Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Anarchy as Art	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 12618 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this fanfic.

Chapter List
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Chapter Nineteen—Not So Far Off

            Harry kissed Malfoy until he felt as if he were standing on a high bridge that would crumble beneath him in the next strong wind. His muscles shook, and his hands shook, and he wanted to steady himself, but there was nowhere that he could put his hands save on the source of their tremor. He reached out and did it anyway, sliding his hands up to Malfoy’s shoulders and resting them there as he swayed a little.

            “That’s right,” Malfoy murmured, but his voice was as deep and drugged and sleepy as Harry felt, as if he were talking to himself. He reached out and pulled at Harry’s shoulders, swaying, too. Harry went along with the pull, and their mouths came together again, and Malfoy laughed and nipped at his lips. “Want to do for you what you did for me.”

            Harry’s mouth flooded with so much saliva that he knew he would only drool if he tried to speak. He settled for swallowing instead, and nodded several times.

            Malfoy laughed at him, voice high and bright and clear, suddenly, like shards of jewels, and then winked and dropped to his knees. “I didn’t think you would say no to that,” he murmured, complacent, while he undid Harry’s trouser buttons with delicate, flicking fingers.

            Harry shut his eyes and thought briefly back to that night in Malfoy’s home—no, not that, his bolthole, the places where he hid his secrets. It had all been a front from the beginning, including the idea that Malfoy was spent enough to lie still and doze while Harry explored his hidden rooms.

            But this. This was in his own home, and Malfoy’s hands were long and slim and knowing as they folded cloth back and took hold of skin.

            This was real.

            “Stop thinking so much,” Malfoy said, and rubbed first one cheek against Harry’s cock, then the other, before he leaned forwards and scooped Harry up in his mouth.

            Harry thrust without thinking about it, and then tried to think about it and thrust again, and Malfoy laughed, so deep and rich that Harry felt it as a vibration in his body more than he heard it, and started to suck.

            Harry staggered backwards, stiff, steep steps, and Malfoy reached up and held his hips. Harry braced himself on the wall, and took a few deep breaths, and shut his eyes until his heartbeat didn’t dizzy him. Then he looked down.

            Malfoy.

            Bright and pale against the carpet, his hair against Harry’s thighs, his tongue another flash of pink as he licked and darted it out. He looked up, and his eyes blazed as he held still, then reached a hand down and back and rubbed his knuckles against Harry’s balls.

            Harry shut his eyes again. That didn’t stop the whirling, bubbling promise from his stomach, the tightening muscles, or the way that he felt he would fall down the wall and collapse on top of Malfoy if he didn’t stop sucking. Or if he stopped. The whole world was confused and Harry breathed out a word.

            “Please.”

            Malfoy said something muffled around the mouthful, and then sucked so hard it hurt. Harry stood up on his toes and yelped something that really might have been an order to stop, but luckily, Malfoy wasn’t listening to him. He just went back to work, licking and sucking ferociously, clamping his lips down and humming, and brushing Harry again and again, in random place after random place, with the knuckles of his hand.

            Harry felt the mouth, and imagined the hand spreading wide and flat and cupping him, or reaching up to his hole and—

            He came, no forethought, no warning. It felt so good. He found himself with the memory of the pleasure more than the pleasure itself, standing with his head drooping down and his breath shuddering into silence.

            Malfoy stood up, coughed a little, and gave him a smile that made Harry’s head whirl. He reached out and pulled Malfoy close, kissing him until he couldn’t find a trace of the taste in his hot mouth anymore.

            Then Malfoy coughed a second time and shifted a little to the left, and Harry felt Malfoy’s erection brush along his side with a thrill that made him shudder and wish he could be hard again.

            “What do you want me to do to you?” Harry whispered in his ear, smoothing his fingers up and down Malfoy’s knee without touching his cock. Malfoy’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he made a choking noise that was good for Harry’s ego, although his fingers tingled to touch. He smiled. “Whatever you want.”

            Malfoy lowered his head and looked at him. “Whatever,” he said.

            Harry blinked, and remembered who he was talking to. “Well, if you want something like snakes going up people’s—holes, then you’re on your own,” he said. “But whatever I can do by myself, with my mouth, my arse, my hands. It’s yours.”

            Malfoy kissed him again, and spent a long moment touching Harry’s teeth with his tongue before he pulled back. “You’re remarkably generous,” he whispered. “Strange that I never got that impression when you were chasing me.”

            “Generous there would have been to let you go,” Harry said, and pulled him towards the bedroom, fingers playing over the muscles in Malfoy’s arms the way that Malfoy’s tongue had played in his mouth. “Obviously the one thing I can’t do.”

            “I’m glad that you can’t do it,” Malfoy said, his voice dipping down into darkness. “I don’t want to suffer through this alone.”

            Harry thought anything he could say after that was going to sound stupid, so he simply kissed Malfoy and pushed him onto the bed. “You still haven’t said what you want,” he murmured, starting to pull his clothes off. His trousers were wet with himself, and he touched the stickiness for a moment with his fingers, then left it.

            “I want your arse,” Malfoy said, leaning back and spreading his legs as though that would give Harry a better view of him when he was still dressed. Well, it gave Harry a better view of his inner thighs and the small dark patch at his groin that came from his cock leaking, at least, and Harry made the first of many noises from the back of his throat. “But not in the way you think.”

            “No snakes, I think I said,” Harry murmured, and dipped his head to pull his shirt off. When he could see again, Malfoy was looking at him with his tongue and teeth slickly shining, and Harry had to crawl onto the bed and kiss him.

            When Malfoy finally pulled back, he murmured, “I am—intrigued by the fact that taking off your shirt manages to make your hair look wilder. I hadn’t thought there were degrees of how scruffy you could look, but I see that you’ve proven me wrong.”

            “I always will,” Harry said, and yanked at his trousers. “Let’s get you naked.”

            “I’d prefer,” Malfoy said, taking Harry’s hand away with the same negligent grace he’d shown when he handed the opal to Harry, “to do it myself. And keep my shirt on.” He gave Harry a smile that was from deep down inside himself, just like the little grunts and groans and pants that kept coming out of Harry. “It makes the game I have in mind sexier.”

            Harry settled back on his heels and watched as Malfoy pulled off his trousers and pants. The smell of him filled the air, astringent and searching in a way that Harry could imagine staying on his sheets for a good long time. He sniffed, and smiled. “I can’t imagine you being more sexy than you already are.”

            Malfoy rolled upright and came for him, arms reaching out, eyes so dark that Harry knew he’d stopped playing. He let Malfoy roll Harry beneath him, his shirt dangling against Harry’s skin and making him shudder with the prickle of fine cloth and little buttons, and spread his legs suggestively.

            “No,” Malfoy whispered, then took his earlobe in his teeth and held it there until Harry had begun to melt. “Up on all fours,” came the second whisper.

            Harry nodded, rolled over, and managed to force himself onto his hands and knees, once again wishing he could still get hard. Malfoy moved behind him, and Harry couldn’t help clenching, arching his head to look back.

            “What a very, very fine arse you have,” Malfoy whispered, sticking out one hand and running his fingers lightly over Harry’s cheeks and hole, up and down and back and forth. “I knew there was a reason that I kept chasing you for so long.”

            Harry laughed in spite of himself, then choked up and had to let his head droop and hang. He wondered what he would feel next, and was braced for almost anything. Malfoy’s hand, a paddle, his tongue?

            Instead, Malfoy, probably with the help of a spell, managed to reach out and around Harry. His arms framed Harry’s, his chest came to rest on Harry’s back, and his shirt and his hair spilled around them both. And his cock came to settle on top of Harry’s arse, both of them already tilting restlessly back and forth.

            Harry shivered, and not entirely because of the way that Malfoy’s shirt was tickling his sides and his ribs. He nodded and braced himself, running his fingers into the sheets but shifting so that the sides of his wrists brushed Malfoy’s hands draped over his.

            “Yeah, I’ll hold us up,” he said, his voice so breathy that he had trouble recognizing it. “Do whatever you want to do.”

            Malfoy breathed a sigh of relief so great that it made Harry wonder how long he had carried this fantasy, and then he began to rub back and forth, over Harry’s arse. Harry closed his eyes and thought about it, about the rub of smooth skin there, and then he just felt it, the slight touch that grew wetter as it went on, and the way that Malfoy was grunting and moaning. Now and then, he pulled back far enough to put space in between them, and then thrust forwards again.

            Harry panted and went down on his elbows, because trying to hold them both up on his hands was getting too much for him. Draco murmured and muttered and rustled, and then found the new angle again, the new pace, his cock dragging across Harry’s crack. Harry exhaled hard, rooting his elbows down further, and jumped a bit as one of Draco’s buttons caught on a thin hair on his back.

            “So good,” Draco said, his voice as hazy as it had been when they were kissing.

            “Yeah,” Harry breathed back.

            Draco hesitated, and Harry wondered for a second if something was wrong. Then Draco began to thrust, hard, against his arse, no longer perfectly on top of him but pulling back so that, yeah, there was space between them, and Harry’s skin twitched and his cock stirred. He hissed, pushing back.

            “No, no, stay still,” Draco whispered, and Harry managed to do that for him, head falling down so that the sheets cradled his cheek, his mouth slick and full of saliva. Draco thrust, and thrust, and Harry let himself imagine what would it be like when there were no barriers between them, imagined those hands that had stolen jewels and paintings and wands taking his—

            He would have come again if he could when he felt Draco coming, slicker than ever, panting in his ear now as he slumped back over Harry. Harry let himself fall all the way down, and then turned and brushed Draco’s hair away from his face.

            “Clean me up,” Draco muttered, his eyes shut.

            Harry found his wand nearer than he’d thought it would be, and reckoned it was lucky they hadn’t broken it, bouncing up and down in the bed the way they had. Hell, they’d probably been lucky not to break the bed. He yawned when he was done, and burrowed down until his head was resting next to Draco’s face.

            Draco was already asleep, his lips parted as though it was just too much effort to breathe through his nose. Harry lay staring into his face, and lost track of the moment when he fell asleep himself.

*

            “And what are you doing there?” The voice was familiar, crackling like lightning across Harry’s mind and breaking his dreams. He stirred, frowning.

            “You can call me his…nursemaid.” From the sound of Malfoy’s voice, he had chosen that title because he knew it would annoy whoever else was talking.

            Silence, so long and ominous that Harry started to roll towards the edge of his bed, and then Hermione’s voice said, “What?”

            Harry stood up, took a second to make sure that he had his glasses on, and then realized he was still mostly naked and started dressing, fast. Malfoy was making some response, from the sound of it a long, elaborate speech, to Hermione’s question, and Harry wanted to get out there before it got any worse.

            He stumbled out, deciding that he didn’t need socks, in time to see the flare of the Floo connection closing. Malfoy, who had been leaning near it as though trying to catch every word, chuckled and leaned back as he stretched, seeming pleased with himself.

            “What did you say to her?” Harry asked, quietly, feeling his stomach drop as he thought of all the things Malfoy could have said, and that it had probably gone even worse than he imagined.

            Malfoy turned around and looked at him, cocking his head. “There you go, disposed to blame me again,” he said. “You are tiresome.”

            Harry hissed between his teeth and spent a second massaging the skin between his eyes. Only when he took his hand away and looked at Malfoy again, finding him coiled and staring, did he remember his scar was there and what it would probably mean to Malfoy that he was rubbing it.

            Harry shook his head and tried to smile. “It never hurts anymore,” he said. “Not since the war. Unless someone’s hit me on the head or something.”

            Malfoy didn’t smile. He stood up and said, “You think it’s my fault, whatever I said to her. What right does she have to call you like this, at nine in the morning, when she knows that you don’t have to go to work anymore?”

            “Hermione likes to check up on me.” Harry turned away and started casting the series of charms that would make breakfast go right in the kitchen. He used to cook by hand a lot more, but it had started becoming too much like what he remembered doing for the Dursleys, especially when he had no one else to cook for, so he’d stopped. “You can’t blame her for that.”

            Malfoy’s hand came to rest low on his stomach, and Harry hesitated, then leaned back against him. Malfoy kissed him near his ear, and Harry felt his eyelids droop.

            “Last night, it was so good,” Malfoy whispered, and his hand wandered towards Harry’s groin.

            Harry caught his wrist, and turned his hand over. Malfoy had no calluses, of course. Harry wondered what sort of wear and tear on the hands you’d expect of someone who was a professional thief and Potions master.

            “Yeah, it was,” he said, and turned around. “But right now, breakfast is cooking, and I just want to know what you said to her. And what she said to you.”

            Malfoy watched him, eyes wide and wary. Harry wanted to shake his head, but he knew Malfoy would take that the wrong way, so he just thought, Look at the pair of us. Obsessed with each other, and still not able to live together.

            Well. This is the way that we’ll just have to live.

            “She asked what I was doing there,” Malfoy said at last, his voice a resentful little mumble. “And she didn’t even give me a chance to answer before she was talking again. I told her I was your nursemaid, and that I was taking care of you, and she yelled at me. Said that you would never take me as a lover, and that I must be hiding something and—I don’t know, by that time she was talking too fast for me to understand.”

            Harry smiled in spite of himself. “Yeah, that sounds like Hermione,” he said. He held out a hand. “I promise that I won’t slap you if you come closer,” he added, when Malfoy stared at it. “I just wanted to know.”

            Malfoy nodded, and stepped closer. “I did insult her,” he said.

            Harry sighed, but said nothing. That was something he would have to get used to, he thought, until it got to the point where either Hermione got used to the tone of Malfoy’s insults or they got bad enough that Harry’s obsession waned and he decided that he’d rather not see Malfoy anymore. Not for one moment did he think Malfoy would stop if Harry asked him to.

            He turned back to the kitchen, but Malfoy rested his hand on his arm. Harry turned around and waited.

            Malfoy watched him with shadowed eyes for so long that Harry got worried about the toast burning, but he held still. This was more important than whether he had to clear out smoke from his kitchen, he thought.

            “You haven’t asked me when I plan to give up my thefts,” Malfoy said carefully.

            Harry took a deep breath. “I recognized that I wouldn’t get anywhere,” he said. “Any more than you would if you tried to talk me out of setting up these schools.”

            Malfoy’s fingers flexed open and shut on his arm. “And what happens if you wake up some morning and I’m gone? What will you do?”

            Harry looked down at the faded Dark Mark on his arm, and then back up and along to Draco’s face. “Wait for you to come back,” he said.

            Draco stared at him with a face made sheer by disbelief, and then cocked his head. “It doesn’t bother you?”

            “Hell, yes, it does,” Harry said, and then tried to control himself when he saw the way that Draco continued to stare at him. “Of course it does,” he continued, quietly, after a moment. “But I’m not part of the Ministry anymore. I’m not paid to care. And they don’t care enough to stop you. There’s nothing—I’m tired of pouring effort into that case that no one appreciates.” He sighed and shook his head. “I reckon they can suffer for it.”

            Draco opened his mouth ask another question, but then leaned nearer and kissed him again, long and slow. His hands slipped back beneath the trousers Harry had pulled on to appease Hermione, and this time, Harry didn’t resist.

            Breakfast did burn. But Harry cooked another one, and sat eating it, and watching the way that Draco’s hair glittered in the sunlight through the window.

            It wasn’t perfect. Nothing was.

            But this is the way we’ll live.

*

            SP777: Afraid it heads for the end next! But I’m glad that you’ve liked it so far.

            unneeded: That’s what Harry and Malfoy think, too. There’s no way to get rid of this obsession, so either they have to let it wear out in hatred or they have to unite. And uniting does make Harry feel a lot better, at least, and Draco wouldn’t do it if he didn’t get some benefit out of it…
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