Fourth
"Would you, ah? Care for a shag, Draco?"
Harry and Draco were in a state.
Separately and together. Of course, more properly, it was due to the fact they were together, ostensibly cooking up a light supper, and it was the fourth.
"...t!"
Draco dropped the eggs. Fumbled them, idiotically. The pan, too.
"Erm, ahem." A gentle cough sounded behind him, from the direction of the expansive countertop. The voice (not illusory!) said: "Wanna fuck?"
"What?" Spun on a heel to face Harry instead of spelling away the mess. "Yes!"
Harry glowed at Draco, just a bit, an easy, pretty flush climbing smile-creased cheeks. He did adore setting this especial ponce back on his well-set heels once in a while, every now and again; it was so nostalgic.
And Draco was so effing fit when on his mettle. Win-win, then.
"This, then." He waved a hand, the one not clutching the spatula.
"This?"
Harry smirked, happy as a clam. "This!" And thought that Wandless was the best sort of magic ever. It had the two of them stripped to skin in a blink, goosepimpling nicely in the cool of the kitchen. Nipples erect, too.
...Among other protruding things that protruded...
Not minding that at all (nice view!), he grinned at Draco's momentarily nonplussed expression, triumphant. "You like?" He shrugged his shoulders like a pro, lifting his hands, palm's flat and rising, and managed (did he but know it) to appear Gallic and gallantly debonair all at once.
Whilst bare-arsed naked.
And a bit shrimpy, but that was only Harry's stature, not his, er, um.
"That's fast!" Draco blinked, sparing a second's worth to ride an unsettling surge of indecent awe. Wandless! And then to a few fleeting indecent fantasies. Potter's tackle! Also, a fair wave of ire. Little showoff!
"Learnt it in the showers at Hogwarts," Harry attempted the debonair thing again, slumping a shoulder, nonchalantly waving the waving the spatula. He failed miserably, but Draco still thought he was cute. "Ollie taught me."
"Did he now?" Harry's host inhaled sharply, deeply, and commenced the long-expected grab for his dining companion, his bloody date. "Ollie, was it?" It was a sweet moment of motion—much sweeter than waiting oh-so-decorously till after supper.
Sweeter than dancing round lift doors with pants afire and contemplating shagging one's natural born nemesis under a bright yellow tablecloth.
Sweeter even than been swamped by all the other (confusing, huge as houses, oh Merlin! is this love?) feelings pushing hard at the beautiful clean sweep of pure lust driving them, threatening to overwhelm it (him, them, both, the bloody kitchen), altogether.
Really. It was naught more than a mutual stare, a glare, a blink, a rise of a pointy chin and the faint tightening of a squarish jaw, but they each knew, it seemed.
Fuck the omelettes, damn the dinner; that wasn't the hunger needing satisfaction just at present.
"Who?" Draco demanded gruffly, grasping fiercely at Harry's upper arms and spinning him, in turn. He stepped up close behind him but not quite touching, in a smooth move learnt from endless lessons in Wizarding dancing. "Harry, who?" He referred to the oncoming fucking, naturally—he knew damned well who 'Ollie' was!
He wasn't particular, not Draco. He shrugged off a gush of sheer malevolent jealousy and focussed only on Harry Potter instead. Naked. Here. In his kitchen. His brain bubbled madly with this scheme and that idea: Harry laid down on the counter, face down, bum up; him shoved up against the coolbox, writhing, being sucked off; Harry on the floor, amongst the broken eggshells, legs wide open; him pounding Harry into sweet oblivion right there in the midst of the bowls and plates, cutlery and fry pan, oil and all. Possibly Harry even rogering him; he'd a bloody arse, too, didn't he now? Fuck, but it was brilliant to picture, all of it.
"Harry?"
But Draco thought he'd enquire, all the same. Polite thing to do, what? For their first time? (More, after, would be really ace. But they'd arrive at 'more, after' only having gotten through this first.)
Draco couldn't help but notice Harry seemed equally eager. Tetchy with it, too.
"Don'-care-where. Or who whom what—touch my cock, git!" Harry grumbled, glancing wildly away only to end staring fixedly down at the countertop, the glitter of his gaze practically smoking an innocent sliced tomato and a humble heap of mushrooms into a black smear. "Now, you stupid berk. I'm in the mood, aren't I?" He waggeled his erection at Draco Malfoy, which was immensely pleasing. "Have had rather enough waiting!"
Draco arched an eyebrow, struggling for a semblance of composure. Though who knew why, really? Composure was so unnecessary at times.
Yes, tetchy, then.
"Well?" Harry growled at the mushrooms, the tomato. He flared his nostrils at Draco's unmoving grip upon his upper arms. He all but snapped his teeth at Draco's stupidly abstracted expression. "And? The issue is...what, now?"
"Wait—no, wait!"
Draco wrestled his guest bodily about even more than before, forcing him face-first down atop the not-so pristine surfaces—half countertop and half on the fortunately unlit hobs beside it, arms splayed wide and legs every-which-way from Sunday.
"Hey! Hullo!" Harry yipped, startled, but he wasn't protesting all that much; certainly not resisting, or anything.
"This way, I think," Draco announced, satisfied with the brilliant resurfacing into his addled brain of the lovely original vision he'd had floating before his mind's eye, but a moment ago, when still busy dropping the eggs. Harry looked damned fine, bent over. Oh, gads, yes, but that would do nicely. "Just—this!"
Didn't matter.
"This?"
Oh, no. They both knew it didn't matter. There was only so much a red-blooded Wizard could take...or a Pure-blooded one either.
"This," Draco growled. Was going to happen, one way or the other.
So much Wild Magic bashing around in one Wizarding bachelor's kitchen should be clearly labelled 'unsafe'. It was a hazard. There should be Muggle caution tape, wrapped securely across all the doors and windows.
Speaking of? All access ways snapped shut, warded tight and locked down instantly. There was a distant sound of scurry, as various elves and nosy parental units hurried off to the entire other end of Malfoy Manor.
Draco smiled at the clickity-clicks and whooshes, the snicks and the hastily muffled Elven chatter fading afar. It was bit evil, the smile, a bit devilish, too, and it was a damned shame Harry could only catch the barest glimpse of it from the corner of his one eye.
"Oh, fuck!"
He quite liked that smile. Any way would do; Harry decied he was quite beyond finesse. If the oil caught fire by accident, in passing, who gave a rat's arse anyway?
"Yes, please."
He'd no additional schemes whatsoever and very working little brain left. Had used it all up making them naked and then being irked, after.
"Take me!"
Accordingly, it was Draco who thought to use the oil inappropriately: he dumped half the bottle down Harry's arsecrack in a fine sweeping motion, though the liquid was still rather chilled. Harry shrieked, jerking under Draco's restraining palm. "Oh! Merlin—cold, you bastard! C-C-Cold!"
"I don't care. Spread 'em, Potter," came a black snarl. Harry nigh on swooned over the piratical brash scurry of it all, but then didn't, as there was tomato. And kitchen stuff. "Spread your fucking legs, damn it—wider," Draco told him boldly. "Let me in, you wretched little tease!"
"Guh!"
Harry experienced another quite sweet moment, waiting there with his face nearly smashed into the veg and slowly warming oil dripping down the backs of his bared knees. How long had he waited to hear that, issuing from Draco Malfoy's mouth to his ear? Right in his ear, too, and very forcefully!
Well, maybe not that, precisely, but something along those lines. He made haste to do as Draco requested but not fast enough: Draco had already kicked his ankles apart and grabbed at both his hip bones with ferocious fingers—shoving his own forward.
The resultant collision left them both groaning.
"Merlin!"
"Oh, buggerall!"
"Wider, Harry—this isn't difficult to follow!"
"Eeep!"
Harry's nose nearly met the flour canister, front and center, and almost clipped the underneath of the Muggle range hood in passing. Fortunately Draco's rude thrust at the small of his back let up just in time. He was able to turn his head and lift his chin before the contents of the canisters spilt out, dusting everything. "Oi," he begged. "Not so rough, git! Oh-shit! Shit-shit-shit! Watch out!"
He scrabbled for purchase on the slab of polished granite—which was as frigid-cold as the oil had been, thanks so much, and giving him yet more goosepimples atop his current goose pimples of excitment; Draco meanwhile scrabbled for Harry's cock frantically and found it successfully.
Another mutual moan sounded. Hard to hear, though, over the slap of oily, sweaty flesh.
"Urrrrrgh!" Then louder.
"Mmphf!"
"Fucking about time!" Draco cried out, having settled on a truly fantastic rhythm of push-Harry, pull-Draco, and in reverse, too.
That put a stop to any sort of reasonable discussion as to specific whys, wherefores and who might be shagging whom in the next thirty seconds. Effectively.
Harry sagged happily into the sensation of being brought off by the very bloke he'd been sighing after for ages, his skewed-sideways spectacles pinching his nose painfully and all. Didn't matter, that.
Nothing mattered but getting off. Draco could just keep on with the keeping on—could just do the twisty-hand-yank on Harry's willy all the evening long, if he liked, and well into the wee hours to follow. Harry wouldn't mind a bit.
"Oh," he sighed, "yes!"
Fact of the matter is, some certain fortunate Slytherins have their timing down pat, after years of trial-and-error. Draco Malfoy happened to be one of those Slytherins.
"Hup!" He pressed a sharp elbow joint dead centre into the small of Harry's back, firmed his grip on Harry's waist and left buttock and pulled whilst pushing. A large hot dick rapped solidly across the swells of Harry's bum and landed right in the groove.
And then Draco leaned in. A lot, till his chest draped over Harry's spine and he could sucessfully nibble on Harry's earlobe, if he so desired.
He did so desire, actually.
Harry's thighs quivered in response; his legs about fell off at the hip joint, what with the pressure and the anticipation. He could barely feel them anyway, racked akimbo as they were and what with Draco's prick poised at the brink of his hole. "Faire des prêts pour l'amour!" Draco murmured softly, his lips tickling Harry's nape, just so.
"Oh!" Harry's eyes bugged out. "Ahhhummmm!" That was a far better spell than the usual ancient horse chestnut he'd been employing all these years. "Whoa!" he shouted out helplessly, giving a bit of thrash, for there was absolutely no foreplay going on at the moment—not a whisker.
Bloody Seekers!
"Fuck you!"
Harry cursed, but he damned well didn't mean a word of it. It was more a gutteral noise of appreciation, really.
The git was in him, on him, like ooze to a slug, shoving, yanking and above all finding the nerve centre of utter awesome Harry had tucked away within him.
"Am—shagging—you!" Draco panted in Harry's ear. "Am—shagging—you—now—Hahr—rheee!"
And he was, too.
"M'kay!" That was alright by Harry.
"Do—that—you mad wanker!" he gasped out, puffing a spare breath (there weren't many available; involved effort to puff anything at all) at his annoying forelock, tangling up in his flapping eyelashes. The clot of hairs flew upwards briefly only to fall back again.
"Please—yesss!" He blinked at the collection of gourmand tools littering the countertop, not even seeing them. "Do!" A stray scent of pure vanilla wafted up his flared nostrils. "And—and! Make it good, damn you—I've been waiting—AHH!"
"No. Worries," Draco assured him, stroking. Miraculously stroking in time, as he'd never left go of Harry's member. "No problem." That phrase, snarled in testosterone-laden syllables, and the agile, knowing fingers round Harry's cock quite shattered his concentration. he sagged. Draco's other hand slipped down to grasp Harry's oily bollocks. "Shagging you now." Squeezed like the dickens there; fantastic! "Shag you blind." Stroked open-fingered when they rose again, trickling Harry;s balls about like the eggs they'd not eatern, slick with half a quart of Grecian first-pressing virgin finest and very, very pleasantly full.
And pounded him flat-out, as if Harry were a recalcitrant Potions ingredient in a mortar and Draco the pestle. "Too fucking long I've wanted this!" he was informed, in no uncertain terms.
That was agreeable.
"Oh—yeaaah…" Harry groaned. "Yeah, yeah…"
He wriggled his arse, much as he was able, pinned against the countertop and the cabinet—and what with the knobs of the cooktop and the handles of the inset cabinetry poking his kneecap and groin painfully and Draco draped all over him like a bloody tarp made of human flesh. Fit flesh—fast, fucking, fabulous flesh. "Yes, yes, yessss!" he chanted on, hissing through his clenched teeth, and thought it quite possible his ears were streaming steam. "Ah-ah-ah-annngh…."
"Har-ry! Pot-ter! Har-ry."
Draco grunted, busy about the business of thrusting, his hips in staccato motion, his fingers always in slip-sliding their sinuous, snaky way up and down Harry's turgid willy.
"Pot!" he huffed. "Er!" he added nasally, nearly squeaking it out on the next whistling inhalation through that lovely nose of his and oh, how Harry wished he could be facing his lovely new lover. He'd much fancy a snog with his omelette-and-shagging; really, he would. Like chives on a baked potato—this required all the trimmings.
"K-kiss me!' he demanded accordingly of the tomato and the scattered mushrooms. "Prat!" And attempted manfully to disengage Draco from his arse whilst flailing about, knocking stray utensils here and chopped bits of ham, cheddar and onion there. The raw ingredients of Draco's promised 'lite' supper went flying. "Fucking kiss me!"
Draco resisted with all his might. He was busy! BUSY!
"What—what are you doing? Oh-fuck!"
Harry, determined as all hell and slithering sideways along the edge of the countertop—no longer chilled at all, he noticed vaguely—didn't reply.
"No, no, no! Can't kiss, Harry! I'm gonna come, Harry!" Draco protested—but his dick was out at last and Harry could thrust his pelvis backwards, pushing up with his forearms flexing and grabbing a decent toehold on the oily parquet floor. "Oh-jeez-sooo-effing-friggin' hard," his almost-lover moaned deliriously—woefully—even as Harry got himself the right way round for a snog and lunged into it. "Umphff!"
"Oh, yes, you are, prat!" Harry announced.
Shagging was an instinct, and a blindly overbearing one at that. Draco got his dripping rod up and in without looking; Harry humped his stinging, slippery buttocks onto the waiting granite with nary a glance behind and there was some rather lovely ramming and whatnot—sufficient to lodge Draco's bits firmly where they should be. Full throttle.
"Better!" Harry pronounced, slurring, his lips mashing into Draco's more by accident than anything else. But it still counted. "Oh—so—much—"
"Shut up, Harry," Draco advised him contentiously, his face flushed scarlet, fringe flying. He added a fierce, hard snog to make the man do what he was told for once. "Just—shut—up."
"—'ove you—" Harry might've said, despite the moratorium on conversation. He did try, too, being Gryffindor. "'Mmph! A'right—with—that?"
"—me, too, you great tit!" Draco definitely replied, his tense expression easing up just a wee degree, his arms about his prize and one canine closing across a corded tendon at the tender spot where Harry's neck met his collarbone. He nipped it tenderly, mainly becuase his Harry should have sorted this all out already...and hadn't, the git. "Stooopid! Fucking come already, will you? I'm gonna!"
"...'k'!"
His hips were moving at brilliant speed; Harry's hole bloomed a shiny rose-red and flexed joyfully under the brunt of the battering. He jerked in Draco's arms once—twice—and a third time.
Arched his head back, slamming the back of it straight into the range hood (didn't notice that, not till later, when Drsco cooed over it in the bath, either) and howled.
"AHHH!"
"Fi—nal—leeee! Oh-gods—Merlin!"
….They went out for a late supper, much (much) later. Harry insisted on calling it 'breakfast', actually.