Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 45
- 46
- 47
SUMMARY: Harry sneaks himself into Hogwarts for an impromptu reunion with Draco. Sparks fly.

WARNINGS: Spoilers, ho! This is a 100% fetish prØn chapter: consensual D/s, RACK-lifestyle consensual violence, Dominant!Harry, submissive!Draco, snarky!brat!Draco, bondage, fellatio, rimming/anal-oral sex, vibrator play, anal penetration

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter stands as proof that, with a good bottle of port, anything is possible.

What? You suffered under the misconception that I penned this fic sober? Pishaw. I go John Cheever on this bitch. Bukowski. Hell, Faulkner.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

BORGES & I

Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself

can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am aware

of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things... my life is a flight and I lose everything

and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.

"Borges & I"

Jorge Luis Borges

The ceiling in Draco's room was a network of dark cracks, like the ceiling of the Gryffindor boys' dormitory. Harry could imagine himself lying in his old four poster, staring up at nothing, fretting about the Triwizard or Ron and Hermione's latest spat. It was easy to pretend, as he lay there, warm and comfortable, enjoying Draco's scent on the unmade sheets and soft cashmere pillows. Life was better, richer with Draco in it. If he had it to do all over again, he thought, he couldn't think of a better life than one with Draco in it. The blonde pushed him, challenged him, teased and agitated and, on occasion, inspired. There was no Harry Potter without Draco Malfoy. End of story.

He waited for Draco to come bursting through the door, covered in sweat and mud from a Quidditch practice gone long.

It wasn't as though Harry could head down to the Common Room and ask what was keeping the team and their intrepid captain—no one knew Harry was back. They couldn't. He'd snuck into the castle using his Invisibility Cloak with the intention of lying in wait, surprising Draco in the halls or up in their bedroom. He tried not to worry as the minutes ticked slowly by. Shadows spread across the stone ceiling, mixing with the cracks to form little eddies of darkness. He waited, thoughts swirling in his head.

He'd considered, for a long time, the sly hints which Draco had been leaving—winks and hints peppered throughout those first two weeks of their relationship, when they'd had the luxury of time, getting to know one another's bodies inside and out. “When you're ready,” Draco had said. “Can't call me 'baby' til you've had me,” he'd said. The blond was biding his time, working up to it... waiting for Harry to fuck him—to take him down to his knees and make love to him. And he wanted to. Fuck did he want to. But he worried he might not be enough—good enough, “endowed” enough, pleasurable enough. Draco had had sex with other men, while Harry had only their relationship and a lifetime of wank fantasies to base his performance off of. He had an inkling of what to do, how to go about it. He had more fantasies than he knew what to do with. But... what if he was horrible as a top? He... really liked “receiving,” as the magazines called it. The thought of change, of cocking up—literally cocking up—such a good thing made him keenly nervous. What if he was pants at it?

He breathed deep, taking Draco's scent into his lungs as the doubts raced through him—a train on a familiar looping track.

When he and Draco were together in that way... it was special. It was like nothing he'd ever imagined. He couldn't produce the magic on his own, either; it took the two of them rolling together, sweating and panting, touching, kissing. Nothing could ever be as good as that brush of skin, as that dampness and mind-numbing heat. They were right. The world followed suit when they were together, too. Everything settled, making sense when Draco pressed against him, bare-chested and breathing ragged, a pretty flush dripping along his cheeks. Together, they were so undeniably right.

They'd been like that since the first moment. When their lips met, it was magic—fire and sparks, light igniting behind his eyelids, trickling down his throat until it reached his heart. He'd felt his chest seize up that first time, heart threatening to beat its way out of his chest, blood boiled-hot in his veins. He'd thought he was drunk. It made him giddy, even thinking about it now. And it had been so good—the most exquisite trembling as he'd shook, eyes closed and head thrown back, fighting the bonds which held him to the bed. Need had consumed him, blinding him to any doubt he may have once harbored about pulling a “How's Your Father?” with another bloke. In that moment—as Draco Malfoy hovered over him, naked, wand drawn—he knew he would be taken care of... protected. He could sense it in the man's eyes, in the teasing play of his fingertips as he traced the lines of Harry's Forbidden Forest of body hair: Draco was taking his bollocks in hand, was giving over everything he had as fuel to Harry's desire.

Now he wanted the last of Draco. He wanted to pull every last fiber from the man—yank it from his throat if need be. He would choke the pureblood bastard, would take it from him, throwing him down and making love to him—making his love known and felt like never before. It was time. No—it was long overdue.

Harry licked his lips; slow, savoring the lingering sweetness of air tinged with Draco. His lashes flickered shut, blocking out the room's sun. The shadows of clouds drifted by. He felt the play of them on his face as they passed.

He'd been thinking about this for a long time. Probably since that first time he and Draco had had sex in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place. He knew Draco wanted to be bound, wanted to feel that blissful tightness against his skin. It was a dangerous brew, given all that had happened to him. Draco had a bad history with helplessness—it had suffused his sixth year, when he'd taken over for his father as a Death Eater, tasked with sneaking Voldemort's followers into Hogwarts. And before that, his virginity had been sold to the highest bidder by his own father, the man whom Draco would later replace. And then there was Mulciber. Harry had seen the man's face in the murk of Draco's mind, shadows like mud splayed across his bent-up face, the lines of the bars of Draco's cell painted over that ugliness, cigarette in hand, reaching for the zip of his trousers.

Draco Malfoy had been “done to,” had been had in all the wrong ways, brought about by fear, deception and his own panicked desperation for life and human connection amongst all that terrible uncertainty which had been his life these last couple years. And those memories didn't just go away—they were written across his body, scarred along his insides just as the words “I shall not tell lies” sat inscribed on Harry's hand.

Harry knew he had to tread lightly. Yet he couldn't deny the man what he so clearly wanted. Draco was a master of restriction, his spells flawless. More impressive was his knowledge. With every spell, with every bit of rope or scrap of leather, he understood the pressure applied, the relation of weight and tension, nursing every last bite and spasm and scream, coaxing them out through his game of struggle.

There was only one way by which Draco could have come to understand those sensations so deeply. It was simple: he did it to himself. He tied himself up—hit and choked and finger-fucked himself in the ass, just to feel it. Draco gave rise to the struggle too well not to know it himself. The only way he could have attained such understanding was by practicing and perfecting his skills on himself. He enjoyed it. And he would take just as well, if not better, than he gave.

It had always been cat and mouse with them, parry and thrust. Draco had done it first—tying Harry down right there at the beginning, no questions asked, no hesitation; the first spark—hoping Harry's return-fire wouldn't be long in coming.

Harry placed a hand over the gift he'd brought, the brown paper bag rough and dingy under his fingers. It was his idea of a compromise, meeting Draco half-way, a sort of playful, half-strike. He hoped it was enough.

At last, he heard Draco's footsteps in the hall. Instantly, he recognized the cadence of his boyfriend's step, the steady rhythm produced by his distribution of weight. His sound was constant, sure and unhurried. Perhaps he'd put on some muscle? Was he taking better care of himself? Harry wondered. Was he growing his body and pubic hair, taking regular meals, working out on the Quidditch pitch? How much of Draco had changed? How much remained the same? Harry propped himself up on his elbows, giddy with anticipation, staring at the door as though he might will it open with the brawling strength of his impatience.

Draco threw the door open.

He was beautiful—covered in sweat from a long Quidditch practice, his hair a flaxen, rumpled mess. A Gryffindor sweatshirt—Harry's Gryffindor sweatshirt, for he knew the ripped-up collar and shredded cuffs—was flecked with mud. Draco had managed to keep his hands and face clean. He'd shaved his cheeks but wore a vaguely defined mustache and goatee, little more than blonde fluff decorating the pink puff of his lips.

Distracted and tired-looking, Draco tossed Harry's Firebolt onto the sofa, flicking his wand at the fire to put a few extra logs on against the castle's chill. Tugging off fingerless Seekers gloves with his teeth, he at last set eyes on Harry.

The blonde froze with a strip of leather between his perfect white molars.

“'Erry!” he shouted, disbelief and the glove muffling his voice. He yanked off the remainder of his borrowed Quidditch gear. “What're you doing here?”

“Everything's okay,” Harry said plainly, assuring. “I have a meeting later... but I wanted to see you.”

The blonde pulled a face. “Yeh coulda told me,” he sniffed, taking the hem and sleeve of the Gryffindor sweatshirt he wore, sweat soaking the pits a dark maroon. The roots of his hair were greasy, his cheeks windblown and ruddy, red as the sweatshirt he eagerly divested himself of. “I look a right mess.”

Harry ginned. “Doesn't make a difference to me. It's good to see you, Draco.”

The blonde smiled back. “Shower, then?”

“I... brought you something,” said Harry, picking up the package beside his thigh.

Draco released his hold on the sweatshirt, sounding a splat of wet cotton against the stone floor a second later. He arched a brow.

“A present?”

“Yeah. It's muggle. But something tells me you're gonna like it.”

Draco put his hands to the sleigh bed's curling foot board, leaning his weight. There was more definition in his arms, his shape less spindly. The long line of his shoulders fell from either side of his neck, all bones and angles Harry longed to bite. A line of ashy blonde ran from his navel downward, disappearing beneath the waistband of Armani pants.

Harry tore his gaze back to Draco's still-flushed face as the man mused, “Let's see... muggle and something I might like? Simple,” he shrugged, conclusion arrived at. “It's either tequila or clothes. Tell yeh wot: I'll have a quick shower—”

Draco had the thick tongue of his belt in hand, tugging. A lean tendon flexed the length of his forearm. The image incited a riot in Harry's trousers.

“It's not clothes,” Harry interrupted. “Or liquor. And how about you skip the shower for now? I like you sweaty.”

“Not alcohol... muggle... ripe as I am....” Draco's eyes went as big as Dobby's and seemed to glitter. “Good Gryffindor! It's your cock, isn't it?”

Laying back against the pillows, Harry smirked. “Sort of. Why don't you come here and find out?”

Kicking off his trainers, Draco vaulted over the foot board, bounding into bed. He reached for the package only to have Harry dangle it off the side of the bed, just out of reach.

“I picked up a kit at a muggle shop and made this for you,” he smiled softly. It had been ruddy embarrassing, walking into that road-side sex shop in rural Ohio. His face had been red as a Quaffle. They'd asked for his driving license at the register to prove he was of-age. “It's... er, just open it. You'll see.” And he shoved the paper bag into the blonde's hands without further ceremony.

Draco withdrew the length of spongy green silicon. It was a perfect replica of Harry's erect cock.

It had been a right pain in the arse to make—fitting, seeing whose arse it would be going in presently. First he'd wanked furiously, using Draco's cock ring spell to get himself as thick as possible. Then he'd applied a cold plaster paste from the kit, coating his prick, yanking his hair and all-but fondling his nipples and bollocks to stay as hard as possible while the mould set. When it dried, he released the cock ring spell, sliding himself out of the plaster case. Without his prick in it, he could make out the clear lines of veins along the inside, every bump and curve of his equipment preserved for posterity. All that was left was to heat and pour in the silicon—adding, as a finishing touch, a metal cylinder containing a switch and batteries, allowing the thing to vibrate for...? Well, for pleasure, he supposed. Nothing could be better than the hum of vocal chords behind a wet, wanton throat wrapped around his cock—but this was probably alright. He figured it was better than Draco using his fingers or magic in lieu of the piece he wished inside him.

Draco turned the rubber cock over in his hands, experimenting with the texture and weight against his palm. It had come with a packet of glitter—to dump in the plastic. Harry had foregone such decoration. His dick didn't need to sparkle. Some things are better understated, he could hear Draco in his mind. That cock a' yers, especially.

Harry reached over, flipping the “on” switch. Draco gave a squawk of surprise when the dildo began to vibrate softly in his hand. Slowly, Harry twirled the base, ramping up the frequency. He'd used special American batteries to ensure it would work in Hogwarts' magical environment.

Mouth ever-so-slightly agape, Draco's tongue darted out to lick his top lip.

“Yers,” he said after a moment's hesitation. Slender fingers closed around the base, testing the toy's girth. He couldn't take his eyes off it. “A copy a' yers.”

Harry nodded.

“And its safe fer...?”

Harry could see the enthusiasm barely contained behind Draco's eyes. As it was, the man's gaze flicked up and down the plastic penis in his hand, messing with the vibration speed with a silent fascination.

Amused, Harry let out a snort. He dipped closer to Draco, cocking his head to the side. He jutted his chin toward the green silicone prick in Draco's fist. It looked... bigger, perhaps because it was detached from his body and distinctly the wrong color. It was obscene. “You're not gonna leave me for that thing, are you?”

“Dunno,” Draco replied, sour. “At least this one fucks me.”

Shamed, Harry swallowed thickly. It took a moment to find his voice. And it came deep with warning. “We'll see about that.”

He brushed a hand to his trouser pocket, glancing his wand. A Warming Charm ran the length of the toy. Draco's eyes snapped up to meet his own, mouth open and about to speak.

“Take your denims off,” he told the blonde, cutting him off before he could get started. “Now.”

Draco didn't move—frozen, petrified. With the wind still clinging to his cheeks, it was hard to make out the blush beneath. Leaning closer, Harry spotted it.

He spoke in Draco's ear. “You can have this, right now, or me at some later date. Your choice, dragon.”

Slowly, Draco gave a nod.

Harry used a hand at the man's ivory throat to bring him to the mound of pillows separating them from the headboard. Draco went willingly, sinking into the give of mattress and feather-down. Dildo in one hand, his other snuck to the belt holding his trousers up. Those were Harry's, too, the leather belt a cast-off from Fred and George most likely acquired shortly after his arrival at Grimmauld Place, summer before fifth year. Contemplating, Draco fingered the cracked leather, sliding the tongue back and forth under a loop of those loose, worn-out denims.

Sinewy bits of the blonde's throat worked beneath Harry's hand as Draco spoke.

“And yeh would... wot? Watch?” he asked quietly. Silvery eyes focused somewhere in the dip of Harry's collar.

Harry's hand tightened involuntarily. He only realized when Draco's gaze shot up to meet his. He kissed the bridge of Draco's nose, inhaling the lingering sweat of his hair and skin... letting his grip grow firm, unyielding. Pulling away, he watched in delight as Draco's pupils dilated, drinking in the sight of him.

Harry's voice was a low thrum leaving his lips. “I don't think I could just sit back and watch. I might get the urge to... participate.”

Draco's eyes were black now, only a silver rim round the edges of his gaze. A blatant erection tented his denims, lifting his belt buckle away from his body. The meat of his prick lay against his lower stomach and, peeking out from borrowed fashion, was the head of his prick, pink and glossy, pinched by the waistband of his pants as it ventured up his stomach. Gods. It was unfair, that Draco was so huge. And Harry knew for sure, now, after comparing with those stupid magazines. Draco carried a prize in his pants. The pureblood was hung.

Harry held his lust-lidded gaze. Seeing Draco so turned on did funny things to his brain—made it shut off, made him grind his teeth and clench his fists, made utterly lewd things drop unbidden from his mouth. It was like an impulse—a curse.

“You want it. Tell me how much you want it,” he hissed in Parseltongue.

Draco exhaled—it was a sigh of sorts. His next breath was a gasp, rattling through his windpipe with a sick quiver. Yet he didn't speak.

Harry tightened his grip. “No?” he teased. Draco's lids closed in a silent chuckle, the side of his mouth turning up, lopsided and sweet. Harry brushed his nose against the man's pointy one. “Should I take my plastic cock and go?”

Harry leaned back to catch Draco's expression. If his shifting weight put more pressure on the blonde's throat, it was a happy side effect—welcome, if the swelling in Draco's trousers was to be trusted.

“Tell me,” Harry repeated, this time in English.

Draco made no reply.

Harry gestured to the dildo with his eyes. “Drop it,” he commanded. And Draco did so, fingers releasing the toy onto the white bed spread where it rolled with a puff in the fabric, landing a forearm's length away.

Harry slid his hand further up Draco's neck, threatening, until the line of him was elongated, head canted back at a wild angle. Muscles wavered under Harry's hand, pushed to the limit. Draco's head was forced back into the mattress. Draco had gotten stronger—Harry once again felt power under salt-scented flesh, sensed the hammered tone of muscle announcing itself with strain, with vigor. When he touched Draco's bare chest, he no longer imagined he was caressing a fledgling bird, no longer sensed a flickering, unsure heart beneath his hand. Draco was all man. Now his look matched.

Delighted, it was hard to keep the pleasure from splitting his face. Instead, Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Beg me.”

“Malfoy's... don't beg,” Draco managed, his voice a wisp. When he swallowed, his Adam's apple worked against Harry's palm. Sweat escaped his hairline, tracking a wet line down his temple, through a blonde side burn to dribble over Harry's fingers.

Harry bent, giving his weight over to his hands—one braced on the bed and the other still smothering Draco—until he hovered at the man's neck, taking that drop of sweat into his mouth before it could reach the sheets. The boy moaned—writhing at the first feel of wet mouth against his skin. So Harry mouthed along a tendon, breathing hard, working his way to that most sensitive spot behind Draco's ear. Worrying it with nipping front teeth earned him a strangled shout, Draco's body arching up under his own.

The blonde loosened his trousers. Harry pushed his skinny hands away, palming Draco's length through his worn-out denims. His touch became lighter and lighter as his teeth worked harder, pinching until ivory skin was mottled pink and red with the first hint of purple rising in spots at the center. Tomorrow it would blossom into a fantastic and painful bruise. Draco's breath was a desperate pull, his exhale a windy sob.

Draco's hand returned to work his denim button and zip. This time Harry pinned his narrow, still-delicate wrist to the bed. Draco let out a muffled yelp, red-faced. He could barely breathe, the mingled look of pleasure and pain warping his features. He ground his erection against Harry's thigh, desperate for more. Harry sucked an earlobe into his mouth, tonguing flicking in a steady, agonizing beat, until Draco broke.

“Fuck... fuck. Gods, please,” he whispered at last, gasping for breath between every word. “Harry. Kiss me. Suck me,” his voice nearly cracked, wavering. “Fuck me with that... thing, knowin' full-well I'd rather have you. Do it. Do it. Jus'... touch me. Please.”

He would never forget the look on Draco's face—that brave, grimacing, spooked rabbit face. The harsh lines of him, all angles and pink flush and sweat. The way his eyes fluttered, closed in something like shame. Embarrassment, that Harry knew of his filth, of the gutter his sex inhabited. And a tiny hope that he might be indulged in this, that Harry might feel it too.

Harry cooed against his spit-wet lips. “Draco....”

They shared a kiss, seeming innocence shattered by the hand tight at Draco's throat. The blonde's breath caught, shaking in his sternum.

“I've got you,” Harry whispered.

His next kiss caught blonde goatee in its sloppiness. Releasing Draco's wrist, they both worked at his denims, pushing them off. The more Harry tried to help, the more he ended up squeezing Draco's throat. Grey eyes rolled to the back of his head as he made his first true choking noise. His other hand pawed at the neck of Harry's tshirt.

“Fuck, sorry,” Harry pulled his hand away.

Draco wheezed mightily... and then he was laughing, his tittering, marmot-like laugh, grabbing at Harry's hands. “Don' apologize, ya virgin twat! First time yeh did sommat right an' yer bloody sorry fer it?”

He loved it when Draco talked that way. Harry's hand flew back to the man's now rather reddened throat, squeezing, giving over his weight until there was nothing but a spluttering, writhing column of flesh beneath him. He let up enough for Draco to catch a single breath before doing it again. Before long, Draco's eyes were bulging, one pale hand slapping at Harry's forearm. His other fumbled ineffectually with the brunet's belt.

Harry removed his hand only long enough to tear off his own shirt, casting it off, his glasses skewed. He didn't care, diving back for Draco's bitten-up lips. The blonde divested himself of his denims and pants in short order, twining his fingers through Harry's hair to press their faces all the more tightly.

The feel of Draco's erection, heavy against his hip, was pushing him over the edge of arousal. Blood boiled in his face, burning his ears. He growled. It had been way too fucking long. He'd wanted Draco for too long for it not to be here, now, like this.

He pulled his wand, flicking out one silent spell after another. Draco squirmed. Harry couldn't help opening his eyes to watch as Draco's arms were pinned behind his back, bound in rope at the wrist and elbow. His perfectly cut jaw worked soundlessly, teeth clacking in shock as his back-end was cleaned out and stretched just a little, lubricated just a little. Harry had perfected the spell on himself, of course; the magic catered to his preferences, which was fine. He wanted to get his hands on Draco, anyway. To stretch him, feel him.

The flush overtaking the blonde's cheeks made it real, the way his mind couldn't make words to match reality. Harry ran a finger down that long, pointed nose, enjoying the look of complete shock as it rode the landscape of Draco's features.

With Draco's hands immobilized, Harry was free to do as he wished. Granted, he would miss skinny, urgent fingers ripping his hair out, but this let him set the tone. He kissed a damp path down Draco's neck, nipping at his collarbone before tracing the line of a scar with his tongue. The trail led down the man's chest, the white line splitting his pec right through the nipple. Harry breathed hotly, the faintest tufts of chest hair tickling his nose—so white they were nearly invisible, even in the brightness of midday. He bit harder, working over the coral patch of skin covering Draco's ribs. There were no scars there: only taut, shiny skin, stretched almost too tight now that the man's muscles were returning in earnest. But he could still bite at the bones of Draco's ribs when he arched like that, pushing off the bed, Harry's weight collapsing against him each time they fell. It made him sweat. Harry could taste the first drops of it on marred porcelain skin.

Draco was a shivering, bucking, whinging mess before Harry made it to his leaking prick. His fingers twitched in a regular rhythm, tied down at the curve of his lower back, digits curling and uncurling, nails digging into his palms. They were just a mass of knuckles; their only distinguishing mark being the Gaunt Ring on his finger—his left fucking ring finger, Harry noted. Some beast residing deep in his chest gave a primal, victorious roar. It wasn't the first time Draco had worn Harry's ring on that finger. And if Harry had his way, the former Horcrux wouldn't be the last ring Draco fucking Malfoy wore.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Please! Merlin and Mordred, Salazar's shite-buggering cock, Gryffindor's kneazling goodness, mother—fuck! If you've ever loved me,” the blonde begged, practically howling. “Suck it!”

Hovering, Harry raised his eyebrows. He'd always wished he could articulate just one eyebrow or the other, like Draco. But that particular skill had always eluded him. He waited a moment, knowing Draco would correct himself in the end. Draco wanted it too badly not to.

“Please, Harry,” the blonde mumbled, sweat dotting his brow in earnest, throwing his head back against the mattress. His pillow was somewhere on the floor, discarded with his clothes. “Mon coeur. Won't you please—s'il te plaît—suce ma bite?”

Harry smiled before loosing his tongue, licking a broad stripe up Draco's shaft from bollocks to head. Beneath him, the blonde melted, practically purring. The satisfied sound he made gurgled so deep in his throat. Harry took a narrow hip in one hand, arse cheek in another, and sucked.

Draco did his best to thrust greedily into Harry's mouth. Arms bound, he used his shoulders and heels to arch himself off the bed, doing his best to choke Harry back in his own way. Harry was forced to pull back, abandoning Draco's hip in favor of gripping his prick at the base, holding back the very new sensation of pubic hairs trying to make a run up his nose. He heard Draco's fingernails scrabbling and scraping at the bedsheets. His bollocks were drawing up, too, creeping closer to his body the closer he came to shooting off. Harry swiped his tongue over Draco's slit, wincing at the taste of precome—he'd never quite gotten used to it; some poofter he was—before pulling back, wrestling an ashy blonde pubic hair from its roost beneath his tongue.

Flushed to bursting, Draco watched Harry with wide eyes as he flicked the offending hair away, wiping his spitty fingers on his denims.

“Ya told me ta grow it out...” Draco reminded him.

“An' it looks good,” Harry shot back, cheeky. “Proper-like. But I forgot about the whole giving head, hair-in-mouth thing. 'S a bit like flossing, yeah?”

Draco rolled his silver-black eyes. “Enough fer ya teh stop?” he half teased. The other half was patented Malfoy whining at its best. If Draco were a girl, he'd be pouting his face.

“I think you've had enough,” Harry shrugged.

The truth was, he wanted to see Draco hard when he took it up the bum. Something about that physical sign of pleasure drove him wild. It wouldn't be the same, if Draco went soft when Harry took his ass. He knew it was stupid—he knew it. He'd lost his hard-on a little, the first time Draco had him. That was inevitable, though; Draco's prick was bloody enormous. But that niggling, nasty voice in the back of his mind told him that if Draco lost it while taking his prick—even for a moment—it meant the blonde didn't love his cock, didn't really want it. And that would hurt too much to bear. So he worked Draco to the point of blue-balled agony, just to be sure he'd be able to keep it up.

Harry smirked. Draco had the boner of the century, leaking all over his stomach, precome sitting in pools where his hair went from invisible blonde to a more earthy tone. There was no way that stiffy was going away any time soon.

So he relaxed, kissing Draco's chest, his neck, his face, pulling him so close they were breathing one another's air, all hot and tight and fucking perfect.

Somehow, he wasn't shy about it. He seriously thought he would be. But the tell-tale virgin awkwardness never reared its head. It was the most natural thing in the world. He was kissing Draco—fondling his ass and sucking his sweet, spit-slicked lips—and then prodding at that furled hole with his knuckle, pushing harder as Draco arched his back, giving in, greedy, hungry for it. Draco panted, biting at Harry's tongue, insistent sounds rising in his throat. So Harry slipped a finger in.

Draco did not feel like a girl.

There was no petal-slide to meet him, no softness of labia or the wet curls of a woman's innards. Draco was raw. Bare. Just a hole, a stalwart ring of muscle and then his tender, pulsing-tight insides. Constricted came to mind. Followed shortly by fuck I need to get my cock in there before I die. But not yet.

He groaned into Draco's eager mouth. It wasn't long before their kiss broke, cheeks rubbing. Harry pressed his nose to Draco's protruding cheekbone, nipping at the hollow of his cheek.

“Mmm... more.” Wet lips slid against his jaw, tongue not far behind.

“Yeah?” Harry whispered.

Draco rolled against his chest, nodding languidly, half-arsed, more interested in the finger in his arse than anything else. The blonde was drunk with the feeling; jelly-limbed, sweat-soaked and weak-kneed. He ground back, leveraging with his elbow and knee to the mattress, trying to work Harry's finger deeper inside. He was so easy, so open, so bloody desirous of it all.

Harry bit down—his teeth closed on a sweaty tendril of white-blonde hair. Jaw tight, he removed his fingers, mumbling, “Roll, then. On your stomach.”

Draco complied quickly, sliding to his front as Harry moved away, rising to his knees. He crawled between Draco's legs, spreading them with a hand to the insides of his thighs. Unafraid, Draco opened his legs.

It was just a small, puckered hole—like Harry's own. Curiosity getting the better of him, he'd taken a peek at himself with Mrs. Harper's hand-mirror after a shower, wanting to know what all the fuss was about. Just a dark little thing, missing the ribbon-like trimmings found between a woman's legs. Draco's was pale between his cheeks, dotted with the washed-out hairs which crept up from his unshaven sack. That hole was a cave-in, all of his outsides collapsing to become the inside—guts and small and vulnerable. He was simple, lovely. And he was Harry's for the taking.

Draco's fingers beckoned for Harry over the swell of his ass. His cheek was pressed to the bed, eyes closed and a devious smirk twitching the side of his mouth. When he was sure he had Harry's attention, he aimed one finger—his middle finger, the prat—down his crack, as though pointing out his hole.

There, the gesture read. Fuck me there, you idiotic excuse of a wizard. His finger tapped impatiently between his cheeks. Before I lose my patience.

Harry could've laughed. Or punched him. He wasn't sure which impulse was stronger. He took Draco's hand in his, nestling in those two pale ones. And then he laid a hard smack across Draco's bum, cracking painfully, leaving the imprint of four fingers in the dimple of the man's behind as he tensed, squawking out a slobber-mouthed rendition of the Malfoy huff.

“I know where to put it, thank you,” Harry snipped, mock-polite, giving Draco's bound fingers an uncomfortably tight squeeze. He wanted to make sure the blonde still had circulation before he did anything more advanced with the rope. “Git.”

Harry reached over and grabbed the dildo—more to frighten Draco than anything else. While the prone man was distracted, Harry drew his wand from his denims with his other hand, casting another spell. More ropes shot out from thin air, winding around slender ankles before hoisting them up in the air—until they connected with Draco's bum, a pleasant, fleshy thwap filling Harry's ears. The ropes knotted themselves, winding through those at Draco's wrists and then securing themselves higher up his arms, wrapping his shoulders for added strength. He was hog tied—rather prettily, if Harry didn't say so himself. There was no way Draco could wiggle out of this. Harry knew it for a fact; he'd tested the pose himself. It was overly secure.

Even if Draco's circulation was bad, he would be okay in this position for at least ten minutes, maybe as long as twenty five if he'd been playing Quidditch as often as it appeared. And Draco didn't have any cigarettes that Harry knew of, so his lungs would be in excellent condition. Yes, he could enjoy Draco in this compromising position for a good while.

He tucked the tip of the dildo in his pocket. He wouldn't need it right away.

“...Harry?”

That was a very small voice, even for Draco. Harry reached out, stroking his thumb over his favorite birthmark, digging into the fold of flesh between thigh and the curvature of scarred white arse to massage that precious tea stain fleck, over and over again.

“Yes?”

“I...” Draco faltered. Swallowing thickly, he started again. His eyes were screwed shut. “I've done it myself a bit but... I'm not ready. Yeh have ta....”

He'd seen Harry go for the stupid green phallus and thought he was getting on with the main event already? Maybe Draco was more naive than Harry thought? Then again, none of Draco's previous tops had particularly cared whether he was prepared or not—whether he was ready or willing or even wanted it. The bastards probably just shoved right in.

Upset beyond measure by the thought, Harry had to take several deep breaths before he could speak evenly. He didn't want Draco to hear his rage and misconstrue its source. The blonde was vulnerable enough with his legs spread.

“I know,” he whispered. He dropped to his chest and slithered forward on his elbows until his forehead rested against Draco's palm. He tossed his wand aside, then his glasses before they got too smudged.

“...Imperius?” Draco asked very quietly.

“Not a fucking chance,” Harry snorted, scraping teeth over Draco's cheek. “Not after the last time.”

“Legillimens, then.”

Harry turned his face up, catching one of Draco's fingers in his mouth. He sucked—making sure Draco would stay hard, but also making sure the man knew he was going to be taken care of. Harry released the digit with a wet, tongue-swirling slurp, swallowing back his own spit so he could speak.

“I don't think you need it, Draco. You can tell me, right? If it's too much?”

The pureblood's response was to bury his face in the sheets.

Harry's voice turned warning. “I won't stop.”

Draco nodded. By the sound of it, that was a very bedding-muffled “good” coming from his lips.

Harry kissed his tailbone, licking the salt of exertion from his skin. Draco smelled like the pitch, like grass and wind and leather Quidditch gear, like musk and wild apples and something tart like vinegar or vodka. Harry rolled the flavor in his mouth, drinking it in, before kissing lower.

He'd never contemplated licking someone's ass. It was... well, it certainly wasn't talked about, wasn't covered in his measly muggle sex education class. It made sense, though, licking the place to get it warmed up before shoving your prick in there. “Down there” was a personal place, awkward and generally ignored as far as Harry had been concerned the first seventeen un-gay years of his life. Before Draco, the thought had never crossed his mind. It was an arsehole, dirty and uncouth. Snogging it didn't sound particularly appealing... but now he knew how good it felt, thousands of tiny nerve endings bundled up down there, begging for attention. It hadn't been a sexy place before Draco went there—before Draco made it so. He did a lot of things for Draco without thinking; feeling his way through, going on instinct, what he figured might work or even feel good.

So he licked with the flat of his tongue, just a taste. And Draco groaned, long and low, throat of loose-ground gravel and something like the clanging of church bells in his ears. Slender fingers scrambled to touch Harry's hair, to twirl it between familiar digits, to pull as best he could. Harry worked his lips, his spit, suckling—and Draco's legs spread even further, giving himself over. He groaned again, the sound rising through his flushed face, ending in a hissing, drool-filled nasal keen.

Harry pushed Draco's cheeks even further apart, using his thumb to stretch the man open. Before he could hesitate, think or second guess himself, he drove his tongue forward.

The honest part of him knew he was nervous—afraid. Afraid he wouldn't like it, afraid Draco would jerk away, say he was doing it wrong or, Merlin forbid, ask him to stop. Deep in his stomach, there was a fluttering—thirty thousand Snitches let loose in his bowels, threatening to run up his throat and into Draco. This was new. And never one to be tentative in the face of the unknown, Harry barreled forward.

His hand was probably clenched ungodly tight over Draco's smooth white cheek. He was probably tugging too firmly on that jerking ring of muscle, stretching it too much too soon. He didn't know better. And maybe Draco was too afraid to say.

Maybe he'd never had this done to him before; after all, the pureblood always topped with those few notable exceptions. It was part of who he was just as much as his platinum hair or that irascible pile of personality which always came spilling out when he drank. Draco was a top. Because having another man between your legs like this... it changed you. Harry recognized that. It let loose a very disjointed, bloody needy part of the psyche; a creature which was fledgling, powerless and weak. And those feelings had to scare the life out of Draco. Malfoys didn't do weakness, vulnerability, or any emotion which didn't serve their purpose. But the way he moved was new—was heartfelt instead of jaded, like he'd put a white-knuckled fist to his lips if he could just to keep those sounds from dropping out, to keep the spit and the need trapped behind his teeth.

He tasted like insides, like liver and spleen and body, the flavors of skin replaced by earthiness, muscle and musk. He smelled like cock and sweat, the familiar stink of a Quidditch locker, complete with vaguely moldy towels, the odor left behind by a lack of shower and those bloody tight pants the blonde always wore. Harry licked it away, replacing it with his own spit, with the salt from his brow and the sharp spill of magic. He worked his mouth until they were just spit and body, lazy sliding like clouds across the sky.

Harry could all but feel the bruises forming beneath his fingertips—blue and purple prints in the shape of his thick fingers and how they would hang off the paleness of Draco's skin. The harder he pushed, the more Draco railed against him, pushing back, legs tight, offering more. He wouldn't stop moving, fingers scraping at Harry's hair and scalp, the sounds of him unbridled.

He liked it. He bloody loved it. Queer or faggot, arse banditry or whatever anyone wanted to call it! He couldn't fucking care when it did this to Draco, brought him this painfully close to something like freedom.

Draco wasn't gay, though. Not really—only half a poof at best. And Harry didn't think he was one, either. He'd been thinking that for a while, now. The label didn't fit because he didn't prefer blokes—just Draco. And like Draco told him, over and over again in exasperated tones, fancying one solitary chap didn't make you gay: it made you a seventeen year old boy who grew up in a cupboard. Became a man in one, too, Harry realized with a jolt. Finally, he was acting on every lewd thought he'd ever had—every wank fantasy, every midnight sheet-soaking, wake-up-in-a-puddle-of-cold-spunk dream. And there wasn't a single thing weird or wrong or gay about that. He was indecent; a randy, salacious pervert, flippant and hard and horny as fuck and there was absolutely nothing wrong with the way he started rutting against the mattress when Draco ground back, spearing himself on Harry's tongue. It didn't occur to him that he had his tongue up the ex-Prince of Slytherin's arsehole—only that Draco was hot and wanting under him, driven mad by the feel of his mouth and the touch of his hands.

He did this to Draco—made the man wild like this, made him pant, grunt, groan and soon, scream. It was a matter of pride as well as pleasure. And Harry would push the man to breaking-point. He closed his hand around Draco's bum, squeezing without mercy. He wasn't finished and Draco was squirming, throwing off his rhythm, each thrust of his tongue to match the bucking of his hips against the bed.

Draco scrambled, trying to push himself up onto his knees, twisting and swerving to get a fist full of Harry's hair and yank so deliciously hard. Harry gave him a finger and then two, waggling his tongue between them as he spread Draco open. He didn't need his glasses to see that expanding, deeply red maw—ridges, body, insides. He licked once more before a third finger joined the mix, biting his way down to the tender skin between Draco's hole and bollocks.

Draco strained and struggled, daring newly-born muscle to push up onto his knees, begging Harry to lick the skin of his sack, to take one of those heavy testicles into his mouth. His abs shook as he pushed, face to the mattress, trying so desperately to get up onto his knees. Harry knew how limited Draco's range of motion was, how much strength and fight it would take him to get up. He waited and watched, tongue out, letting Draco pant and grunt, trying to land a ball to mouth.

Finally, one egg-sized fur ball fell against Harry's tongue. He hadn't been ready for the feel of pubic hair—coarse and prickly against the insides of his lips, getting between his teeth and curling up his nose. But that didn't stop him; after all, growing it out had been Harry's own idea. And he fancied the look. Body hair gave Draco's narrow frame something more substantial, a certain wisdom of age caught up with the swell of the man's pale skin, blonde hair holding onto the smell of him and keeping it close.

Harry licked until Draco let out a scream, all of him vibrating from his guts outward, a very new sound—wordless, crying. He wanted to be taken, fucked, done-to. He wanted more and harder and pain. And he wanted Harry to be the one handing it out. That aching timbre did all the begging for him.

With Draco teetering but stable-enough on his knees, Harry was able to reach up his body, hand sliding over the landscape of him, fingering the new hair there, tracing up to tweak his nipples. The hardness was incredible—Draco had firmed up in the time they'd been apart, brick muscle blooming beneath the sinew of him. The pureblood's pecs were high and tight, rigid. As much as Harry wanted to keep feeling the man up, he knew better. He withdrew, wrapping a hand around the base of Draco's cock to hold him off.

Draco whined tremendously, absolutely petulant. He wanted to come. Unfortunately, that didn't quite work with Harry's plan. He nibbled and bit his way down Draco's inner thigh, sliding back.

“You'll live,” he told the man, laying a swat across his backside. When Draco tightened, it gave Harry a flash of that hole twitching shut only to peek back at him, wet and ready. Patience in shreds, Harry reached for the vibrator.

Draco quit breathing. All at once. He went stiffer than a possum playing dead.

Harry ran a warm hand up the man's thigh. “Draco?” No response. “Breathe. It'll help you relax.” Draco had said as much to him those first few times. Harry knew the truth of it. Breathing really helped.

But Draco wouldn't—outright refused. The skin of his neck was naturally a pinkish-blue, now stained red with the shapes of Harry's fingers, mottled against paleness. Harry wondered how long the average person could hold their breath for: a minute, perhaps two? His best bet was to force Draco to gasp as soon as possible, to snap him out of it. It wasn't safe to do much of anything if the man wasn't going to breathe.

“Fine,” Harry sighed. “Down, then.” Harry put his elbow against Draco's palm resting over his tailbone and shoved, using his weight advantage to push the blonde down. Draco resisted, eyes screwed shut. “Come on,” Harry grunted. Soon the strength of his arm beat-out Draco's bound thighs and the man was squashed against the bedding where he belonged.

Harry slid his elbow sideways, until he found the bone just at the top of Draco's bum, giving pressure to back his insistence. He draped his forearm over Draco's back, letting his fingers glide over the Dark Mark on Draco's arm. He'd bound the man at hands and wrists on purpose—it was the most secure, above all, but he also wanted to see the Mark, wanted it present to serve as witness. He rubbed at the black shape on Draco's skin, massaging the way he would his own temples or the lightning scar at his forehead. As Draco eased under his touch, Harry pressed the toy to his entrance.

He paused, waiting until he was sure he had Draco's undivided attention.

“Oh, wait. Lube! Right...” he chastised himself. And even though Draco's face was pressed against the mattress, Harry could still make out his pink lips mouthing the words “sweet Merlin.” Harry watched as nostrils flared, sneaking in the tiniest of breaths as Draco sighed over the trademark hopelessness of The Boy Who Lived. Mission accomplished.

Harry passed his hand over the toy, conjuring a smear of the slick substance Draco preferred. After, he returned a hand to the man's Dark Marked arm, holding him down, holding him still; a warning that it was coming now.

He decided, at the last second, that he wouldn't watch his green plastic bits as they sank into Draco. Instead he bowed his head, bending, pressing his face to Draco's hand, sucking the smallest finger into his mouth and swirling his tongue—losing himself to the feeling, his own wetness and the clean, comforting taste on his tongue. Draco. Draco's warm, sweaty palm against his cheek, fingers tracing the stubbled line of his jaw. He wasn't aware his hand had slid forward, the toy with it, until Draco gave a great, rasping shudder.

Draco was biting at the bedsheets—Harry suspected he might get bitten, too, should he get close enough. He couldn't make out at first whether that scrunched up face and staccato, achy noises were of arousal or pain... or just relief; overwhelmed that they were finally doing this.

Draco's mouth gaped, lips slack, as though he wasn't getting enough air. His breath was weak and gasping between the sounds he made—a grunting from somewhere deep in his gut, resonating through his pointed nose and hard-clenched teeth. It was always three sounds, distinct from one another, before he had to suck in another breath.

Harry checked to see how far along they were—not very. With Draco spread, Harry could make out the familiar curve where the head of his cock met the shaft, done in Slytherin green and jutting out of Draco like a lance. Lubricant pushed out from either side, squeezed out as Draco's muscles fought the intrusion. The pad of Harry's thumb worked over Draco's Dark Mark. He couldn't resist bending to kiss the spot before pressing, laying kisses to the twisting line of Draco's spine as the man arched under him... making Harry thankful he was using a surrogate cock of sorts over his own. The shapes Draco made, the growling groans and sweat-murky shakings would have undone him in seconds, otherwise. He'd never be able to hold on—not with the way Draco felt beneath him, pinned and writhing, whining and fucked.

He pushed. Draco screamed. And it was so bloody perfect.

The sound of him was roughed-up, like too many punches to the gut, as though every kiss Harry laid to his spine was a switch strike to his most tender places. Jittery, anxious, his knees trembled. Harry had to remind himself to breathe at the sight—stripped, helpless, vulnerable.

He pulled the toy back to just the tip once more, pressing the green head around Draco's rim, sliding and coaxing. This stupid cock had its advantages—it stayed rock hard, for one. He could see what he was doing, manipulating it with his hands rather than his inexperienced and frankly overeager hips. And it was easier to vanish the vibrator, should something go wrong, than to lop off his own equipment with a spell. It gave him a patience he hadn't known he possessed, allowing him to separate his own arousal from Draco's. It was as though he were seeing Draco for the first time, stripped and bare. His face scrunched as Harry teased, this time sucking at his smallest toe. Draco loosed an unexpected moan, squirming under the restraints. But the rope held fast, leaving tiny red trails blooming against his skin.

They got much farther with the next thrust, more than half-way in before Draco's face contorted, something like a bark escaping his throat. Harry held back even less on the next pass, holding Draco's ankle and tugging him down against the pressure. He held it there, letting Draco adjust.

“Too much?” he asked.

Stubborn, Draco wouldn't answer.

“This silent treatment stuff?” Harry grumbled under his breath. “The more you do it, the more I wanna break you in half.”

He watched Draco's mouth for a reaction—anything. Sharp white teeth bit at his lips, whines escaping him as his face contorted... but he didn't say a word. He didn't beg Harry to stop, though it looked like he desperately wanted to.

But when Harry pulled back, Draco came with him, not yet willing to let go. The pureblood tried to follow the toy with his rump, knees spreading as wide as they could go as he slithered down the bed. Harry teased him again with the head, pulling all the way out just to drive him mad.

“You want it, then?” Harry went on. Eventually the smart-ass in Draco wouldn't be able to take it anymore and would fire back. Harry was counting on it. “Think you're ready?”

Draco grunted in response. The ropes bit at his wrists, his ankles, leaving red fibrous rolls across his bone-pale shoulders. The more he struggled, the more his skin blushed, rope irritating his flesh, looped strands like dozens of itchy fingers holding him back.

Harry was tempted to use Legilimens, to know if Draco was thinking about the pain and discomfort of now, or about the times this had been done to him in the past. Harry wanted it to be different: it was different. As much as it was uncomfortable, Draco wanted this—possibly more than Harry himself did, the way the blonde had been dropping hints for so long. Draco trusted him. He'd never have the guts to ask for it if he didn't know Harry would take care of him no matter what.

Harry leaned close, hovering at the back of Draco's neck, forced to put an arm to the bed so he wouldn't fall.

“Tell me, Draco,” he hissed, knowing his snake syllables would be understood. “Tell me what you want.”

He'd asked Draco that same question months ago under the Imperius Curse—and gotten something near a seizure in response. If things went bad, he could Vanish the ropes in a second and have Draco free. But he hoped this time Draco could give him an answer.

He used his arm on the bed to pull at Draco's shoulder, twisting his spine in a wicked display. Draco's back pressed flush against Harry's chest. Draco took advantage of their alignment, hands groping for Harry's crotch and giving his prick a good hard squeeze when his fingers found it. Harry's hips gave an answering thrust. He tucked his knee between Draco's legs for balance, licking at a bead of sweat as it trickled from his hairline. Slowly, he laid a kiss to each burn mark marching in a line down Draco's neck.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“...You,” Draco wheezed at long last. “Want you.”

Harry burrowed against the curve of Draco's neck. “Draco. You know I can't do that yet. I told you. This is what you get.”

“Then jus'... move,” Draco panted, sounding more than half delirious. His hair was a mess, all over the place, sticking up at odd angles and covering one eye. His voice rattled in his throat. “Make it move.”

“What, this?” Harry asked, flipping the vibrating switch on the dildo.

Draco jerked. Then he began to tremble, biting his bottom lip. His eyes drifted closed.

“Move it in and out,” the blonde enunciated carefully, bordering on exasperation, “you complete and utter ponce. I need ta fuck.”

Harry pretended to think about that one. He wanted Draco mad with it—brought to tears, to breaking point, like he'd promised months ago. If ever there was a time to take Draco down, it was now.

He eased the vibration just a smidge higher, glorying in the shudders it elicited, even with just half an inch or so inside. He liked the way Draco's pectorals shook, all high, well-formed and tight, looking nothing like breasts but just as sensual, with their little pink nipples hardened to nubs, swirls and gashes of white scars adorning every last shaking inch of him. The lines seemed to wiggle as Draco's muscles shifted beneath his skin.

He gave it all in one go; quick, so Draco wouldn't suffer.

“How's that?” he teased.

If Draco had been any more cognizant, his mouth might've dropped open in indignation... his wet, slattern little mouth. Harry was a tad disappointed it didn't—he had the urge to stick his dick in it and come. He wanted to make Draco swallow his come, conquered from both ends.

In fact... why the hell not? Harry patted around for his wand. With a quick Sticking Charm to the vibrator, he was crawling up the bed to do just that.

“Open up,” he told the blonde, unhooking his belt and dropping his fly. “You're suckin' it.”

Draco needed no encouragement, his mouth dropping open obediently, tongue extended, ready to take Harry's cock in his mouth the second it was out of his pants. Harry had to put an arm against the headboard, bracing himself to maintain his balance while straddling Draco's shoulders. He gripped himself around the base, guided into Draco's waiting mouth by a long pink tongue. Draco actually sighed around his girth, lips tight, tongue flicking. His hot breath ghosted over Harry's shaft, teasing his knuckles as he gripped himself, holding steady. He reached to give the tip of Draco's nose an affectionate bump with his thumb.

And then the blonde was off—as if his nose were a button marked “go”—nudging Harry's fingers away to slurp at his length, bobbing like the girls in the wizarding porno rags he'd been getting off to in the blonde's absence. Harry suspected Draco was far better than any photo slag. He wasn't going to last long. He'd been wanking like a man possessed the last week or so; still, the edge was so close, nipping at his balls. He wouldn't, couldn't last—not with Draco sucking at his cock like a thousand galleon trick, grinding against Harry and the bed, trying so hard to push the dildo further into himself, as though he wanted to be condensed from every angle, pushed into until he disappeared.

Harry rocked his hips into the blowjob, letting Draco pull back to have his mouth fucked. He fisted a hand in sweat-sleek blonde hair, riding it out—growling incoherently as he came, pressing into Draco for everything he was worth.

Beneath him, the blonde let out a gagging slurp. Harry retreated quickly, the last of his orgasm pumping across Draco's lips and the bridge of his nose, clinging to the white fluff of his goatee. A mixture of come and spit ran out over his bottom lip, big grey eyes screwed shut in case any of Harry's seed splashed up. A single fleck landed against his eyelash. Harry reached to wipe it away with his thumb.

“You okay?” he muttered.

Draco's response was to lick the come from the corner of his mouth, tongue running over his bottom lip as though searching out the last of it, eager for whatever he could reach.

“... Brillian', yeah,” the pureblood mumbled, scrunching his nose. A line of spunk, still warm, made a tear-like track down his cheek. Harry's thumb swiped at that, too, wiping his hand clean against the sheet. “Don't botha',” Draco said, face nudging at Harry's hip. “Jus'...” and his eyes drifted down. His own cock was leaking puddles against his stomach, clear liquid shiny and caught up in the channel of hair connecting his chest and groin. The expression on Draco's face was clear, one smug brow raised. Suck me, his big eyes said, dilated with wanting. Please suck me. He could all but hear Draco's voice in his head, sending fizzing whizbees sprinting up his spine.

Harry's cock twitched to attention, slapping Draco's cheek. The man's tongue snuck out, smiling as he twisted to steal a wet passing swipe. Harry took his dick in hand and pulled it to the side, beyond reach of Draco's greedy mouth, poised as though he were going to slap the man's come-covered cheek again.

A cheeky grin lit Harry's face. He wanted Draco to beg again—couldn't get enough of it, actually. He traced the line of Draco's jaw with his prick; teasing, knowing Draco couldn't move any farther.

“What do you say?” He dearly hoped Draco would conjure up another plaintive little please. Or—and only if he was very, very lucky—he might get a Sir.

Draco's eyes were on Harry's cock rather than his face as the git answered, “Slap me again?”

Harry chuckled. “You'd like that too much.”

“An' I wouldn't fancy a wank?” Draco scoffed.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Either way, you win, love. I wouldn't be complaining if I were you.”

Draco licked his lips, eyes at last drifting up to Harry's face. His voice was breathy as he spoke. “Untie me?”

“So you can wank yourself?” Harry shook his head, trying not to laugh. “Don't think so.”

When he let go of his prick, Draco lunged for it. Harry caught the pureblood with the heel of his palm to a sweaty forehead, smacking him back to the bed.

“Stay put,” Harry warned. He took up his shaft again, teasing himself along Draco's lips, making sure Draco would do exactly as he was told. He could see in Draco's eyes how much he wanted to dart forward, to pull Harry into his mouth—to please him. But he held back, obeying his verbal restraints as much as the physical ones, proving he could take direction.

Harry bent to Draco's mouth, sliding down the bed. When their faces drew even, Draco's eyes fluttered closed, waiting, anticipation clear across his features, blushing and still streaked with come. He bit his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. So Harry kissed his top lip, his pathetic excuse of a mustache, breathing words over it.

“Good boy.”

Draco's eyes came open, meeting Harry's own. They were nothing but green, reflecting the color of his own. Harry had to concentrate to draw a breath.

“Who said you could look at me?” Harry asked quietly.

Quick as a flash, Draco's gaze dropped.

Harry snorted, dropping a peck-like kiss to the man's still-bitten mouth. His lips caught Draco's front teeth but he didn't care.

“Hey... I was kidding.” Harry nuzzled Draco's nose, giving the man his weight. “All these weeks without you... how could I not want to see you?”

Beneath him, Draco was consumed by a blush. It traveled down his finger-reddened neck, flushing his chest, pink running out beneath the hair and scars.

“Watch me,” Harry ordered, pushing up onto his hands and observing Draco's wide eyes, making sure they followed his progress as he straightened his arms, hovering. “Don't let me catch you with your eyes shut. Got it?”

Swallowing, Draco nodded, evidence of their game on his smirking lips. The man lived for a challenge, after all. Harry had come all too quickly. Hopefully, he could return the favor. Already, Draco's hard prick poked at his thigh, dripping for lack of attention.

Harry kissed his way down Draco's front, fingers and tongue following the white lines of scars. It was a familiar path, hairs brushing against Harry's nose and cheek as he went. He'd pictured these scars—seen them a thousand times in his head.... Every time he wanked. Every time he stepped into the shower, handled a broomstick or climbed the stairs of Grimmauld Place.

Draco was always with him, like a ghost. How many times had he pictured the blonde bumping elbows with him at lunch, or beside him each night, curled against his chest, falling asleep to the sound of his breathing? Those fleeting fantasies, tricks of the imagination, were nothing compared to the reality of the man before him. The bite of his sweat in the air, the cracking knuckles of his fingers, still slightly chilled from being outside, the mixed blush of emotion and red sting of hands painting his throat. It was these details he'd missed—the white scar at Draco's hairline, the caramel freckle in his eyebrow, even the underside of his jaw where his stubble grew fastest. That roughness matched the hair now decorating his body, blonde fluff along his lower abdomen hiding a few of the skinnier scars from view. The larger ones cut through his hair—the follicles gone, cleaved away by curses and knives and horrible memories. Harry touched those scars, soothing with his hands, his mouth, his warm breath. Draco shuddered at his touch.

He kissed his way to Draco's hip, palming the erection which fell against his cheek. Draco arched under him, asking for more. Harry used a hand at the blonde's ass to tip him onto his side, taking some of the stress off of his fingers and feet. Draco pushed against Harry, bucking his hips, searching for friction. A glance upward revealed tears pricking at the corners of Draco's eyes.

Harry mouthed along the side of his cock, earning himself that mewling moan which meant Draco was happy. A slow lick and he pulled back.

“What?” he asked.

Draco blinked—fast, trying to prove he could keep his eyes from falling closed in abject, serviced bliss. Harry knew the feeling. The blonde chewed the inside of his lip.

Harry brought his hand up, checking the tips of Draco's fingers. Draco quickly closed a hand around Harry's thumb, squeezing to say he was alright and Harry should venture back to his leaking cock. Harry rolled his eyes. Once, he'd have found it funny, reading Draco's intent from the speed of his breath and the wrinkling of skin around his eyes. Now it was damn useful when the blonde got stubborn like this.

Harry wrestled his hand from Draco's grip, running a fingernail over the sweeping arch of his foot. Draco hissed, head jerking. Tendons in his neck strained before his gaze returned. He was fighting tears.

Harry raised his brows. “Numb?”

Nostrils flaring, Draco licked at his lips. “Pins an' needles.”

“M'kay.”

Sighing, Harry extended a hand, calling for his wand. He thoroughly enjoyed Draco's gasp of surprise when the instrument landed in his outstretched hand, Luke Skywalker-style.

“You don't have a monopoly on the old ways, anymore,” Harry chided, “ya cunt.”

He flipped his wand, releasing the ropes which held Draco's ankles. Fibers dissolved against Draco's shoulders, leaving several rows of imprints like tiny railroad tracks had been pounded into his flesh. Harry had never gotten marks like that from a hogtie—then again, he hadn't thrashed around nearly as much as Draco, focusing his energy on the comfort of the ropes rather than their imprisoning power. He blamed the blonde's pureblood porcelain skin. He bruised deliciously easy, after all.

Draco immediately rolled his shoulders, legs falling out from their bindings. His ankles were especially red from all the twisting and fighting he'd done, impressions of his heels worked into the dimple of each perfect arse cheek.

Long legs shook as they straightened. Harry moved away, giving Draco room enough to stretch. He was all legs, long lines and fluted, column-like muscles. Harry stroked the back of one parchment-pale thigh, fingers raking. Draco's head dropped against the mattress before he remembered the command not to close his eyes.

Harry chuckled.

“Might be easier with your hands, yeah? Too bad.”

He knew it was fucked up—making Draco crane his neck like that, legs awkward and open, splayed out and coming unraveled. But he didn't care. Not with the way Draco's fingers moved, reflexive and graspy, or the way his hips rolled, trying to land his cock to Harry's mouth, now he could use his heels and shoulders again to leverage against the bed. He waited until Draco was a wild, quivering, hoarse-growling mess before he reached, ghosting a hand over bollocks and blonde hair, to crank the switch higher.

Draco screamed for God—and after a few loud, soulful pangs, “God” became “Harry.” He drowned out the mechanical thrum of the vibrator with his screaming—grunts and groans and quick barks of air catching at his throat.

Harry loved the sounds Draco made—not because of their tone, or the squelch of barely-contained drool spilling between each needy grunt—but because they were Draco. Pure and unadulterated Draco. Unapologetic and randy as fuck.

He caught Draco's gaze before sucking down the head of his cock... just to see his eyes glaze over, to watch as he gave in at last, mewling and rocking, thrown to the winds, thrashing in fits as he burned up, as he let go. It had all been building inside him for so long, like a windy gale caught in a room with no place to go. Draco opened the door and it all came rushing out—keening and wails and curses, screams of buggery and torture, anger, fear, love. Everything he'd kept hidden away for so long. All one endless divide crashing down, ripped out of him like a sore stuck to a bandage—quick, but not without pain.

He waited until Draco was a shivering, jibbering, twitchy-toed mess before touching him again, easing the toy out of him just enough that he'd feel it pressing back in. He pulled off Draco's cock entirely, rolling it under his palm as he focused his effort on Draco's entrance, oddly enthralled by the way he seemed to cling to the plastic, never wanting it to leave.

Harry couldn't keep his mouth away. He couldn't resist the nearness, the brush of silky skin, the warmth of Draco against every inch of himself. He kissed at the ridges of Draco's stomach, nuzzled and licked at his sides, played footsie with their calves and toes, all the while working him deeper, searching for the right angle which would throw his beloved over the edge.

One minute Harry was licking the tenderness of his hip, biting at the sharp protrusion of bone; the next his bollocks tightened and Draco was coming. He arched, nearly throwing Harry off, taking up fists of the bedsheets beneath his still-bound wrists and shaking from head to purplish toes. A cry rattled through him, wordless and guttural. And a splash of spunk landed in Harry's hair.

“Ah—I—uh,” Draco panted. “...Fuck!”

“Yeah,” Harry smiled, licking indentations shaped like his teeth all along Draco's pelvis. He gave the blonde a moment to come down from the best high known to muggle or man. A vague spell stopped the toy's incessant hum. At last he ventured to ask, “How're your hands?”

“Oh, sod off,” Draco wheezed. “I... am not... made of glass.”

To prove his point, Harry pinched the fat of Draco's thumb, down close to his wrist. When the blonde didn't so much as flinch, Harry made up his mind. If Draco couldn't feel a pinch past the numbness, it was time to let his hands free. Harry patted around for his wand, keeping a hand on Draco.

Finite Incantatum set Draco's hands loose. The blonde closed his eyes, using dead fingers to rub at his raw-rubbed wrists. Draco was more of a fighter than Harry had anticipated—perhaps a silk binding next time, rather than cotton rope. As much as he liked the marks decorating Draco's skin, they had to burn.

Harry took that blonde-bearded chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling Draco's face up to meet his own.

“Closed your eyes, didn't you?” Harry accused.

Draco met him head-on, nonplussed. “I came my bloody brains out, idiot.”

Harry's voice deepened. “Did I say you could?”

The tilt of Draco's head was rather charming, curtain of white-blonde hair falling over one eye.

“Do I care?”

Harry knocked the git onto his back. Hovering, he pronounced, “Fine. Never listen to a word I say, see if I give a damn.” And he caught Draco in a kiss, cooling come spreading out as their chests pressed, pulled together as their lips worked. Slow at first, it became something more, Draco's tongue darting out to test the landscape of Harry's teeth—as though they'd changed. Reassured, he mapped the lay of gums and tongue, at last biting at Harry's thickened lower lip with a happy, sated sigh.

“But for the record,” Harry articulated softly, pulling Draco closer, “you don't sound like a hog at the slaughter. I killed one—don't ask, the story's not worth telling. But I can say with some authority that you definitely don't sound like one.” He took a deep breath, then another, gathering his thoughts. “More like a big dog yelping.”

Draco snorted, choleric. “Tha's supposed ta make me feel betta?”

“Or a small dog barking,” Harry shrugged.

Draco's face fell. “I'll take large dog, then.”

Harry pushed back to sit on his heels. He jerked his chin. “All fours, then.”

Draco eyed him warily. After a moment's hesitation, he did as he was told, rolling onto his stomach and pushing up on shaky, fawn-like limbs. Harry could see the tremors in his biceps and the sides of his creamy thighs as muscles worked to move his weight. Harry sucked at the backs of his teeth, resisting the urge to sink in a bite. When he saw Draco's arms about to give out, elbows knocking, he pushed those skinny arms away, taking Draco face-first to the mattress with a muffled splutter. He only needed a heavy hand to the blonde's shoulder blades to keep him down, ass in the air.

He slapped at Draco's thighs, urging them apart. The blonde's knees slid over the sweat-damp bedsheets, spreading his arse cheeks for Harry's inspection.

Intrigued, Harry removed the vibrator with an otherwise amusing slurp, eager to have a good look at the damage. Face against the sheets, Draco groaned his embarrassment. He'd always been morbidly curious as to what it looked like back there... after. Now he could look his fill. Draco's hole was still stretched from the dildo—not completely loose, but worked enough that he opened when his cheeks were nudged apart. Harry started to pant as he stared. It was an oddly beautiful sight. That was his hole, he thought brazenly. He could fuck Draco right now... but he'd almost rather stare. It was just that fantastic—all of it, shiny and red and calling to him.

Before he knew it, his hand was on his hardened prick, jerking himself roughly, open-mouthed and gulping air. He inched forward on his knees, slapping Draco's ass with the red crown of his cock. Draco let out a wail and wriggled himself back, asking for more. His own prick hung spent between his legs but he still wanted it. Harry was floored.

A second away from coming, he put a hand to the tail of Draco's spine, pushing down to hold the pureblood perfectly still. Harry leaned into that hand until the head of his cock wasn't more than a few millimeters from Draco's entrance. And then he touched the tip of himself to Draco, to that slicked and waiting hole, letting just the tip slip inside. And he came in an instant, shooting into that resounding, crushing heat. He shot before he could help himself, overwhelmed by the sight, the feel—Veela-buggering fuck, the slicked-up feel of Draco trying to swallow him whole.

It took him a moment to get his breath back.

“Feel sufficiently claimed, mon coeur?” Harry wheezed, rubbing Draco's tailbone with the heel of his hand.

There was a moment of silence as Draco recovered from the shock of what Harry had done.

“Only... if ya felch it out,” Draco quipped, breathless, the side of his face squashed against the bed.

Harry dropped his softening cock, reaching for the dildo he'd just dropped by his foot. It came away from the sheets with a string of lubricant, like drool.

“In that case,” Harry adjusted his grip, holding Draco still with his other hand. “Why don't you keep it for a while?” And he worked the dildo back inside with a series of only vaguely inconsiderate shoves, giving Draco's thigh a smack before securing the toy with a wandless and nonverbal Rederre Magnes.

Draco's fingers splayed flat against the sheets as he choked on air, trying to breathe through the intrusion. Harry cracked his wand against Draco's hip like a riding crop to a horse's rump.

“Something for your ass to remember me by.”

So he wasn't entirely sure how a Magnetizing Charm might work on someone's rectum. Draco was a bright wizard—Head Boy, after all—and this was sixth year Durmstrang stuff. Draco could figure it out. And the thought of him struggling to pull Harry's green plastic prick from his wanting, slattern little arse was nothing short of priceless. Just deserts, even. Harry might never frown again.

“Wait,” Draco's blonde head shot up, a genuine panic making his eyes wide. “You're leaving?”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugged, already out of bed and pulling on his pants and denims with casual, efficient movements. “I have a meeting with the Minister in an hour.”

“You're leaving me like this?” Draco, highly disgruntled, gestured to the thing in his arse.

Smiling from ear to ear, Harry nodded.
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Conscience