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May. 8th, 2006 09:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonflower_roseHello boys and girls. This is one down on my list of 10 fics to nag me about. I hope you don't hate it, and maybe even like it a bit.
Title: D is for Denial
Pairing: HP/DM
Genre/Rating: NC-17; porn
Warnings: The usual
Length: 5, 100(ish) words
Summary: Sequel to S is for Sibilant. A good idea to read that first.
Disclaimer: Please see my disclaimer here.
Beta: The glorious![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
smaragdine!
Oh, and a big thanks tojennavere for pimping S is for Sibilant a few weeks ago! That was too kind!
Tensions were running a little high around Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Not that you would be able to tell by looking at Draco Malfoy. Draco seemed as cool and calm as ever. There was no reason, he rationalised, for him to get as upset and worked up as everyone else was. There were plenty of people panicking about the imminence of the final battle, more than enough. He’d done his bit, helped get the egg and all that. He couldn’t do anything more to help the cause, except stay out of the way and stay calm. A pity that half the other nutters under this depressing roof couldn’t come to the same conclusion he had.
Staying out of the way, calmly, was what he was doing downstairs in the kitchen at three in the morning, in the company of a cup of chocolate custard, when Potter barged in on him.
“Oh, I – um.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. Potter was fighting a losing battle against a deep red flush, which was creeping up his neck steadily, not to mention – Draco dropped his gaze to Potter’s crotch, and bit the inside of his cheek – fighting against an erection that was blossoming against his will. It had been like this for weeks, ever since the incident with the parseltongue. Potter had avoided him, which was completely unnecessary seeing as they had almost nothing to do with one another on a daily basis. But Draco could tell, Potter was actively hiding from him. And when he did encounter the Boy Who Lived And Thought He Was Hot Shit But Who Came In His Pants Just Like Any Other Perv, Draco needed only to raise an eyebrow, or quirk a corner of his mouth, and have Potter stammering, stumbling, and blushing in retreat, his trousers tighter than they were when he arrived.
“Can I help you, Potter?”
Draco waited patiently, composed and calculating. Well. So he seemed on the outside. In reality, despite his deliberate provocation of Potter, he himself got a raging case of the sweats, his heart started beating at an insane pace, and, oh yes, he also had a matching hard on to rival Potter’s. As much satisfaction as he could take in knowing he affected Potter in such a primal, immediate manner, he was also unable to deny that he was similarly affected. Luckily for him, Potter was so preoccupied with his own embarrassment, he hadn’t yet twigged.
“Um, no. No! I mean – well, no. Thank you. I was just after some – my appetite was – I felt like a -”
Draco smirked so hard it almost hurt his face. Oh, to cause Potter to loose his footing as wholly as this – what an ego trip.
“Been speaking long, Potter?”
That earned him not only a blush, but an angry glare.
“Get fucked, Malfoy.”
“Is that an offer?
Potter’s face managed to escalate to what must have been a dangerous level of blushing. He looked like a human match-head. Or, a Weasley.
“Careful Potter, you’ll set your hair on fire.”
Potter fumed in silence and stomped over to the Muggle ice-cupboard. Draco smirked reflexively, and wondered silently why the hell he kept provoking Potter, when he should be making friends with the speccy git. Yes, it was a very satisfying ego trip to make Harry blessed Potter babble like a moron, sweat like a pig, and to turn him on like the WWN. But where was it getting him? Draco knew he was under this roof – Potter’s roof, the safest place to be this side of the war – only because Potter tolerated his presence. Potter could have him tossed out on his arse at a moments notice, and the Order would have to find somewhere else to secrete him, somewhere infinitely less safe than Twelve Grimmauld Place. He had to continually remind himself that Twelve Grimmauld Place was Potter’s house, not the Order’s. So, poking the Bear Who Lived was not such a good idea. But Draco seemingly couldn’t help himself.
Why do I push him? He’s going to lose his temper at me one day, and something dire is going to result from it.
He examined Potter’s backside through his thin cotton pyjamas, as the other boy fossicked through the fridgy-thing.
Last time you provoked his temper, he gave you the best spurt of your sorry life. Maybe that’s why. You want some more.
Draco wanted another go. Another go at it with Potter. Merlin, how it pained him to admit it, but it was no less true. This time, he hungered for another go with some physical contact. The git had made him come, twice, untouched, and it had been good. Exceptional. Imagine what it might be like with hands, and lips, and fingers…
Draco felt his own face flush red. So much for patient, composed and calculating. He reached for his cup of custard, only to find it almost empty. Potter had shut the cooler, apparently unable to find anything to his fancy, and was rummaging in the pantry, a tin of biscuits already under one arm. A few minutes later, he returned to the kitchen table, still red in the face, and sitting reluctantly opposite Draco.
“Um…Potter?”
Potter glared at him and plucked a chocolate biscuit out of the tin.
“What?”
Draco gestured to his empty cup.
“Um…I was wondering if you could pass me another one of these?”
Crumbs clung to the corners of Harry’s pursed lips.
“And why would I do that, Malfoy?”
Draco smiled weakly.
“Because you’re closer to the ice cupboard?”
Potter stared at him for a long, annoyed moment, before getting up. He stalked over to the humming machine and opened the door again, the little yellow light flickering on immediately. He grumbled under his breath, snatching out a custard cup and a bottle of butterbeer, before sitting back down and shoving the cup in Draco’s approximate direction.
“Here. I only bothered because I was going to go get myself a drink, anyway.”
Draco fiddled with the cold plastic cup nervously.
“Thanks.”
Potter shrugged and went back to eating the biscuits.
If there was one good thing to be said about Muggles, they made some remarkable mass-produced desserts that were rather portable. If Draco had been back at the Manor and had asked for chocolate custard, he would have received it in a gold-plated serving chalice, with a whipped cream and strawberry garnish, and it probably would have been made from some kind of ridiculously expensive Belgian chocolate truffles, or something. Not something he could take out into the gardens, should he want to. Well, actually he could probably take anything he liked anywhere he chose, back at the Manor – if he’d wanted to jump up and down on the chalice until it resembled a gold-plated pancake, then he could probably have done that too. But the point was, these Muggle things were much more practical. A plastic cup with a foil seal, and chilled, creamy custard enclosed beneath. You could eat it anywhere, take it anywhere without spilling it or requiring a house elf or charm; you could just toss away the little cup into any rubbish bin you pleased, and not worry about carrying home a five hundred year old gold-plated chalice.
Potter cleared his throat.
“Should I leave you two alone?”
Draco realised, with embarrassment, that he had been caressing his pudding fondly, as he silently waxed poetic about the ingenuity of Muggles. Oh, but the tables had turned. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Just like custard, shut up,” he mumbled from somewhere inside his blush. Without further fanfare, he tore the foil seal from the cup and licked away the creamy residue, before setting the lid aside.
Mmmm…custard. So good.
Draco tilted the cup towards his mouth and began to scoop the custard out with his tongue.
Potter choked on his biscuit.
“What the - ! Malfoy! What are you doing?”
Draco glared at him over the rim of the cup.
“What does it fucking look like, Potter? Merlin. Time to get those glasses replaced, methinks.”
Potter grabbed his butterbeer and took a long draught, presumably to clear out the chunks of biscuit from his throat before he tried to speak again.
“Ever heard of a spoon, Malfoy? Jesus! You don’t eat custard that way!”
Draco gave him the bird, but lowered the custard cup self-consciously, swiping at his face in case there were any custard spatters.
“There weren’t any spoons left, you squib!”
Potter was boggling. It wasn’t a good look on him.
“Then why didn’t you spell one clean?”
Draco grit his teeth in annoyance. Had Potter always been this much of an idiot, or was he taking daily lessons?
“I don’t know any housekeeping charms!”
Potter’s eyes were impossibly wide. Draco hoped his eyeballs would pop out. Serve the git right.
“Did you think about washing one?”
“I don’t know how to do that either! Fucks sake, Potter, I grew up in a home full of house elves, and went to a school full of even more! I don’t know anything about cleaning anything! That’s not my fault!”
There were a few moments silence, where Draco scowled self-consciously at his pudding, and Potter crunched on his biscuits.
“Well…could you just eat it a little less…obscenely?”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Draco didn’t grace Potter with an answer, but he did turn away as much as he was able.
God, what an arse. Like he’s the epitome of grace and good table manners. What the hell was I supposed to do, go hungry? Git.
Draco raised the cup slightly hesitantly to his mouth again. Surely there was a more elegant way of eating this thing, spoonless? He extended his tongue carefully, ignoring the prickling feeling of Potter’s eyes on him, and inserted his tongue into the cup, curling it slightly and sweeping a small amount of chocolate dessert into his mouth. There, that wasn’t so bad, was it? He wasn’t about to look at Potter for approval, and so merely judged his performance against his internal Malfoy Guide To Etiquette. He poked his tongue inside again, gently, moulding the muscle into a vaguely spoon-shaped tool and lifting delicate deposits of custard into his mouth.
Surprisingly enough, it didn’t take long to forget Potter was there. Draco was concentrating on neatly removing the silky pudding from its cup, and relishing its sweet, cool texture against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He really did love custard quite a lot. Maybe it was his sweet tooth that made it so irresistible? Maybe it was the slightly forbidden idea of eating something Muggle that would have curled his Father’s hair if he had known about it. Muggle custard was kind of rebellious, really, and by golly it felt good in his mouth.
Before he knew it, the cup was almost empty again, and his tongue was no longer a satisfactory tool for custard removal. Without a thought or care to what Potter might think of it, he stuck an index finger into the cup, smearing some of the final chilled contents into the crooked knuckle and raising it to his mouth again. Popping his finger inside with a pleased hum, he set about sucking the cool chocolate from his finger where it clung with a pleasant wetness.
Awareness of exactly where he was came rushing back when Potter began to choke rather seriously on a biscuit.
“Fuck!”
Draco dropped his plastic dish on the table and shoved back his chair with a screech, already halfway around the table. He pulled Potter from his seat, shoved him half over onto the kitchen table, and began to pound on his back.
“Cough Potter! Cough! That’s it – harder! Again!”
As Potter hacked up what must have been his spleen, Draco continued to deliver hard, sharp blows between his shoulder blades, attempting to dislodge whatever quantity of biscuit Potter had managed to send down the wrong pipe. There was no bloody way he was going to let the idiot die in the kitchen at Twelve Grimmauld Place without even having defeated Voldemort. Death by milk chocolate digestive biscuit. Merlin.
Potter gasped loudly, dragging in what sounded like an unobstructed lungful of air, and Draco stopped belting him. He kept a grip around Potter’s hips, supporting him as he coughed and gasped raggedly, getting his breath back.
“What the hell were you trying to do, you fucking idiot! Jesus Potter, chew first, then swallow! You are aware that the preferred substance for breathing is oxygen and not biscuit?”
Draco wrenched the still coughing Gryffindor roughly around by the hips. Potter’s face was red again, this time from the exertion of trying to eject large amounts of bread-product from his lungs. His eyes were watering, and his brow was a little sweaty. Draco stared at him for a moment before looking away, pulling a clean handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and offering it silently to Potter. He took it, and dabbed at his wet eyes and brow; the coughing subsiding little by little, until he finally stopped altogether.
“Thanks,” Potter rasped, his throat sounding quite hoarse, which was to be expected.
“Yeah, well…” Draco didn’t finish the sentence, realising suddenly he was still hanging onto Potter with one hand and standing inadvisably close to him. He dropped his arm and stepped away casually, looking anywhere but at the boy in front of him. “What were you trying to do, anyway? I can understand being hungry, but attempting to actually inhale your food? That’s ridiculous.”
Draco picked up his abandoned cup of pudding and examined it absently. Potter coughed once more for good measure, and replied.
“I was just distracted. I didn’t mean it.”
Draco looked up at him. Potter certainly sounded distracted, and still seemed preoccupied with whatever it must have been. He shrugged and stuck a finger back into the custard, scooping out almost the very last of it. Whatever. If the Saviour of the Wizarding world was a complete flake, it wasn’t really his problem. As long as he stayed out of the way.
“Is it that good?”
…Huh?
Draco paused, his fingerful of custard half lifted to his lips. He looked at Potter, who had a very strange look on his face, and then down at the chocolate dessert on his index finger.
“Well…yeah.”
Potter nodded, seemingly satisfied with such a simple answer.
“Can I try it?”
Draco’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead. Could he try some? What on earth…
“There’s another pack of cups in the food cooling machine-”
His speech was abruptly cut off as Potter leaned across the table, grabbed Draco’s wrist, and stuck the custard-coated finger directly into his mouth.
“Oooh-hohh…”
Potter sucked on his finger, his bright eyes closed. Draco could feel his tongue, slippery and warm, caressing his missing digit in a frightfully obscene and arousing manner. His cock to immediate action, having deflated slightly while Potter choked to death, now swelled with renewed enthusiasm in his pants. Just what the fuck did Potter think he was doing? This was insane! Potter sucked harder, and Draco felt his knees buckle. Potter was climbing up onto the table, finger firmly between his lips, crawling over the tin of milk chocolate covered digestives carelessly on a mission to get closer to Draco.
“P – P – Po – Pot – uh – Pot-uuuh - Potter! Potter, stop! Oh, fuck…what are you doing?”
His digit was released with a wet pop, and Potter opened his eyes, his pupils large and dark with obvious arousal. He shrugged, and licked his now reddened and slightly swelling lips absently as he climbed down from the tabletop and stood in front of Draco, panting a little.
“I’ll be honest with you Malfoy. I haven’t the foggiest what I’m doing. But…it feels…I just want to. I have no idea why. I’ve been trying not to think about doing any number of unmentionable things to you for weeks now, and I just can’t take it anymore. That bleeding cup of custard was the last straw. Do you have any idea how you looked, sticking your tongue into all that pudding like you’re eating…eating…” Potter flushed again, but didn’t break eye contact. Draco’s cock throbbed insistently. “And then you were sucking on your finger. It isn’t fair, Malfoy. You shouldn’t be able to do things like that to me. You make me – you make me want to-”
Draco’s breath caught in his throat. “You want to what?”
Potter’s stare was about to burn him alive, and Draco was most certainly not prepared for strong hands to shove him hard against the edge of the table, or for hips to connect with a jolt against his pelvis. Oh, sweet friction! He could feel a hot, hard length alongside his – Potter’s cock. Potter’s throbbing, burning erection, proudly jabbing into him, and entirely the product of Harry Potter’s lust for him, Draco Malfoy. His arse was pushed so far against the table that he was virtually sitting on it, the bevelled edge pressing hard into his flesh.
“This is crazy,” he whimpered. Potter nodded, his eyes closing again and his head dropping until his forehead rested against Draco’s shoulder.
“I know. It’s mad.”
And then Potter kissed him. Plump, soft lips, wet and swollen from sucking, pressing against his own. Gently at first, then a little firmer. Parting. Closing around his lower lip. Drawing it in, slowly, suckling. Draco gasped. Potter moved closer, pushing between Draco’s legs with his own and pushing between Draco’s lips with his tongue. Draco had to admit, somewhere in the fog of oh my god, yes swirling around in his brain, that he was well and truly conquered at this point. No amount of feeble protesting from his common sense would prise him away from Potter now. God, god, god Potter’s tongue felt good in his mouth. And tasted so good too, like milk chocolate and butterbeer. His nose pressed into the soft flesh of Potter’s cheek as they mashed their mouths together. It was soft, unexpectedly soft. Draco had always imagined Potter would be kind of coarse all over, like his manners. But apparently not.
With the fog clearing slightly, it was easier to think, and finally Draco’s brain resumed communication with his appendages, ordering an all-out assault on Potter’s person. Bucking his hips against Potter’s hard prick, he moved his hands to his waist and around behind to grab a cotton-clad double handful of Potter-arse. They both moaned shakily. Potter’s backside was round and firm under his pyjamas and eminently squeezable – and so Draco squeezed, splaying his fingers wide across the curved cheeks and clutching at them.
“Oh, yeah-” Potter breathed. “Mmmpfhh.”
Draco wanted to ask what Potter had been trying to say, but that would mean stopping kissing him, which was a definite no no. Instead, he kissed him harder. It was a messy exercise, and he could feel his face getting wet from stray tongue loosing coordination momentarily and slipping across his cheek. He pulled Potter closer by the arse, their cocks pressing hard against each other, and began to move his hips roughly up and down, rubbing himself shamelessly against Potter. Now that was knee-tremblingly good. His hands on Potter’s arse clenched more earnestly, handfuls of cotton fabric bunching and pulling in his palms. It occurred to Draco that Potter’s arse might feel just as good, if not even better, without the layer of trousers between them. As soon as the thought had formed itself, Draco was sliding his hands up to Potter’s waist again, and then back down, under the waistband of the cotton pyjamas to touch real, warm skin. Potter gasped, and pressed desperately against Draco.
“Ompf! Omph!”
“Wha?”
Potter pulled away for a second with a slurp.
“Off. Get them off.”
Draco stared at him wide eyed, breathing hard, before scrambling to do as he was told. He shoved Potter’s pyjama’s down past his arse, and once they reached his thighs gravity did the rest of the work, and the trousers hit the kitchen floor with a soft flumph. Draco couldn’t help looking down at the Cock Who Lived. Oh my, but it was hard and wet, and moving just a little in time with Potter’s heartbeat. Dark, tight curls surrounding it, so different from his own-
“And yours, too.”
Draco looked back up sharply. His too?
“I said, yours too Malfoy. Didn’t you hear me the first time?”
Oh, goddamn Potter when he used that tone of voice. The one that made Granger close her unshuttable trap and zip it the hell up; the one that could stop a rampaging Weasel at fifty paces; the one that always made Draco want to bend over, bare his arse and prepare to be fucked like the little slut he was beginning to suspect he was.
Draco swallowed hard, and pushed his own trousers down to his thighs, where they dropped to his feet. Potter tore his eyes away from Draco’s face and looked down between them.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Just like I remember it.”
Suddenly Potters hand was on him. On him. On his cock. And he – he was moving it - oh god - he was pulling on it – squeezing – dear, merciful Merlin, he was wanking him. Draco made a sound as if he were being strangled. Potter moved closer, letting go of Draco's cock for just a moment and pushing him back up to almost sit on the tables edge, but grabbing back onto it again, wrapping his hand around both their cocks! Potter’s cock was naked and pressed up against his, wet and velvety and hot and slipping up and down-
“Fuck, I’m-”
“Like hell you are!”
Just like that, Draco knew he wouldn’t be able to come unless Potter granted him permission to. He whined, not sure how he felt about being completely under Potter’s control like that, but there were plenty of other feelings to worry about. Like the feeling of being pulled off by his oldest rival. This hand on his prick was no feeble, feminine hand, nor his own familiar palm. This hand was strong, gripped tight, and was slightly roughened. This hand knew exactly how hard to tug and how tight to squeeze, because the owner of this hand had a prick of his own, and said prick was currently lined up snug as a bug in a rug beside Draco’s, and was being tugged on simultaneously. Draco wanted nothing more than to lean back on the table, lift his legs, and wrap them around Potter’s waist, but that would be giving in too easily. He may suspect he was a complete slut for Potter in the privacy of his own psyche, but Potter most certainly didn’t need any extra power over Draco. He had quite enough as it was. No, he would not lift his legs, no matter how much he may itch to do so –
“Lift your legs.”
Draco did as told without protest.
They were pressed even closer now. Draco could feel his balls hanging heavily between his legs, Potter’s balls tight against them. The hair on Potter’s legs scratched maddeningly at the inside of Draco’s thighs. Potter’s head was on his shoulder again, breathing moist, hot puffs of air against his neck as he pulled them both off. Draco slid his arms around Potter again, hungry for another handful of arse, and so he clutched at Potter’s backside desperately. Potter moaned happily and Draco whimpered again. God he wanted to come! It was embarrassingly quick; Potter had barely needed to touch him and he’d been about to spill himself everywhere. And now he was just hanging here on the edge of the table and the edge of explosion, kept there by Potter in both instances. Potter abruptly sank his teeth into Draco’s shoulder, speeding up his fist, and Draco tried his hardest not to scream like a girl and bring the whole house thundering down to the kitchen to see who was committing bloody murder. He held on even more tightly to Potter’s arse, his palms beginning to sweat a little and his grip biting into the firm flesh hard enough to leave red marks. Potter bit him again and bucked his hips hard. Draco’s fingers slipped between the crevice of Potter’s arse, unintentionally, but the sounds Potter made when he did it – encouraged, and desperate to regain some control, he slid his fingers deeper, prising Potter’s arse open with his hands and letting his fingers trace lightly as possible over the crinkled skin. Potter shuddered, losing the rhythm of buck and stroke, harsh whining noises panted against Draco’s neck. This was more like it, Draco smirked. Yes, Potter owns your cock, but remember – you own his too.
“Ahhh…Malfoy, wh- uhhh…”
Draco turned his head until his lips were pressed against Potter’s ear. Sweaty spikes of black hair tickled his lips as he whispered.
“You like that Potter? Want me to do it again?”
Potter trembled in his arms, and Draco did it again – ran his fingers gently up and down his crack, pressing oh so slightly right where the skin puckered the most –
“Oh!”
Draco closed his eyes for a moment, the dizzying burn of arousal overwhelming him. He felt like he was on fire, like Potter might get third degree burns if he kept holding onto his cock like that, and god forbid, when he finally came – molten spunk bursting from his cock like some kind of fleshy, purple volcano. He wasn’t sure he was going to live through this tryst. Of all the pussy he’d fucked, all the eager young Slytherin girls who had lined up to suck him off or play with his cock, it had never felt like this before. A simple handjob from Harry blooming Potter had him wondering whether he might soon be interred in the Malfoy family mausoleum, a heavy marble lid on his coffin bearing the inscription Here lies Draco Malfoy, only son of Lucius and Narcissa – died with his cock in the hand of The Boy Who Lived. May he rest in peace.
He struggled to open his eyes again and spoke in a voice strained with desire and desperation.
“Want me to put it inside? Would you like that? Do you want my finger up your arse, Potter? Do you?”
Potter sobbed against his skin, teeth nipping and lips rubbing open-mouthed kisses on his neck. Draco let go of Potter’s arse for a second, reaching around behind him onto the table, searching with desperate fingers for the pudding cup. His fingers closed over the plastic dish and shoved inside, the final creamy remains of chocolate custard coating his fingers in sticky sweetness. He pulled Potter hard against himself again, was rewarded with an almost painful yank on his cock, and used one hand to spread his arsecheeks wide. The other hand, sticky and wet with custard, jabbed between the exposed flesh and hit its target almost immediately.
“Yes!”
Potter’s hole was opening under his fingertip. The feeling of his finger sinking into him, inside of Potter’s body was almost too much for his brain to handle. Potter gasped and cried against him, and pulled and bucked, and Draco slid his finger further and further inside until he couldn’t push any more, and then he twisted.
Potter came in a blast of hot seed over Draco’s cock. His hand frozen in a tight fist, his hips stilled, his face buried in Draco’s neck. Draco’s hips continued to buck in earnest, hot, slippery come sliding up and down his cock and dripping down onto his balls.
“Potter,” he moaned, breath strained, “let me come. Please, please, I want to come too-”
“Yes,” Potter wheezed, before raising his head and beginning to stroke again, “do it, all over me. Come on me, Malfoy, you dirty little-”
Whatever kind of ‘dirty little’ Potter thought Draco was, he would have to ask later. Draco smashed his mouth to Potters and kissed him with furious clumsiness, suppressing his words with tongues everywhere. Potter tightened his grip one last time, and then Draco was coming too, everywhere. Everything was sticky – his finger, still up Potter’s arse; his mouth pressed against Potter’s; his cock slick with both of their come. His vision greyed out, and Draco was sure this was the part where he died from the ecstasy of it.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but gradually he came round to the feeling of Potter shaking him gently, whispering for him to hop up, it was time to get dressed and clean up and go back to bed. Dazed, he wobbled away from the table, Potter slinging an arm around his waist to support him as he bent to pull up his pyjama pants. Potter cast some cleaning charms around the place, and then on both of their bodies. Draco just stared at him in silence. He felt numb, like he had that one time he’d gotten completely stinking drunk with Zabini in fifth year – dizzy, like the world was spinning, and he couldn’t quite feel his feet.
Potter looked at him, hair and t-shirt dishevelled and sweaty, his bright eyes gleaming and his cheeks reddened from exertion and a little embarrassment.
“Come on, Malfoy. To bed.”
Draco followed Potter with heavy steps, his limbs lethargic, up the stairs until they arrived at the door to his bedroom. A clock chimed somewhere in the house, one, two, three…four thirty in the morning. He’d been downstairs with Potter for over an hour, and it felt like just a matter of seconds.
“What were you doing down there anyway, at three o’clock in the morning?”
Draco blinked and tried to remember. Custard.
“I was…hungry. I wanted a snack.”
Potter looked at Draco, then away at his feet, and then down the hall towards his own bedroom.
“Well…I usually make it a habit to keep some chocolate frogs and stuff in my room…” Potter cleared his throat awkwardly and seemed to flush a little more. “Maybe next time you feel hungry you might…um…you might think about coming to see me about it? Save you the trouble of going all the way downstairs. I don’t have puddings, but I have other stuff…” His voice trailed off, and he seemed to want to make a run for it.
“Yeah,” Draco said quickly. “Yeah, that sounds…convenient. I think I’ll probably be hungry again tomorrow night. I usually get hungry at about midnight, and try to go back to sleep, but…can’t. Then I have to get up at three to eat.”
Potter nodded, looking pleased.
“Um, well…don’t feel like you have to wait until three, or anything. I mean, if you get hungry at midnight, or…anytime, really…just let me know.”
Draco was finding it hard to breathe. Potter was blatantly encouraging him to come around to his room to fool around whenever he felt like it, and it was almost too good to be real.
“Goodnight Malfoy.”
Potter turned and walked quietly away, down the darkened hall towards his own bedroom.
“Night Potter,” Draco whispered.
Title: D is for Denial
Pairing: HP/DM
Genre/Rating: NC-17; porn
Warnings: The usual
Length: 5, 100(ish) words
Summary: Sequel to S is for Sibilant. A good idea to read that first.
Disclaimer: Please see my disclaimer here.
Beta: The glorious
smaragdine!Oh, and a big thanks to
jennavere for pimping S is for Sibilant a few weeks ago! That was too kind!Tensions were running a little high around Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Not that you would be able to tell by looking at Draco Malfoy. Draco seemed as cool and calm as ever. There was no reason, he rationalised, for him to get as upset and worked up as everyone else was. There were plenty of people panicking about the imminence of the final battle, more than enough. He’d done his bit, helped get the egg and all that. He couldn’t do anything more to help the cause, except stay out of the way and stay calm. A pity that half the other nutters under this depressing roof couldn’t come to the same conclusion he had.
Staying out of the way, calmly, was what he was doing downstairs in the kitchen at three in the morning, in the company of a cup of chocolate custard, when Potter barged in on him.
“Oh, I – um.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. Potter was fighting a losing battle against a deep red flush, which was creeping up his neck steadily, not to mention – Draco dropped his gaze to Potter’s crotch, and bit the inside of his cheek – fighting against an erection that was blossoming against his will. It had been like this for weeks, ever since the incident with the parseltongue. Potter had avoided him, which was completely unnecessary seeing as they had almost nothing to do with one another on a daily basis. But Draco could tell, Potter was actively hiding from him. And when he did encounter the Boy Who Lived And Thought He Was Hot Shit But Who Came In His Pants Just Like Any Other Perv, Draco needed only to raise an eyebrow, or quirk a corner of his mouth, and have Potter stammering, stumbling, and blushing in retreat, his trousers tighter than they were when he arrived.
“Can I help you, Potter?”
Draco waited patiently, composed and calculating. Well. So he seemed on the outside. In reality, despite his deliberate provocation of Potter, he himself got a raging case of the sweats, his heart started beating at an insane pace, and, oh yes, he also had a matching hard on to rival Potter’s. As much satisfaction as he could take in knowing he affected Potter in such a primal, immediate manner, he was also unable to deny that he was similarly affected. Luckily for him, Potter was so preoccupied with his own embarrassment, he hadn’t yet twigged.
“Um, no. No! I mean – well, no. Thank you. I was just after some – my appetite was – I felt like a -”
Draco smirked so hard it almost hurt his face. Oh, to cause Potter to loose his footing as wholly as this – what an ego trip.
“Been speaking long, Potter?”
That earned him not only a blush, but an angry glare.
“Get fucked, Malfoy.”
“Is that an offer?
Potter’s face managed to escalate to what must have been a dangerous level of blushing. He looked like a human match-head. Or, a Weasley.
“Careful Potter, you’ll set your hair on fire.”
Potter fumed in silence and stomped over to the Muggle ice-cupboard. Draco smirked reflexively, and wondered silently why the hell he kept provoking Potter, when he should be making friends with the speccy git. Yes, it was a very satisfying ego trip to make Harry blessed Potter babble like a moron, sweat like a pig, and to turn him on like the WWN. But where was it getting him? Draco knew he was under this roof – Potter’s roof, the safest place to be this side of the war – only because Potter tolerated his presence. Potter could have him tossed out on his arse at a moments notice, and the Order would have to find somewhere else to secrete him, somewhere infinitely less safe than Twelve Grimmauld Place. He had to continually remind himself that Twelve Grimmauld Place was Potter’s house, not the Order’s. So, poking the Bear Who Lived was not such a good idea. But Draco seemingly couldn’t help himself.
Why do I push him? He’s going to lose his temper at me one day, and something dire is going to result from it.
He examined Potter’s backside through his thin cotton pyjamas, as the other boy fossicked through the fridgy-thing.
Last time you provoked his temper, he gave you the best spurt of your sorry life. Maybe that’s why. You want some more.
Draco wanted another go. Another go at it with Potter. Merlin, how it pained him to admit it, but it was no less true. This time, he hungered for another go with some physical contact. The git had made him come, twice, untouched, and it had been good. Exceptional. Imagine what it might be like with hands, and lips, and fingers…
Draco felt his own face flush red. So much for patient, composed and calculating. He reached for his cup of custard, only to find it almost empty. Potter had shut the cooler, apparently unable to find anything to his fancy, and was rummaging in the pantry, a tin of biscuits already under one arm. A few minutes later, he returned to the kitchen table, still red in the face, and sitting reluctantly opposite Draco.
“Um…Potter?”
Potter glared at him and plucked a chocolate biscuit out of the tin.
“What?”
Draco gestured to his empty cup.
“Um…I was wondering if you could pass me another one of these?”
Crumbs clung to the corners of Harry’s pursed lips.
“And why would I do that, Malfoy?”
Draco smiled weakly.
“Because you’re closer to the ice cupboard?”
Potter stared at him for a long, annoyed moment, before getting up. He stalked over to the humming machine and opened the door again, the little yellow light flickering on immediately. He grumbled under his breath, snatching out a custard cup and a bottle of butterbeer, before sitting back down and shoving the cup in Draco’s approximate direction.
“Here. I only bothered because I was going to go get myself a drink, anyway.”
Draco fiddled with the cold plastic cup nervously.
“Thanks.”
Potter shrugged and went back to eating the biscuits.
If there was one good thing to be said about Muggles, they made some remarkable mass-produced desserts that were rather portable. If Draco had been back at the Manor and had asked for chocolate custard, he would have received it in a gold-plated serving chalice, with a whipped cream and strawberry garnish, and it probably would have been made from some kind of ridiculously expensive Belgian chocolate truffles, or something. Not something he could take out into the gardens, should he want to. Well, actually he could probably take anything he liked anywhere he chose, back at the Manor – if he’d wanted to jump up and down on the chalice until it resembled a gold-plated pancake, then he could probably have done that too. But the point was, these Muggle things were much more practical. A plastic cup with a foil seal, and chilled, creamy custard enclosed beneath. You could eat it anywhere, take it anywhere without spilling it or requiring a house elf or charm; you could just toss away the little cup into any rubbish bin you pleased, and not worry about carrying home a five hundred year old gold-plated chalice.
Potter cleared his throat.
“Should I leave you two alone?”
Draco realised, with embarrassment, that he had been caressing his pudding fondly, as he silently waxed poetic about the ingenuity of Muggles. Oh, but the tables had turned. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Just like custard, shut up,” he mumbled from somewhere inside his blush. Without further fanfare, he tore the foil seal from the cup and licked away the creamy residue, before setting the lid aside.
Mmmm…custard. So good.
Draco tilted the cup towards his mouth and began to scoop the custard out with his tongue.
Potter choked on his biscuit.
“What the - ! Malfoy! What are you doing?”
Draco glared at him over the rim of the cup.
“What does it fucking look like, Potter? Merlin. Time to get those glasses replaced, methinks.”
Potter grabbed his butterbeer and took a long draught, presumably to clear out the chunks of biscuit from his throat before he tried to speak again.
“Ever heard of a spoon, Malfoy? Jesus! You don’t eat custard that way!”
Draco gave him the bird, but lowered the custard cup self-consciously, swiping at his face in case there were any custard spatters.
“There weren’t any spoons left, you squib!”
Potter was boggling. It wasn’t a good look on him.
“Then why didn’t you spell one clean?”
Draco grit his teeth in annoyance. Had Potter always been this much of an idiot, or was he taking daily lessons?
“I don’t know any housekeeping charms!”
Potter’s eyes were impossibly wide. Draco hoped his eyeballs would pop out. Serve the git right.
“Did you think about washing one?”
“I don’t know how to do that either! Fucks sake, Potter, I grew up in a home full of house elves, and went to a school full of even more! I don’t know anything about cleaning anything! That’s not my fault!”
There were a few moments silence, where Draco scowled self-consciously at his pudding, and Potter crunched on his biscuits.
“Well…could you just eat it a little less…obscenely?”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Draco didn’t grace Potter with an answer, but he did turn away as much as he was able.
God, what an arse. Like he’s the epitome of grace and good table manners. What the hell was I supposed to do, go hungry? Git.
Draco raised the cup slightly hesitantly to his mouth again. Surely there was a more elegant way of eating this thing, spoonless? He extended his tongue carefully, ignoring the prickling feeling of Potter’s eyes on him, and inserted his tongue into the cup, curling it slightly and sweeping a small amount of chocolate dessert into his mouth. There, that wasn’t so bad, was it? He wasn’t about to look at Potter for approval, and so merely judged his performance against his internal Malfoy Guide To Etiquette. He poked his tongue inside again, gently, moulding the muscle into a vaguely spoon-shaped tool and lifting delicate deposits of custard into his mouth.
Surprisingly enough, it didn’t take long to forget Potter was there. Draco was concentrating on neatly removing the silky pudding from its cup, and relishing its sweet, cool texture against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He really did love custard quite a lot. Maybe it was his sweet tooth that made it so irresistible? Maybe it was the slightly forbidden idea of eating something Muggle that would have curled his Father’s hair if he had known about it. Muggle custard was kind of rebellious, really, and by golly it felt good in his mouth.
Before he knew it, the cup was almost empty again, and his tongue was no longer a satisfactory tool for custard removal. Without a thought or care to what Potter might think of it, he stuck an index finger into the cup, smearing some of the final chilled contents into the crooked knuckle and raising it to his mouth again. Popping his finger inside with a pleased hum, he set about sucking the cool chocolate from his finger where it clung with a pleasant wetness.
Awareness of exactly where he was came rushing back when Potter began to choke rather seriously on a biscuit.
“Fuck!”
Draco dropped his plastic dish on the table and shoved back his chair with a screech, already halfway around the table. He pulled Potter from his seat, shoved him half over onto the kitchen table, and began to pound on his back.
“Cough Potter! Cough! That’s it – harder! Again!”
As Potter hacked up what must have been his spleen, Draco continued to deliver hard, sharp blows between his shoulder blades, attempting to dislodge whatever quantity of biscuit Potter had managed to send down the wrong pipe. There was no bloody way he was going to let the idiot die in the kitchen at Twelve Grimmauld Place without even having defeated Voldemort. Death by milk chocolate digestive biscuit. Merlin.
Potter gasped loudly, dragging in what sounded like an unobstructed lungful of air, and Draco stopped belting him. He kept a grip around Potter’s hips, supporting him as he coughed and gasped raggedly, getting his breath back.
“What the hell were you trying to do, you fucking idiot! Jesus Potter, chew first, then swallow! You are aware that the preferred substance for breathing is oxygen and not biscuit?”
Draco wrenched the still coughing Gryffindor roughly around by the hips. Potter’s face was red again, this time from the exertion of trying to eject large amounts of bread-product from his lungs. His eyes were watering, and his brow was a little sweaty. Draco stared at him for a moment before looking away, pulling a clean handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and offering it silently to Potter. He took it, and dabbed at his wet eyes and brow; the coughing subsiding little by little, until he finally stopped altogether.
“Thanks,” Potter rasped, his throat sounding quite hoarse, which was to be expected.
“Yeah, well…” Draco didn’t finish the sentence, realising suddenly he was still hanging onto Potter with one hand and standing inadvisably close to him. He dropped his arm and stepped away casually, looking anywhere but at the boy in front of him. “What were you trying to do, anyway? I can understand being hungry, but attempting to actually inhale your food? That’s ridiculous.”
Draco picked up his abandoned cup of pudding and examined it absently. Potter coughed once more for good measure, and replied.
“I was just distracted. I didn’t mean it.”
Draco looked up at him. Potter certainly sounded distracted, and still seemed preoccupied with whatever it must have been. He shrugged and stuck a finger back into the custard, scooping out almost the very last of it. Whatever. If the Saviour of the Wizarding world was a complete flake, it wasn’t really his problem. As long as he stayed out of the way.
“Is it that good?”
…Huh?
Draco paused, his fingerful of custard half lifted to his lips. He looked at Potter, who had a very strange look on his face, and then down at the chocolate dessert on his index finger.
“Well…yeah.”
Potter nodded, seemingly satisfied with such a simple answer.
“Can I try it?”
Draco’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead. Could he try some? What on earth…
“There’s another pack of cups in the food cooling machine-”
His speech was abruptly cut off as Potter leaned across the table, grabbed Draco’s wrist, and stuck the custard-coated finger directly into his mouth.
“Oooh-hohh…”
Potter sucked on his finger, his bright eyes closed. Draco could feel his tongue, slippery and warm, caressing his missing digit in a frightfully obscene and arousing manner. His cock to immediate action, having deflated slightly while Potter choked to death, now swelled with renewed enthusiasm in his pants. Just what the fuck did Potter think he was doing? This was insane! Potter sucked harder, and Draco felt his knees buckle. Potter was climbing up onto the table, finger firmly between his lips, crawling over the tin of milk chocolate covered digestives carelessly on a mission to get closer to Draco.
“P – P – Po – Pot – uh – Pot-uuuh - Potter! Potter, stop! Oh, fuck…what are you doing?”
His digit was released with a wet pop, and Potter opened his eyes, his pupils large and dark with obvious arousal. He shrugged, and licked his now reddened and slightly swelling lips absently as he climbed down from the tabletop and stood in front of Draco, panting a little.
“I’ll be honest with you Malfoy. I haven’t the foggiest what I’m doing. But…it feels…I just want to. I have no idea why. I’ve been trying not to think about doing any number of unmentionable things to you for weeks now, and I just can’t take it anymore. That bleeding cup of custard was the last straw. Do you have any idea how you looked, sticking your tongue into all that pudding like you’re eating…eating…” Potter flushed again, but didn’t break eye contact. Draco’s cock throbbed insistently. “And then you were sucking on your finger. It isn’t fair, Malfoy. You shouldn’t be able to do things like that to me. You make me – you make me want to-”
Draco’s breath caught in his throat. “You want to what?”
Potter’s stare was about to burn him alive, and Draco was most certainly not prepared for strong hands to shove him hard against the edge of the table, or for hips to connect with a jolt against his pelvis. Oh, sweet friction! He could feel a hot, hard length alongside his – Potter’s cock. Potter’s throbbing, burning erection, proudly jabbing into him, and entirely the product of Harry Potter’s lust for him, Draco Malfoy. His arse was pushed so far against the table that he was virtually sitting on it, the bevelled edge pressing hard into his flesh.
“This is crazy,” he whimpered. Potter nodded, his eyes closing again and his head dropping until his forehead rested against Draco’s shoulder.
“I know. It’s mad.”
And then Potter kissed him. Plump, soft lips, wet and swollen from sucking, pressing against his own. Gently at first, then a little firmer. Parting. Closing around his lower lip. Drawing it in, slowly, suckling. Draco gasped. Potter moved closer, pushing between Draco’s legs with his own and pushing between Draco’s lips with his tongue. Draco had to admit, somewhere in the fog of oh my god, yes swirling around in his brain, that he was well and truly conquered at this point. No amount of feeble protesting from his common sense would prise him away from Potter now. God, god, god Potter’s tongue felt good in his mouth. And tasted so good too, like milk chocolate and butterbeer. His nose pressed into the soft flesh of Potter’s cheek as they mashed their mouths together. It was soft, unexpectedly soft. Draco had always imagined Potter would be kind of coarse all over, like his manners. But apparently not.
With the fog clearing slightly, it was easier to think, and finally Draco’s brain resumed communication with his appendages, ordering an all-out assault on Potter’s person. Bucking his hips against Potter’s hard prick, he moved his hands to his waist and around behind to grab a cotton-clad double handful of Potter-arse. They both moaned shakily. Potter’s backside was round and firm under his pyjamas and eminently squeezable – and so Draco squeezed, splaying his fingers wide across the curved cheeks and clutching at them.
“Oh, yeah-” Potter breathed. “Mmmpfhh.”
Draco wanted to ask what Potter had been trying to say, but that would mean stopping kissing him, which was a definite no no. Instead, he kissed him harder. It was a messy exercise, and he could feel his face getting wet from stray tongue loosing coordination momentarily and slipping across his cheek. He pulled Potter closer by the arse, their cocks pressing hard against each other, and began to move his hips roughly up and down, rubbing himself shamelessly against Potter. Now that was knee-tremblingly good. His hands on Potter’s arse clenched more earnestly, handfuls of cotton fabric bunching and pulling in his palms. It occurred to Draco that Potter’s arse might feel just as good, if not even better, without the layer of trousers between them. As soon as the thought had formed itself, Draco was sliding his hands up to Potter’s waist again, and then back down, under the waistband of the cotton pyjamas to touch real, warm skin. Potter gasped, and pressed desperately against Draco.
“Ompf! Omph!”
“Wha?”
Potter pulled away for a second with a slurp.
“Off. Get them off.”
Draco stared at him wide eyed, breathing hard, before scrambling to do as he was told. He shoved Potter’s pyjama’s down past his arse, and once they reached his thighs gravity did the rest of the work, and the trousers hit the kitchen floor with a soft flumph. Draco couldn’t help looking down at the Cock Who Lived. Oh my, but it was hard and wet, and moving just a little in time with Potter’s heartbeat. Dark, tight curls surrounding it, so different from his own-
“And yours, too.”
Draco looked back up sharply. His too?
“I said, yours too Malfoy. Didn’t you hear me the first time?”
Oh, goddamn Potter when he used that tone of voice. The one that made Granger close her unshuttable trap and zip it the hell up; the one that could stop a rampaging Weasel at fifty paces; the one that always made Draco want to bend over, bare his arse and prepare to be fucked like the little slut he was beginning to suspect he was.
Draco swallowed hard, and pushed his own trousers down to his thighs, where they dropped to his feet. Potter tore his eyes away from Draco’s face and looked down between them.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Just like I remember it.”
Suddenly Potters hand was on him. On him. On his cock. And he – he was moving it - oh god - he was pulling on it – squeezing – dear, merciful Merlin, he was wanking him. Draco made a sound as if he were being strangled. Potter moved closer, letting go of Draco's cock for just a moment and pushing him back up to almost sit on the tables edge, but grabbing back onto it again, wrapping his hand around both their cocks! Potter’s cock was naked and pressed up against his, wet and velvety and hot and slipping up and down-
“Fuck, I’m-”
“Like hell you are!”
Just like that, Draco knew he wouldn’t be able to come unless Potter granted him permission to. He whined, not sure how he felt about being completely under Potter’s control like that, but there were plenty of other feelings to worry about. Like the feeling of being pulled off by his oldest rival. This hand on his prick was no feeble, feminine hand, nor his own familiar palm. This hand was strong, gripped tight, and was slightly roughened. This hand knew exactly how hard to tug and how tight to squeeze, because the owner of this hand had a prick of his own, and said prick was currently lined up snug as a bug in a rug beside Draco’s, and was being tugged on simultaneously. Draco wanted nothing more than to lean back on the table, lift his legs, and wrap them around Potter’s waist, but that would be giving in too easily. He may suspect he was a complete slut for Potter in the privacy of his own psyche, but Potter most certainly didn’t need any extra power over Draco. He had quite enough as it was. No, he would not lift his legs, no matter how much he may itch to do so –
“Lift your legs.”
Draco did as told without protest.
They were pressed even closer now. Draco could feel his balls hanging heavily between his legs, Potter’s balls tight against them. The hair on Potter’s legs scratched maddeningly at the inside of Draco’s thighs. Potter’s head was on his shoulder again, breathing moist, hot puffs of air against his neck as he pulled them both off. Draco slid his arms around Potter again, hungry for another handful of arse, and so he clutched at Potter’s backside desperately. Potter moaned happily and Draco whimpered again. God he wanted to come! It was embarrassingly quick; Potter had barely needed to touch him and he’d been about to spill himself everywhere. And now he was just hanging here on the edge of the table and the edge of explosion, kept there by Potter in both instances. Potter abruptly sank his teeth into Draco’s shoulder, speeding up his fist, and Draco tried his hardest not to scream like a girl and bring the whole house thundering down to the kitchen to see who was committing bloody murder. He held on even more tightly to Potter’s arse, his palms beginning to sweat a little and his grip biting into the firm flesh hard enough to leave red marks. Potter bit him again and bucked his hips hard. Draco’s fingers slipped between the crevice of Potter’s arse, unintentionally, but the sounds Potter made when he did it – encouraged, and desperate to regain some control, he slid his fingers deeper, prising Potter’s arse open with his hands and letting his fingers trace lightly as possible over the crinkled skin. Potter shuddered, losing the rhythm of buck and stroke, harsh whining noises panted against Draco’s neck. This was more like it, Draco smirked. Yes, Potter owns your cock, but remember – you own his too.
“Ahhh…Malfoy, wh- uhhh…”
Draco turned his head until his lips were pressed against Potter’s ear. Sweaty spikes of black hair tickled his lips as he whispered.
“You like that Potter? Want me to do it again?”
Potter trembled in his arms, and Draco did it again – ran his fingers gently up and down his crack, pressing oh so slightly right where the skin puckered the most –
“Oh!”
Draco closed his eyes for a moment, the dizzying burn of arousal overwhelming him. He felt like he was on fire, like Potter might get third degree burns if he kept holding onto his cock like that, and god forbid, when he finally came – molten spunk bursting from his cock like some kind of fleshy, purple volcano. He wasn’t sure he was going to live through this tryst. Of all the pussy he’d fucked, all the eager young Slytherin girls who had lined up to suck him off or play with his cock, it had never felt like this before. A simple handjob from Harry blooming Potter had him wondering whether he might soon be interred in the Malfoy family mausoleum, a heavy marble lid on his coffin bearing the inscription Here lies Draco Malfoy, only son of Lucius and Narcissa – died with his cock in the hand of The Boy Who Lived. May he rest in peace.
He struggled to open his eyes again and spoke in a voice strained with desire and desperation.
“Want me to put it inside? Would you like that? Do you want my finger up your arse, Potter? Do you?”
Potter sobbed against his skin, teeth nipping and lips rubbing open-mouthed kisses on his neck. Draco let go of Potter’s arse for a second, reaching around behind him onto the table, searching with desperate fingers for the pudding cup. His fingers closed over the plastic dish and shoved inside, the final creamy remains of chocolate custard coating his fingers in sticky sweetness. He pulled Potter hard against himself again, was rewarded with an almost painful yank on his cock, and used one hand to spread his arsecheeks wide. The other hand, sticky and wet with custard, jabbed between the exposed flesh and hit its target almost immediately.
“Yes!”
Potter’s hole was opening under his fingertip. The feeling of his finger sinking into him, inside of Potter’s body was almost too much for his brain to handle. Potter gasped and cried against him, and pulled and bucked, and Draco slid his finger further and further inside until he couldn’t push any more, and then he twisted.
Potter came in a blast of hot seed over Draco’s cock. His hand frozen in a tight fist, his hips stilled, his face buried in Draco’s neck. Draco’s hips continued to buck in earnest, hot, slippery come sliding up and down his cock and dripping down onto his balls.
“Potter,” he moaned, breath strained, “let me come. Please, please, I want to come too-”
“Yes,” Potter wheezed, before raising his head and beginning to stroke again, “do it, all over me. Come on me, Malfoy, you dirty little-”
Whatever kind of ‘dirty little’ Potter thought Draco was, he would have to ask later. Draco smashed his mouth to Potters and kissed him with furious clumsiness, suppressing his words with tongues everywhere. Potter tightened his grip one last time, and then Draco was coming too, everywhere. Everything was sticky – his finger, still up Potter’s arse; his mouth pressed against Potter’s; his cock slick with both of their come. His vision greyed out, and Draco was sure this was the part where he died from the ecstasy of it.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but gradually he came round to the feeling of Potter shaking him gently, whispering for him to hop up, it was time to get dressed and clean up and go back to bed. Dazed, he wobbled away from the table, Potter slinging an arm around his waist to support him as he bent to pull up his pyjama pants. Potter cast some cleaning charms around the place, and then on both of their bodies. Draco just stared at him in silence. He felt numb, like he had that one time he’d gotten completely stinking drunk with Zabini in fifth year – dizzy, like the world was spinning, and he couldn’t quite feel his feet.
Potter looked at him, hair and t-shirt dishevelled and sweaty, his bright eyes gleaming and his cheeks reddened from exertion and a little embarrassment.
“Come on, Malfoy. To bed.”
Draco followed Potter with heavy steps, his limbs lethargic, up the stairs until they arrived at the door to his bedroom. A clock chimed somewhere in the house, one, two, three…four thirty in the morning. He’d been downstairs with Potter for over an hour, and it felt like just a matter of seconds.
“What were you doing down there anyway, at three o’clock in the morning?”
Draco blinked and tried to remember. Custard.
“I was…hungry. I wanted a snack.”
Potter looked at Draco, then away at his feet, and then down the hall towards his own bedroom.
“Well…I usually make it a habit to keep some chocolate frogs and stuff in my room…” Potter cleared his throat awkwardly and seemed to flush a little more. “Maybe next time you feel hungry you might…um…you might think about coming to see me about it? Save you the trouble of going all the way downstairs. I don’t have puddings, but I have other stuff…” His voice trailed off, and he seemed to want to make a run for it.
“Yeah,” Draco said quickly. “Yeah, that sounds…convenient. I think I’ll probably be hungry again tomorrow night. I usually get hungry at about midnight, and try to go back to sleep, but…can’t. Then I have to get up at three to eat.”
Potter nodded, looking pleased.
“Um, well…don’t feel like you have to wait until three, or anything. I mean, if you get hungry at midnight, or…anytime, really…just let me know.”
Draco was finding it hard to breathe. Potter was blatantly encouraging him to come around to his room to fool around whenever he felt like it, and it was almost too good to be real.
“Goodnight Malfoy.”
Potter turned and walked quietly away, down the darkened hall towards his own bedroom.
“Night Potter,” Draco whispered.
