HD Defining Moment
"Do you know what I want to do to you?" The question was rhetorical; Harry wasn't listening to Draco's voice.
"I want to fuck you, Potter, right into this bed—make you scream," Draco told him, and he was dead serious about that. Potter screaming in that hoarse voice was something Draco looked forward to, every day. He liked it so much he bit Potter; right there, at the meeting of throat and shoulder, marking him 'Draco's' for all the world to see.
"I'm going to eat you alive, you wanker, for making me—want—want!" but what Draco wanted was lost to his guttural snarl as he sank deep into the heat of Harry's arse, watching it eat his cock with those sweet, sweet sounds of sucking, squishing want. It boggled Draco; rendered him a total fuckwit, all his native cunning gone up in smoke. Only Harry could make Draco do that—lose his train of thought, lose his mind—without even trying. "I'm going to gorge myself on you, Potter, till you can't—can't!"
"Draco!" Harry groaned, obviously not caring about what he 'couldn't', wanting what was; grinding his neat hips back into his assailant's, wriggling like a golden fish speared on a silvery harpoon, and Draco loved it—loved it, loved it—knowing that Potter was under him, helpless, wide open and begging for him.
"Draco—Draco, pleasepleaseplease…" Harry moaned, trying to get closer, take more, and Draco started babbling again, 'cause he couldn't help it. Harry made him. Harry's fault, all of this.
"I'm going to kill you, Harry—going to make you die of cumming," he threatened, teeth clenched on the words, back arching, thrusting hard and fast. "I'm going to make you mine, forever and ever, till you can't even think about shagging another bloke, you bastard," Draco gritted, and rammed himself deeper, swollen balls slapping into balls with a wet, sloppy sound, a sound he treasured. "Not ever; not ever," he chanted, telling Potter all his secrets, promising something beyond now and later and—
He drew out, so far it literally hurt not to feel Potter all around him, and Harry whined in anguish, that tiny, rasping sound that drove Draco firmly into the realm of full madness.
"Want me, Harry," Draco ordered his subject as the newly crowned King of the World, slotting himself back into Potter with the elegant grace of filleting knife, edging between cells.
"Want me till you die, till you can't fucking do anything else," he commanded, and he'd wormed his way in, a disease in Potter's blood, and there was no cure for him; Potter would suffer with Draco Malfoy in his system for the rest of his life.
"Take it in, Potter, every fucking inch—I want to see you at my feet, gagging for my dick in you—want you—want you so goddamned much!"
"Draco! Oh!—gods! Gods!"
There it was, surrender; Potter's utter defeat at the hands and tongue and cock of Draco Malfoy, and Draco relished it all so much he could literally taste the coppery edge of his triumph, salt and sweaty, bloody where he'd bitten his own parched lips. Potter's cock was almost purple with pressure even if Draco couldn't see it where it was grasped in his palm and now it was pumping reflexively, sticky white webbing spreading pearls across his hand, the sheen of Potter's rippling, screaming chest—and Draco's sheets, Draco's bed.
"Fucker! Do you know how much—?!" Draco asked him, and threw his head back for the last one, the one that would convince Potter, brand him forever; blonde-white fringe sticking dark-damp to his forehead, every muscle in his lean body straining. Harry could never know how much. There weren't words enough to tell him—it wasn't even part of a language, what Draco felt, what Draco wanted—had to have.
"How much I?!" Draco struggled to wrap his lips around stupid words, words that couldn't say an nth of what Draco dreamed of—this was important; Potter needed to know this, so he wouldn't do anything idiotic, or misguided, like think that Draco wasn't serious, or listen to his friends, or—
"Nail you, nail you, fucking fuck you to death," he muttered over and over, till his gasping matched his blood rushing and the red haze that pulsed at the corner of his vision. "till I'm dead, Harry—till I'm dead, I'll—!"
Cumming, hot and hard and unbearably close to death in a good way; the best way, and Harry could kill him right now and right here, and Draco would let him, and willingly ask for more, and ask again, when he could breathe.
Cumming, and Potter was brim full of Malfoy, and it was bubbling over as Draco pounded, desperate for that last thrumming squeeze around his shrinking self. So Merlin-fucking-good to have Potter's insides clutching at him, keeping him there any way he possibly could. So fucking brilliant to watch his seed seep down Harry's trembling thighs as he fell exhausted into Draco's bed.
"Harry!" Draco's scream was soundless, ripped out of him, like all the things he needed to tell Harry, about 'love' and 'forever' and not being alive unless Harry was around him.
"I love you…I love you," Harry told him, and his voice was thready and feeble with exhaustion, and there it was, exactly what Draco wanted. He fell, stumbling on his wobbly knees, and barely got his leaden arms into the right place to pull Harry against him. "Love you, Draco," Harry mouthed into the elbow Draco had wedged under his head in an effort to haul him closer, fucking absorb him.
"…'Love you, too, Harry," Draco grumbled, red huffing face buried in Potter's nape and messy, saliva sticky hair, and exalted silently. Trust Potter to get around that strangeness that kept the right words trapped inside him. 'Trust Potter'; that, Draco could do.
"You smell so good—like me," Draco mumbled happily, black hair tendrils curling tickly into his mouth, and felt whimsical, and happy, and all those things only Potter made him feel. "All me, Harry."
"Prat," Potter replied, tangentially, fond as always, and snuggled his hot spine closer to Draco's rapidly heaving chest, as if he wanted to stick there forever. Draco would let him. There was nothing he wanted more.