Harry had read Hermione's letter over and over again, growing more and more eager as the date of Ron's birthday approached. He could hardly still believe that he was in possession of such a letter. Harry loved Ron as deeply as a friend can. They'd been through so much together. Over the years he had still kept deeply a flame of curiosity burning for his redheaded counterpart, and her was the fantasy ready to be fulfilled.
Harry had spent many a day down in his pub, drifting off into fantasies of what Ron's birthday would be like—limbs tangled in bed, burning wet flesh, moans of desire, and he'd find himself lost and horribly hard and being shouted at by customers who was sure something was quite wrong with him. His nights were spent jerking himself to the daydreams, lying propped against his pillows, sheets and body soaked with sweat, writhing beneath the vivid and erotic yarns of his wild imagination and surging libido.
One night Harry had dragged Draco up to his room even before all the patrons and drunks were cleared from the bar, or the employees were dismissed for the night. In an unusual display of unbridled need, Harry seemed to be barely restrained from attacking the blond. Harry's fingers grabbed hastily at Draco's fine garments, tearing things in the process. The pale wizard was stunned at Harry's behavior, and was caught somewhere between being offended that his exquisite wardrobe was mistreated, and a kind of pride that he truly hadn't felt but had only masqueraded for some time—that he made Harry want him so badly.
In fact his judgment was misplaced. Harry's desire for Draco had been usurped by his desire for Ron, and his fantasies couldn't get him off in the way he needed. Harry was beside himself with the need to fuck someone senseless. He had never felt so out of control, and he just had to have this or he was going to go mad with it before Ron and Hermione even appeared on his doorstep.
Harry backed Draco to the bed, laying hard kisses to Draco's soft lips, clicking their teeth together eagerly. Harry's tongue delved deeply into Draco's mouth, as his hands roamed over Draco's naked frame, the color of fine porcelian. The passion twisting and writhing in Harry's combustible body surged through him and seemed to be transferred to Draco as well. Harry was an intense lover, but now the passion was more than intense—it was edging in on extreme. It was exciting and spoke of all sorts of things Draco dare not think of. Harry's head was bowed, his mouth latched onto one of Draco's hardened nipples as he worried it with his teeth and tongue.
Harry was usually the dominant. Draco's general attitude of superiority and his air of dominance—usually in his childhood and teen years, and even sometimes still misplaced in bullying—was not the complete landscape of his personality, by far. Harry had learned later in life, that Draco hid behind such things, attempting to appear ways he wished to be perceived rather than they way he thought his real character would appear, should he fail at his defenses or—a rarity—allow them to be let down. Harry was Draco's escape from his own mind-games. When Draco was with Harry in these moments, he could be vulnerable, weak, less than what was expected of him; he could be real if he wanted to. Sometimes, it was still hard to let go, but Harry was usually able to coax it out of him, and the sex would be a mere undertone to how good it felt to let go of such things and to be broken down into himself.
Harry's name built in his throat, choking Draco with the need to vocalize it in the weakest of tones. It was his natural instinct as a Malfoy to fight against it, to swallow it back, and suffocate on it until it could no longer be held back. Harry's teeth grazed Draco's nipples which were bruising the color of ripe grapes from the amount of delicious suckinging Harry was doing to them, and the way he pulled and tugged at them with his teeth. Draco's back arched up from the matress, his mouth open in a silent cry as his fingers gripped Harry's shoulders and his short nails bit into the blades. Draco's eyes rolled listlessly, his sweaty head tossed back onto the pillows, as Harry's hand roved downwards, nails dragging over Draco's belly and leaving pink trails against his skin. Harry's hand brushed against Draco's cock, which made the blond arc up again and this time Harry's name whined pitifully from his lips. It sounded sinfully wonderful to the both of them. Draco shuddered, his own desperate need vocalized serving to only further turn him on. He writhed beneath Harry whining, his cock twitching against Harry's fingertips as they hovered, but did not grasp, or tease, or tug. Draco's hands moved up Harry's neck and tangled into the wild black hair, eagerly shoving Harry downwards, needing something to pay attention to his needy member. If not Harry's hand, then his mouth would be greatly appreciated, though in their sexual exploits it was usually Draco who used his mouth—and usually ravenously, swallowing all of Harry's thick cock deep into his throat without so much as his eyes watering as he suppressed the reflex to gag on it.
Harry paused here, and lapped at Draco's twitching head. Harry closed his eyes and groaned out at the eager pre-release dappling his tongue and smearing his lips—he wanted it to be Ron's, to taste what he had wanted to taste for so long. Harry nuzzled into the hard flesh, licking up and down the shaft. Draco's hands were painfully tight in Harry's messy hair, all sorts of plaintive cries and needy whines coming freely from his head which was tossed back onto the pillows as his body writhed.
"Harry!" Draco begged, completely desperate. "P-please!"
Draco's hips bucked up, his flesh wanting to be enclosed in the hot wetness of Harry's mouth. Harry sat back for a moment, and watched Draco panting against the sheets, his silvery eyes hooded, his pale skin gleaming with sweat, his whitish hair stuck to his forehead. Doing this to Draco while Harry thought of and burned for Ron, wasn't really right. Draco was beautiful and desirable in his own way, and they did have an odd sort of connection and need for one another that neither of them really cared to discus, and until Hermione's owl, that had been good enough for Harry. He had been sufficiently pleased with having various men wander in and out of his life, with Draco being the specific one who would always wander back to him.
Harry leaned forward and pressed his lips to Draco's. A warm tongue met his sticky lips, Draco kissing him wantonly to taste himself upon Harry's mouth. That sent a shiver twisting down Harry's spine, followed by another when Draco's nails dragged down the back of his neck and Harry groaned into their mated mouths. Draco's strong legs wrapped around Harry's waist, pulling him closer. Harry parted their kiss and slid his fingers past Draco's swollen lips and into his mouth, where the blond sucked them as eagerly as he would suck Harry's cock—which twitched madly in response to the expertly swirling tongue.
"F-fuck Draco."
"Yesss..." Draco hissed, as Harry removed his fingers from Draco's mouth, and buried them now into the tight heat that would soon be strangling Harry's aching cock. "Fuck Draco. Fu—uck...yes, Harry."
Draco arced up as Harry's fingers stretched him and prodded that place inside him that made him want to explode. Soon after Harry's thick length was buried deep into Draco's body, and the both spiraled up and up until their climaxing cries mingled and Harry's heavy load filled Draco and left him satisfied.
Draco could have purred, if he was the type to do so, as he wrapped his sweaty body in the cool feel of Harry's cotton sheets.
Harry cleaned himself up with a corner of the sheet, and then flopped down next to Draco. The pale blond was watching him closely, in fact, more closely than usual. Harry ran his fingers through his messy black hair, a habit that never served to accomplish anything.
"Good?" He asked.
"Yes." Draco nodded. "Always. Do you really have to ask after what you so clearly do to me—or do you only enjoy over-inflating your ego, Potter?" Draco smirked.
"We're back to "Potter" now are we?" Harry shoved Draco's shoulder a bit playfully. They were bothy laying in bed, facing one another, chatting and teasing like they might have been old friends. It served to make Harry think of Ron again—to miss him—as they used to do this very thing on a near nightly basis when housemates. Only, they never had happened to do it naked after sex.
"No." Draco said quietly, reaching out to trail the tips of his fingers over the muscles in Harry's arm. "I rather prefer Harry, now."
Harry swallowed a lump that was building up in his throat. It wasn't abnormal for the two of them to talk a bit after their romping—but not like this. There was something different in Draco's words, and the way he said them, and the touches were...well it was all a bit off, Harry thought. Draco seemed to be showing him a different sort of affection, and Harry couldn't really place just how it was off, but it was.
"Is...everything alright, Draco?"
"Better than usual, actually. The nightmares...they've been a bit better lately. I've gotten more sleep than usual, and...yes, things are better."
Draco had over the course of their relationship—if it could be called that—become more open with Harry than he usually was with anyone. However there were still things that Draco was too ashamed of to tell even Harry. Draco had embarrassingly showed up on Harry's doorstep drunk out of his mind more than once—however, Harry had little reason to suspect Draco of having any sort of problem. Anyone could indulge too much from time to time, and Draco did not make a habit of looking unkempt or reeking of alcohol. In fact, he never even drank when he came into Harry's pub. He was there for the the owner alone, and although his hand often itched to hold a tumbler or bottle, and his mouth often salivated for the horrible strong taste—he didn't do it. He had kept from Harry the fact that he was rather too deep into a bottle of fire whiskey far too often, usually at his home, as he had no desire to share this particular fall from grace with the world. Draco had only sought out the drink at first in some sort of effort to relieve himself of the dreams that plagued him like dark festering boils in his midnight mind.
However he had found that he was the sort of person who once started drinking could not stop until he was an unconscious heap. Such things were very unbecoming of a Malofy, but they happened still, because Draco had no idea how to deal with his problems. He had very little experience in dealing with things on his own—he had always had Daddy to take care of things for him, because Daddy had once been an important man whose name alone could often sway people into decisions that would benefit a bratty child who didn't always have the confidence in his own skills. But Daddy? Father Malfoy was larger than life for the majority of Draco's young existence. Then once at Hogwarts, he had Goyle and Crabb to further take care of things for him. Even Snape had made Draco's life easier, Snape favoring the boy as a Slytherin and son of one of his only close friends. Draco rarely had to do much for himself and when confronted with a heavy task on his own—he was terrified.
In his head, against those unrelenting, demonic dreamscapes, there was no one to help him against them. There was only Draco, and he found over and over again that he was too scared, and too weak. He had known these things all along, but for many years he had been able to hide his massive shortcomings. After taking the mark, there was really no more wearing that mask when he looked in the mirror. All he had seen since that day was what he really was, and the adjectives that came to him over and over again were things like failure, pathetic, disappointment, coward.
"That's great." Harry smiled at him, and Draco found himself wanting Harry to lean in and kiss him—just a quick kiss of affection, rather than an impassioned one of lust. But Harry did not. Draco moved closer to him, and rested his head against Harry's chest. He closed his eyes when he felt the familiar fingers swirling through his hair. That was nice.
"Are you going to ask me to stay for breakfast tomorrow?"
Harry was taken a bit aback, at that. He remembered that last time he and Draco had been together, he'd offered Draco toast or something—but Draco had put his walls up and left.
"Er...sure, I guess so."
"Good, because I...I think I'll stay, this time." Draco wrapped his arm around Harry's torso, his eyes beginning to close a bit with the approaching cloud of sleep. "I do like toast." Draco added, as an afterthought. Harry's fingers toyed around with the soft whitish-blond locks, his fingers moving down to graze the rounded top of Draco's ear—which as always, drew a shiver from the Slytherin. Draco could tell Harry some of his darkest and deepest thoughts, and yet, it had taken him all this time to simply stay for breakfast. Harry yawned, and pressed his cheek to the soft locks atop Draco's head. Very soon, they were both asleep.
A/n: If you would like this story to continued, please leave me a review, even if just short. The first chapter only had one review and I was a bit disappointed. I just like to know if people are reading or if I'm doing this for no reason. I hope if some of you are reading, that you're enjoying so far.
