HD 'Supply Closet'

"Fuck me-fuck me-fuck me!"

Harder-faster-furious-now; and who had demanded that? Neither knew, neither cared. Just do it and stuff it in and—

"Fuck me now, Potter!"

Five minutes before somebody came looking; five minutes before he—or he—were missed by someone; five minutes till there'd be detention for certain—four minutes now, and Harry's budging Malfoy's slippery-soft innards with his cock, and his cock is a weapon and a wand and it's a shagging duel.

"Fuck-fuck-fuck-fu-!" and the 'ck!' is lost in a gasp and Harry's got his hand 'round Malfoy's prick and he's pulling-pulling-pulling-twist! And then it's only three minutes and Harry's breathless and Malfoy's biting him—

There'll be marks to worry about and he can't believe no one's noticed this; been months since they started this—this, what they have—and he's not sure if he can manage to coordinate his hand with his dick and Malfoy's red-faced in the dark—

Kissing, lips sliding, nipping, up his neck and across his earlobe and into his hair; Malfoy's spitting strands out of his red mouth and glaring for a blink and then his face is slack again, as Harry grunts and shoves him up.

"Fuck-me. Fuck. Me. Fuck me, Harry—oh, Merlin!" Pale thighs splitting wide; clenched 'round Harry's kidneys. The stone of the wall should fucking well crack behind them, it's so hard and fast that Harry's got his hips going and Malfoy's just lost now, moaning like a rutting tomcat and Harry's grinning-grinning-grinning: 'Got you, git!' grinning—like that and there's no stopping. The door could open any second. Two minutes; not even.

Malfoy's coming and it's a win and Harry's so happy-happy-happy, as it's tighter in Malfoy's arse than anywhere on the whole fucking planet, and there's nowhere warmer or more-more. There's nothing like it-nothing like it-like IT!

And he's finally coming-coming-coming; his cock gurgling in its own juices, slosh-slap, slosh-slap. Snogging Draco for the sheer joy of it; snogging Draco because he's beautiful; snogging Draco because the last minute's almost gone and he'll die if he doesn't—

Thirty seconds and pants up, robes down. Balancing Draco's hand on his shoulder; tucking in his own shirttails. Malfoy's practicing his sneer and grabbing his bookbag strap; Harry's hair is beyond all repair.

Lips brush and what they say with their eyes is an hour's worth of conversation and there's Malfoy's spit-slick forefinger, tucking the damp dark bits back, and Harry's happy-happy-happy—

"Meet me after dinner, Potter," Draco orders, grinning, and he's gone first, as always. Fecking git.

And Harry's late to Potions once again.