Harry leans in and makes one more swipe across the canvas with the brush, satisfied at last. He puts the palette and brush down and gently eases the painting off the easel to place it with the others on the drying table at the other end of the room. He's got a few more in mind before the gallery opens next month. Between what he's already completed and Luna's hoard of finished sculptures, it should make for a fine opening show. He's been contacted by several artists already, and thinks one or two of them would be a good fit alongside their work. It certainly looks promising.
"It's a good thing Mother's out with Neville and won't be home for dinner. She'd never allow you in the dining room like that," Draco says, strolling in with a smirk. "You're covered in paint. Blinky would have a heart attack if you smeared one of the chairs with your—" he makes a show of craning his next to get a look at Harry's backside, "—colorful arse."
"Don't get cheeky," Harry grins with a glint in his eye. "Or I'll have reason to color your arse instead."
Draco's step falters just slightly as the implication hits home.
Well. Isn't that interesting?
Draco maneuvers around the easel to stand just behind Harry's shoulder and quietly peruses the canvas. It's nothing like he's painted before—still lifes, an attempt at portraiture and the lot—but he's taken a step outside his box and created something he finds he's remarkably proud of. He's certain it isn't to popular esthetic, but that really means very little. The bright swirls of formless color speak to him in a way he's not going to bother to understand. Harry merely accepts the muse for what it is.
He feels Draco pull in a long breath and waits for the fond, yet slightly scathing critique of his ability he knows is bound to come forth. Draco's never been above taking the piss when it comes to Harry.
"What is it?" Draco's voice is soft and breathy.
"Magic," Harry replies. "At least what it feels like to me."
A light hand rests on Harry's shoulder. "I can see it now. It's beautiful."
When Harry turns and sets his eyes on Draco's, something unfurls in Harry's chest and bottoms out in his toes. Draco's eyes are soft and silver and the slight purse of his lips in thought sends a shiver of want throughout Harry's body. Draco is breathtakingly beautiful. In any light, at any time of day, no matter the situation or context. And he belongs to Harry. The warmth that curls through him has a dark edge, one that trips the light fantastic between possession and possession. Harry's fairly certain his heart knows the difference between the two, but the curve of Draco's neck and the long line of his warm body, standing so close, has his body struggling to remember.
He wants Draco. He wants Draco now.
"Strip."
The terse command startles Draco into attention. "Wh-what?" His voice falters a touch and Harry has to stop himself from smirking.
Harry cocks his head. "Do I need to repeat myself?"
That shoves Draco into action. "No—no, sir." Long elegant fingers frantically start working and in seconds, he's naked before Harry's hungry gaze. Draco clasps his hands behind his back and waits, and Harry can already see the flush of arousal creeping across his pale skin.
Lovely.
He can't wait any longer; Draco's lips are red and ripe for kissing, and he takes them because they are his. Draco's soft gasp against his mouth is perfect, and Harry's hands pull him closer until their bodies are pressed together. Draco's warmth seeps through Harry's clothes, adding fuel to the fire that is already burning within him. He's covered in paint—it must be smearing all over Draco with the way he's writhing in Harry's arms, but Harry doesn't care because the pungent scent of acrylic is mixing with the sharp lemony fragrance that is Draco's alone, and it's tipping Harry over the edge.
Harry breaks off the kiss and turns Draco around. "Go sit on the sofa. Get comfortable. And spread those legs."
It's not exactly a run, but Draco's arse bounces just the same. It's a pleasure to watch him go.
He sits as instructed. The soles of his feet are planted on the floor, knees open wide, displaying himself confidently without shame. He's trembling slightly, but it's all anticipation. Harry thinks maybe this is a good time to reinforce some trust. Or maybe he just wants another good look at Draco's arse.
"I've changed my mind." He doesn't get to finish the statement, because Draco's face absolutely falls. It hurts Harry to see the dejected expression cross Draco's beautiful face. It's a little upsetting that Draco will crack so easily, and take the slightest sentence out of context before Harry can even finish speaking. Yes, it's time to reinforce some trust.
Harry shakes his head. "You didn't let me finish, Draco."
Draco's gaze lowers. "I'm sorry, sir."
"I've changed my mind about your position. Turn around. Knees on the cushion. Hands on the back."
Draco rises slowly and turns, kneeling on the cushions and placing his hands as directed. His head falls forward and his eyes close again. His breathing is rapid, but he's breathing in heavily through his nose to calm himself. To trust Harry. It's a pleasing sight.
Harry moves closer, stripping his shirt off as he nears. He wipes paint off his hands onto his chest as his eyes fixate on the muscled curve of Draco's arse. Harry runs a hand across Draco's flank, and his eyes flutter open at Harry's touch.
Harry leans over and whispers between them, "Arch your back. Yes," he sighs, rubbing small circles on Draco's hip. "That's it. Stick that pretty arse of yours in the air. I want to see it."
Draco shudders as Harry lets his fingers trail over the warm skin. He kneads against Draco's arse cheeks, and one of his thumbs dips in to brush lightly over the hole. Draco moans.
Harry drops to his knees and shoves his face in Draco's arse without ceremony, licking upward from his balls in one long, wet stripe.
Draco howls.
The sound goes straight to Harry's cock.
He works his tongue across the rim, and brings the flat of his right hand down with a loud slap.
Draco bucks and gasps, and Harry changes the angle and does it again, finishing with a hard squeeze to the meaty cheek. Draco whimpers, and Harry rubs his lips over the tight hole.
He can feel sweat blossoming on Draco's skin, and he can feel Draco's arse cheek warming with the rush of blood at the striking point. He turns his face and scrapes his teeth along the afflicted spot, biting down on the pink right cheek as his left delivers a punishing blow to the other side.
Draco jerks again and hisses. Harry catches a glimpse of Draco's cock as it bobs down between his legs, hard and red. It's left drops of wetness on the cushions.
Three more alternating slaps to Draco's arse and Harry's pushing his face back to lap at the now twitching pucker. The taste of him has Harry salivating, and he abandons any pretense of finesse, slurping and sucking at Draco's hole as he attempts to push the tip of his tongue inside.
Draco rocks against Harry's mouth as his legs shake to keep him upright. Harry feels his body flexing to maintain the posture.
"Keep still, Draco. You're doing so good," Harry purrs between filthy, overly-saturated swipes of tongue.
Draco keens at the praise, and Harry's hands give him a reassuring squeeze.
His arse is, quite literally, a sopping mess. Harry's spit is smeared all over the crack of Draco's arse, over his hole, dripping down over his balls. He rubs the bridge of his nose in hard, tilting his head to nip and suckle until Draco's high-pitched whine turns into a lust-filled moan.
"I could make you come like this, couldn't I? I could eat you from the inside out and have your cock explode without a single touch." Harry lets his voice drop low, rumbling across Draco's skin. "I could spend hours here, stretching you out, fucking your sweet little hole with my tongue, making you beg for release." Draco's gasping in short, breathy whuffs. "Would you beg for me, Draco? Would you beg for my tongue in your arse?"
"Ye—yes, sir. Pl—please."
The sound is broken, but it's not what Harry really wants. He wants to impress himself upon Draco, to fill his every sense with Harry's presence. To envelope him in pleasure. To extract every last piece of Draco's self-control. Until Draco knows nothing but Harry. Feels nothing but Harry.
Harry backs away and stands. "Turn over."
Draco flips around and Harry gets a good look at his face. The man is wrecked. Sweaty, flushed, and glassy-eyed. There are smears of wet paint across his chest and thighs from where they pressed together earlier, leaving colorful, patchy smears on Draco's alabaster skin, hiding in the faint ridges of the scars on his chest. The halo of normally perfectly-coiffed hair is damp and mussed, his lips are red and parted, and his cock—his cock is long and hard, purpled with need, wet and shiny at the tip.
In a heartbeat, Harry is on him, knees on either side of his hips, straddling him, pressing him back into the couch. Harry's left hand comes up to curl around Draco's throat, the hollow between his thumb and forefinger slotting underneath Draco's jaw with increasing pressure. Draco's eyes go wide and startled, and his whole body tenses.
"Relax."
Draco remains still.
He presses harder until Draco's breath catches. "Relax."
Harry leans in, letting his body weight come down on the hand around Draco's throat, forcing gray eyes to meet him own. Draco will give in. Draco needs to trust.
Harry kisses him, soft and sweet at first, but with more passion as Draco opens for him. The first taste of Draco's tongue is heady, and he gets a little moan for his effort.
"Trust me," he murmurs against Draco's lips. "Do you trust me?"
He pulls back, and Draco nods shakily at him, licking at his lips.
"I trust you—Harry."
"Good boy." Harry smiles down at him. "Now give me that arse."
Draco spreads wider, and Harry shuffles on top to accommodate, keeping his left hand firmly around Draco's neck. His right hand dips down, bypassing Draco's cock to fondle at his balls for a moment before he slips a finger into Draco's arse. Spit makes for terrible lube, and he only presses into the first knuckle. He has no intention of doing this dry, not ever, so a whispered spell gets Draco's passage slick and ready. The rest of his finger eases the rest of the way in.
Draco's head falls back, and Harry squeezes to regain his attention.
"Look at me, Draco. Just keep looking at me."
Draco is hot and tight and Harry strokes him twice before edging in a second finger. Draco tenses, and Harry's hand curls tighter as he fucks deeper with his fingers. Draco's pupils are blown wide, leaving only a tiny ring of stormy gray around the black center.
Harry raises higher on his knees, bearing more of his weight on his left arm. He's not squeezing any further, but rather letting his weight bear down on Draco in eased increments. His fingers curl, brushing against Draco's prostate, and he jerks upward on a strangled hiss. He pushes in harder with his fingers, faster, adding a third on the next upstroke. The pressure on Draco's body is tremendous, but so is the pleasure, he knows. All Draco has to do is lay back and take it.
The second the third finger pushes in and rubs against his sweet spot with force, his hands come up to wrap around Harry's wrist. Harry kisses him and increases the pace. He's fucking into Draco's tight heat with as much force as he can muster, and Draco's grip on his wrist is bone-crushingly firm, but not panicked. He keeps his eyes on Harry, and Harry can see the maelstrom of emotion that swirls across his face.
Lust. Pleasure. Pain.
"Color."
Draco glances away for a second and swipes a thumb through some paint on his thigh. He smears it across his torso.
Green.
Harry tamps down the shout he wants to let loose and fucks Draco harder.
Finally, Draco's hands fall away to land on the cushion, palms upturned in supplication.
Submission.
Harry holds him tighter and tighter, bending Draco's body to his will, but he never takes his eyes off Harry.
"God, you're gorgeous," Harry whispers. "So beautiful." He smiles down, full of dark promise. "Give it to me, Draco. Give yourself to me."
Harry twists his fingers and batters at Draco's arse as he bears his weight on Draco once more. He knows there is nothing in Draco's field of vision but his face, nothing Draco's body can register but Harry. His weight, his scent, his taste. He is the only thing Draco can fathom at the moment. And it's right where Harry wants him.
"Come for me. I want to watch you come all over yourself while I fuck you with my fingers."Draco's mouth falls open on a strangled hiss as he comes, his cock spurting in thick, heated ropes between them.
He murmurs gentle praise into Draco's ear as he releases his neck and strokes him through the aftershocks. Draco's head falls against the back of the couch, eyes closed as he shudders. Harry eases his fingers from Draco's body and gives him a moment to recover.
Harry drinks in the sight of him. He's possibly the most beautiful thing Harry's ever seen.
When Draco's eyes open, he doesn't see the fuzzy, unfocused gaze he expects. Draco's eyes are bright, clear, and backlit by a fire that makes Harry's cock throb in his jeans. He also doesn't expect Draco to rise up and tumble him to the floor, but that's what he does, and before Harry can make sense of it, his jeans are around his knees and his cock is halfway down Draco's throat.
He should protest, he thinks, but he doesn't, because even on his back, Draco is giving him the control. Draco's hands wind around his and shove them in his hair, urging him to grasp and pull at the short, sweaty strands. Draco's mouth is a hot, wet vise, and he's sucking at Harry's cock like it's the only vocation he's ever known. It's fast and frantic, nothing but tight, slick heat and perfect pressure. Draco's swallowing his cock, choking himself on it, curling his fingers into Harry's thighs in contented bliss. His tongue curls along the shaft on the upstroke, and his throat ripples on the down, making Harry shout Draco's name in rapture.
Harry braces himself on one elbow, and tightens his grip in Draco's hair, pulling him off enough to leverage himself to fuck up into Draco's throat. Draco moans at that, a full-body sound that nourishes Harry's soul. Draco's urging him on, wanting it faster and deeper, and Harry complies until his orgasm screams up out of nowhere.
It hits him hard, like a live wire sparking at contact, and his body jerks as he comes down Draco's throat. As orgasms go, there is no anticipation, no build-up, just the sheer, raw strike of pleasure searing through him like a match thrown into a lake of kerosene. Draco swallows and tongues at him a few more times before collapsing. His head rests on Harry's thigh, and Harry's fingers unfurl to rake through his hair in a tender caress.
He doesn't know where the strength comes from, but he hauls Draco up and rolls him over to cover him with his body and kiss him breathless. The taste of himself is bitter on Draco's tongue, and he relishes in it, pulling back to rasp, "You're mine, Draco. Mine."
Draco doesn't open his eyes, but breathes out shakily through his mouth. His voice is rough, but this time it's the right kind of broken.
"Yours."