Author's Note:
This whole thing is straight-up author appeal. I basically wrote out my greatest wank fantasy. Hot off the press. Full of glorious clichés and unnecessary sap and overlong metaphors.
Hope you enjoy. :D
Coincidence, he thought later. A rather lovely thing. Not even Draco Malfoy could have crafted so perfect a plan.
It had happened to him again. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, the most unexpected of places. Or, perhaps, the most expected. He could hardly admit it to himself, but he had only gone in to finish his N.E. in the subject because of him.
Harry sodding Potter, with his irresistible messy energy and hair like a bird's nest and eyes like the Forbidden Forest—dark and deep and green and flashing with danger but pulling him in, always pulling him in. He didn't even know what he did to people. What he did to Draco. And perhaps that was part of his appeal.
It was a ridiculous reaction to a ridiculous occurrence. Potter had just finished yet another one of his passionate, slightly blustering, rather inarticulate arguments with the professor. And Draco, as usual, was half-embarrassed for him but still proud all the same. He had sat down. He had had the grace to look self-conscious for a moment. But then the Weasel had shot him an astonished, admiring look, and he had turned gloriously accursedly smug. Perhaps he would have made a good Slytherin after all, with that smirk.
But oh, that would indeed pose some problems for Draco. Because then he'd have as little privacy as he did tonight every night, and he didn't think his body could stand that. He could hardly stand a day without attending to one very needy part of his anatomy nowadays, but there was hardly any shame in it anymore when he knew there were far more sordid deeds taking place behind the others' curtains. Just last week he had flicked back Blaise's curtains, intending to ask him to shut up with the groans already, he couldn't be such an amazing wanker, only to find Blaise half-buried in Pansy. They turned around best as they could, and when he saw flushed faces and glossy eyes he felt a strange twinge of irrational jealousy. Why should he? He had never been his, he had never been hers. He was only really realizing it now, but he had always been Potter's. But oh, he'd better not think about Zabini's saggy bits or Pansy's wrinkly oozy excuses for tits right now.
He pressed his palm to his erection as he hurried down a darkened hallway, lit wand in his other hand, and despaired when he found it had hardly flagged. What have you done to me, Potter? Oh, he was in deep, for sure. Had possibly been since the very first day he'd seen the scrawny stupid sexy git.
His back crashed into the wall and he slid to the stone floor, pushing his robes up. He hissed as the cold air of the hallway bit into his nipples, but wouldn't allow them relief, instead skimming his knuckles over one and pinching the other, imagining more work-worn, hesitant fingers doing so. He wanted to prolong this. Get off on the danger. His hands fluttered over his ribs, traced unknown runes onto the luminescent white skin of his abdomen, rubbed down the plane of his sweat-slicked sides. He threw his head back, uncaring about the bump he had likely just raised, and imagined his gathered fingers on his throat were Potter's chapped lips.
Finally he could tease himself no longer, and he plunged a hand into his tailored trousers and felt the button pop open. In desperation he dragged the tight cloth over his slender thighs, fighting his way out of the restricting cloth. With a sigh of relief he grasped his aching cock. One hand pumped slowly up, paused to tighten its grip at the head, and made its agonizing way back down. The other hand became a moth in darkness. When he abandoned one part of his agonizingly aroused body to attend to another, the other areas begged for attention. And so the pale moth was flitting down to tease his oversensitive sack or back up to flick at frantically pink nipples or to trace the sensuous contours of his gasping mouth.
It was glory in self-exploration. Draco had always been a narcissist—he even admitted it to himself, where was the shame in admiring such a beautiful thing? - and for now thoughts of his own body drove Potter's from his mind. It was an odd kind of satisfaction, hiding here where anyone could see him, urgent yet drawing out his pleasure, empty but so full in the darkness. He didn't understand why he hadn't tried this before.
And then he did. Draco Malfoy was many things, but he was not stupid. He should have known he would be detected. He shrank away into the shadows. It was too late now, though—much too late. The shuffling footfalls he should have noticed long before now couldn't be more than a few meters away. He fumbled with his trouser buttons, hoping to have at least some semblance of dignity or at least modesty when he was discovered, although it would be quite obvious what he'd been up to. But he hadn't quite gotten his arms untangled from between his legs when another wand's light was fully turned on him.
He couldn't see anyone holding the wand, even by their own light.
They were invisible. Invisible. Invisibility Cloak.
Oh Lord save him Harry bloody Potter was once again witness to Draco's darkest moments.
Reasoning still clouded with arousal, he made a rash decision. Worthy of Potter, he thought dryly as he tucked his hands back into his trousers.
"Malfoy?" Potter rasped, cloak sliding off his (broad, bare) shoulders. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Draco gave a measured smirk. "What does it look like, Potter? Relieving some tension."
"In the middle of the hallway? Where anyone could see you?" Potter sputtered.
"Well, it's quite dark and quite late. What're you doing up? You're supposed to set a good example, Chosen One."
He began to move his hands again, and felt an extra jolt of pleasure when he saw Potter's (green so very fucking green put Slytherin to shame) eyes flick to his crotch.
Potter's sharp gasp of surprise turned into a chuckle. "Then you don't know me very well, do you? I've spent more time in detention than the whole of Slytherin House together, I'm sure. You're the prefect, not me."
Draco had to admire his ability to articulate while his attentions were so focused on something far more interesting. And it was bloody unfair that he had a sense of humor, too. Maybe he didn't know him as well as he thought.
"I was a Prefect," Draco corrected him. "Now I'm free to be as naughty I like."
There was a long moment of silence in which Potter's breathing turned ragged and Draco's hands moved ever faster.
"Fuck you, Malfoy."
"That can be arranged." He rested his chin on his unoccupied hand and winked at him.
"Um. Malfoy. What're you—" And then, typical Gryffindor, he stopped talking and probably thinking and dropped into a squat at Draco's feet.
"I believe it's called wanking. Have you never experienced the pleasure, Potter?" He sneered, struggling to maintain composure.
Potter said nothing for another stretch. Seconds, minutes, maybe. All Draco knew was that he was dangerously close to the edge, his body ached and his heart ached with the intensity of Potter's gaze.
"Well, Potter? Staying for the show?" When he licked his lips, Potter's eyes followed. Oh yes, this power was going to go to his head. And his cock. Which needed quicker stronger strokes now.
"I would have never thought you were an exhibitionist."
"Maybe you don't know me so well, either." He regarded him from under lowered lashes.
"We should work on that," Potter reflected.
"Yes." He couldn't help himself. He bucked roughly into his hands, so very very close, even the harsh scrape of the wall at his back bringing him more gratification than pain.
"Not yet." And then Potter's hand whipped out, not quite dipping low enough but resting on his knee. Somehow nearly as good.
"Yes, Master."
Instead of drawing more of the deep music of laughter from Potter's chest, his eyes darkened. A far better reaction.
His hand was on a mission, now, curving over his knee for a millisecond longer before slipping up and down Draco's leg. He yanked the cloth over his thighs in his haste to help him, drawing yet another smirk from Potter's luscious mouth.
"What are we doing, Potter?" He asked at length. He ceased the movement of his hands.
"I don't know, Malfoy. But you seem to be enjoying yourself."
"How Slytherin of you."
"The Sorting Hat considered it, you know."
His head whirled with the possibilities. "Wonder where we'd be now if it had made the right choice."
"Probably doing this in your warm bed instead of out in the corridor."
"You think so?"
"Yes." Potter leaned in to brush a kiss on Draco's jawline. His heart stilled.
"What are we doing, Potter?" He asked again.
"Trying out something new?" He offered.
"An…experiment."
"If you like." Now he looked worried.
"Nothing more?"
Now he was leaning over his body completing, enveloping it in his warmth. The next words were whispered into the flushed shell of Draco's ear. "If you like."
"Original, aren't you?"
He laughed against Draco's neck. "We could go through with the whole scientific method."
His hand came to finally wrap around Draco's and Draco's cock. He had to suppress a crow of triumph.
"What's that mean?" He asked, bemused.
"Ah—Muggle thing."
Muggle thing. And then the weight of their identities was back, pressing down on them. "Harry Potter," he breathed.
"Draco Malfoy," Harry gasped back, eyes shinier than ever—tears? "Let's not be them for a minute."
"No?" He managed to choke out as their fingers entwined and began their torturous rhythm.
"Let's be two teenage boys who grew up too fast. Let's be two people who made too many mistakes. Let's be two enemies who have the chance to make things right. Harry and Draco."
"That was unexpectedly eloquent," he said finally. His heart was in his eyes, he was sure, but Harry's—Harry's—was, too. And then he could feel his pulse through the wet heat of his mouth as their lips and hearts finally met.
He pulled back. Lips red as sin. Hair mussed beyond belief. Eyes that were now a friendly forest.
He stepped back amongst the trees and came harder than ever before.
"How long?" Harry asked suddenly.
"You've held it. Eight or nine inches, don't you think?"
"Evasive git."
"I'm a Slytherin, what do you expect?"
"I've learned not to, with you."
"Ouch."
"Stop avoiding the question. How long have you…wanted this?"
"How presumptuous of you. Perhaps I just took advantage of your capable hands."
The smirk was back. "A compliment. That tells me all I need to know."
"You tell first, then." He made a petulant moue.
Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. "Sixth year, alright? Glaring just turned to ogling at some point, I suppose…"
"Ugh. At least you had some good taste that year. Honestly, the Weaselette?"
"How long?" He was very single-minded.
"Too long."
"Since the handshake?"
"Who's presumptuous, now?"
"You were a very precocious eleven year old."
"Oh, don't even pretend to be a celibate hero," he snorted. "You still have your hands down my pants."
"Fair enough."
"And it was only third year that I really wanted you."
"So you never hated me?"
"Oh no, I did. Very much. I hated that I wanted you."
He could feel the burst of shocked laughter through Harry's bare chest. He nuzzled it. They stayed like that, content, almost domestic. He felt it was too perfect. So Draco, in typical high form (low?) ruined it. Or tried to, at least.
"So this is just an experiment? Something of no consequence?"
Harry smiled like the sunrise. "We're Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy." His smile widened, if that was even possible. "Everything between us is of consequence."
"You're different at midnight, Harry," he sighed against his lips (he had nibbled the smile away, but it was back, glow suffusing through Draco).
"Yeah? Less of a prat, you think?"
"Much less." He agreed lazily. "Oh!" Harry's hand had slunk up to smooth the puckers of his nipples.
"Especially when I do this?"
"You absolute bastard."
He pulled back only to wrap his arms around Draco again, spreading over him, a living blanket. "Suppose I can't say the same for you, or you'll pull out the family tree." He sounded alarmingly sleepy.
"You can call me 'prick' if you like."
"That fits." He cast a half-closed glance over Draco's sweaty body. "You hard again?"
"I didn't think it was anatomically possible. But yes," he admitted with a frown. "Damn you. See what you do to me?"
"Nothing compared to what you do to me." He pressed two oddly slick fingers to Draco's lower lip. He opened his mouth willingly, exploring his thumbprints with an eager tongue. That taste certainly wasn't sweat…Oh.
"You came. Without…"
"Yes."
And he sucked the fingers into his mouth with renewed enthusiasm, tasting the unique woodsy masculine bittersweet aroma that he now knew was Harry.
Harry looked at him through heavy lidded eyes. He yawned and flopped back against Draco, long nose nuzzling into the hollow of his throat. He placed one last biting kiss there, breathing slowing, slowing, slowing.
"Don't fall asleep!"
"Why not? That'd be one for the papers, wouldn't it?"
"'Savior of the Wizarding World Experiments with former Death Eater.'"
"Experiments, again? I think not. You're in much deeper than that."
"I look forward to it."
"You and I, we're so much more."
He's never wanted him or hated him so much. Never felt so much all at once.
It must be love.