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
- 55
- 56
SUMMARY: Porn. Round Two. Self-explanatory.

WARNINGS: This chapter deals with erotic asphyxia or Breath Play. Breath play is dangerous. The “strange heartbeats” mentioned are PVC's (premature ventricular contractions), which are precursors to things like cardiac arrest and death. PVC's can only be reliably detected with a cardiac monitor—certainly not by ordinary people, even certified medical professionals. This is a big artistic leap on my part. Asphixia was at one time used as a treatment for premature ejaculation but has been proven ineffective; however, erotic asphyxia is still practiced and small numbers of people do die from it every year. Just putting some information out there.

Enjoy your pr۟Øn.

CONSCIENCE:

LET'S BE HONEST – PORN, ROUND 2

Harry found himself fretting over what Dobby might've done to his and Draco's room in their absence. Garish holiday decorations in the Room of Requirement came to mind—Christmas baubles with Harry's face painted on them, or enchanted garlands singing off-key carols, or worse. They'd only been gone an hour or so. He'd say Dobby couldn't do much damage in that amount of time... but then he'd be selling house elf magic short.

Dobby had been unusually excited by the prospect of Harry Potter's marriage; Harry suspected his intended wasn't important to the steady little house elf, only Harry's happiness. Harry could marry a goat as far as Dobby was concerned; if Harry was thrilled, the ever-loyal house elf would be, too. Harry hoped that Dobby might have contained his enthusiasm, especially in the decorating department. He opened the door to the Head Boy's chambers with a certain amount of trepidation, praying the elf had managed to keep his exuberance in check. Nothing killed the mood faster than seeing your own face everywhere, blinking docile back at you, painted slap-dash with little house elf hands.

Draco let out a long breath as the heavy door opened—apparently he'd been thinking along the same lines as Harry... or that Colin Creevey would be waiting for them, trying to snap a picture of the happy newlyweds.

They were spared—not even Peeves or a passing ghost was to be seen in their chambers. No Sir Cadogan rambling about. And the painting of a mother and her infant was also mercifully empty. Harry breathed a sigh of relief, gesturing Draco inside ahead of him and closing the door behind them.

There was a fire crackling, fragrant logs giving off a pleasant smell. A lone festive garland had been draped over the mantle, with candles set to float around the hearth and dresser mirror. The room had taken on a sort of golden glow, like a mountain cave lit by firelight, flickering off the old stone walls.

The air was warm. Harry began to loosen his tie, trailing in Draco's wake. The blonde paused between the Black piano and their bed, clasping his hands at the smalls of his back in that way of his, one hand gripping the thumb of the other, Tom Marvolo Riddle's black stone ring on his pale finger. It brought a smile to Harry's face to know a wedding ring was concealed on the other hand.

He closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Draco's chest. The blonde relaxed into him. Harry rested his chin on the man's shoulder—his husband's shoulder. That would take some getting used to. But the idea of being married didn't shake him. He'd always wanted to be married, after all, wanted to have a proper family.

When he was young, locked in his cupboard or hiding in a rubbish bin to escape Duddley and his gang, Harry used to dream about getting away from Little Whinging. He had visions in his head—a wife smiling at him, kids playing footie in the yard—and those wavering images had seen him through the worst of his childhood. It was a dream he'd clung to with unfathomable hope. Even at seven, he'd known what he wanted... to be loved, wanted, needed; to be the highlight of someone's day, the love of their life.

Sugar biscuits and Dark Marks hadn't been a part of the picture. Nor had being an Auror. And he'd certainly

never dreamt of a scrawny blonde-haired fellow with a foot-long todger and the personality of a Hungarian Horntail on a merciful day. But he couldn't imagine himself happy without any of those things. Without Draco.

This wasn't what he'd been expecting. But in some ways, it was better than anything he could have imagined. He wondered if Draco felt the same. Certainly he'd had a different vision of his future life—married to some pureblood girl, flexing his influence in politics and society like his father had done, and his father before him. Draco's current situation—estranged, hunted, and married to Harry Potter—would have been unthinkable even a year ago.

Harry swallowed. His chin pressed against the fabric of Draco's suit, and the hardness of bones beneath. His arms tightened.

“Happy?” he muttered.

Draco poked him in the stomach with a knobbly knuckle. “Of course, ya cunt.”

“Really, though?” Harry pressed, giving a squeeze. “A year ago, you wouldn't have wanted this.”

“Neither would you,” the blonde pointed out evenly. “Things change... people change. Whether fer good or bad has yet to be determined.” Draco's head turned away, gazing off into the fire without seeing. His cheek brushed the top of Harry's head.

“Yeah. I've changed too,” Harry said quietly. “I know what you're talking about... the feeling—like you've fallen off your broomstick into some deep, dark hole, and the longer you fall, the more you start to wonder how far it goes or how you'll ever get out again.” He was close enough to hear Draco swallow, feeling the muscles of his throat, Adam's apple lifting slightly, shifting beneath his skin. “It's scary. But we've got each other, right?”

Draco snorted. Probably because Harry was being a sentimental twat. But surely their wedding night called for at least a dribbling of it?

Harry went on, pulling Draco tight against him. His fingers drifted down, unbuttoning Draco's jacket, removing his tie clip, unbuckling his belt. “We have each other, ya cunt. I have you to tell me when I'm being a clueless leper. I have you to question me, and yell at me, and force me to see when I'm being a complete and utter prat. And you have me... to...” Harry paused, one hand wormed under Draco's shirt and resting against his bare stomach, the other fiddling with the metal-hooked closure of his trousers. “What do I do for you, Draco? Tell me.”

The man let out a sigh.

“Why are we talking, poilu?” he intoned, pressing his cheek to the side of Harry's head. “We should be fucking right about now.” He glanced down at his wrist, going through the motions of looking at a watch even though he never wore one. Harry heard an eyebrow rise in the nasal, poncy tone of Draco's voice. “You ought to be fucking me.”

“I know that, love,” Harry growled, not unpleasantly.

The blonde prattled, “Preferably within an inch of my life and sanity.”

Harry spun him around by the shoulders, planting a firm, insistent kiss to surprised pink lips.

“You fancy shagging me. I know that, Draco. I know that.” Their foreheads connected, blonde and black fringes separating Harry's famous lightning bolt scar from the line of white at Draco's hairline. Breath sat hot between their lips. “But the occasional toss is hardly enough. Tell me—”

Draco's reaction was rapier-quick. “Tell you why I love you? Oh sod off.”

Harry's grip went painfully tight. “Fuck. Let me finish a damn sentence,” he growled. “I want you to tell me what I can do for you, you thoroughly aggravating little....” Harry schooled his frustration. He'd always been bollocks at talking about his feelings. Being with Draco just made it worse, the way they put off talking about things unless they were post-coital or foxed out of their minds. It was hard, talking. He always got the feeling he wasn't doing it right. Still, he tried again. “I'm not here enough. I know that. I'm trying to fix it. But for now it would help if you told me what I can do, what means the most to you, so I can be sure to do or say those things, whatever they are. So I can take care of you, help you, the way you help me.”

Draco huffed.

“I'm not going to Legilimens this out of you,” Harry warned. “We're past throwing hexes at one another. So out with it. Tell me. Get it over with,” Harry glanced pointedly at the bed, “and then I'll shag you seven ways from sundry.”

Faced with the offer of Harry’s prick up his arse, Draco had no choice but to comply. Harry knew that, of course. It was his only leverage. And he was prepared to give it up if it meant Draco putting words to the swirling masses in his head.

It took a moment for the pureblood to work up an answer. He seemed to draw it from the backs of his teeth—unsticking the words they never said to one another. Draco spoke with his eyes closed, fighting against each syllable as it tumbled out. “Isn't it obvious? Ya fuckin' love me, alright? Yeh've seen my worst an' ya don't care. You still....”

“You want me to take care of you?” Harry said slowly, confirming even as he did so, pulling at Draco's tie and smoothing his perfect white-blonde hair. “You want me to... I dunno, boss you around and fuck you so you can see how much I....?”

That earned him a nod. It took Draco a moment to control his thoughts, to organize everything into coherency. “Ya know what I am. And yer still here. You think you can make me better.” He tried to look away.

Harry wasn't having it. He sighed, taking Draco's cheeks into his palms and looking at his closed eyes. He looked so frightened and ashamed. Harry couldn't bear it.

“No,” he said. “No. There's nothing that needs fixing.”

“But—” Draco began to protest. Harry cut him off immediately.

“So you're a bit mental? When has that ever stopped me?!” Harry gave his face a little shake. “Dumbledore was a couple chocolate cauldrons short of a potions set but I loved that old man like a mum and dad rolled into one. Ron and Hermione are hardly sane, and all the Weasleys have issues. Then there's Luna—she's rather touched in the head—and even Neville's got problems that would make your brain spin. And Sirius was mental. Guess it runs in the family, huh?” Draco didn't look too pleased. Harry ploughed on, getting to the point. “And I love these people, Draco. Just like I love you. I wouldn't change them or you for the world. The way you are is... it's the way you are. It's a part of you: a part I love. I would never try to change that. Messing with your head... it would be like cutting off your hands—you'd never make music again, and how could I live with myself for doing that to you?”

Draco opened his mouth to protest.

“Don't worry about being crazy, or whatever,” Harry soothed. “If you ask me, you're better when you're bat shit. It brings out this whole other side of you—artistic and vulnerable and just... all the things that brought me to you, that made me see you. Your soul or whatever,” he chuckled at himself, talking about souls. It had been a while since he'd thought about the human spirit outside of a horcrux context. He loosed the knot of Draco's tie, tugging at the silk until it slid from his starched collar.

“You want me to love you, mon coeur?” Harry murmured, seizing Draco by the loosened tie about his neck. “C'mon, then. Works better with clothes off.”

The choking sound Draco made was new. His eyes were wide as he scrambled, reaching for the tails of Harry’s shirt and freeing them from his trousers. Harry removed Nebojsa’s potion phial from his pocket, twisting it once-over between his fingers, Draco’s tie in his other fist as he considered.

“How long will this last?” he asked quietly. It was a potion Draco had mentioned several times before; one designed to give a wizard stamina and increased sexual performance. Compenti Omgressus. Considered illegal in some countries, and a Class B Controlled Substance in others. The UK was neither.

Draco thought. “Tha’ much?” He shrugged, guessing, “Two days, at least.”

Harry pushed the blazer from Draco’s shoulders, dropping the potion in his hand. “You take it, then. I’ll be fine.”

The wizard’s head snapped up. “But I thought yeh were....” His brows knit, put-out... and sad.

There wasn’t much answer to give. Harry reached for the phial in Draco’s hand. “Give it here, then. If you think I’ll need it.”

Draco peeled away his tie with a huff. Black silk snapped against itself as it tumbled to the floor.

“‘S too late, poilu. Take it now an’ ya won’t feel it ‘til tomorrow, teatime.”

Harry looked again at the glass phial in his hand. “So you’re telling me this is useless for tonight.”

He nodded.

Harry shrugged out of his shirt and tie. “Guess I’m fucking you the old-fashioned way.”

Draco froze. It was the perfect opportunity to seize him by the waistband of those silly Armani pants, his hardness already threatening the top. Harry grabbed him.

“You’re really going to... ?” Draco asked in a rather awed voice. Harry peeled back Draco’s dark embroidered shirt; spelling away shoes and trousers, rolling lips and tongue down the slope of his pale shoulder, tasting each scar and freckle as they passed beneath his lips. Harry just nodded, enjoying his practice-honed ability to make Draco stupid-drunk with hormones, libido and the smell of sweat breaking his skin.

His glasses slid to the floor with a crack. He couldn’t be arsed.

“I think I'm gonna have trouble... holding back,” Draco added, his voice little more than an embarrassed mumble.

“Mmm. You think or you know?” Harry teased from the tender places behind his ear.

Draco closed his eyes, looking for the words behind his eyelids. When they weren't hiding there, he was forced to look away.

“I know. After some jiggery-pokery with your 'present,' I knew. I wish I'd had more notice about all this,” he gestured around at most of their nicest clothes—his clothes—lying scattered about on the floor. “I'd have tried ta start some Compenti Omgressus of our own. Or taken it in time. But as it is....” he trailed off, unable to look at Harry.

“Just tell me what you need.”

Draco was struck silent at the sentiment—could only stare into Harry's pretty green eyes as his throat tightened, chest hitching as he tried so hard to remember how to breathe.

“Here,” he croaked, bending down and roughly tugging Harry's dragon skin belt from the trousers at their feet. “I need you to use this.”

“To—to hit you?” Harry stammered. “I don't think I could do that and stay hard. I got smacked with one of these as a kid. I'm really sorry. I know I just said I was up for anything, but—”

“Hufflepuff’s taint, Wonder Boy. Not that.” Draco worked the belt's tongue through the buckle, creating a loose loop. He dropped the circle around his neck. With a quick pull, it laid snug and low around his neck. He placed the slack in Harry's hand. “When I'm gettin' close too fast, pull. I want you to come first. Pureblood thing, don't ask,” he muttered before Harry could get a word in. “This'll help me focus.” He indicated the tight ring around his neck, sitting just below his Adam's apple so as not to kill him.

“But...” Harry's brow creased. “What if I choke you?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Love, you will be choking me. That's the fun.”

“But I'll hurt you,” Harry fought him. Silly git.

“Not in a bad way,” Draco countered, placing both hands over Harry's. He stroked the dark, coarse hair decorating the backs of Harry's wrists. “Trust me. It's like when I pull your hair. You'd let me pull it all out if you got yer way.”

“But...” Harry fought on, shaking away Draco's fingers so he could concentrate past his growing arousal. “I thought choking and stuff turned you on. Wouldn't this be overload?”

“The opposite,” Draco let one hand stroll up the belt to touch his own neck, feeling his voice vibrate there. “Lack of air... it slows things down. It helps me relax. I can hold back tha' way, instead a' jus' going off with no big fireworks behind it.”

“I like fireworks,” Harry said slowly, wicked. He wrapped the end of the belt around his fist, gathering the slack until it was taut enough that Draco could feel the tension but still catch his breath with ease. “So do I just pull until you gasp?”

“If ya wanna be a tease,” Draco nodded, eyes glittering gold in the dim light. “If I get real close—ya know when I'm close—yeh'd best choke me like ya mean it.”

“Um,” Harry blushed but kept his gaze steady, loving the excitement building on Draco's face. “Why can't I just use my hands, like before?” Harry wound the belt all the way around his fist until he reached the other man's neck, caressing slowly over belt and skin alike. His fingers were hot, weighty and strong.

Draco licked his lips. “Would be... too much,” he muttered, eyes sliding closed at Harry's touch.

“I would have better control,” Harry pointed out. He didn't stop touching Draco's neck, though; he was taking too much pleasure in how much Draco reacted to this. Already his skin was flushed and sensitive. All of his skin. Everywhere—swirls of pink and red blush beneath white scars and black squirming ink.

“Too much,” Draco repeated dreamily. “Come... instantly. Ease inta it,” he continued, bleary, swaying slightly. Harry angled Draco's torso to rest against his own. The blonde's breathing had already slowed and he seemed far-away, almost... spelled. It made him relax, though, which was crucial to the success of their intended endeavor. Harry combed fingers through his hair and he actually purred. It was a satisfied rumble from the back of his throat, but Harry considered it a human purr. A Draco purr.

“Draco, you're enjoying this.” The blonde nodded minutely against his wrist. “But we're not done talking yet. I'm sorry,” Harry added, pulling Draco away by the belt around his neck.

That got his attention. Literally. Breath caught in his throat in a wet gurgle. That was a very hot sound, like Draco gagging on his cock, or grunting from bouncing up and down on it. Harry's other head was already sprinting right off without him. Must. Slow. Down.

“Draco, I can't,” Harry offered while he still had the sense to make words. “It's no good. I'm afraid you'll pass out, or that I'll cut off blood to your brain or something.”

“Eyes roll back in my head 'for I pass out,” he smiled languidly. He was going too, going to that place where his other head took over. As it was, his pupils had taken over his silvery eyes.

“That's not enough,” Harry insisted. “I can't watch for that and still plough you the way I need to.”

“F-uuu-uuck,” Draco moaned. He slumped a little in Harry's arms, hard cock straining to make contact with Harry's body. Realizing his throat was relatively free, he took a good deep breath, expanding the muscles and tendons in his neck to push the belt-collar out a few millimeters more. His eyes lightened, pupils contracting as oxygen flooded back to his brain. Blimey, he was sensitive. “I can take it,” he muttered. “I just need a bit o' warmin' up, s'all. No worries.”

Everything about this sounded like a terrible idea. Harry shook his head. “It's too dangerous. I won't do it at all unless you give me a solid indication of when to stop. I didn't marry you just to fuck you to death on the first go.”

“Mmm,” Draco licked his lips dreamily.

Harry's eyes were drawn to his pink tongue and sulky, engorged mouth—wet and lax in that gorgeous face of his. Harry thought about driving his cock in that mouth, long and slow, before slipping into his arse.... He nearly took Draco to the ground right there. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold back. Must have been the magic of the marriage binding. He'd never felt the need this badly before. It was unreal, how his prick was taking over his bloody consciousness. He blinked, bit his lip and attempted to focus.

“Heartbeat,” Draco said slowly. He took up Harry's hand and placed it on his chest. Then Harry felt a flutter of wandless magic. The next second, he could hear Draco's insides—the bump of his heart, the subtle whoosh of blood, the creaking of lungs filling with air as the man breathed.

Magic was bloody amazing. He wanted to fuck Draco's pureblood bones through the floor for knowing spells like that. For having magic at all. Hell, he just needed to fuck. He couldn't think straight.

“Hear? Yeh can feel it, too,” he whispered. Harry heard that familiar, beloved bedroom voice hum inside Draco's chest—reverberating, everything moving with it, all connected. Everything was amplified, as though there was a magical microphone or sensor inside Draco's chest, hooked directly into Harry's brain. The connection was seamless.

“Yeah, I feel it,” Harry replied quickly, stepping closer, needing to have that tight, delicate beating as close to himself as possible. Soon he would be in it. His brain spun at that, high and drunk off the very idea. “How do I know when you're in trouble?”

“Beat with no sound,” Draco replied, nuzzling Harry's neck.

“What?”

“Know it when yeh hear it.”

Draco ran a hand up Harry's side, grazing ribs and nipple to arrive at neck. He traced the tendons there with the fat of his thumb. Their cocks touched, sending twin jolts from bollocks to brain and back. Harry could hear the muscles shifting in Draco's strong body. He felt the current of arousal as it ran through Draco's system, speeding up his heart, sending blood galloping through his veins.

“Be... more specific,” Harry demanded. “Twat.”

“A beat tha' isn't a beat. Blood moving with no beat from the heart. One now an' again s'okay. Two or three together? Pull me out, lovely, Bob's yer Uncle.”

Harry nodded against Draco's hair, too much enjoying how Draco's heart would race when he drew teasing fingers down the blonde's oversensitive spine. Draco arched against him, into him, pressing. He gripped the sweet spot where Draco's lower back became the delicious curve of his ass. Instead of stroking, he filled his hands and squeezed hard. It was a warning. He wanted Draco to pay attention, even as he himself was losing control.

“One day I'm going to ask you when and why you learned this spell. And you're going to answer me.”

Draco nodded against him, high from the same rush. They couldn't hold out any longer.

“Wait,” Harry muttered, summoning his wand from his jacket pocket. It flew into his hand, and he immediately threw it at the night stand. “Need that later.”

Draco seemed to nod his approval. Either that or his gaze was bobbing between their dicks, wondering which they would tend to first. His vision settled on Harry's prick, which he reached out to grab without ceremony, tugging him towards the bed. Harry put up no resistance, waiting until Draco's knees were against the mattress to bat his hand away and shove the skinnier fellow backwards, dropping him to the bed.

Harry crawled up, knees on the blankets and straddling Draco, a palm pressed to the dragon hide belt, pressing Draco's delicate bones and flesh beneath. Draco sighed into him and didn't draw another breath.

Harry didn't have to think of what to do next. He'd spent every night, every dream, every daylight fantasy mapping out exactly what he would do when he finally had Draco like this—his to do with as he would, his to have and hold and never fucking let go. The knowledge that Draco was holding his breath only made it that much sweeter.

The first order of business, of course, was snogging Draco silly. He took up a handful of blonde and yanked, bringing Draco's face up to meet his own. Lips crushed and teeth clacked, Draco trying to bite him and suck his tongue out of his mouth at the same time. Harry pushed right back, driving Draco back to the mattress, pushing his own tongue past a snapping line of teeth and back to the sweet reaches of the other’s throat. Draco gave a moan, grinding against him. His nails raked Harry's back, leaving an angry red trail. The first of countless many.

Harry came up panting, the wet peel of kisses in his ears. Draco sat up, chasing him with that mouth. Harry used the belt to drag the blonde back down to the bed, holding him steady. His eyes dilated from silver to black in the span of a heartbeat—the bump of his heart like a chime in Harry's ears, a reminder to keep himself in check. He observed Draco's face; the way his lashes fluttered, how waves of coral blush traversed the planes of his cheeks, drifting down to gather with the reddening skin of his neck, where dragon hide bit at every tendon in his neck, veins purple and blue and popping. Harry dropped down to bite them all, leather on his tongue.

“Pureblood bollocks, huh?” Harry murmured between kisses. “Sure I can't make you come?”

It was almost a threat. Draco seized up, nearly bucking him off.

“No, no...” he protested. There wasn't much air in his lungs, the words not much more than a wheeze. It was so fucking hot. Harry could make out the flutter of his lungs, bumping around in his chest as they sought precious air. He gave some slack on the belt. A ring of grey returned to Draco's eyes—just enough to get his wits about him. “Yeh have ta come first. The vows. There's an order.”

“Pureblood bullshit,” Harry growled.

“Pureblooded shite,” Draco nodded. His eyes were wild, like he was keeping something and knew he'd see Hell for it later. Still, he insisted—pleaded. “Please.”

Harry liked the sound of that—too much. Draco begging.

He slid off the bed, knees hitting the stone floor with twin thuds. Bruises could be spelled away in the morning. He wanted to make Draco beg—again and again. And so, eyes closed, he licked a hot stripe up the length of Draco's cock, sucking the head into his mouth and dropping down until his stomach rallied against him. He pulled back just enough to breathe, to relax, before taking another pass.

Draco was rabid within seconds. He took up the belt in both skinny hands and yanked—cutting a vicious line of red across his neck, trying so hard to hold back.

“Beg,” Harry mouthed around the thick weight in his mouth, knowing full-well the vibration of his voice would drive Draco beyond madness. He pulled back, tongue and teeth, to lick at the slit.

Draco's efforts to bat him away were weak at best. His bollocks were tight against his thighs, and he had to keep at least one hand at the belt, choking himself to stave off. He was close already.

“Beg me and I'll stop,” Harry told him.

“Please!” Draco caved immediately, dignity in bloody shreds. “Please, please don't suck me! Leave my fuckin' cock alone, fer the love a' Merlin or I'll—”

Harry lunged. One knee to the pureblood's chest, he dropped a calloused hand over the lower half of Draco's face—palm covering his mouth, thumb and forefinger pinching his nostrils shut. There was more than one way to choke a man.

He listened to the flood and thump of Draco's heart, to the blood gushing through his veins like a fountain, feeling Draco give in beneath him... feeling him die a little, from the inside out. His limbs slackened, eyes drifting shut, fine blonde hairs along his arms and shoulders standing on end despite the heat of the room. Harry watched it all in slow motion, waiting for that tell-tale thump that wasn't.

He heard it—a bump that wasn't, like a tremor of the muscles bunched around his heart. Blood moved sluggishly, Draco's heart struggling to keep up. The difference was clear. Draco's heart had skipped a beat, the muscles of his chest spasming with its absence. Immediately, Harry withdrew his hand.

Draco's breath was slow but sure, puffing out his stomach as he breathed around Harry's knee to his chest. His eyes opened; black rimmed with silver. “Bastard,” he mouthed.

Harry grabbed his jaw, controlling. “You fucking love it.”

That earned him a savage kiss. Draco's lips were soft after lack of air—Harry couldn't stop biting at them, sloppy and blood-filled. He could hear it all rushing between lips and dick, leaving little for Draco's poor, over-sized brain.

He sucked at Draco's bottom lip, worrying it between his own.

“Lube or spell?” he asked.

“Spell. Now.” Draco thought better of his response. “Please,” he tacked on, sheepish.

Harry held out his arm, calling for his wand. He'd practiced endlessly, thinking it would be a good spell to have the next time some Death Eater wrestled his wand away from him on the battlefield. It seemed to happen an awful lot. He shut his eyes in order to focus—demanding that his wand fly into his hand.

He was only a little surprised when Draco's hawthorn and unicorn arrived instead—Summoned from their pile of clothes by the piano, twice as far as Harry's own wand on the night stand.

One wand is as good as another, he thought in a rush. He waved it quickly, casting the necessary spells. He could fucking hear the knotted muscles of Draco's backside—tense from holding himself back—begin to release, coaxed open by magic. Draco unraveled in his head, the sound like thousand-year-old trees creaking, swaying into place. In a matter of seconds, the way was clear. Draco settled in beneath him, tucking his heels up on the mattress. Harry slipped back, feet planted firmly on the floor, dragging Draco to the edge of the bed by his hips.

Harry's prick slid right between Draco's cheeks, nestled in the crack between him and the bed. With Draco's legs a bit further up, the angle would be perfect.

Harry slapped at a bony knee. “Up,” he commanded—the same way he commanded his broomstick, and with about as much urgency—signaling that Draco should wrap his legs around Harry's torso, just below the ribs. Draco was too eager or too far gone to put up a fight. Lost in his own head, his legs snapped up right where Harry wanted them, locking his ankles. His left arm snuck out, pale and Marked, to take hold of the foot board, anchoring himself.

Harry took his prick in hand, still holding Draco's hip with the other. “Ceremony?” he asked, teasing. “Satanic pureblood buggery ritual? Magic words?”

A tiny smile twitched the side of Draco's mouth. Grey eyes fluttered shut in a silent laugh. “It would appear tonight's magic word is 'please.' Need I repeat it?”

“Just... shove in, then?” Harry marveled at the simplicity of it. He decided sex was a lot less nerve-wracking as the top. He'd been scared out of his mind in Draco's position... but Draco just had that smile on his face; a bit spaced out, braced for the discomfort and ready to go.

“Please. Stupid... Chosen... Git.”

Harry rolled forward in one sharp but fluid snap.

Draco's eyes flew open.

Harry didn't need the sound coming from the pureblood's lips—he could hear his body screaming.

Harry ground his heels into the stone floor—careening through eons of heat and tight crushing, suffocating, maddening right. The feeling was as ancient as the cold stone his toes curled against. He could hardly keep his balance, tell up from down, utter his own name against the thrill of it. Magic hung in his cheeks, chattering between his teeth, snicking between the hairs of his balls—passing in lightning bursts like Tesla's long-lost and surely greatest fucking invention ever. He was lightheaded and strong, shivering and a God.

He couldn't imagine what it would feel like to come like this. It might kill him—might kill Draco.

Draco.

He wrenched his eyes open, glancing down at the startled pair of eyes and slightly open mouth waiting to greet him, ashen brows carving half-circles through an ivory brow. The look on Draco's face was foreign and new—eyes wide, startled and stunned, a strangled sound leaking from his hanging lips.

The heat of the room was making Draco's eyes dry. He kept blinking away non-existent particles of dust, lashes an ashen blur before his eyes. Harry winked in and out of his sight, pulling up. He stopped at the familiar point where his near-sightedness kept Draco in focus.

Dark brows pinched. “Does it hurt?”

“Dunno. Can't quite tell.”

Harry understood perfectly. His breath shuddered in his chest as he managed a nod. “Tell me if it does.”

“And you'll stop?”

The old Harry Potter would have at least looked bashful. But this Harry, the Husband Harry, only gave him a look to make him dizzy from lack of blood to the brain.

His voice came deep. “I won't stop. Don't be daft.”

Harry's hands left their roost at Draco's hips. One warmed the back of a thigh, pressing Draco down into the mattress, angling his bum up for the taking. The other hand took his bony shoulder, to be sure he didn't move. Draco couldn't imagine moving—not speared like this. Muggle plastic could never do the real thing justice.

Harry was murderously thick. This became clear with the first real thrust.

Warm hands pushed. He was spread open, belt yanked until he could scarcely breathe, strangled by the press of chosen muscle, sinew and hairy fucking chest scratching all along his own. Draco bit his lip. The weight of the Chosen One was impressive—deceptively heavy for his size, and all of it bearing down. Draco threw his head back, scrabbling for blankets and bed and hair, anything to lay hands on. He couldn't breathe through the pain—so he didn't breathe at all.

It felt like he was going to come—any second now, which was ridiculous. It was Harry's hands. The way they held him, dangled him over the edge like a drunken dare, fingers like shivs of friction working up and down the bumps of his spine—miles of white skin and freckles and scars, moving under his absolutely-not-a-virgin-anymore touch. Harry knew the exact motion of lips, the precise rhythm of cock and warmth of hands that would undo him. That slide grew a thousand vertebrae beneath his skin, stretching him for days so there might be more for fingers and hot, sweating palms to rise over. Harry's hands were so warm. His whole body was, really; waves of heat rolled from the rounded mountains of his shoulders, sweat building where Draco's calves rested against him.

He was pressing in, slow and sure. And it was divine. He never stopped, hands and hips, straining tight in order to go so evenly, taking the moment between his teeth as he gazed down, unblinking.

Draco's breath sped up—until he was panting, ripping at his own hair as Harry went deeper, deeper, more, until the hairy heat of his balls pressed Draco's ass as though he never wanted to stop, to only go forward for the rest of time, ripping through Draco and just going, off into some ruddy sunset like the perfect hero he was.

Harry was staring at him, jaw rather slack and his mouth sweet, loose. His eyes were bright, focused on the face below his own.

“Shh,” Harry cooed, brushing Draco's chest with his nose. “I love that but... you can't....”

“...Can't wot?” Draco managed between ragged breaths. His throat felt scratchy, sore already and they were only getting started.

Harry licked his lips. “Whimpering. I love it. But you're gonna make me come and I've only just—”

So that was why his throat hurt. His ears only registered the sound—an embarrassingly high-pitched, breathy whelping—after Harry brought it to his attention. That noise was coming from himself? Go figure. He could die of embarrassment, now.

He tried to stop. But giant-fellating fuck, he couldn't. It got worse when Harry used his weight, crashing into him like a muggle film in slow motion, just muscle and offset, spirited, bloody painful verve. It rattled his teeth. And the sound went higher. Merlin and Mordred, he sounded like a bloody girl—a bitch squealing for it.

“I'm not... hurting you?” Harry confirmed. He was biting at his lip to hold back. The wildness in his eyes was a testament to how much he was keeping in, taking things slow. What would it be like when Harry let go? When he opened the floodgates? Draco could hardly breathe for wanting.

Draco yanked two solid handfuls of his own hair, eyes falling closed. “Hurt? Gods no. It's so fucking good.”

He groaned when Harry slid back, feeling the thickness of Harry's prick; and in its leaving, his own body collapsed, missing Harry the moment that fat dick of his was gone. He made the whimpering, long and loud—pitiful but there it was, unstoppable as an Avada Kedavra to the chest.

Harry's teeth sunk into his neck, nipping at the vibration of Draco's vocal cords beneath spit-slicked skin. Tepid hands held him down, a palm pressing the bone of his hips, encouraging his legs to open, another hand with scraping fingers working up his thigh, seizing him roughly under the knee and holding on so tight.

Harry came at him again. Biting down on Draco's neck, he pressed, centimeter by fucking torturous centimeter. He felt amazing. Blood sang in Draco's ears.

“Stop,” Harry warned around a mouthful of Draco, the once pallid skin where his throat and shoulder met now a livid red, ornamented with the curving shapes of teeth. Tomorrow he'd be covered in love marks. “Shut up or I'm gonna cum.”

Draco arched off the bed at that—forcing Harry the rest of the way out, he clenched so tight. It took a second to get his mind back, to press his spine to the bed. Harry pushed at his hip. The force helped to ground him.

“So come,” he mumbled, out of breath and delirious. He couldn't seem to get a decent lung-full for the life of him. He blamed the little patterns Harry was licking, tracing the splotchy burn marks marching from behind his ear down to his collar bone. The belt sat loose around the base of his neck, abandoned for other pursuits. “I don't care if yeh last three more seconds! I don't care,” he repeated. Because he really didn't. “Jus' enjoy it.”

Harry's hand found its way to Draco's cock, which was hard as ever and twitching, leaking precome over the pale hair of his stomach. Harry seemed happy, rubbing up against him. Harry adjusted his stance so he might wank Draco while getting himself off with the pureblood's arse.

Draco touched Harry's cheek before stretching his arms above his head, taking up fist-fulls of the bed linens. He bit at the insides of his cheeks, recalling every afternoon for these last four months... the secret lunch hours when he'd laid back on this very bed, stared up at this very cracked ceiling and nearly tossed himself to death thinking of Harry, of this moment. He had no doubt he'd come from this. He was himself and Harry was Harry—orgasm was inevitable. But he wanted to last. Harry liked to see him hard, wanting, waiting to be satisfied. And he wanted to give Harry that image—that pink, cut-up cock of his bouncing against his stomach as The Boy Who Lived drilled into him again and again, taking as he pleased.

Draco closed his eyes, ashamed of how badly he wanted this—to be an offering. Twitching, and with a grimace, he sacrificed his pride.

“Use me,” he whispered. “I'm yers.”

The hand under his knee tightened uncomfortably. Harry shoved at him, laying down and deeper into him, free hand sliding up Draco's side with the calloused pads of his thick fingers, pushing, punishing, until he reached the belt. He took up the end and tugged without mercy.

Harry's eyes were green fire. “Not using you,” he growled. “Loving you. Stupid cunt.”

A giggle lodged itself in Draco's throat; he fought it down. The man was serious. Intensity lingered in the color of his eyes, in the way each freckle and scar stood clear against his skin, as though hung there by the gods after they'd finished with the stars in the sky.

“You're mine,” Harry continued, “my prat, my Malfoy. You made me,” he whinged. “I couldn't 've... not without you....” Harry's hips flipped forward—a ruthless, grinding thrust, mean—before pulling back to do it again. Harder. He hammered. Draco didn't know it was possible to be ridden while on one's back, legs stiff around Harry's sides, hard and curled like a dead insect dried by the sun on the windowsill. He screamed, throwing his head back, fists beating against the sheets. It was no use. Harry wasn't letting up. He would be loved—loved into the mattress, their wedding bed. He had no choice in this—and that was fine. Better, even. Use, love, whatever Harry wanted to call it. It was exactly what they needed.

He could feel the magic building around them like a strong wind, rattling the window panes.

“I swear,” Draco whispered, “if ya blow the bloody windows out again....” Harry drove his hips forward, ending that statement in a pathetic little whine. The sound spat through Draco's nose, ringing, electric. His mouth dropped open and the noise got louder, punctuated with panting and pathetic, gasping guttural breaths. He keened, throat tight. “Do it,” he dared. “Do it.”

Harry nipped at his chest. His eyes were glowing when he glanced up. “Destroy the windows?”

“Windows... me... something. Anything.”

“Yesssss,” Harry agreed in an endless hiss. He needed to touch. To be as close as bloody possible. He'd climb in Draco's brain if he could—in through the pinching meat of his arse, up his arching spine, worming through the network of veins and tendons straining the length of his long pretty neck and disappearing in that mind of his. He wanted to swim in it, to float, to fly.

Draco bucked under him.

Then Harry's sweet, inexpert ramrodding found his prostate.

It was cruel—that all he had to do was push hard enough and at the right angle. He didn't have to understand a thing. His thickness and Draco's body did all the work. Harry made Draco's teeth chatter. Harry made him whimper, made him scream and beg and cry fat, burning tears of wanting more and more and more, for this to never stop. His stomach rolled as he cried and shook with it, the magic coursing through his veins.

This was it, then—the mysterious sensation which he could never manage to summon on his own—that tripping, heedless, emboldened something. It was Harry—him and Harry together.

He wanted to say something, but didn't know what. Words felt stupid, with the way Harry was looking at him; sweaty, hair everywhere, so focused. There was light all around him—not just his hands, curling around Draco's thighs. He hardly noticed the blue flickering anymore. All he saw, all he felt, was the powerful, ancient magic surrounding them. He breathed it whenever he could, Harry's weight all but crushing him.

It was the binding spell, he told himself. Just the binding, intensifying everything. That had to be it. Harry's magic wanted him very, very badly. That was the only explanation for it—for the way his eyes were dry and stuck, held open in an invisible vice grip, locked on Harry's.

He was drunk with the strength of it, coursing through his blood, ringing in his ears. One good thrust, one glance of the power in Harry's eyes, and he went.

Harry's eyes went wide, pupils dilating. Something wavered, teetering on the edge before imploding—the magic, their binding, spilling over as Harry came his brains out. He was turned inside out, balls first, every molecule rearranged by the waves crashing through him. His breathing was little more than ragged gasps, earned with each onslaught as magic and sensation raced for priority in his brain.

He stayed inside until his shoulders slumped, breath leaving in one last heave, throat tightening until he couldn't make a sound. He mouthed, wordlessly, until the power left his eyes. Wet lips worked against Draco's collar bone. His hands still sparked, arms wrapped around Draco, caught between holding himself up and holding the blonde tight.

“That was intense,” Harry croaked. “Draco... you okay?”

Feebly, he nodded.

“Would you, um...” Harry licked his lips. “Fancy going again?”

Draco clamped a hand over his mouth to keep the sound in—it would surely be too pathetic, too out of control, if he opened his mouth just now. But Harry ripped his hand away, needing to hear him.

Harry's eyes were all he could see—green and full and so, so warm.

“C'mon,” Harry's head tilted to the side, approaching frustration. “Draco, you fucking ponce... you know I can't hold back. Can you take it again?”

“Please,” he demanded, begged, anything to keep this magic alive. “Don't stop. Please don't eva fuckin' stop.”

POST SCRIPT: Can't get enough Conscience? Burning question? Itching for a response to your flaming, blithe and pithy review? There's an App for that.

Sordid's official AFF Forum Post. Accept no imitations.

http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/28110-review-replies-discourse-conscience/
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