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Harry sat in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, his two best friends seated across from him drinking tea and, he suspected, holding hands beneath the table. He’d begun to get used to the sappy looks and little courtesies that they extended towards each other, despite the fact that they kept trying to keep their interactions subtle. One of these days he should take the time to explain that it didn’t bother him as much anymore.
But now wasn’t really the time. He had his own relationship—such as it was—to think about.
“I’m worried about Draco,” Harry said.
“Don’t you mean Malfoy?” Ron asked hopefully.
“No,” Harry replied shortly. “I mean Draco.”
He hadn’t thought of the blond boy as Malfoy since Draco had cried in Harry’s arms after his shit of a father had disowned him a couple of days ago. That had been coming for a while, he realized. How long could you keep calling someone by their last name after you began fucking them? Was there a time limit before it got weird? Or maybe it was weird to sleep with someone you called by their last name in the first place. Harry pursed his lips as he thought about that. Really, the whole thing he had going with Draco was kind of weird. For lots of reasons.
“It’s natural to be worried,” Hermione said, ignoring her boyfriend and bringing Harry’s attention back. “He’s going through a tough time. But he’s a Slytherin. He’ll recover. That’s what they do.”
“He said he belonged to me,” Harry said, lacing his fingers tightly together.
“Blurgh,” Ron said.
They both ignored him this time.
“And that’s problematic?” Hermione asked. Her cheeks turned a little pink, but her voice stayed admirably even. Harry appreciated that. She was an adaptable girl, that Hermione. “I thought…given the nature of your relationship, that an admission of that sort would make you happy.”
“I thought so too,” Harry admitted. “But now that I’ve had a little time to consider it, I think he said it for the wrong reasons. He doesn’t exactly have anyone else right now. You remember our fight, don’t you, the one you sat here and watched like it was entertainment?”
Her pink cheeks darkened, but she merely nodded in the face of Harry’s mixed amusement and frustration.
“Then you remember just how emphatic he was when he said that giving himself to me fully would be a betrayal of the love he has for his parents. I find it hard to believe he just got over that. Especially so quickly.”
“You think he didn’t mean it?” Hermione asked, tilting her head. “That he belongs to you, I mean?”
“Maybe,” Harry said. And the idea of it bothered him. A lot.
The thing was, the possessiveness he felt for Draco was like a living thing crawling under his skin. He couldn’t reason himself out of it. He had no rational explanation for its existence. It had reared its head early and with shocking strength, and now he couldn’t seem to kick it loose. When Draco had said that he was Harry’s, the monster in his chest had finally fallen silent.
The thought that Draco hadn’t meant it or had felt coerced not only brought the monster back, it hurt.
It hurt a lot.
“Does that matter?” Ron asked. “That it was for the wrong reasons?”
“It matters to me,” Harry said sharply.
Ron blanched at the tone, seemed to reconsider the way his words had come across, and then adopted an apologetic expression. “No, mate. Hear me out. He’s been fighting you since minute one, yeah? Now he’s acknowledging that there is a bond. That’s more than you had before, right? Even if it isn’t the way you’d like, it’s an in. Use it.”
Harry studied his friend. Ron seemed a little awkward with the subject, but there was no anger or disgust in his freckled face. “You hate Draco. Why are you helping?”
“I don’t hate him,” Ron said defensively. “I just want to hit him in the head sometimes. With something heavy. If that’s hate…okay, maybe that’s hate.” He sighed, glancing down at his lap where Hermione’s hand was no doubt still entwined with his own. “But I keep thinking about that note he got from his mother. Maybe she was expressing love, like Malfoy says, but even then, that kind of love is still pretty cold-blooded. I know I was kind of…”
He glanced at Hermione, who nodded sternly at him. Harry got the distinct impression she’d ripped Ron a new one for his callousness about the letter. If Harry hadn’t been so worried about Draco, he might’ve done it himself.
Ron sighed and continued, “…unsympathetic at the time, but it got stuck in my head a little. That would be a shitty way to grow up, and I could see how it could sort of make someone into a prat. Don’t ever tell anyone this, Harry, or I’ll murder you in your sleep, but…I feel kind of bad for the git.”
“I do, too,” Hermione said, leaning her head against his shoulder as a reward for his good behavior. “That makes you decent.”
“Or a sucker,” Ron grumbled. Then he gave Harry a sympathetic look. “I don’t pretend to get you two. I pretty much think you’re both nutters. But if he’s what you want…I’m your best mate, Harry. I’m going to help. Just don’t expect me to be nice about it.”
Harry smiled. “You’re a good friend.”
“I know,” Ron said, long-suffering.
“You could be a little nice about it, though,” Harry said.
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Just a little.”
“I’m starting to regret this.”
“You could say he has nice hair or something,” Harry said thoughtfully.
“Why do you want to hurt me?” Ron asked.
Hermione shook her head. “Children? Back on task, please?”
“Yes, mother,” Harry and Ron said in unison, which made them both grin.
“How is Draco dealing with it otherwise?” Hermione asked, nobly letting their cheek slide.
“He won’t talk about it,” Harry said, his good mood already beginning to slip back into concern. “He just says he’s fine. ‘I’m fine, Potter, quit baby-sitting me. It’s all fine, Potter. Back-off, Potter, I’m fine.’ I don’t believe him, but that’s all he’ll give me. Sometimes he gets this look on his face, like he’s thinking about something upsetting, but he won’t let me help him.”
“He’s not used to us caring,” Hermione said. “You want to convince Draco that he should mean it when he says he belongs to you? Show him that he can trust you with all of himself.”
“How?”
“Be supportive. Let him know you’re willing to listen and you won’t judge.”
Ron smirked. “Tell him he has nice hair.”
“Har har,” Harry said.
*
Unfortunately, life didn’t stop while Harry tried to figure out his relationship troubles. The world beyond the windows kept spinning, and autumn began to grip the trees with clinging fingers.
In between clumsy attempts to help Draco (all of which were promptly shrugged off by the other boy with varying levels of irritation), Harry worked with Ron to search Grimmauld Place in case Regulus Black had found and kept another horcrux. They tore the house apart room by room, pawing through trash and unidentifiable relics and books and ugly statues until they were covered in dust and sneezing. They found more than a few items that probably should have been destroyed a long time ago, among them a talking poppet that made obscene gestures and a spelled Chinese Finger Trap that attempted to eat your fingers if you took too long trying to get free.
Spending time with Ron was fun. They hadn’t exactly had many opportunities for light-heartedness of late, and Harry had felt some strain between them since Malfoy had arrived. The revelation that Harry liked things a little rough (Draco had called him a grade A perv, which Harry sometimes thought was an appropriate label) in the sack certainly hadn’t helped. But the red-haired boy was clearly trying to stick to his decision to be a good friend on the subject of Harry’s…Malfoy. Ron very nobly tried to contain his instinctive grimaces whenever the boy was present, and with that attempt at friendship, he was reminding Harry all over again exactly why he’d picked the second-youngest Weasley to be his best mate.
The feeling of affection between Ron and Harry was nothing compared to the burgeoning…thing…between their respective partners, however.
Draco and Hermione spent their hours going through books on dark curses, looking for anything that might destroy a horcrux. The group knew of only one thing, so far, that could accomplish the task, and, as basilisk fangs were a bit hard to come by at the moment, they were forced to find an alternative. Not that Hermione or Draco were making much progress—anything they did manage to find inevitably seemed to fail upon application.
Their discussions had become lively and passionate, though, which initially made both Ron and Harry nervous. In fact, Harry wasn’t sure what to be more concerned with—the way the debates occasionally devolved into shouting or the bizarrely obscure in-jokes the pair developed. In the evenings, while Ron and Harry sat aching and exhausted from another fruitless day moving boxes and carrying crates of unlabeled potions out of the basement in the process of searching, Draco and Hermione would argue about rare bits of magic, ancient spell work, and what the condition of a soul might be after a horcrux was made. Often, they left Ron and Harry completely in the dark, utterly confused as to what the hell they were even yelling about. Ron had gotten a little protective of Hermione at one point, but Harry had kept him from intervening when he looked closely at the expressions on their partners’ frenzied faces.
“Let them handle it. I think they’re actually having fun,” he said to his friend, who appeared horrified at the thought.
One night in bed, Draco said, “Granger’s not dumb.” He sounded mildly surprised by this.
Harry laughed.
One morning, while she and Harry sat alone in the kitchen finishing up their toast, Hermione said, “You know, Draco’s rather clever.” She also sounded mildly surprised by this.
Harry just laughed again.
And somehow, vicious debate, heavy books, and interminable research led Draco and Hermione into sort of, kind of, accidentally becoming friends.
And as time passed, other things happened, of course. Or, to put it a better way, they continued to engage in tasks that led nowhere.
They questioned Kreacher, who recalled the two trips to the cave, one with Voldemort and one with Master Regulus, but he knew nothing of how the real locket came to be in Snape’s possession after that.
They read the Daily Prophet religiously, searching for stories of loved ones and events beyond their reach, but as the paper was now heavily influenced by Death Eaters, there was never anything useful.
Snape never firecalled.
And through it all, Harry and Draco fucked and fought and fucked some more. Harry burned for the other boy, longed for proof that he was all right and for confirmation that he’d meant what he’d said in the dark, quiet bedroom that day. Harry watched Draco with mingled heat and concern, studying the boy’s beauty, catching the occasional far-away stare or fleeting expression of grief. But if Harry asked, Draco would give the same, rote answer: “I’m fine, Potter.”
*
The attempts to demonstrate Harry’s trustworthiness to Draco were not going well. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing wrong, but his efforts (which mostly ranged from bringing him tea to reminding Draco that Harry would never fuck him without lube again) seemed to confuse and irritate the other boy more than anything else. Harry’s frustration at his ineffectiveness began to snowball, in large part because he knew Draco had to be upset, and he couldn’t seem to find the right way to just fix it.
Any time Harry tried to bring it up, he got more of the same litany: I’m fine, Potter. It was getting to the point where Harry was ready to punch the other boy just so he’d get a different response.
Clearly, it was time to step it up. He was resolute that he would give Draco the support he needed. Even if Harry had to use violence or magic to knock the blond out and tie him up first, Draco would talk about his stupid feelings and be happy again. So that afternoon, with his expression grim and determined, Harry went into the parlor and sat down beside Draco, who didn’t look up from his book (One Year to a Curse-Free You: 365 Ways for 365 Days!).
“What’cha doin’?” Harry asked. Unfortunately, because of the seriousness with which he was treating his mission, it came out rather aggressively, instead of with the casual air of relaxation he’d been going for.
“Playing quidditch,” Draco replied absently, still reading.
“Git,” Harry muttered, annoyed. He cleared his throat, reminded himself to be gentle. Draco had to feel safe in order to open up. It was too early to jump to petrificus totalus and shouting. “I meant, how are you doing?”
Draco breathed out—the sound was oddly reminiscent of someone trying to hold onto patience, even if Harry couldn’t imagine why. “I’m fine.”
“It’s okay if you aren’t,” Harry said. “In case you didn’t know.”
A pause. “I know.”
“Because I thought maybe you didn’t know.”
“Why wouldn’t I know?” Draco asked tightly.
“Because you keep saying you’re fine,” Harry said, just as tightly.
“I am fine. Although I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong with you.”
Harry made a face, a little offended. For a few minutes they sat in a mildly tense silence. Draco returned to his reading, and Harry tapped his fingers together in his lap. Supportive, he thought. How did you act supportive?
Gingerly, Harry reached out and put his hand on Draco’s thigh, patting it twice. If his frustration made the pats a little too much like slaps, that could only be expected, right? Draco was being difficult.
Draco went very still. “Are you patting me?”
Harry’s hand clenched on his leg. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to make you happier, you ass.”
Draco slammed his book shut abruptly, making Harry jerk back. “And you do this by growling at me and calling me names?”
“You have nice hair,” Harry said through his teeth.
Draco squinted. “Are you drunk?”
“No!”
“Are you sure? You seem a little drunk.”
“I’m not drunk! I’m trying to be here for you.”
Draco’s brow abruptly cleared as his confusion transformed into anger. “Again with this? I am fine.”
“You keep saying that, but there’s no way you could be.”
“I can be fine if I want!”
“I’m trying to be supportive!” Harry forced himself to stop and count to ten before he completely lost his temper. “You can count on me, Draco. Really.”
Draco sighed, setting his book aside. He took a long, deep breath. “Let me be clear, Potter. I am not like you. I don’t need the same things you need. I don’t need coddling. I don’t need you to get me angry so I can talk about my feelings. Maybe Granger and Weasel do that for you, but I possess something apparently unknown to Gryffindors, something called reserve. If you truly want to support me, stop pushing. And trust that if I need something from you, I will ask for it.”
Harry bit his lip. “That sounds like something a bad boyfriend does.”
“Boyfriend?” Draco asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Don’t distract me,” Harry said, even as he felt his face turn bright red. Why the hell had that come out of his mouth? Why was this so hard? They communicated so much better while they were fucking. “I mean that you’re going through a rough time. For me not to address it…doesn’t that come across like I don’t care?”
“What are you, a girl?” Draco asked, blinking in distaste. “Why the hell do we have to go over this a dozen times? You asked if I needed anything and I said no. You’re not ignoring my pain, you imbecile. You’re letting me decide what I need instead of you deciding for me. It’s respectful.”
“So I don’t do anything?” Harry asked doubtfully.
“Don’t do anything.”
“Don’t say anything?”
“Not a word.”
Harry considered this. “Can I ask how you are? I’ll keep it rare, I promise. ”
Draco sighed. “If you must. But if I say I’m fine…”
“Then you’re fine,” Harry said.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
A brief silence.
“Don’t pat me again,” Draco said.
“Yeah, that was a little weird, wasn’t it?”
“A little.”
Harry gnawed on his lip. “Will you answer a question for me?”
“Besides that one?” Draco responded with a smirk.
“That’s really funny. Did you say what you said because you meant it or because you didn’t have anyone else or maybe because you were trying to secure your place or something, because you thought it was what I wanted to hear, you know, at the time, and it was, don’t get me wrong, but then you were upset, so maybe you wish you could take it back, and—”
Draco held up a hand until Harry stalled. “That was utterly nonsensical, Potter. Begin again. Try sentences, this time.”
“Do you wish you hadn’t said you belonged to me?”
Draco licked his lips, his grey eyes sliding away from Harry to survey the ancient, stained wallpaper and the antique furniture around them. “I wish it weren’t true. But I don’t wish I hadn’t said it.”
“Was it only because you don’t belong to them, anymore?”
“Do we have to talk about this?”
Harry started to say yes, then remembered that their whole conversation thus far had been about Draco’s need to not speak about things like this. Maybe this was a question Harry really needed the answer to, but no one had said that proving his trustworthiness to Draco would be easy.
“No,” he said quietly. “We don’t.”
Draco’s expression softened. “Thank you.”
*
So they continued to search Grimmauld Place. And they continued to research ways to destroy a horcrux. And they continued to wait for Snape to firecall.
Nothing was happening, Harry thought, as endless days went by without progress. Nothing was moving forward. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
*
When Harry opened the bedroom door after yet another unproductive day, he froze.
Draco was just inside.
On his knees.
Entirely naked.
Very much naked-on-his-knees.
Waiting on his knees, naked, for Harry to come to him.
Harry had honestly not expected that.
Harry closed the door behind him and leaned lightly against it, trying to slow his breathing and take the moment in. He’d been fighting to get Draco in this position for so long, and he had no idea why this was happening now, but he’d take it. Hell yes, he would take it.
Grimmauld Place suddenly didn’t seem so grim.
“I thought you said I’d never get you on your knees without a jinx,” Harry said, trying to act like he wasn’t ready to jitter around the room with excitement. “In fact, I’m pretty certain you said that. It was a while ago, but I distinctly remember it, because it was really obnoxious of you. What brings about the sudden submission?”
“Gratitude,” Draco said, a bit stiff and formal beneath his sneer. “You’ve been giving me what I asked for. A Slytherin pays his debts.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Draco swallowed. “I know that. Technically. But I feel like I want to give you…that’s all I’m going to say about it.”
“All right,” Harry replied, thrilled beyond all measure by the little he’d gotten. “And that’s for the best, because as far as submission goes, you’ve got a little too much smirk going on at the moment.”
The smirk only grew. The blond boy definitely had a smugness about him, and his arms were folded across his chest in a rather superior fashion. His attitude did not match his position, not at all. Something would have to be done about that.
Harry waited, letting the moment drag on and on until Draco’s gaze became a little uncertain. Finally he opened his mouth, but Harry didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“Not unless I give you permission,” he said softly.
Draco subsided, his demeanor only a little sulky.
Harry reached down, adjusted his pose a little. He spread the long thighs a little, showcasing the lovely, half-hard cock, then directed Draco’s hands to rest at the small of his back, hands gripping wrists.
Draco allowed this without protest, even though one eyebrow came up in scornful rebellion.
“Now look down. And stay looking down. When you’re in this position, you won’t make eye contact unless I tell you to.”
Draco hesitated, then dropped his gaze to the emerald green rug he knelt on. Harry trailed his fingers along soft, warm skin, then put a hand under Draco’s chin. He lifted gently, happy to see that Draco’s gaze stayed trained on the floor.
“That’s right,” he whispered, and Draco shivered. Harry’s smile widened. “Yes, that’s lovely. I want you to stay like this, just like this, and wait for me.”
A crease appeared in the skin between the pale eyebrows, but Draco didn’t otherwise complain.
It was the fastest shower of Harry’s life.
He kept trying to slow himself down; he knew he would need all of his self-control for what he had planned. Distractions didn’t help much—not even thoughts of horcruxes or his best friends downstairs cuddling in the sickeningly-sweet way they did could grant him a measure of calm. Just the thought of the boy waiting for him on the floor beside the bed had his hands nervous and trembling on his soap. He washed and dried off, brushed his teeth, and then padded naked back into the bedroom in record time.
Draco was waiting silently, posed exactly as he had been.
Harry circled him, taking in the long, lean lines of the supple body before him. Draco’s shoulders weren’t exactly broad, but they were strong. Harry could see the knobs of his spine in this position, but his arms and legs were firm and resilient. And gods, that spectacular arse—all Harry could do was exhale at the sight of the sweet crease in between those plump, tight cheeks and attempt to rein himself in.
When he stood in front of Draco once more, he said, “Tonight, little cat, I’m going to teach you how to suck cock.”
A muscle in Draco’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
“Now,” Harry said, stepping closer, until his erection was all but smacking the other boy on the face. “Start slowly. Kiss my thighs and belly first. Tease me a little.”
Draco hesitated for the briefest second, and then Harry felt light kisses fall along the skin of his legs and abdomen, slowly circling the area of his cock. Gradually, Draco got braver, letting the kisses become wetter, hotter, longer, and by the time he reached the base of Harry’s cock, Harry was quite impressed with how good the other boy’s improv skills were. He even worked his way to Harry’s balls, where he clumsily took each of them into his mouth.
That alone was worth the wait.
“Now lick along the shaft. Just the shaft.”
Draco’s lips were soft. Delicate, even. His breath rushed hotly against Harry’s sensitive skin, and before long, Draco was working his mouth up the vein on the underside of Harry’s cock.
“The head,” Harry said roughly. “You see where that little drop of moisture is? Lick it.”
Draco paused, studying the bead of precome with suspicious consideration, then extended his pink tongue to give a tiny, uncertain, kittenish lick to the tip of Harry’s cock before frowning in concentration at the taste. It was both the cutest and hottest thing Harry had ever seen.
“Yes,” Harry murmured. “Take me in your mouth. Mind your teeth.”
A moment later, Harry was engulfed in a hot, wet mouth, a velvet tongue tentatively working over his flesh, lips testing and savoring and wrapping hesitantly around the head. He didn’t know what to do with Harry’s foreskin, or whether he should keep his tongue outside or inside of it. Harry didn’t dare laugh—he’d never get Draco on his knees again—but he was tempted to. Then Draco abruptly pulled back and gave Harry’s cock a strange look—one of surprise and confusion.
“What?” Harry asked.
“It tastes good,” Draco said softly, as if he’d expected the opposite. “It feels…nice.”
“You like it,” Harry said, nearly growling, and Draco glanced upward briefly.
“So far,” the blond boy amended.
“I’m pleased,” Harry said honestly. “Now stop talking and put my cock back in your mouth.”
Draco was less hesitant now. His technique was amateurish at best but no one could fault his new enthusiasm. Harry let him slurp and lick and nuzzle freely for a minute, then tunneled his fingers into the thick blond strands of his hair.
“Deeper,” he whispered. “And suck.”
Draco settled to the work like an eager whore. Harry’s cock bumped the back of his throat, and then he watched those pale cheeks hollow as Draco did as instructed, sucking hard. Harry moaned, his knees actually wobbling at the heat that bloomed in his gut at the sensation. Draco noticed, of course, and immediately repeated it, earning another moan.
And with that, Draco clearly set about trying to destroy Harry. He bobbed his head, cradling Harry’s cock on his tongue gently, pulling and tugging with his lips, awkward and uneven with the suction at first, but settling quickly into a drawing, wild rhythm.
When Harry judged Draco was ready for more (and when it was all he could do not to lose all sense of where he was from the pleasure), he once more used the blond hair to slow him down.
“Tip your head back,” he managed. “Relax and don’t panic—I won’t hurt you, and I’ll be careful. But I’m going to slide into your throat a little.”
Draco shivered, but he let Harry position his head. Those grey eyes were nervous, perhaps even worried, but trusting nonetheless.
Then Harry was easing his cock forward, feeling the wet fire of Draco’s mouth surrounding him, and nudging at the back of Draco’s throat. With his hands, Harry shifted Draco’s angle, and suddenly the barrier eased. He pulled back a slight bit.
“Deep breath,” Harry whispered, and when Draco had obeyed, he slid forward once more, slow but firm, almost losing his mind at the feel of Draco’s throat yielding to him. He felt Draco shudder, but he didn’t jerk or swallow. He simply waited, letting Harry do as he would.
“Fuck, yes,” Harry bit out. He pulled back, not going so deep or for so long that Draco would begin to get frightened. Then he moved back in, and in just a few more strokes, feeling more comfortable with it, Draco relaxed still further, letting Harry even deeper.
Harry set out to fuck in earnest. He kept his thrusts gentle, and he was always supremely cautious of angle and speed, but he made it clear, now, with both the grip of his hands and the certainty of his hips, that Draco’s inexperience had no choice but capitulation. Draco’s mouth and throat belonged to Harry now, and he would use them as he saw fit.
He went a little faster, glancing down to see Draco’s eyes closed, his breath coming in disjointed pants through his nose, those pink lips wide in a perfect O around Harry’s shaft. With each thrust, the head of his cock partially entered Draco’s throat, where it was tightly squeezed for a heartbeat before being withdrawn.
“Yes,” he hissed. “Yes, that’s very good, little cat. Suck it all back. Yes, just like that. Oh, you’re a fast learner, aren’t you? Or maybe you’re just a natural cock-sucker, hmm? I think that’s it. I think you love this. You love having a cock in your mouth, down your throat, don’t you? You know what that makes you? A slut, little cat. That makes you a slut. A dirty, filthy slut that sucks me and licks me and swallows all my come.”
Harry was thrusting too hard now, too fast; part of his brain was thinking that he needed to ease up or Draco would never agree to this again, but his orgasm was building, building, roiling in his balls and belly now, and he couldn’t stop himself. Not with Draco so sweet and hot and wet, surrounding him and sucking, and looking as calm and enraptured as if he were drinking the draught of peace directly from Harry’s cock.
“Deeper,” Harry gasped. He was definitely fucking Draco’s face now, there was simply no other way to put it. “Take it, slut. All the way in. Christ, you look beautiful like this, with a cock in your mouth. Fuck, yes, little cat. Suck it all down.”
With a shout, he yanked Draco’s head close on the last thrust, forcing that angular face down until Draco’s nose was buried in the thatch of curls at Harry’s crotch. He held him there for long seconds as he came, and Draco had no choice but to hold his breath and swallow all of his come.
When Harry released him, Draco sank back on his heels, eyes wide and dark. An elegant hand lifted, and a single, trembling finger wiped at his swollen, red bottom lip. Harry’s eyes ran over the other boy, falling to stare at the dripping, hard cock between Draco’s thighs.
Thank the gods.
“Please,” Draco whispered. “Please, Harry.”
“You will not come until I give you permission,” Harry said sharply. “Or there will be consequences.”
“Yes, Harry,” Draco gasped. “Whatever you want.”
Harry reached down and yanked Draco up to his feet. He propelled the boy toward the bed, heaving him up and onto his back with a feral smile. He sucked Draco’s cock down in a single, practiced lunge, eager to be on the other side of it. He reached up blindly, seeking Draco’s hands, which, once found, were directed into his hair. Then he shoved his palms under Draco’s buttocks and lifted and lowered them until Draco was thrusting eagerly into Harry’s mouth.
Soft mewls and whimpers sounded. Draco was bucking wildly beneath him, and Harry found it intensely exciting. Even though he’d just come, he could feel his cock starting to twitch.
Harry pulled off—it took a bit of force to get Draco to release him—and sucked three of his own fingers deep, laving them with his tongue. When they were wet, he lowered his head once more, laughing silently at the grateful cry Draco made at being allowed back in.
Then he pressed a finger against Draco’s entrance and began to press in. Draco let out a desperate cry, his hands fisting Harry’s hair painfully, his hips jerking.
“Please, Harry,” he begged, over and over. “Please. Let me come.”
But Harry didn’t do anything but continue to prepare him.
Soon, Draco was forced to slow, then fall almost to a stop to avoid spilling—he lay shaking, his hips giving tiny, involuntary jerks that made Harry want to grin around his not-insubstantial mouthful. He lifted his head, ignoring Draco’s moan of protest, and looked out over a thoroughly debauched Draco. His legs were spread wide, his cock glistening with saliva and precome, his balls purple and tight, his head tipped back in abandon while harsh breaths passed through open lips.
His eyes were closed, his features locked in a rictus of need.
He was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen.
“Please,” Draco whispered.
Harry smirked; he suspected it was rather an evil expression.
“No,” he said firmly. He summoned lube with his wand and greased up his fingers—saliva wasn’t going to get it done, not with how rough they were likely to get. He gave Draco a few more seconds to calm down, then resumed his business of licking and sucking and teasing. It didn’t take long before the other boy was moaning and begging all over again, urgency written in every line of his body, his limbs tight, fingers clenched, lips bitten.
By the time Harry had him fully prepared—and he took his dear old sweet time about it and then some—Draco had been forced to stop twice on the verge of orgasm to avoid coming, he was on the verge of tears. He was repeating please, please, please, Harry, please, over and over, wonderfully, erotically frantic. Harry didn't even mind that Draco seemed to have completely forgotten that he didn't have permission to talk.
The passion and abandon in the boy beneath him had Harry thoroughly hard again. He climbed up on the bed, shoving Draco’s legs still wider, and rammed in. Draco cried out, pleasure and regret in the sound.
“You miss my mouth, don’t you, little cat?”
“Yes, Harry,” Draco sobbed.
“You want to come?”
“Yes, please!”
“What if I don’t let you?” Harry asked.
Draco’s hands formed claws, his fingernails digging into Harry’s back. He sounded on the edge of fury, perhaps the edge of sanity, when he cried, “I can’t take it!”
Harry was already getting close; the sight of Draco like this was more arousing than anything he’d ever seen, and if that hadn’t been enough, the hot, clenching grip of Draco’s body would’ve been. And there was still the fresh memory of Draco’s throat sucking him deeply to bring heat to his skin. He was thrusting violently, shoving Draco’s thighs up and back, opening him obscenely.
“Touch yourself, but don’t come.”
The cry that came from Draco then was one of building rage and frustration. Within seconds the other boy’s fist was moving like lightning, the cords in his neck showing, sweat pouring off of him.
“Hold off a few more seconds,” Harry gritted.
Draco’s head thrashed back and forth on the pillow. “Fuck, Harry, let me come! Please!”
“Not yet,” Harry managed. His orgasm was almost there, rocketing up from his balls, coasting like electricity up and down his spine, reaching his brain and his toes with boiling warmth before it rebounded to his cock.
“Come now, little cat,” he ordered, gasping, and let his semen jet furiously into Draco’s heat.
Draco followed a split second behind, with a scream that echoed through the room and an almost back-breaking spasm that nearly unseated Harry. Come sprayed across them both, and the boy’s orgasm seemed to last forever, his arsehole seizing around Harry with nearly painful intensity.
Finally Draco began to unclench, but his body jerked for a minute or more with aftershocks, his hands trembling as if he had palsy.
Harry crawled up to collapse beside him, inordinately pleased with himself. After a few minutes of recovery, during which Draco lay like the dead, Harry asked, “Did I break you?”
Draco cleared his throat. Licked his lips. Didn’t even bother opening his eyes. Then he said, “What?”
Harry grinned. “Did I break you?”
“I don’t…what?”
Harry laughed out loud. “Go ahead and rest, little cat.”
Some time passed, and then Draco said, in a voice thick with repletion and imminent sleep, “I think I really liked sucking you.”
Harry closed his eyes in exasperation. Great. Now he was getting hard again. He thought for a minute about whether he had the energy to do something about it before deciding that yes, of course he did.
And Draco began to snore.