Harry approaches the entrance to Dancing Divas and finds a queue lined up and around the block. A young man with his hair done up in a purple mohawk checks identification cards and takes entrance fees at the door, and behind him stands David. Only David doesn't have his usual slacks and shirt on anymore. He's decked out in black leather trousers and his dark brown hair is teased into spikes. He's wearing a tight white T-shirt that's stretched so taut over his chest, Harry can see his nipples through it and the definition of his abs. David seems to be overseeing the people as they enter, a name badge hanging round his neck from a lanyard. The name on it reads Gryphon.
Harry blinks, shakes his head, and looks again to make sure he's seeing things right. Then he takes off his glasses and whispers a cleaning spell at them before joining the queue. It could be that he and Narcissa have been reading David all wrong. Perhaps the reason he's here is because he works here. Maybe it's a part-time gig? But that doesn't explain why he'd shoved Harry up against the wall and snogged him senseless … unless he and Malfoy have one of those open relationships Harry's only just learned exist.
"Hey," David calls. Harry looks up as David holds up the admission process and walks over to him. "As I live and breathe, you're back. Come with me, there's no waiting in the queue for you."
Harry follows, not liking being singled out, but the people in front of him don't make a fuss, they hardly seem to notice Harry's being led past them. He pats his trousers for his billfold, but David shakes his head, noticing.
"Don't even worry about it, er – what would you like me to call you? While I'm here, I'm known as Gryphon." He pats his lanyard.
"I'm not sure," Harry says. He really hasn't thought this all out well at all. There are names you use other than your own name at clubs?
They pass the guy with the mohawk. "Spike, this one's a VIP. Give him the stamp."
Spike looks at Harry with a bored expression, digs around in the drawer on his lap, and pulls out a rubber stamp. He stamps Harry's hand so it readsDiva's Choice in shining purple ink, and then Gryphon pushes Harry's through the door.
"I've gotta finish up with this lot, then I'll come and find you," Gryphon tells him and turns back to the queue.
Harry wanders into a large room set with tables and chairs around the edges of a polished wooden floor at the centre. Most of the tables are unoccupied and a good number of men dressed in fashion similar to Harry mill about the open floor.
The lights hang from the ceiling, balls of white, spreading just enough of a soft glow to illuminate about a 3 foot circumference beneath them. They're scattered, throwing some areas into darkness. He understands why when he passes a couple of blokes with their hands down each other's trousers. But nobody seems to find it unusual.
Harry approaches the bar set off to the right. The barman waves his money away when he tries to pay, pointing to Harry's stamp. "VIPs don't pay." Harry hardly thinks that's fair and drops his Muggle bills into a glass bowl with a placard sitting on top that reads Donations go to support the Albert Kennedy Trust. He's not sure what that is, but if it's a charity, he'll feel better about accepting the drink if he donates his money.
He finds a place to stand, out of the way of the dance floor, where several blokes lean up against a long and tall table. They're all drinking and talking, and waiting for something to happen, though whatever it is, Harry's still not sure. He looks around. He doesn't get the same sensation that he does in most public places in wizarding London, like people are watching him and whispering his name. Here, he blends in with the crowd. A few pairs of eyes settle on him occasionally as they also scope out the room, but it feels like they're appreciating his outfit, and not ogling famous Harry Potter. It's a nice feeling.
He vaguely wonders why Gryphon would offer him a VIP pass, but figures it does have to do with his all-too-famous name. His eyes pick out all the blokes with blond hair before he realises he's looking around for Malfoy, and tells himself to knock it off. If Malfoy was here with Gryphon, it would be awkward and make him needlessly jealous. He'd seen Malfoy with his mother and son only an hour ago. It's better that he's not here. Perhaps he'll find somebody who will keep his mind from wandering back to the most amazing fucking massage in the world, but somehow, he doubts that's possible.
After a few more minutes of people watching, he finishes his drink, and starts thinking about fetching another when he realises there are women here, too. They wander through the growing crowd, flirting with the men. It takes another couple of minutes for him to realise they are actually men dressed in women's clothing. Nobody appears to find it at all odd. He really is clueless when it comes to the gay club scene. He's thinking he ought to do some research before coming in again, and then his mind wanders back to the years of repression growing up with the Dursleys.
His bitterness must show on his face because a bloke joins him and nudges him with an elbow. "You, too, eh?" he asks. He sounds miserable. Harry looks at him, surprised. "Broken heart?"
"What?" Harry asks. "No, not really, just lost in thought."
The bloke pays him no mind and keeps talking. "Yeah, my Mike ran out on me; s'been about a week now. No love, no cock, no nuffink. Hard life. See, it started way back at school …" And Harry has to tune him out. This isn't what he came in for.
The lights begin to dim and a hush falls over the crowd. Harry looks to the front of the room, only now realising the grand red curtain against the wall is actually a stage curtain. A show is about to start.
"…An' then they tossed me out on my arse; sure, I may have been fryin' balls at the time, I don't really recall…"
"That's enough out of you for now, Pete. Drizella's coming on." Gryphon is back. He grabs the bloke around his arm and leads him to one of the smaller tables, pushes him into a chair, and returns to the table where Harry's standing. "You'll like this," he tells Harry. The lights go out and a pair of spotlights meet at the centre of the curtain. Music begins to play from loudspeakers Harry hadn't noticed mounted in the corners and at the sides of the ceiling.
Harry isn't much of a music fan, but this is lovely. It starts with some sort of drums, playing a slow, almost seductive beat, before a stringed instrument, perhaps a cello, joins in and the curtain lifts.
A woman stands at centre stage, but she's so beautiful he can hardly believe she's real. Her arms are bare, skin smooth and silky white, and she has well defined biceps. She's wearing a red sleeveless dress, and her legs are also bare and pale; she balances in a pair of heels taller than he would think anybody could walk in. Her hair frames her face in thick golden curls, and her eyes are closed above her pointed nose. Her lips are perfectly painted in a red bow. The collective sigh of appreciation lets Harry know he's not alone in recognising true beauty when he sees it.
Then the music changes, the drums increasing in number and rhythm. Her eyes flash open and she begins to dance. Harry loses himself in her movements. He finds a chair and falls into it, unable to keep his eyes off this creature and how she manages to twist her body in such a sinuous and downright seductive way. She moves like a snake, altering her poses as quickly as a serpent can snatch its prey and snap its jaws. He follows her lithe body, twisting and changing poses in a manner that looks like it would be painful, but her face is alight and so damn tempting. There's something not-quite-right with the way she looks. No – that's not it – more like something about her that stokes his longing. And then he realises what it is – she's a man.
Her dress doesn't hide the fact that she doesn't have breasts, instead she has pecs and they're built, firm, strong. This fabulous person is so fucking strong, he realises – watching in awe as she pulls off poses in heels the length of his erect cock, that even if he tried to make a move on her – he would likely be overpowered without much effort. And that does him in. He trembles in his shoes, wanting.
Gryphon slaps him on the back and leans in close, his stubble brushing Harry's cheek and the mixed scents of cologne, leather, and smoke don't even penetrate the spell he's under. "Cleans up pretty nice, eh?"
Harry swats Gryphon's hand off his shoulder as if chasing off a fly, eyes glued on this Drizella. She straightens up and her eyes narrow, glaring daggers at the door to the club. A camera flashes. "Oh, no he didn't," Gryphon mutters before the crack of his Disapparation echos off the walls.
Harry turns to look at whatever is causing the commotion. There's a scuffle, an angry shout, and another loud crack. The crowd doesn't seem to notice the interruption or the fact that Drizella has stopped dancing. Harry wonders what kind of magic this is. It feels like a Muggle Repelling Charm, but he's never seen one used like this before, and wouldn't have expected to find it in a Muggle establishment.
The front door closes and Gryphon holds a camera up for Drizella to see. She nods. Something happened or almost happened, Harry observes, then remembers the sign on the door stating No Photography, followed up with the warning Don't Push Your Luck.
Harry can understand wanting to avoid the press, but as Drizella recommences dancing and the roomful of Muggles seem to awaken from their trance, he wonders at the sinister sensation he'd felt during the pause.
Before Harry knows it, the dance is over. Drizella makes her way off the stage as the lights come on again and mingles with the crowd on the dance floor, talking to people and accepting compliments – fucking glowing. Harry watches her progress, unable to tear his eyes away, and the pathetic bloke, Pete, rejoins him, droning on again even though Harry's not listening to a word he says.
He keeps his eyes on Drizella as she ends up at the entrance and exchanges some sharp words with Gryphon before flashing a winning smile and returning to the stage.
The lights dim once more, and Harry whispers a quiet thank you to whatever deity has blessed him with another performance. Not even Pete's continuing sob story can ruin tonight for Harry. He's in a zone alone with Drizella – the beat of the music matching the beat of his heart – singing to his soul. How can he have never realised such beauty existed? He follows her amazingly long leg as she lifts one high up, and then – hell, how can she even be doing what he's seeing? Practically folding herself in half, standing on one long thin heeled shoe, her thigh muscles rippling.
The music ends again and the lights go up. The crowd erupts in cheers and exclamations, and men stuff Muggle money into three large glass bowls like the one Harry had seen on the bar – mounted in place at the foot of the stage.
Her voice rings out over the chattering crowd, deeper than a woman's, but richly feminine.
"Please remember your donations go to the Albert Kennedy Trust for homeless LGBT teens. Thank you all for coming. We've got Anastasia, Dinah, and Duchess singing later tonight."
She leaves the stage, and a chorus line of male dancers in very little clothing take her place. It's clear to Harry that she is the star most people have come to see, and she's working her way through the crowd, coming ever closer to where he's sitting. He tries to look away, to watch the new line of dancers as they move and shake to some sort of hip-hop music, he thinks.
"Uh-oh," Gryphon says at Harry's shoulder. He turns as Drizella approaches them, her eyes flashing with a fury Harry can't quite comprehend. She stops directly before Harry and glares at him, then looks at Gryphon, who shrugs his shoulders.
"And you find this amusing, do you, Potter?" she spits, and the voice is not Drizella's voice. Harry starts. It's Draco's voice. And he realises only now – performance artist, dancer, Saturday and Wednesday (today is Wednesday), the phrase because you're not invited – that he's stepped in it big time. But fuck it all if Harry can find a fuck to give. Draco's beautiful. Harry can't even see him as Malfoy any longer.
He stands up, holding up his hands as if surrendering. "Don't look at me. I hadn't a clue you were you until you said my name just now. Fuck, you're gorgeous." And, of course that slips out. His brain to mouth filter is broken.
Draco's lips twitch into a smirk – a smirk that looks so much more kissable with bright red lipstick – seemingly without meaning to. He catches himself and frowns, then points at Harry. "You …" then turns to Gryphon, "…and you. Backstage. Now." He turns again, spotting pathetic Pete. "Pete," he snaps, and Pete shuts up and pays full attention. "Fire the ticket taker and stand outside. Do not allow entrance to anybody else, understand? If they try to bribe you, tell me, and I'll double it."
Pete nods stupidly and rushes to the door. There is absolutely no question about it, Drizella is the queen of this castle.
Gryphon takes Harry by the elbow and leads him backstage. They reach a dressing room with a giant silver star set upon the door, and Draco stalks past them, unlocks it, and orders them in with a pointing finger.
They shuffle inside and Draco shuts the door with a little more force than is necessary, then stands with his back to it. "Explain yourselves!" he demands, and Harry can practically see sparks shooting from his eyes.
Harry's still lost in how different his face looks, but how sexy he finds it, until Draco throws up his hands and stalks to the wall length mirror. "Oh, for fuck's sake." He opens a jar of white cream and dabs it on his face, rubbing it in well, and then takes a wet towel and scrubs the lower half of his face until it's free of makeup. Then he pulls off his wig and clip on earrings, and ruffles his hair until it's standing up as crazy as Harry's normally is. "You think you can focus now?" he demands of Harry, and reaches up to pinch his false eyelashes, but Harry stops him.
"No, please don't. Don't take them off because I'm an idiot. I can explain."
Draco narrows his eyes, but leaves the lashes in place. He purses his lips and silences Harry with a finger, then turns to Gryphon. "Gryphon, you left your post? Did that pointy-haired prick take a bribe? I told you he was the weak link! How many times did I remind you not to leave your fucking post?"
Gryphon stares at his shoes, guilt all over his face. "Well, I saw Harry Potter in the queue…" He gestures hopelessly at Harry as if that explains his oversight. "Er … I'm sorry about that. Pete was distracting the show, and Potter … He seemed to want to watch. I assumed he'd come to see you, that you'd invited him."
"Assumptions!" Draco's back to livid.
Harry lifts his hands again. "Hey, I was just walking by …"
Draco shuts him up with a look and takes in his outfit . "Just walking by, dressed like sex on legs? Or is this a clever glamour?" He snatches Harry's shirt and feels the material. Harry's skin burns at the memory of Draco's hands. Draco raises his eyebrows and releases him. "Twilfitt's finest." Harry opens his mouth. "Shut up, I don't want your excuses yet. Let me finish up with Gryphon."
"Wait," Harry insists. He has to explain himself. "I … I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath. "You're right; I don't know your story. I didn't even know it was you on the stage … All I know is when I see something I like … er … damn it." He sighs, and fiddles with his shirt cuff. "I'll go. I know you're partners. I don't want to make this anymore weird than it already is. I'm just not good at all this …" He gestures absently at everything and nothing.
Draco's eyebrows rise higher on his forehead. "All this?" He repeats Harry's gesture, an incredulous look on his face, like he can't believe Harry is as obtuse as he's acting.
Harry snaps back at him. It's his instinct to fight with Draco.
"I've been so fucking far in the closet …" he's shaking, not sure if it's nerves or fury, but all the words he's kept bottled spill out, as if the admission popped the cork and now the pressurised contents can't be stopped, "…for twenty-eight years, Draco! I don't know how to be my fucking self, all right? I'm fucking walking blind!"
Draco starts. "Wait, what?" He wrinkles his forehead. "You mean you're not just …"
Gryphon snorts, and Draco turns on him in ire. "Shut the fuck up." His words aren't angry like they were. They're more sassy than Harry's heard Draco sound before. "You got the camera?"
"Yeah." Gryphon shrugs and swings his arms as if preparing to get back to work. "I got it. The prat Disapparated, but I saw his face. I'm almost certain it's the same bloke as before, unless he's using Polyjuice. I'll keep my eyes open and file a complaint with the Ministry of Magic about keeping their Aurors from sticking their arses outside their jurisdiction if he shows up again."
Draco seems satisfied and shoos him away. Gryphon grabs Draco's hand, pulls it up as if he's preparing to kiss it, and then pulls Draco all the way flush with his own body and smacks their lips together.
Harry feels like chewing gum on the underside of a trainer until he sees Draco stepping on Gryphon's toes with the sharp point of his heel. Gryphon lets him go and grins. He points at his boots. "Steel toes. See, I do learn from my mistakes."
"Out!" Draco demands, but he's flushed.
Gryphon winks at Harry and whispers close to his ear on his way out. "Thought I'd get one last snog in before he declares himself off limits …" He leaves and shuts the door.
"Who is that guy? Seriously! He's not threatening you, is he?"
Draco chuckles under his breath. "No, Potter. He's actually one of the good guys. Now sit down. It's my turn to talk."
Harry has the feeling he's about to have his arse handed to him, lectured like a naughty school boy. And then he curses his brain because according to the tightness of his trousers, that idea has merit.
Draco stares down at him a moment, considering him. "You aren't reacting like I thought you would."
The sudden shift in tone and attitude throws Harry off balance.. He doesn't feel like he's on trial like before. "Ummm … You've thought about how I would react?"
Draco blows his fringe out of his eyes; his cheeks going pink. "Well, maybe. It was only a passing thought. Look …" he draws up the chair Harry hadn't sat in and straddles it, his tight red dress stretching to allow the position heaven knows how. He looks up at Harry, and Harry stares at his legs. "My eyes are up here." There's a trace of pride in his voice underlined with indignation. Harry meets his eyes. "David, or Gryphon when he's here, is not my sexual partner. He's my bodyguard. We are partners in the wizarding world, but only to the extent that he's part owner of the massage parlour. This club …" he waves his hand at the room, "…is mine. It's my safe place. But lately I haven't been feeling very safe even here."
"Safe from what?" Harry asks, mind still reeling at the idea Draco isn't with David. Still, he has to know what kind of trouble Draco is in. It would be so much easier if Draco would tell him.
"Potter. You do realise that dressing in drag isn't what wizarding society deems normal behaviour, yes?"
Harry furrows his eyebrows. "I've never thought about it. But, seeing you … I don't see why not. I mean …" He attempts to backtrack because Draco looks offended. "You look gorgeous. You are gorgeous. Just as you are … no matter how you're dressed." Draco's eyes seem to soften, his posture becoming less rigid. He releases a long and low sigh, and stares at a spot on the floor. "What? Did I say something wrong?"
"No." Draco kicks his shoes off and flexes his bare feet. Harry holds himself in check. "It just fucking figures."
"What?"
Draco looks back up, and gives up the anger. "It figures that the man I've always hoped I'd meet – who sees me as me despite all this –" He flicks his hand over himself dismissively. "It fucking figures that it would be you."
"Er – I'm not who I was, Draco; you're not either." He stops, and changes tack as Draco turns indignant again. "I mean, we are … but now we're grown up … more in touch … authentic?" He cringes, hating how stupid he's got to sound, but Draco hasn't tossed him out yet.
"I'm out as a gay man in the wizarding world, Potter, but I'm not out as a cross-dresser. If my father…" He shudders. "If word of this made it to the papers, my business would fail; I'd lose everything I've worked to build … I can't … And there's some arsehole out there determined to take me down anyway!" He sounds like he's spitting venom. He grabs the towel he'd used to wash his face and rubs at his left forearm, clearing off the make-up, then throws it across the room and studies his faded Dark Mark. "When I was sixteen, this was supposed to be a mark of pride, of honour, and then I realised it's all bullshit! Always was. That fucker." He breathes heavily, and looks back up at Harry, focussed. "He would have killed me if I'd refused it, but, perhaps if I had refused … then …"
"Stop," Harry says. He rests his hand on top of Draco's messy hair, runs his fingers through the silken strands and massages his scalp. It had felt so good when Draco had done it to him. "Don't finish that sentence," he whispers, and then continues, his voice quiet, calm. "You did what you had to do. I did too. I've been stifled, Draco. I'd never acknowledged the real me, the true me. I'd lived the lie to the point I believed it was true." Draco closes his eyes and it sounds almost as if he's purring. He rubs his soft cheek against Harry's arm. "But the more I pushed my true self down, the more it seemed to fight back. I … uh … I'm on a ... well, you know about the administrative leave?"
"Yeah," Draco says. He nuzzles Harry's arm again as he's stopped rubbing. He starts again. "I heard. I thought it was related to the accident."
"It is, sort of. But … I was taking risks that no father should take. It's almost like I was subconsciously hoping I'd get taken out by a curse … in the line of duty … blaze of glory type thing … and … not have to … face it."
"Some pair we make," Draco says, and looks up. Harry trails his hand down Draco's cheek, over his lips and, not breaking eye contact, Draco sucks his fingertip into his mouth. Harry shudders.
"Do we? Can we?"
Draco's eyes drop. He stares at Harry's crotch and these trousers hide nothing. He's hard as a rock. Draco looks back up, and Harry's never seen a more seductive sight than Draco sucking his finger, and staring up at him with his eyes made up. He pulls his finger free, catches Draco's hand with his own hand and pulls him up from the chair. They stand chest to chest, though Draco has him by a couple of inches. Harry's sort of sad he's not still wearing his heels.
"Come back to mine?" Harry breathes, their lips nearly touching.
"You still married?"
"No. I'm single as of this morning."
Then Draco arches an eyebrow, and bumps his groin to Harry's, making him moan. "You have a place?"
"Yeah," Harry breathes. "I bought it today." They're almost kissing, and then Draco begins to pull away. Harry holds him fast.
"I do need to change."
"No," Harry whispers. He kisses the corner of Draco's mouth, so tempted to take it further. He holds off. "Don't change, never change." At the look Draco gives him, Harry clarifies. The outfit, the makeup, even half removed, it's how Harry wants this first time to go. "Uh … that's not what I mean. I mean … you're comfortable … in this dress?"
"Well, my hair's off, and my face …"
"You look perfect."
"I can't go outside," Draco says. He's trembling. Only it's fear that's doing it, and Harry doesn't want that.
"Let me take you Side-Along. We'll go right in." He recalls the state of his house, but is determined to have Draco as he is right now. "Er … there's no furniture or anything, but it's safe."
Draco nods and Harry clasps Draco's hips, and shudders again at the sensation of Draco's erection hidden under that brilliant red dress as it presses against his. He Apparates them.
XxxX
They stand in what will eventually be Harry's living room. It's freezing, and the sounds of their breathing echo off the empty walls.
"Okay, when you said no furnishings, I thought you meant only a few pieces. You have nothing in here."
Harry can't wait any longer. He stops Draco's stupid observations with his mouth, finally kissing him deep, close, like he's dreamed of doing. He breaks away long enough to pull his wand out to throw up a Warming Charm, then drops it, and pushes Draco up against the nearest wall, kissing him again. They take it deeper, pressing as close as possible, building the urgency. Draco scratches Harry's shirt with his nails, then growls when he can't get it off in this position, and turns them so Harry's back is to the wall.
"Better," Draco breathes. He finds the hidden clasp the bloke from Twilfitt's showed Harry that releases the close-fitting shirt without ruining the fabric. He works it off Harry's arms and tosses it on the floor, then takes Harry's chin in his hand, and looks him square in the eye.
Harry's wondering how this is supposed to work. As Draco's dressed as a woman, does he want to be fucked like one? Does Harry want that? He doesn't … he wants … "I want you inside me, Draco."
Draco pauses, then smirks, only it's less a Draco smirk and more like a Pansy smirk but, in Harry's opinion, Draco wears it far better than Pansy ever could. "Oh, hell yes. That can be arranged." Harry gasps as Draco finds the release clasp on his trousers and pulls them down a second later, holding them in place with his foot for Harry to step out of, and then he kicks them over to join Harry's shirt.
Harry's more than willing to follow Draco's lead. He goes with it as Draco turns him to face the wall, pushing him up against it. Draco keeps him in place with a hand at the nape of his neck, his body pressing against Harry's back, pushing Harry's cheek to the plaster. "These windows charmed?" Harry shakes his head; he's trembling all over.
Draco pulls his wand from the bust of his dress, and Harry watches from his peripheral vision as Draco throws up a massive Imperturbable Charm that covers the windows and front door. He yanks Harry's pants down. They're new too. Small knicker-like things the bloke at the shop told him were necessary to keep the fit of his new trousers. He feels odd standing in only his socks, with his face to the wall, but he doesn't dwell on the idea for long because Draco drops kisses behind his ears, the back of his neck, and down his spine. Draco's moves his hands everywhere, raising goose bumps over Harry's entire body. And then Draco sinks to his knees.
Harry stares down at his cock dripping all over the floor. He thinks he's never been hotter in his life, and then melts as Draco starts tonguing his rim. His thoughts skip along the lines of, Oh, fucking hell, yes … and Why did I wait so long to do this? and then they fly away altogether as Draco probes deeper, alternating his grip on Harry's arse cheeks between gentle and rough. He works Harry open, but Harry's real readiness comes from the eager sounds Draco makes, licking and sucking at Harry's hole, then turning to bite gently at each cheek. He shakes them and slaps them not-quite-hard-enough to hurt, but enough that each slap steals Harry's breath. And he follows it all kissing Harry's hole, working his rim with his tongue until Harry's so loose and pliant, he's about ready to start sobbing. His prostate hasn't even been touched and yet, he's producing so much precome he'll have to watch where he steps as they go on.
Draco moves one of his hands, and Harry looks backwards and down as much as he can manage and watches Draco, hiking his dress over his hips, pulling his cock free from a pair of small red knickers, tugging at his foreskin and smearing the wetness over the head of his cock. Harry promises himself that one way or another, those knickers are going to end up in his pocket by morning and Draco won't get them back unless he begs – and maybe not even not then. He wants … His thoughts skitter again as Draco slicks his thumb with saliva, and then presses it to Harry's hole. It feels slicker than Harry expects, and then, the idea that Draco lubed it with his own precome, makes Harry's legs nearly go out from under him. He pushes his hips back, begging for that talented thumb to find his prostate again, sobbing when it does. He clenches around the base of Draco's thumb, wanting to keep it there and also, hoping to delay coming a little longer.
Draco chuckles and grips Harry's cock around the base, squeezing gently. It's enough to chase his immediate urge off, but then he looks down again, watches Draco catch the stream of precome dribbling out of him, and uses it to lube his dick.
"Fuck … Fuck … That's so fucking hot!" Harry shouts. He needs …
Draco gets to his feet again, holding Harry's cheeks apart with his hand, smearing slickness over Harry's rim with his thumb, and rubbing himself up and down Harry's bare backside. He fits his cock between Harry's thighs – the head pushing at Harry's sac, making it swing – and he longs for Draco's bollocks to smack against him, fucking him like the fucking animals they are. He's in heaven.
Draco nibbles at his earlobe, and kisses the side of Harry's face as a gentle trace of women's perfume, punctuated with the scent of Draco's arousal fills his nose. He groans. Draco whispers beside his ear, pressing the side of his own face against the back of Harry's head. "This is going to be quick. I can't hold off long … it's been … I've wanted you … so fucking long." His words disappear as he moves, angles his face and pulls Harry into a snog, distracting him, his neck bent at an odd angle that Draco somehow makes work. It must be Draco's own special brand of magic. Draco slides his cock up and down Harry's crease as Harry chases Draco's tongue with his mouth, then gasps at the blunt pressure at his hole. Draco moves his hand down to assist. "Push back, Harry," he whispers. "Take it … accept it."
Harry does. He pushes back as if to expel, but instead grips, and Draco pushes inside an inch at a time, fucking his way into Harry's body. Harry feels himself open up, stretching, but he's so fucking turned on and the slickness between them eases the glide. The idea of how much Draco needs this, how turned on he is – how desperate he is – drives him through the unfamiliar sensation. Draco bumps Harry's prostate, and though Draco's not all the way in, the angle is just right. "There, fuck me right there!" he gasps, and Draco does. Before Harry knows what's happening, Draco's fucking him long and hard, pushing all the way up inside and, it's unfortunate Draco's balls are trapped by his knickers and can't slap Harry's arse the way he'd like them to. The idea of Draco in his knickers, his dress – fucking Harry up against the wall dressed as a woman – it's nearly too hot to handle.
How is he doing this? Harry wonders as Draco holds Harry's cock again, and delays his orgasm only at the very last minute. This will not be a one-off, Harry promises himself. Not if he has anything to say about it. It's what he needs, what he's longed for, even before he knew he was missing anything, longing for anything. It's not just anal sex; it's the feeling of being claimed, of belonging. Draco knows how to own him, how to play his body and coax the music out of him. Draco's a master and Harry's a willing instrument, but even that isn't all of it. It's the fact Draco's fragile too, and a little bit feminine when he lets his guards down, but there are no two ways about it, he's a man and knows how to use his cock.
Harry twists his neck again and Draco crashes their mouths together, somehow establishing a regular pace for his thrusts, carrying them both higher, connected in so many ways, mouths and sex, and spirits. Harry's pleasure rises to the point he's cresting. They're joined, fitting together, filling up the empty spaces, feeling right.
Draco gasps into Harry's mouth, speeding up. He breaks the kiss, brushing his lips against Harry's with every thrust. "Oh, fuck … fuck … yeah."
Harry falls apart at his words. Not even touching his cock, he shoots come all over the wall, spurt after endless spurt. He's a fucking fountain.
Draco's breath is hot on Harry's face. He gasps, stiffens, shudders, and Harry's mind shatters in the best of ways. Draco just came … inside him … fucking inside him. He's full of Draco's come. The ideas, and Draco's prick still inside, pressing his prostate, make him push back for more, and he comes again, painting the wall with another stripe of white.
Draco nearly crumples on top of him, but pulls back, supporting Harry. "Holy shit … Holy fucking shit …" he gasps, losing his breath. He pulls Harry with him as he sinks to the floor, and Harry's grateful – his knees are shaking and weren't going to support him much longer. The floor is cold and hard, but Draco doesn't seem to notice. He wraps Harry in his his arms and stares at him with his beautiful eyes. "Did you just come again? Really?"
Harry pulls Draco's face down and kisses him quiet, then rolls so Draco is on his back and Harry can rest his head on Draco's chest, listening to his heart thundering beneath his ear. Draco's nipples stand erect under the bust of his dress. Harry pushes it a little further down, finding a nipple with his lips, kissing it, licking it, blowing on it, and then suckling, satisfied with the massive shudders wracking Draco's body.
