HP Magic Eight Ball Part 25
Warnings: AU; EWE; Junior Aurors!Harry smuff-filled center; PWP; snark & minor flangst.
NB: Dedicated with smiles and heartfelt 'thank you's' to the 90-odd people who followed this on ; the 20-some who favorited, including the ones who've read my fic across fandoms (love you guys!); the commenters who kept me going, encouraged and cheered even when hacking my lungs out; one very special person who's offered to beta this monstrosity (so that one day this fic might be free of the author's stupid SPaG errors, never mind her various failings in plotting and characterization); and whoever else who might take the time to wade through nearly a month's worth of my sustained silliness in the future. You are the very best: and I purr happily in gratitude. Tiger
Harry felt like the Muggle Ball bobber, spinning topsy-turvy out of his own Floo. Malfoy had set his teeth with a firm little click at Harry's challenge—rather like a door finally closing at Harry's back— politely made their excuses to the gathered company, and had them ushered out of Ron and Hermione's hearth nearly before Harry quite realized it was indeed 'show time'.
Time to put his Galleons where his mouth was, 'cept his mouth was doing nicely, occupied with Malfoy's, and Harry had no good reason to gnaw on his hard-earned knuts.
Malfoy's knuts, though, were an entirely different matter, except—again, that word, proving the prat was a perpetual exception in Harry's life—Malfoy wasn't letting him do much other than murmur the odd 'meep' of delight and respire, when he remembered to.
He was being grazed upon, firm lips traveling over every surface, clothed or not, and tongue and teeth sometimes, too, and it was delightful to be the feast. He'd expected to be shoved, bitten maybe; certainly bossed around a bit by his elder, more practiced partner. But this was better, this fondling, this care. Harry had not realized quite how deprived he really was of the pleasures of touch, of taste—until Malfoy showed him, capably pinning him to the wall most convenient to the Floo at hip and opposing shoulder and nibbling him into a dazed semblance of submission. It was Harry's door all over again, only a thousand times better. It was the two-minute intense snogging of the other morning, the one he recalled with guilty fervor, only there were no fumes, bad breath nor stomach-roiling regrets this time. He could put his own tongue wherever he chose and be assured Malfoy would eventually find it and meet it; he could curl his feebly grasping fingers forward, reaching, and know Malfoy's would slide from their death grip 'round his wrist and twine about them, tightening, never letting go. For every slight motion Harry made towards him, his partner was there, answering soundlessly yes, and yes, and yes.
"Want you," the prat ground out at some point, Harry didn't know quite when. "Gods! But I want you," he repeated in that gravelly voice, biting Harry's shoulder blade right through the fabric of his high-collared shirt, but Harry didn't need a verbal confession to know that. There was a dick flexing hard against his belly, rubbing rhythmically, and Malfoy was practically steaming with residual heat. Harry wanted to curl up into it and be seared to death, if possible.
"Now. Please now, Harry." Another lingering, drugging exploration of his mouth, plumbing the depths of every ridge and furrow, hollow and curve, and Harry would've done most anything Malfoy asked of him. 'Now' was not a problem; he'd wanted this 'yesterday', and a countless number of mostly empty days before that.
"Let me in," Malfoy muttered, "Let me have you," 'round the dampened patch of woven cotton scraping across Harry's one nipple. "Harry."
"Um," he replied, now that his own tongue was no longer being sucked down Malfoy's throat. "Yes."
He would've liked to ask Malfoy to make it all be faster—harder—now, but no. He didn't want that really; he wanted to be savored. To have Malfoy—Draco run a palm down the centre of his torso and pop every button and undo every clasp, buckle and zipper in a flourish of Magick. To be carefully unwrapped, like a holiday parcel; to hear his name on the git's burning breath when he discovered Harry's clavicle and diaphragm; to say 'Draco' slowly in return as if it were an open-ended invitation to partake, and tilt his head back just that way against the unforgiving wall as he was marked with sharp canines and relentless suction.
But frustration was growing, nagging away at him. Harry tapped Malfoy's shoulder just the once and returned the favor of undressing with a wandless charm : his favorite git in all the world was finally bare-arsed naked, all at once, and by, Merlin! the heat of his fine-grained skin spiraled up a thousand degrees without robes to hinder it. He gasped, Draco did, at the rush of chilled, stale air in the flat and pressed as much of himself as he could against Harry, still as of yet half clothed, trapping trembling thighs still surrounded by sagging trousers, and wrapping arms like Muggle steel-cord pulley devices 'round Harry and his on-again, off-again button-down shirt, gathering all of Harry to him with open-mouthed greed and fingers that bloody bruised. Harry went, more than willingly, a floppy doll, and relished it, that feeling of welcomed invasion—the tongue in his ear, the teeth nipping at his throat, the gouge of forefinger seeking entry into his innermost places. His hair being tugged by the slide of sweat-roughened palms, and Malfoy muttering the beginnings of words of want, and lust, and 'Fuck!' and 'Now.' All of it so very necessary now, with the floodgates agape and undammed.
"Oh, yes," Harry nodded frantically, muttering, wanting more, and struggled, strangled by his own apparel. He couldn't touch as much he must and he was dying without it. Cloth of any sort irritated him immensely when Malfoy—Draco—was just there, one onionskin-thin layer away. Grumbling, Harry wished every stitch to perdition, remembering again he was a real Wizard, fuck it, and there was finally, finally only skin. Lovely, lovely skin.
It tipped the balance, that. Impelled them both to exert force; to fling themselves against each other, bones knocking at the collision, and chomp down on each other's mouths. It was a bit painful, especially where clenching fingers overlaid stray muscles and scarring still sore from a morning spent cavorting with Doholov, but Harry didn't mind that. He'd already been seduced, admirably well, by a man who excelled at games of that nature; he rather wanted Malfoy to flat-out forget all that 'technique' shite and only just need to shag him, right through the wall, and devil take the pretty words and any consequences.
"Harry," Malfoy said yet again. Harry spread his legs as far as he could at the command implied, which given all that Muggle spy training, was more than enough. He twined a flexing thigh 'round Malfoy's hipbone and ground their cocks together, as he was by no means innocent of a few wiles of his own. It did the trick; that forefinger found him and delved in.
"Yeah—yes!" Harry praised his assailant, and offered up his neck to the man with the mouth like a bloody Hoover. Gods-fucking-Merlin, Malfoy was intense! He wanted to be swished and swirled about this way for bleeding forever, if that was what it did to his nerve-endings and his throbbing dick.
"No going back," Malfoy told him, and twisted two digits in such a way that Harry went both tense and lax simultaneously. Malfoy braced him against the wall with a grunt of effort. "No second-guessing," he informed Harry. "And no regrets, Potty. Try it and I'll hunt you down and skin you."
"And you—and you," he gasped back, caught up in shimmying the other leg up Malfoy like fucking tree trunk and he a bloody squirrel with balls swollen larger than his head. "You, too, motherfucker," he managed, despite being awash with three fingers and a great deal of suddenly conjured lube.
"No worries," the prat had the audacity to grin at him, and then sucked air through his nose, the very tip of his bulbous prick aligned finally at Harry's pucker. "Ready?"
"Gods!Fucking!Yes!" Harry bit out. "What the bloody fuck are you waiting for?!"
*
"Good?"
Malfoy had Harry's weight propped on a kneecap and was crouching just enough for purchase, long spine bent. He angled in on the upthrust and Harry nearly swallowed his tongue on his affirmative. He was dry-mouthed; Draco kissed him, all saliva dripping down his chin, and plunging tongue; a samba—nay, a fucking Bolero—of concerted piratical plundering.
"Faster!" but Draco was already on it. The motion joggled them sideways across the wall, scraping Harry's back on minutely cracked plaster, reminding him this wasn't merely another pointless wet dream or early morning wank fantasy. He was being shagged—was shagging—his secret, and it was so much better than any fantasy, he'd no words to offer up in gratitude.
Only flesh, slick with sweat and stray lube; his own head, bobbing and pecking at the incredibly handsome one before him, pressing butterfly kisses across a brow furrowed in concentration, licking up perspiration as it trickled down the planes of Malfoy's cheeks as if salt were ambrosia. Only his innards, tightening unbearably at every surge that thumped him into the wall; fluttering in anguish when Draco drew that magnificent cock of his out nearly to the bitter, saline end. Only hands, so firmly gripping the berk's flexing shoulder blades, Harry knew there'd be marks on Draco's back no Episky could erase. Bone-deep, the imprint he'd leave upon Malfoy, as permanent and unyielding as Malfoy's impression upon him.
"Like that? Harry?" Oh, Merlin. Those eyes and their feral gleam—Harry could drown there happily, easy at last in full-out desire. "Budge—up—a—bit," Malfoy directed, watching their two selves fuse and separate with a serpentine intensity. "That's it, Potter—that's it."
"Shut up!" Harry was at the end of his patience. He wanted Malfoy speechless and incoherent, damn it! He wanted to not be alone in this—this firestorm Draco was deftly whipping up in his arse. And he could barely hear that deep voice over the thunder of his own heartbeat. He felt it, though, reverberating through his cock and his quivering belly.
"No," the git panted, "No! Talk to me—talk to me, so I know you're here, prat. Make me believe it."
Gods! If that didn't melt him into a squishy puddle, nearly at the moment of reckoning. Harry admitted he was doomed, he was—no doubt about it. "Draco," he moaned, frantic to make his intentions clear. "Draco!" He wriggled madly against knee and plastered wall to adjust himself, wedge the bones of his narrow pelvis even wider, give more in any way he could. "I'm—I'm here, you fucking arsehole! Can't you see that!?"
"Harry," and that voice, that guttural voice was a deathblow to Harry's last little fidgets concerning maintaining some situational control, and last-ditch attempts at self-protection, and all that meaningless rot about not giving himself away too cheaply. He'd follow that voice anywhere, from Tibet to Cairo, and spread his legs anytime Malfoy wished it, if only for the experience of having his name come out of Draco's mouth just that way.
"Harry," Draco said again, and Harry's balls drew up tight against him, little crinkled, furry mounds of prickly red-hot tension, and Draco had a skillful hand wrapped 'round Harry's insanely hard cock, and it really was fucking Muggle heaven, and Nirvana, and all he could ever want to keep on breathing. 'Cept he wasn't, not now, and neither was Draco, lower lip caught between his teeth, eyes closed so hard and so tight his black-tipped lashes tangled damp like rain-soaked hedges, and his patrician head was tipped back atop a corded throat.
Harry came as he watched Draco swallow, the effects zinging like lightning across every neuron not already occupied with doing mundane tasks like engineering the actual ejaculation, and even some of those. Sloppy, slimy streams of opaque white, sprayed all over the delineated boundaries of Malfoy's chest—gods! But that was just a fucking nice expanse of flesh there! Harry's inner sportsman noted, avid even at that moment—and even past it, arcing over Draco's torso to graffiti the carpet and the scattered detritus of whatever the fuck it was they'd been wearing before. He nearly blacked out—certainly saw crimson, and heard a train rush by as he went off, buffeting him about in the currents—and was only brought back to reality slowly by the labored sounds of his own lungs heaving and the weight of the git's heavy head on his aching collarbone.
"Fucking 'bout time, Potty," Malfoy observed, when he'd achieved the ability to do so. "Lame brain."
*
"I want you to admit something, Potter," Draco informed him. "I want you to say you've never had better."
"I've never had better," Harry parroted obediently. "Possessive, much?"
His hair was ruffled in quick retaliation and the berk's eyes were gleaming with a smile as he teased spit curls out of tangle with nimble fingertips, the quirk of his swollen lips half in shadow from the one or two candles he'd waved into flickering life. They'd downed a shared glass of water and limped off to Harry's unmade bed, still gloriously sticky, legs wobbly yet.
"Oh, yes, Potter. Decidedly so." Just as full of himself as a bloody Kneazle crammed with cream and herring, Harry thought, and felt the devil urging him on.
"Any particular reason why you think you've the right to, Malfoy?" Harry was fishing, he knew, but the catch was a breathtakingly huge one, record-breaking in his personal experience. He'd use a bloody net if he had to, to not let this prize get away.
"Twat," Malfoy stifled Harry's smile, eating it right off his lips. "You've no room to maneuver, you realize—not anymore. I've got you," he taunted, between kisses that made Harry's head swim, "and I'm keeping you," oh, Merlin—he'd promise anything, anything at all, "for ever and ever, and I'll shag you," Harry had no choice about pressing himself up against all that sinfully fit muscle mass, like filings to a magnet, "till you beg to be kept."
*
"Uncle," Harry gasped. He was terribly dehydrated. Riding a cock with his mouth stretched around a man's probing fingers did that to him. Coming repeatedly added to the effect as well. "F-Fucking uncle! Mercy, Malfoy!"
"I'll slap a ring on you later today, you little pricktease," Draco threatened, "just say you will, for now. You know I won't stop asking, Potty."
"Fucking—bastard!" Harry protested, as the tit's other hand guided him down, down to a penetration that skewered his heart as well as his arsehole. "It'd better be b-big and—and flashy!" he demanded. Harry was a gay man, he was—and the thought of Seamus going him one better was not to be bourne.
"What, Scarhead?" Draco wanted to know, twisting his hips against the tangled sheets in the way that left Harry mindless and burbling with sobs of delight. "Finnegan's rock got you jealous? Believe me, I can do better than that little thing," he scoffed, barely out of breath, which wasn't fucking fair in Harry's opinion. Damn the arse, keeping him captive like this; he'd no willpower left in this condition and didn't dickweed know it!
"Say yes, Harry," Malfoy coaxed, and rolled his hips again. He tweaked one of Harry's nipples just to be a twat. "You know you want to."
Harry, now held up solely by two hands under his armpits, could only agree that he did. He wanted heaps of things, actually, and Draco Malfoy was certainly one of them. Besides, all those size queens in Decadence would give their fucking eyeteeth to be where he was at this very moment, straddling a bloody Greek god, riding cockhorse.
*
"You're an arrogant SOB, aren't you?" he asked his bedmate idly, smoothing down eyebrows disturbed from the sleep-shag cycle they'd got going. "And I'm starving, by the way. Can't walk, though, likely. You bastard."
"Hardly an SOB, Harry. You've met my mother; a bitch she is not. Father likes to call it 'determined', actually. A trait I admit I've inherited. Now, you. You're stubborn," Draco pointed out, knocking Harry's hand away, only to capture it and kiss every knuckle, one by one.
"Riiight," Harry agreed dubiously. "No, I'm not," he added on principle, though he really was. Anyway, Narcissa as a potential mother-in-law was daunting, but Lucius as any sort of relation, even strictly by marriage, was downright icky. T'would be a sticking point, that one. They'd argue. "Food?" he asked plaintively, a hint of whinge in his raspy voice. "Sustenance? Any plans to feed me before you kill me further with your cock, berk?"
"…We'll Apparate to the Manor, then," Malfoy decided, obviously spur-of-the-moment. He grinned that daredevil smile that always presaged trouble. Harry's blood pressure instantly shot up. "I always wanted to try that—you know, bed to bed. Hold tight."
"Bast—!" Harry's protest was cut short by a bearhug, and only the front half of his latest favorite epithet for Malfoy was left behind to echo in the flat's musk-fragrant bedroom as the candles sputtered out.
TBC…a fickle fateful fic in drabblets, mostly daily. One more chapter to go, dear ones, to Clear Up a Few of Life's Burning Questions. The Muggle Magic Ball will return one more time, in triumph: