Title: Priceless
Author: tigersilver [tigersilver]
Characters: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warning(s): 'R' is for 'rimming'. Can you say that, 'rim-ming'? Sure!
Word Count: 789
Prompt: hd_seasons – 13 Nights of Smut, Prompt #1 (Forbidden Forest; shiver)
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: It's a nice night not to be asleep.
HD 'Priceless'
It was a dark and stormy night, and strangely-shaped clouds scudded fitfully across the baleful tip-tilted grin of a waning moon. The gusting, relentless autumn winds lashed the trees into billowing monsters, the shadows of their bare limbs trailing like long ghostly fingers across the diamond lights of his room's sole window, on the second lowest level of the the smallest auxiliary tower of Hogwarts.
Draco shivered, wondering blearily what fey and eldritch noise had woken him, and shook his shiny head finally, letting it go. A nightmare, perhaps, or perhaps a forlorn creature strayed from the wilds, baying at the sky for guidance. His shiver turned shrug and he stuck a pale hand out to tug the down comforter higher up and over his naked shoulders, snuggling down into the warm cocoon beneath with a blissful sigh. His fingertips, frigid cold with even just that little exposure, sought comfort under the sheets he'd brought with him from the Manor when he'd been named Prefect.
It was a lovely room, really, and a far cry from his dorm in the dungeons. Luxurious and cozy, it boasted hand-woven rugs from Old Persia and an eclectic collection of furniture gathered over centuries from exotic Siam, the Orient and the East Indies. Not the least of which was his bed, a massive, intricately carved beauty purchased in Morocco by his great-great-grandfather, and passed on to him, as the heir apparent. Draco had ordered it all brought specially, as soon as he'd learned of his appointment to Head Boy.
But there was something in his room worth far more than any old antique floor mat or bureau or bedroll—something rare, rare as the unicorns that inhabited the Forbidden Forest.
There! There it was, curling damply 'round, a salt-scented and fragrant forest of springy dense black curls. Forbidden once, perhaps, but no more. No more. Not to Draco.
"Mmm," sighed a sleepy Gryffindor, shifting his inky mop on the next pillow over. Draco grinned wickedly, pleased with his lot, and waited not a second longer to take advantage of his rival's drowsy inattention, diving down deep into a tangled bracken of bared hips and thighs, stray hands and elbows bending. He parted his lips as he scrabbled under the coverlet, tongue out to taste it—that peculiar scent that entreated.
"Mmmph?" Harry Potter gasped, his lax, loose bollocks rudely nosed aside and the pucker of his flinching arsehole claimed in rapid order. "Drac-!" he yelped, startled, and then lost it, that breathy "Oh!" that followed, to the hot plunge of sopping tongue through pubes. Lost his voice almost entirely when he was stabbed by a fluted pink organ without the slightest warning and consequently sent his narrow pelvis roiling up with a muffled shriek.
"Oh—ahh!"
Draco only grinned the harder, working, working; pumping tongue like a piston, and ceasing that only to suck when it tired. He nipped the crinkled scallops and feathered random kisses across trembling thighs, then returned to the stolid hammering away at his goal—and was rewarded.
"Ahh! Ah! Oh, oh, oh-Shite, Draco! Oh, fuck! Oh, don't stop, you wanker—don't you dare stop!"
"Nn-nn," he mumbled in response, twisting his tongue and chuckling, supremely content, and the vibrations down the shaft must've done the trick. Harry's arse went up off the bed like a sodding Guy Fawkes rocket and he was all at once cumming and cumming, spattering the smooth satin and raining spare dribs-and-drabs of steamy cream-coloured globules down and across Draco's grinning cheeks and his twitching nose.
"Fuck!" Harry gurgled, when he could manage. "Jeezus, Draco! Warn me next time, yeah? I…can't…can't catch my bloody breath!"
"Shut it, Potter," he gibed, swarming up the mattress and wrapped his arms around the loose-limbed body of Everyman's Bloody Hero. "You know you were gagging for it, earlier. Now, go back to sleep. It's late."
Yeah, right, 'Everyman's Hero'. But his lover.
He laughed again-silently, triumphantly, shoulders shaking with mirth-and tucked his prize carefully back into the curve of his chest and thighs, spooning him. Shrugged the down coverlet up over both their sets of sweaty shoulders and settled himself in, gloating.
Oh, yes, there was definitely something to be said for the nasty autumn blusters and even for the bloody Lake water-laden storms that sent all the world reeling into another Highlands winter. To wit, it kept Potter indoors and off his usual Walkabouts; left him willing to stay in Draco's nice, comfy bed and not go trotting up all those infernal stairwells to Gryffindor Tower under that damned cloak of his.
Hogwarts on a windy, rainy, miserable October night? Not a pretty picture. But rimming Potter in the maybe-moonlight? Now, that was priceless.