HD 'Saturdays'
Saturdays dawn bright and lazy. Harry thinks they're absolutely grand. All day long with nothing expected of him, nothing required, and yet still a bright haze of expectancy in the air—his own. He could see if anyone was about for a pickup game of Quidditch; he could, if he wanted, deal with some of the work that's always waiting and rack up some extra time for his coming Sunday. He could join his friends for a social pint later on or he could simply stay abed and doze the day away.
Inevitably, he arises, because there's really always something he wants to do, and Saturdays are the designated day for that. He lingers over his leisurely breakfast and his tea, scans the Prophet, does the acrostic, and then partakes of a long, hot shower, for autumn mornings are nippy and there's a sheen of frost glimmering on the still-green grass.
He's bustling off to whatever it may be that beckons when hands are laid on him out of bloody nowhere. Malfoy hands, naturally, which are always cool as ice cubes at first and then heat to a sear in seconds. One hand slicks down the front of Harry's trousers, tickling across his pants, slipping through the gap in the cottony fabric; one hand with a long questing forefinger extended, finding Harry's arsecrack unerringly and stroking down it like fire.
Harry gasps—with shock—with delight—and shuts his eyes. He can't see Malfoy behind him, but he doesn't need eyes to know exactly who it is. There's that faint scent of salted lime and French milled soap; there's moist thin lips mumbling across the skin of his nape where his freshly washed hair still curls up, the ends damp yet. There's that growl-snarl, which is Malfoy's trademark whenever he comes across Harry.
"Potter!"
Malfoy hisses and it's not a taunt…well, perhaps it is, at that. The hands take Harry's bits and arse in a firm careful grip and he finds himself being herded: shoved bodily forward by a warm set of flexing thighs and a nicely muscled chest beneath a veil of cashmere jersey. They move in tandem, Harry blind yet, as he sees no real need to do anything other than simply allow Malfoy to direct him. A moment later, he can tell by the smell of silence and the accompanying 'whuff!' and click of a door to its frame they've achieved privacy. Anything that was happening in their vicinity is now firmly on the other side of four walls.
"Potter…" Malfoy coaxes, "Potter, turn around, you git. Can't get at your bits from here, can I?"
Harry spins, cheerily, grinning, and yet still keeps his eyelids firmly glued down. He just knows Malfoy's smirking, just as he knows the sun also rises, and he's not giving the git the satisfaction without at least a minor hassle. Malfoy's a purist and he likes Harry to be looking at him, always, but Harry doesn't always want to give in too easily, nor does he plan to, ever. Not the way it works, really.
"Slowtop," Malfoy grumbles, when he's not fast enough turning on his heels or meeting glances. The whispering mouth hits Harry's jugular wet and hot and he flinches when that jaw gapes wide, dragging across his Adam's apple.
Chomps down and bites.
Harry's startled into a squeak, and he wrenches his lashes apart in surprise at the force of the suction, gulping and blinking rapidly at the rain of fair hair obscuring Malfoy's face and drifting into his own like flyaway cobwebs. They so seldom leave visible marks on each other; Malfoy must be in a snit, or else something has happened.
Harry never does discover what it is. His lips are claimed next and he opens them willingly enough, falling into the kiss just as though he was executing a Feint. They snog, thrusting and swiping and poking tongue so deeply gag reflexes should be engaged, but aren't—they've done this enough times before that they know to swallow and keep doggedly at it, unwilling to give up even a second's worth of taste. Spit is the best thing since tea, in Harry's opinion; at least, it is if it's Malfoy saliva. There's something about it which leaves him languid and yearning, brings his hormones to a parboil and gets his pants in a total twist. He's not stroppy, though. Oh, no.
He shoves forward when Malfoy lags, seeking more skin, and finding.
They're both boasting stiffies. Harry's had one since the moment Malfoy got his hands down Harry's pants and he'd bet good solid Galleons Malfoy had one before he even appeared.
Harry's is pleasantly full and hot where Malfoy's wrapped those longer-than-fucking-sin fingers of his about it. Malfoy's thumb rubs across Harry's slit in an elegant slide and Harry's groaning aloud and rolling his head on his neck in reaction. He can't wait. The morning's anticipation has all been about this—this touch, this taste, this man.
He gives as good as Malfoy does every single time, though, and returns fire, forcing his own hand past the fitted waist of Malfoy's woolen trousers and down behind the fine pleats, ripping Malfoy's silver belt buckle open as soon as he remembers he can. A handful of Malfoy's a fuck of a lot more exciting than a fistful, these days, and Malfoy seems to think the same about Harry, as he speeds up his own motions and that searching forefinger that teased Harry's arsehole dreadfully a second ago finally finds its goal, twisting in.
"Ah!"
Harry's arching his spine; can't help it. Malfoy's got him coming and going and he'd not have it any other way. He's slammed into a nearby wall the next moment—a wall he's only barely aware of, since Malfoy's the only thing currently claiming Harry's attention—and their hips clang together with the solid knock of bone to bone.
Thighs, too, and heated muscles are already flexing into a roll and a bounding, throbbing rollick. They're frotting, the shallow pressure of hurried fingertips no longer enough to satisfy. Not now.
Meanwhile Malfoy's eating Harry's face right off, or that's how it feels to Harry. Anything Malfoy does Harry can go one better, so he's lifting his lips to peck and nip, shifting his neck as if it were made of India rubber; mating their disparate jaws and noses so as to angle more deeply in his quest to shove his whole entire tongue down Malfoy's damned lily-white throat as deep as he can.
He's breathing in 'hah!'s and muffled snorts through his dried-out nostrils when he recalls inhaling at all—which isn't anywhere near often enough. Malfoy's the same again as Harry, and they're both lightheaded and wobbly-kneed, or must be, since Harry's not the only one prat stumbling a bit when the slam of hips-hips-wall becomes a jackhammer repetition.
They reel and Harry could swear the delicate bones of his wrist are being crushed to dust. Pelvises are pointy things and Malfoy's a spare, lean menace, with pureblood bones as sharp as his famously acid tongue. Harry could care less. Malfoy, the git, doesn't even spare a wince when his own wrist emits a crack like a shot as he flexes it, pumping cock. He's stroking Harry like an oiled chamois glove 'round a broom handle, polishing assiduously, and Harry's cock is so wet with drool it slips constantly, poking through the gaps between Malfoy's fingers. It's alright-doesn't matter. The bloke's a champion wanker and Harry knows he'll be well taken care of.
Malfoy's dick's a little longer than Harry's and it's got this slight lurch to the left, so Harry takes advantage of that—as always—and flips his wrist despite the crushing pressure.
"Potter!" Malfoy says this between his teeth, and he's glaring furiously, but Harry's knows that's not hate burning in those amazing eyes.
Harry's loving Saturdays; they're the best days of the week, abso-fucking-lutely. And this is the best sex he's had since the last time he's had Malfoy, and that was only just yesterday, so life's fucking brill.
"Potter!"
Malfoy rips his head back to shout it, blond hair ruffled where Harry had his other hand buried, and Harry takes that as his cue, and lets loose. His dick's so swollen and thick, he doesn't honestly know how Malfoy manages to keep hold of it through the haze, but that's Malfoy to a 'T': obstinate bugger. And then Harry's not thinking a Merlin-blessed thing—not even about that very visible love bite earlier—and just coming.
Coming!
Best thing ever about Saturdays isn't even the guaranteed orgasm. It's not the element of surprise Malfoy always likes to maintain, the sneaky sly devil—the where/when/how it would happen. It's not even the lazy hours he spends luxuriating in his bed in the early chill, or the extra time allowed for his morning cuppa. It's none of the various and sundry plans he may've made with his friends or the anticipation of flying, Quidditch or no. It's Malfoy's nearly inaudible sigh, after, and the way he lays his heavy head on Harry's shoulder, exhausted.
His fresh clean hair smells of sweat now, along with citrus—salted lime, just like a Muggle Margarita. He's slumped a bit, drooping, but Harry's got firm hold of him, and the wall has both their backs, and Harry's very fond of walls, now. Surfaces, certainly, whether they be horizontal or vertical doesn't matter.
Harry's generally happy on a Saturday, and now he's assured Malfoy's pretty fucking happy, too.
Author's Note: Again, no time and/or place specified here. They could be any age (of consent, naturally); it could be anywhere. There's no set occupations or background story, either. It's whatever the reader chooses, hopefully. So, er—enjoy! Tiger