, and moved his head up and down slowly, still drawing it out, moving languidly, His tongue flickered over Malfoy’s slit playfully, and he took more of his cock in, feeling it hit the back of his throat and choking slightly. He felt full, his jaw aching from the stretch, but Malfoy’s choppy breathe above him were enough for him to suck harder, pulling his mouth wetly and tightly over Malfoy’s cock, choking himself on it. His hands were flattened against Malfoy’s lower stomach, bracing himself, and when he had all of it in his mouth, blocking off his air, his nose was practically pressed between them. Speared like that, Harry could only move incrementally, tongue lapping over the length of it and sucking. Malfoy was groaning loudly, swearing, and Harry had zoned out but when he started to pay attention, fuck—
“God, Harry, baby, please, fucking Christ that feels so--“
It spilled from his lips like water, and Harry could feel his cock thickening, twitching, his stomach muscles rippling under Harry’s fingers. With one last sharp breath, tears pooling and streaming from his eyes at the stretch, he sucked deep, mouth straining across Malfoy’s cock, tongue gliding across the slit, and Malfoy fucking roared as he came, his hands finally moving from behind his head to tangle in Harry’s hair, unconsciously fucking his hips forward so Harry gagged.
He would never admit how good that felt.
His throat felt completely ruined, fucked raw, but he didn’t want to move an inch, even as Malfoy was coming down his throat, shuddering and threading his hands through Harry’s hair. When he gentled, slumping back against the counter, Harry finally pulled off, jaw throbbing.
Malfoy’s eyes were squeezed shut, his breaths harsh and deep. As his eyes fluttered open, he stared at Harry, mouth still slightly open, eyes thick.
“That was…” he bit his lip. “Thank you."
Harry shrugged, and Malfoy looked at him, really looked at him, gaze sliding over Harry’s body in that particular way that made him shiver. He came towards him, still staring, and slowly, never breaking his gaze, he knelt.
Malfoy stared up at him from the floor, mouth red and eyes completely dark. His pupils were dilated, black swallowing up grey, and the sight of him made Harry’s cock throb desperately. He was still so fucking hard, and Malfoy cupped his erection through his boxers, gaze reverent.
“Mind if I return the favour?” He asked, and it didn’t feel like much of a request.
Harry swallowed, heart rabbiting in his chest. He would’ve thought giving head should’ve been the thing to make him nervous, but Malfoy kneeling there, looking like a fucking wet dream-
To be more specific, Harry’s wet dream, one that he’d struggled in vain to stop having since the age of sixteen-
made him inordinately jumpy, like he wouldn’t live up to the expectation, and maybe he’d be a disappointment, and—
“I said,” Malfoy cut through his thought, and his voice was roughened, lowered with a tone that Harry didn’t know, didn’t recognise, but that something in his cock absolutely loved. His stomach clenched as Malfoy went on.
“I said, mind if I return the favour?” Malfoy repeated. His eyes were steady, but he was biting his lip in such a way that he looked as though he wanted to devour Harry.
Harry exhaled, mouth tipping up in a half- smile. “It’s impolite to interrupt when somebody’s thinking.”
Malfoy nosed closer to Harry’s cock, warm breath hitting him through the fabric of his boxers, and Harry actually trembled at the sensation. God, how was he meant to survive this?
“I rather think it’s impolite to interrupt when somebody’s offering to blow you,” Malfoy said, and that was enough to make Harry grin.
“Okay, then,” he said, and his voice was finally laced with something like confidence. Suddenly, didn’t feel like he had to prove anything, and he smirked at Malfoy, waiting for the reaction as he brought his hands up behind his head and tipped his gaze back languidly, mirroring what the other man had done earlier.
He heard Malfoy snort from below, and it fuelled his cockiness; with a rashness that he hadn’t felt in, far, far too long, he grinned at the ceiling and spoke, his voice lazy.
“Have at it, baby."