It takes Harry's brain a few seconds to process the implication of those three little words, but when it does, Harry grabs Draco by the face and owns him with a kiss. His fingers slide into Draco's hair and curl, nails scratching against his scalp like it's the only place his fingers belong. Draco lets out a sort-of hiss, but the longer Harry holds him, the more the sound turns into a throaty, pleased hum of satisfaction.
He sags against Harry, but his lips move against Harry's at a frenetic pace, as if he's pouring everything he is into the kiss. It's open-mouthed, with too much tongue and never enough heat. It's wet, gorgeous, and filthy-sweet—just the way Harry wants him.
Harry pulls back, panting, and presses his forehead to Draco's in an effort to get his breathing evened out. His chest feels like a bellows, and the rapid rise and fall won't do at all. Draco's set him on fire—it's never been this way with anyone, ever—and Harry needs to get himself under control. Especially if they're going to play like Draco wants.
"Go into the other room," Harry says, once he feels his voice is steady enough. "Wait for me in front of the cabinet."
Draco backs off and pads to the door across the room without question. There wasn't a cabinet in there before, but now that Harry wants one, he knows it'll be there. The Manor has been particularly on point with his wishes thus far.
Harry strips down to his black boxer briefs, taking his time to carefully put his clothes away. These few minutes are for Draco—the waiting, the anticipation.
The obedience.
When Harry walks through the door, he isn't disappointed.
Draco's been on his knees in front of a cabinet like this before, Harry's sure of it, but this time is an entirely different context. His body seems to recognize that, because the slight tremble Harry sees is one of pleasure—not fear.
If there is one thing in this world that Draco Malfoy is absolutely perfect at, it's this: the waiting position. Platinum head hung low, showing off the slope of an elegant neck. Bared in submission. Upturned palms resting on pale thighs that quiver under Harry's gaze. Back curving so beautifully in the sweeping arc of quiet supplication.
Draco is breathtaking.
Mesmerizing.
Alluring.
He has a preternatural draw that calls to parts of Harry on a primal, cellular level. It's more than attraction, more than lust. It is a fundamental biological imperative that Harry cannot ignore. The languid fire flowing through his blood tells him it would be impossible to try. An imperative that has his brain screaming in pointed, strident tones.
MINE.
TAKE.
PLEASURE.
In this light, in this space, Draco is everything Harry has ever hoped for. Everything Harry has dreamed of. It's almost too good to be true, and despite the vehemence of his desire, there is a tiny, niggling part of him that thinks it is.
"Stand up and open the cabinet."
Draco rises, unfurling himself from the floor with the fluidity of water tumbling over stone and does as he is told. He pulls back the carved doors, keeping his eyes downcast.
Harry smirks as the interior lights up, illuminating the trove of objects inside. Yes, the Manor has given him everything and more. Against the back, displayed high at the top, hangs a varied array of floggers, crops, and whips. Below them are two velvet-lined shelves with an assortment of toys, plugs, restraints, and blindfolds. The last shelf is more of a shallow tray, containing a selection of paddles. Leather-wrapped, sueded, some studded, each more decadent and wicked than the last. The gamut of darkness of Harry's desires. The Manor knows him far too well.
"You may look," Harry says.
Draco raises his head and gasps, skin flushing a perfect shade of pink. His erection bobs out in front of him, clearly pleased at what is on display before him. His hands slide behind his back to clasp together, and Harry has to bite his lip to keep from moaning at the sight of him.
"Go on, Draco. Pick your poison."
Draco's throat moves in a nervous swallow as he turns his head to look at Harry.
"Anything, sir?" His voice is measured, low and carefully even.
"Whatever you like, love."
Those soft words of permission have Draco at the cabinet in a flash, his eyes roving over every piece in detail. In the end, he chooses a thin leather crop and a green silk blindfold. Harry stays silent as Draco turns back around and moves forward. He kneels at Harry's feet and bows his head, raising his hands to present the items for inspection.
"With your approval, sir."
Again, his tone is modulated, and the restraint it shows is admirable. He's doing beautifully.
Harry runs his hand through the softness of Draco's hair, relishing the slide through his fingers. He cups Draco's cheek, brushing his thumb across the zygomatic arch before lifting his chin to raise his head.
"Very good, Draco. Lovely. You've chosen well."
The full-on blush that stains his upper body at the praise makes Harry's mouth water. He accepts the proffered items and gestures for Draco to stand. He grips the crop by the handle and points it to the table in the center of the room.
Another item that wasn't there before.
It's not particularly attractive, not like the carved wooden cabinet, but the table is low, cushioned with a thin bit of leather-covered padding. When they used this room before, the rack stood here, but the Manor has seemingly scuttled it away to a magical unknown and left this piece in its wake per Harry's mental request. Given Draco's expression and eagerness, Harry wonders if the Manor read his mind as well.
Bolted to the table in the middle at a slight slant are two rounded, metal handles. Innocent enough, but Harry can already imagine what Draco will look like draped over the top, hands wrapped around those handles, begging for his Master.
Draco walks to the table, stopping short of the edge, waiting for his next instructions. Harry steps up behind him and presses his chest to Draco's back. Draco sucks in a breath as they make contact, and Harry buries his face in the back of Draco's neck, breathing him in. His skin is warm, soft, and fragrant. He smells like lavender and lemon, with a hint of black tea buried beneath. Harry's hips edge closer, pushing his erection into the swell of Draco's naked arse.
"Do you have any idea how much I want you?" he whispers, brushing his lips against the fine, blond hairs at Draco's nape. He bites a soft kiss there and rolls his hips, wanting to feel the give of Draco's flesh to his cock. "How hard you make me?" He licks behind Draco's ear. Draco's response is a shiver and a tiny, muffled squeak. He's biting his lip to keep silent. "Every time I look at you, I want you. I want you any way I can have you. I can hardly breathe for it sometimes, can't even think because all my mind and my body know is you." He punctuates the last word with a hard grind. Draco's hands shoot out to rest on the edge of the table for support, and he whimpers. "All I can think about is getting my hands on you and fucking you until neither of us can see straight." There's a gasp that sounds suspiciously like a yes. He sucks on Draco's earlobe. "I'm going to give you everything you want. Everything you need. Are you ready for that?"
"Yes, sir!"
The half-barked croak makes Harry chuckle. He pulls back and settles the blindfold over Draco's eyes. After it's in place, he runs his hands along the length of Draco's torso, feeling him tremble and quake at Harry's touch. They stop at Draco's hips, and Harry pushes forward, urging him to meet the edge of the table.
"Lean forward," he says, running a hand up Draco's spine to ease him down. "Slowly. Now stretch your arms out—good, like that. Lie flat for me, darling." Draco's pressed chest down against the padding, and the length of his spine is elongated in front of Harry. "The handles are right there. Reach out and grab them."
He has to stretch a bit more, and raises on his toes before his hands curl around the metal. The angle has his hips and his arse lifted high, concaving his back into a slight dip at the reach. The creamy expanse of skin that is on display is gorgeous to behold.
"Beautiful," Harry purrs, trailing a reverent finger down the middle of his back. "Just beautiful."
Draco laid out before him like this demands touch, and so touch Harry does. He leans up and over, crushing into Draco's arse, peppering his spine and back with bites, nibbles, licks, and kisses. Draco's skin is salty-sweet, and Harry mouths at him with relish, savoring each taste as if it is last.
Draco is pliant beneath him, relaxed in only half the amount of time Harry thought it would take. Before he can relax any more, Harry eases off and smacks the crop hard against the luscious swell of Draco's arse. The crack of the blow echoes through the room, and Draco tenses and hisses at the strike.
The blond head cranes around slowly. Silk-covered eyes turn Harry's way, and open-mouthed, Draco pants, "Shall I count, sir?"
It's like someone has opened the floodgates on Harry's joy, and he has to press a hand to his throbbing cock to keep it from going off right there. Harry steels himself and leans over to lick a stripe up Draco's jaw.
"No," he murmurs. "Counting is for discipline. This, Draco—this is for pleasure."
He swings again, several times in succession, all across the tight curves of Draco's arse. Draco moans, burying his head in his bicep, panting out his pleasure. Harry pauses at intervals to run his hands over the reddened, hot flesh, kneading and caressing, letting his fingers soothe Draco into a contented hum. He follows up with flat smacks to Draco's flanks, then moving to let the end of the crop tease up Draco's trembling thighs. He nudges at the low, swollen hang of his balls, bringing the shaft under to press into the hollow of where they meet Draco's cock.
Draco jerks at that, seeking any kind of touch to his erection, anything that might provide that extra ounce of pleasure, that promise of relief. Harry whips at the backs of his thighs, then crouches to mitigate the sting with his tongue, darting over the raised lines with relish. He bites and licks at the rounded muscle of Draco's arse, moving swiftly. He doesn't linger, alternating at random to keep Draco on the edge for as long as possible.
His beautiful boy is a mess underneath his crop and his tongue, mewling and writhing with sinuous grace. This time, Harry takes the flat of the crop and swats at his balls lightly before swiping up over the crack of his arse. The breath that Draco sucks in is sharp and fierce, and Harry has no choice but to respond.
He stands up and grasps the crop just underneath the handle, trailing it over the welted curves. It begins to dip inward, closer to where Harry wants to bury his cock. He's a breath away from the dusky, furled hole when Draco freezes.
"Yellow."
Harry stops.
There's no other sound than that of their ragged breathing.
"Draco?"
An audible swallow.
"Communicate, Draco."
Harry's eyes shoot to Draco's face. His head is turned to the side so he can breathe through his mouth. The green silk is still in place, and his hands are white-knuckled on the handles. There is a visible tremble to his grasp.
"Not there," Draco whispers. "Not—just you, or proper toys. Not that."
He has to press, not because he's cruel, but because he has to be clear. Harry taps the handle over Draco's hole. "Is this a soft limit, or hard?"
No response.
Harry doesn't move, keeping the handle very still. "Do you know what that means?"
Draco nods. "Yes," he gasps. "Hard. Hard limit, sir."
Harry's hand falls away instantly. "Acknowledged. Do you want to go on?"
The body beneath him relaxes. "Yes, sir."
"Color?"
Draco's tongue is moist and pink as it swipes over his bottom lip. Harry wants to suck it right out of his mouth.
"Green."
"Very well," Harry says, bending down to press a kiss to the dip at the end of Draco's spine. "Let's continue."
From then on, it's a series of whips and bites, of pressing fingers and sucking kisses. It's a fury of pleasure and pain spiked with the worship of the prostrate body before him. He welts and licks every inch of Draco's porcelain skin until he's pink and red and striped, mottled with the reverence of Harry's mouth on his flesh, his lips on his skin, his tongue in his arse. And through it all Draco is open and naked, bared to Harry and possibly himself in ways that can only exist between one soul in two bodies.
Harry's cock throbs painfully with the need to be inside him, but he can't give this up just yet, not while Draco is taking everything he has to give with such unadulterated perfection. He's never had a sub receive like this, never had one who has so much to let go, and been so willing to let it happen. It's a tipping point on the scales, and Harry's brain can't comprehend the magnitude of what is happening. Because Draco is so good for him, so blessedly right, so fucking gorgeous, it can't possibly be real.
At that, something in his mind throws a switch, and suddenly he's seeing everything through a cloud. It's an angry red haze, a filter that shouts, a voices that whispers, and Harry feels the long-buried insecurities start to rise. With each lash of the crop, each exultant cry that escapes Draco's mouth, Harry feels the confusion set in. The pleasure that courses through him twists into an ugly, gnarled beast, sneering at him in disgust.
What kind of man takes pleasure in this?
It's hundreds of condescending voices, some familiar, some not. It's the judgment he knows and the repudiation he can't escape.
He looks down at Draco, whimpering and writhing, humping against the table's edge. He sees only beauty, only freedom. Surrender in abandon. Things he knows he doesn't deserve. Fashioned by prophecy, there is blood on his hands, and pain is the only gift he has to give. Tears leak into the corner of his eyes, and he blinks them back, never halting the cadence of the crop. It whistles through the air, smacking against flesh that gives and gives and keeps on giving, because he knows Draco will give him everything if he demands it from him.
And this is what Harry gives in return.
Pain.
Loss.
Death.
Because that's what he is. A freak, an anomaly. Something that doesn't exist in the wholesome. Something dirty that feeds in the perverse dark.
He can't feel his arm. All he can do is watch as it descends over and over and over again, wrenching lustful sobs from Draco's lungs. But it sounds like angel song. Joyous and rhythmic, with all the glory of the divine. That's what he hears, but Harry knows it's not real. It's not for him. Because how can a man drenched in so much blood ever be clean? How can a man who delights in the submission of others ever be worthy of it? How can this ever be normal?
Somewhere in the dark of his mind he hears another voice, faint at first, and then loud as thunder.
"PARACHUTE!"
Harry's vision goes white.
Then nothing.