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It's taken a long time to get him to do this to me. Potter's such a gentleman when he's not fucking me so hard and fast I see stars. He's a real flowers-on-the-doorstep, Auror-coat-thrown-over-a-puddle-for-me type. Of course, that took a while, too. It sort of does when you start dating your former enemy.
"Dating", I should say, complete with quotes, since it started with us getting together to duel. Potter couldn't find anyone who could best him, after all. That wasn't the explanation he used; he's much too modest. He said everyone else was too "busy". But I knew the truth.
We'd get together on Friday evenings, which, honestly, says a lot about the both of us that we'd rather be duelling on a Friday night with each other than pulling a date and getting laid. Maybe we both knew, even then. I think I did.
I think I knew when I miscalculated a move, and his Stinging Hex hit me in the chest. There was the usual pain, of course. But then there was that other thing: his magic meeting mine, his magic touching me.
His magic sizzling along this ley-line marring my skin.
This thing he gave me.
"All right, Malfoy?" he'd said, breathless, as the residual fire lapped along that line like a tongue, as it met another of the scars and travelled it as well.
As my breath caught from the unexpected pleasure.
Pleasure.
"Malfoy?" He'd taken a step toward me.
I thrust my wand out, fired off some spells, and had him on the ground in about thirty seconds.
Which was the first time he smiled at me. Maybe ever. It was like a cool breath along all my raw places.
It was a salvation I didn't yet want.
~
Is it important to tell you that the first time we shagged it was in a Ministry shower, and I wasn't even supposed to be there?
Is it important to know that, from the start, Potter was willing to break the rules – really important rules – for me?
We'd mostly been duelling at this new wizarding place in Diagon – like a Muggle gym for magical folk I was told, though that meant almost nothing to me. We would meet there, use the duelling room for an hour and a half, two hours, and then shake hands and go our separate ways.
Until we started going to dinner together after. We'd Scourgify and then hit the little Greek place down the street from the Leaky. Or the Thai place a block over from that. Or the pub for fish and chips. Pedestrian places I'd as soon sneer at as patronise, but Potter has a way of steering me into unlikely situations. And I him.
But we're not quite there yet.
One night I get a firecall from him.
"I'm running late, Malfoy. Meet me at the office?"
I told him I'm not allowed in the Ministry, that my family name is like breathing the plague into that place, but he hand-waved me.
"I'll let you in, Draco. No one else has to know."
I'll admit that their duelling facilities are top notch, and that's not a phrase I typically ever use.
Ever.
We went at it for three hours that night. I don’t know what got into us. Potter was indefatigable. He took me to my knees over and over again, and likewise, he took a pretty serious beating from me. We were a collective sweaty wreck after.
"I need a real shower," Potter had explained. "And so do you." His eyes had assessed me, lingering down my body and back up.
Now, you should know we'd been dancing around this thing for weeks at this point: dinners going till closing, a few too many drinks. Potter had taken to standing too close to me as we'd wait for a table. He'd taken to placing a presumptive hand at my back.
I'd taken to – oh, Salazar, I'm going to say it – gazing at him a bit. He's fit. Don't give me that look.
Anyway, do you need to know I was sick with wanting him by that time?
Do you need to know I'd been wacking off over him already?
Do you need to know how it happened? That we stripped in front of each other, took showerheads right next to one another? That his eyes fucked me first and I practically dared him to do it?
Do you need to know that he slammed me against the wet wall and kissed me better than anyone has in my life and that his one hand around both our cocks felt so good I wanted to cry?
I still get hard from the scent of Ministry-approved soap.
Anyway.
Just picture four months of blow jobs and anal sex (if you're into that). Picture it really good, though, right?
Four months of bloody spectacular vanilla sex (a lot of it post-duelling, because apparently that gets us both really randy)…before I asked to be tied up.
And, okay, by "asked" I mean that I Incarceroused myself while I rode him one night. I was already nestled right down on it and feeling fantastic when the urge to be stretched from the ceiling like a marionette overcame me and I strung myself up without a second thought.
Potter's hands, already tight on my hips, gripped to bruise. He started thrusting up off the bed, taking me hard while I hung there. Even just the air over my chest made me feel like I could come.
Potter's thumbs pressing down on my nipples did it. When his hands roamed up my body, still careful (at this point) to avoid the scarring, and he pressed those callused thumbs over my tits and rubbed…
"Fuck, Potter, fuck!" I came all over him, his cock pushing up into me and me arching into those bloody teasing thumbs, shoulders aching, my head thrown back.
He released me, and I fell against him, and he stroked my back as we came down from it.
"Draco…" he whispered. All his other words – his concerns, his arousal – were packed into that one.
It became a thing: him tying me up.
Potter's gotten really good at it. He's certainly gotten better at charming the ropes and cuffs and scarves (we vary it) so that I can't get out of them with wandless magic. Not that I want out, but if I can get out, it's not as exciting for me. (In case you're concerned for my welfare, my safe word is 'boggart'. Not that Potter has ever made me safe word, though I'm working him closer to finding that edge, much to my pleasure.)
It took a while to get him to hurt me. Potter was really perfectly happy to give me a rough, immobilised fuck and then let me loose. It took weeks of negotiation before he'd even so much as slap my arse during it. I'm actually not terribly fond of real pain. That's not what I ask him for.
What I ask for -- beg for – is the smack of his hand while he fucks me – on my arse or, even better, my cock. I beg him to wrap his hand around my neck. To shove me and call me Malfoy, his slut, his piece of arse…things like that. He can make my cock drip pre-come from talking to me alone.
Potter's good at the dirty talk. For the Saviour of the World, he's got a spectacularly foul mouth. But he does tend to insist on holding me after, on kissing me and telling me I'm beautiful and sexy and he loves fucking me. And he goes back to calling me Draco. It's quite endearing. If I'm not careful I could…
Well, it could get messy, let's just say that.
The first time he touched the scars, it was by accident.
"Shit, Draco, I'm sorry," he'd breathed out when I flinched.
"No…" Me: shuddering, quaking with desire that he translated as pain.
How to explain that even though they'd never offered me any sensation before, good or bad, when Potter touches them, I'm electrified with the possibilities?
"Do it again," I'd sighed in his arms, my back to his front, his cock nestled in the crevice of my arse, ready to fuck.
"Draco…"
And I'd had to physically take his hand and put it on me, to run his fingers along a scar by force.
"Why?" he'd asked when I trembled against him, moaning.
"I don't know. Just do it again." And when he hesitated, "Potter, please…"
He gave me the fuck of my life that night, whipping into me from behind and drawing his fingers along the raised lines of my scars until I screamed through my orgasm.
We stayed up late talking about it. He asked me things I'd never even thought to ask myself: "Where do you feel the pleasure? Is it always sexual? Is it still good even if we're not already aroused? Do they feel different? How does this one feel? And this one? And this one?"
The bastard made me come twice more.
He made me come from the scars alone.
Only when I was a sweating, exhausted mess in his arms again did he ask his last question:
"Does this mean you forgive me?"
Me. Forgive him.
I'm not very good with words like forgiveness, mercy, grace… I kissed the scar over his heart, the one that had meant his death, and then I sank down and blew his cock until he cried.
Harry Potter is an Auror. He saved the world. He's everyone's hero. And he cried for my mouth suckling his hard cock.
I'd say that makes us even, although for what I don't know.
~
It's taken a long time to get him to do this to me:
String me up from the ceiling so that my toes dance along the floor…
Sit in a chair several feet away with his wand out…
Trace his magic over my scars one by one while I shiver and beg…
He does the one that crosses over my right hipbone, and I lean into it, closing my eyes. My cock arcs up toward my stomach, and when Potter finishes with the scar, he trails his warm magic over the head of my cock. I feel tongue and breath, and my cock throbs like a beating heart in the palm of his upturned hand.
"Malfoy…" he whispers, drawing fluid lines over my chest now.
I buck in the soft ropes, gritting my teeth. Pre-come dribbles down the shaft of my cock. Potter licks his lips. He wants to suck me off; I can see it in his eyes. But he won't. Because he's doing this for me.
Years ago, he gave me this pain. Years ago, he let fly with a spell that was out of his control, beyond his knowledge, and it cut me open. Here and now, he moves his magic over my body deliberately, mindful of every cursive loop, every spark and flair – every retreat and every assault.
Maybe it's the work of the karmic Universe that these ugly places on my body are made to feel beautiful by the magic of the very wand, the very man, that put them there.
"Do you want to come?" he asks me.
I'm panting. I can barely answer. "Y-yes."
He leans forward in the chair, whispers something, moves his wand, and a golden light rushes along all of the scars at once. It's both searing and safe. Harry lights me up with his magic, and I thrum, held by him, forced to ecstasy. I throw my head back as the orgasm hits, rushing down my thighs as semen shoots from my cock and splashes my hip, runs down, drips onto the floor.
Potter stands and nears, holstering his wand, and I'm shaking with it, wobbly on spent legs. He wraps one arm around my body and releases my wrists. I fall against him, and he holds me up.
"You…so wanted…to suck my cock," I tell him with what feels like the last of my strength. "Admit it, Potter."
I feel him laugh. "I readily admit that."
"Say it."
"I wanted to suck your cock, Malfoy." He's smiling against my hair.
"You always want to suck my cock." I can very nearly hear him roll his eyes at me. I wrap my arms around his neck. "I love you," I tell him. It's completely unplanned and dangerous as fuck. But my body is still lit from his power; I can feel this thing that is ineffably Harry, and it's inside of me, a part of me.
In other words, I totally blame him.
"Do you know how long I've loved you, you bastard?" he asks.
"Two months?" I guess. I've never been good at doing the whole "rhetorical" thing.
He pulls back and looks at me. It's hard to meet his eyes. He's so bloody honest. "Longer," he says.
"Six months?" But that would be ridiculous since that's practically when we started duelling.
He cups my face. "Draco, you prat."
"What?"
"Since you were on back of my broom," he tells me.
My lips part, though I don't quite gasp. "Get the fuck out," I say.
He smiles. The plonker smiles.
"Saving people really does it for you, hmm? Fiendfyre licking your bum a turn on, is it?"
He leans in close, his lips nearly touching mine. "I love you, Malfoy."
"Merlin's bollocks," I somehow breathe, and then he's kissing me, and he's walking me back to his bed, and I'm delirious with him.
~
Our first official date as a couple is Luna Lovegood's wedding to Neville Longbottom. Predictably, it's held in a greenhouse, and everyone ends up dodging the Venomous Tentacula plants that are scattered about the ceremony like some sort of sick challenge.
"Your friends are bloody fucked up," I tell Potter.
We arrived late because of…well, reasons. I'm sure you could guess, being that you know Potter spends a great deal of his time wanting to suck my cock.
Anyway, we declined to take our assigned seats, which was certainly for the best seeing as how they're directly underneath a particularly "handsy" plant that keeps stealing Fleur Delacour's hat.
We're standing against the back wall, Potter behind me with his arms slung casually around my middle, holding me back against him. I feel his heart beating at my back, strong and brave. Okay, so maybe I only think of it as brave even though there is really no call for bravery right now. Unless you count having to dodge Venomous Tentacula plants. Which I certainly do.
The happy couple declines vows and instead recites horrific poetry to each other, and Potter takes that opportunity to slip a finger into my dress shirt. I catch my breath as he strokes the nearest scar.
"Bloody hell, Potter," I huff.
He bites my earlobe, chuckling softly.
"Stop that," I tell him, though my inner voice is really more something like, Oh God, oh yes, Merlin, Potter, just take me 'round back and fuck me stupid, why don't you?
"Make me," he says.
I surreptitiously reach back and cup his cock. He gasps. My smile is ridiculously triumphant.
"Okay, let's call it a draw," he growls into my ear. He removes his questing finger but lays his hand over my belly just above the waistband of my trousers almost threateningly.
I remove my hand but press my arse back into his now swollen cock instead.
"Want to duel later?" he whispers to me as rings are slipped onto fingers. This is the difference between us and them, and frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way.
"You're on, Potter," I tell him.
And then, because I'm just ever so much a shit, I take his hand, find his finger, and maneuver it back inside my shirt.
The adorable couple kisses, Potter fingers my scar…it's all the same. I lean back into his chest and sigh.