He uses his lips to tack Potter down against the wrinkled duvet. Kiss a shoulder blade, kiss a thigh—kiss that belly, his primary claim on Potter now he's gone and cocked it over. Kiss an ankle when it flies up. Muscle up, hustle in. Invade that mouth, that sweet hot mouth, and mull over what Potter's been eating last and whether he downed his potion late or early.
He can always tell, by the taste, but tonight it's doubly important that he savours it. Too much talk and too many wild tangents and this is a bloody cabinet that will never, ever be rebuilt to what it was once; this he knows. He's got pieces, though, and the general structure, and if he just buries himself in deep enough, maybe it'll right itself, come morning. Come sometime.
He's knackered. Such a long day, with triple the hours packed in, or it felt like, and this is pretty much the first he's seen of Potter all through, to touch. He's about parched, gagging for it. His bloody palms are begging, or it feels like—he rubs them everywhere, and all his fingers, too.
Everything, all the skin he's got to give, and all the skin of Harry, salty-damp and writhing under. It's enough to madden a man, and Draco's more than willing to be a little mad.
Gluey, oozy; that what Draco feels, sinking into Potter's arse. A little light-headed and lacking air, a little glorious, excepting the tears and shreds and tatters all along his flanks but those are normal. They're what happens, day in and day out. It's not much lark, sending two unfortunately discovered randy Fourths off to immediate interim detention with Prickwad; it's a drag to sentence a bleary-eyed Firstie Huffle who must've been sleepwalking to be where he was at that time of night to a session of cauldron-scrubbing. The man's a menace and should be shut down, for the good of Slytherin. Draco's not liking one bit the way he eyes Pansy over when he thinks no one's looking and old Slug'll do nothing about it, Draco's sure.
When Christmas is over with and they're back again at Hogwarts he'll need do something about it. Old McGonagall does have her uses—he'll grant her that.
He's glad she's going home for hols, Pansy, and that he is. He's…he's been on tenterhooks lately and then been thrown arse-over-teakettle that Potter's agreed to come at all, all in all just left rolling with the punches, really. Not that he had a choice, Harry. Not that Draco did either, but at least he'd said 'yes', Potter. Said it aloud, too. At least there'd been a yes, involved somewhere.
His pulse pounds with it, the tacit and explicit permission. Maybe the 'yes' was a crack in the armour-plate, maybe it was a harbinger of armistice. Maybe. He's not counting on it but it's there, all the same. He'll make the most of it, if he can, when he can, when they're safely home again, back on his territory.
Potter will like it, Malfoy, and the wide open fields drawing down to the waters. Draco's pretty certain. He'll like the brambles of the forest edge and the conservatory alight at night with gaslight sconces and the balcony walk in the snow and Draco's Mum's extra-special teas with the cream horns and the hothouse strawberries. He'll like the garlands, bough after bough plaited with silvery ribbons, breathing out pine to the banked down fires, and the clove-studded oranges in ceramic pots, boiling and bubbling citrus and the scent of ancient Persian cities all the short days long, and he'll specially enjoy the extensive collection of Quidditch memorabilia Draco's got in his study. He'll like those, at least. The Quidditch.
Draco's pretty sure.
And he's buried down, drilling down, in and out with a smooth steady motion; he can do this all night and he will. It's the grace by which he's warm again and fuck, but those old Hogwarts halls are chilly as a Muggle biddy's left-hind teat late at night—and Potter's hot against him at every point and holding on to Draco's back for all he's worth, two whole hands worth of fingers digging deep into Draco's arching vertebrae as if he'll never let go.
Yeah. If he thinks about it ever so much; if he really, really concentrates on the seperate clues striking his hungry senses, he can nearly taste the smell of all that's best of Malfoy skating across the surface of Potter's sweat-streaked skin where he licks it: lemons and oranges, bramble-rose and the crisp cool scent of Wiltshire snow, falling. He's in Potter, he's so much in.
Moss and verbena, briny salt enough to choke a man and delight a ponce, and the rich gush of old blood racing through the courses and then, too, a hint of waxy virgin honeycomb from the Home Farm, bottled golden. All there, sweat, spit, and tears, his seed and his history, Draco's, and rising off Harry like a smoking sigil, the Malfoy brand.
Potion, potion. Draco moans and lifts his lips from potioned skin for the barest moment, but reluctantly.
"It's—it's good, yeah?"
Potter grunts and shoves up to meet him, eyes barely open, only a green glass gleam in the lamplight. Draco had wanted the illumination, had simply spelled on the smaller lamps and silently dared Potter to say something, but he hadn't. He'd let it be and now Draco can clearly see who he's fucking. Potter, naturally, but more than.
It's his. It's what he's made of it, and he cannot truly say he's sorry, though of course he is. Of course he is. He just can't imagine how it may've been different, otherwise. Potter would've let go at some time in the future, maybe sooner, soon as that fuckwad MacMillan shagged him, or tried to, or maybe as late as matriculation, but he would've gone…and taken that fine arse and that pretty prick of his with him.
That wasn't on. Malfoys kept what they took.
At least Draco's got this, smelting hot, right this moment. All he wants and as much they both can handle, and it's all for the good of that life they've made between them. It's fucking been prescribed, sod it….Hasn't it now? And then he'll have that life, too, or a good part in it, after, twined into his and ongoing. A little one, an heir. And that's something like, that's excellent. Isn't it? Mum says it is, and fondly.
Draco, for himself? He'd never much hoped for it, this sort of life…so domestic, so settled. But if he had? If he had hoped, it would've been for this sensation, exactly. This. What began it.
All day long he's been longing. All the day long it's been there, a goad, a wish, a gut-twisting 'I want that!' And he's got it. He's got it now, fucking bless Potter for not being an arsehole and hiding out in his dorm as Draco had feared he might, just for spite. No, nothing like that. Draco needn't have fretted for a moment. Potter's as fully aware as he is they need this, the connection. Need is one thing, though, and desire is wholly another; he'd not expected to be met with such enthusiasm!
Draco feels a bit like laughing over it, but he won't take his lips from Potter's skin to let loose. No—he'd adore to laugh, as this is amazing, and brilliant, and fantastic—precisely what's needed most, this minute.
Silly old arse…and wasn't that ever so much the old Potty, the casual, careless twat who'd called it all fun, once last summer. 'Fun', what they got up to, like it was a prank they were pulling on the universe or something ridiculously along those lines, but it was never only the fun, not a bit of it—Draco never thought so. Potter could be so fucking fuzzy in his articulation, or maybe it was being deliberately vague, the sly boots; who knew? Draco didn't, couldn't be bothered to poke at it too hard or too often for it to be an issue, what Potter called them in his head. Hadn't mattered much, then—didn't matter now.
Thing was, he wouldn't ever say it was 'fun', whatever the addled Gryff riding his cock claimed contrary-wise. Such a small, small word; it barely held an nth of the breadth of it. 'Fun'—hah! Preposterous!
But, no. Stupid old Hogwarts had it right from the get-go. It was about burying himself into Harry and breathing, it was centred about Harry's hands, holding on. There was simply no word to encompass that feeling, not as it filled all Draco's lacks and his gaps and soothed his tiny bruises. Not as the wave of it buoyed him up and sent him flying high, well above it all and lordly, looking down—falling down—
Spiraling down, freefall and—by miles!
No! Incredible! Gasping, firmly grounded and brilliantly alive to the damp silk feel of Harry's hair spilling back over his own taut forearm as he hauls Harry's body up and on, settling that beguiling arse across his thighs so he can push his spurting prick deeper, go harder at it. Small sounds, wordless noises coming sweet from that vulnerable throat, and those dark lashes laying thicket-deep on cheeks bluish-purpled by exhaustion, barely moving, languid—god, yes, that, and then those nipples, pink, distended and a little swollen by what's growing and thriving daily inside—his. His. Please, never anyone else's but his?
And Draco's ever so careful, even now, sunk so deep in in Harry, drenched in spunk and sweat and shared wet. He's full of care, rather, to put a fine line on it. Harry's full of his care, even, though the prat doesn't know it—doesn't care to know it.
Draco can't stop to be sure Harry realizes what words won't say, what only action speaks, much as he'd like it. He's not clear on how he'd even know, not at this point. Potter's different. Draco's changed him. What might be the signs of this sort of Harry Potter, knowing? A lack of the pigheaded denial, the not—or is it those brilliantly green eyes opening wide and aware, after? Slick skin that doesn't flinch with only lust but instead sighs into Draco's mouth and arms in sensuous welcome? That'd be the day, wouldn't it?
Gods, but he's totally fucking knackered, Draco knows he is, and stupidly fanciful with it, building stupid dreams up of the quicksand of what's probably sex only—with a higher purpose, yes, but…sex. Fucking, raw and rude.
No matter, he'll make do. He'll make do, as he can't not.
What he's got for real is a weary Potter, slumped against him and panting harshly, winded, bum all drippy as Draco's cock slips out and then, too, the alien feel of Potter's distended naval, poking Draco's thigh at an odd angle. It's the way in which they lay against one another, two bodies jumbled into a tangled heap even though barely still upright. It looks strange to Draco's eyes when he glances down between their naked chests: the full and the lean, complimentary and opposing. It's old Jack Sprat and his portly mate: a tiny fleeting fancy in Draco's brilliantly empty shagged-out brain—odd and a bit funny, but a sumptuous view all the same, how it is they stick together and how the baby's curve outwards matches up to his own mannish juts and hollows, the fit of it. Satisfying, that, as much as was the coming itself. Draco craves more of it, this meet of flesh, this gooey, gluey sticking. Once isn't going to be enough—he knew that coming through the door earlier, didn't he?
Is never enough.
And he'd truly wanted to see it all happen for bloody once, to see the act bright and undeniable in the light, and have Potter see it too, sod the absent little bastard. He's here this time, though; yes he is! Draco's pretty certain.
"Another?"
At Potter's faint nod, jerky and immediate, Draco's able to inhale again, Potter hair up his nostrils or no, tickling. His cock's already filling, his blood's on fucking fire. And?
Maybe—just...maybe?
"Lay back, then," is what he demands of Potter, gruffly enough, but everything about him is characterized by care.