Summary:

The truth is: I can stop smoking. I've done it a couple of times before. I simply don't want to. I guess Mione's right, Malfoy's just the same: I don't want to quit him.

I'm not sure how it happened, or how it keeps happening to be honest.

I don't like him. I like his cock, sure. I like his mouth, his arse, his legs, the way he holds his breath when he comes inside of me, yes, but him?

I don't like him.

Hermione says I talk about him the same way I talk about cigarettes. Smoking's a nasty habit I've developed since the war.

The truth is: I can stop smoking. I've done it a couple of times before. I simply don't want to.

I guess Mione's right, Malfoy's just the same: I don't want to quit him.

I met him again two years after the war. I'd just broken up with Ginny, and I was a mess. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, what I wanted from a relationship or even if I wanted one.

I'd just picked up smoking, and I'd started to prefer hanging out in the Muggle world than the Wizarding one. Nothing personal, mind you; I love magic. I love everything about it, but I also love anonymity.

When I walk down Muggle streets, no one turns to look at me, point at me, or ask me for an autograph.

I had yet to discover Malfoy felt just the same. He served two years in Azkaban and then was declared free to go; we all knew what it meant, but we didn't care.

It meant he was out of a literal prison, but not out of the metaphorical one, the one where no one wanted to give him a job or an opportunity to study or apprentice. The git couldn't even go shopping in peace, let alone buy an ice cream.

I've seen it happening before. I'd been eating ice cream with Ginny at Fortescue's and watched as a burly man physically dragged Malfoy out. I swear, a couple of times I had the impression there were signs outside shops that said "no Malfoys in here" which, really, sounds a bit melodramatic and excessive.

Still, I didn't care. Malfoy called it upon himself, and I had my own private matters to think about anyway. Like the fact I enjoyed sex with Ginny less and less everyday or how much it annoyed me whenever she crinkled her nose when she laughed.

I know I'm coming across like an arsehole, and maybe I am. But I can't stress enough how fucked up I was those days.

And that was when I met him again, anyway. I was strolling down Half Moon Street, a fag lit in my fingers. It was late, I was drunk off my head, and I saw the sign of one of the few pubs still open, Inferno.

I didn't give it too much thought; I vanished my cigarette — I'm not even sure I tried to be sneaky around Muggles — and entered the pub, impatient to get even drunker and treat myself with my newest passion: sucking cocks. Or taking them up my arse, I really wasn't too picky.

The pub was surprisingly crowded despite the late hour. People were still dancing wildly, grinding against one another and the line for the bathrooms could be spotted from across the bar. That was exactly the kind of place I looked for those days, the place where you can lose yourself, and forget about everything. The sort of place you can dance, drink and laugh and have sex with completely random people.

I approached the bartender and ordered straight tequila which made me giggle and say, this must be the only straight thing I've taken today. It was a terrible joke, but someone next to me giggled as well. When I turned, there he was.

"Potter," he said. It wasn't too slurred, and it wasn't the usual posh accent I remembered either. It was a plain fact, it was like he'd just seen a vase and proclaimed it out loud.

In that pub, under the strobe lights, it didn't feel weird to meet Malfoy amongst Muggles. He actually looked well, much better than the last time I've seen him.

He was still on the too-skinny side, and his nose was as pointed as it ever was, but he'd filled out a bit. I was pretty sure he was wearing eyeliner and lipstick. I couldn't take my eyes off his face.

"Malfoy," I said, hoping it'd come out as he said my own name.

"Didn't peg you for a faggot."

And there he was, the snobby accent, the arrogant expression, the fucking slur.

"Wow. I can't believe I was briefly attracted to you. You're still a snobby little bully I see." I chucked down my tequila and finally took my eyes off him.

I tried to convince myself that the one slur was enough to make me stand up and walk away, but I couldn't fool anyone, especially myself: I knew the moment I saw him I would have slept with him.

"I am," he replied, sipping from his cocktail. It was blue, too blue, the kind of blue that looked fake and chemical. "I kick puppies in my free time and pull on girl's tails."

I laughed, couldn't help myself. "Care to pull on my tail as well?"

We didn't even reach the bathrooms, the line was still too long. He slammed me against the walls at a dead angle— I'm pretty sure a bunch of people could clearly see us.

He knelt in front of me, took my cock in his mouth like it was everything he ever wanted in his entire life.

"Nice tail," he smirked, letting go of my cock to lick at my balls. I groaned and I'd have been ashamed of the sound I made if I wasn't drunk. My hand moved on its own volition to grab at his hair. He blew on the tip of my cock, commanding me to 'fuck his mouth.'

Someone around us was clearly looking and enjoying the view— I'd never thought I'd be alright with people watching me having sex, but having Malfoy on his knees, commanding me to fuck his throat, had the ability to cancel everything else out.

I slammed my cock all the way in, hitting his throat thrust after thrust, and he just stayed there, gasping and moaning, his throat relaxed as he swallowed around my cock. It didn't take me more than a couple of thrusts to come messily and loudly.

Malfoy stood up, put his fingers around my jaw, forcing it to open. I did, pliant, transfixed; I opened up for him, and he leaned on me. I had a very specific rule: I didn't kiss with random strangers, and I was thinking of how to tell Malfoy off, but he didn't kiss me.

He touched his lips on mine, almost gently prying them open, and spit my come inside of my mouth, licking around my tongue, my teeth, my palate.

I wasn't a virgin: the contrary, really. However, no man had ever been so dirty with me, so… intimate is the word I thought of. I knew instantly I wanted more of it, wanted more, and more.

I swallowed my own come as Malfoy kept whispering words of encouragement, "such a good boy," "I didn't know you had it in you, Potter" and I shivered under his praises.

"Mine or yours?"

My cock was still out, still hard, still leaking. I had another rule: I never went home with the blokes I pulled at pubs. But Malfoy had scratched out everything I knew, or I thought I knew, about myself the second I met him again in that pub.

"Yours." My voice surprised me, it was scratchy and needy. Too needy. I felt myself getting hotter all over my body, ashamed, but Malfoy only nodded, kissing my jaw.

We had sex three times that night. I thought I couldn't come more than once, maybe twice in a row, but again Malfoy proved me to be wrong. I came all three times, begging, crying, gasping for breath.

The third time I thought I'd pass out. We were showering, trying and failing to clean the mess of sweat and come our bodies had become. He had me pinned against the slippering wall, pounding mercilessly inside of me.

"Say it," he kept groaning. "Say you want this, say you want me."

I whimpered, my forehead pressed against the wet tiles, my hands slipping, unable to keep me up. I tried to touch myself, but Malfoy grabbed my wrists and kept them tied behind my back.

"Say it," he whispered again.

That's not true, I tried desperately to grab at some kind of sanity inside of my mind. I don't want you. I opened my mouth to tell him just that: "I— I want this," I said instead. "I want you, Jesus, I need this. Please."

Malfoy gasped, stilling inside me. "Such a good, good boy." His hands found my cock, and he started pulling at it, keeping time with his thrusts. My orgasm mounted against my will, my vision blurred, and I came on a silent cry.

I'm not sure of anything that happened after that. I don't know if Malfoy came, if my cock was able to spurt anything else. Everything was hazy. I only knew I wanted more. I wanted to keep hearing Malfoy talk, to keep having him tell me what to say, what to do, to keep coming even if dry, even if at the point of pain.

The next thing I knew, I was on the bed and Malfoy was lightly pulling my hair back from my forehead. "Sleep tight, sweetie."

I thought I'd never see him again. And I didn't, for the next three weeks. I went on with my regular life, without thinking about him.

I wasn't thinking about him when I returned to Inferno. I really wasn't. It's just that sex had become… less interesting in those weeks. It wasn't for Malfoy. He wasn't that good. I was just in a slump.

That's why I wasn't disappointed when I didn't meet him again there. I had sex with a guy, some Luke I think? Jacob? I can't recall. It was nice. It was dull.

I went back home and sat on my couch, a cigarette between my lips, and Malfoy's name on my mouth as I came untouched on my favourite dildo.

The day after that was when I decided to quit having sex with randos. Malfoy had shown me that sex could be different, I could accept that. I decided I needed to explore that, for real.

I smoked as I looked for places to safely explore Domination and kinky sex in London when Malfoy appeared. He stood by the door of my kitchen.

I wanted to be surprised or even angry, but I wasn't. I was relieved. "Malfoy, how did you come in?"

Malfoy smirked. "You let me."

I took a drag as my brain scrambled to find ways to avoid begging him to take me again as he did three weeks before. To act as if I hadn't been waiting for him each and every day since that first night.

"You have a nice apartment," he said, approaching me, smiling like the angel he wasn't and still isn't. He knelt in front of me, like that first night, and my cock was instantly as hard as it could be.

"Where did you buy this chair?" he asked as he unbuttoned my jeans.

"I—" was confused. The cigarette laid untouched in my fingers. "It came with the house?"

Malfoy smiled, freed my cock. He licked around the tip without taking his eyes off me. "Interesting. And how was your morning?"

I looked down on him munching on my bottom lip. This was all levels of weird, but, as I'd dreamed of Malfoy for three weeks, I wasn't going to sabotage any opportunity to have him again.

I tried to go along with him, actually curious for what was going to happen. "It, it was, um—" The problem was, well, his mouth was on my cock, his cheeks were hollowed, and my brain had lost all its ability to think.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. Malfoy stopped sucking my cock and pinched my leg. "I asked you a question."

Again, I looked down on him. He smirked. "Keep talking, Potter. And don't forget your cigarette."

"All right," I said, slowly, trying to process what was going on and failing. Malfoy's mouth was on my cock again, and I forced myself to relax and try to do more than one thing at the same time. "I, er, had a nice morning. Um," I stopped, took a deep, deep breath. Malfoy's tongue teased my urethra as he started fondling my balls. I adjusted to give him more space. "Really, really…enlightening."

Malfoy hummed around my cock, and I felt the vibration going all over my body. His eyes were fixed on me. He looked pleased, the corner of his lips slightly raised, even as he kept swallowing more and more of me, until he touched my groin with his nose.

I knew right that moment I would have done anything he wanted me to. I felt intoxicated.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck…nng, don't stop," I gasped. I felt the cigarette between my fingers starting to heat up— it was almost finished. I took a drag, closed my eyes again as Malfoy went all the way up to the tip of my cock.

"I'm impressed, Potter." His voice was raspy and heady, and the praise made my toes curl in my socks. "You deserve a nice gift."

He finally took my cock in his mouth and started sucking and bobbing with more purpose, his brows furrowed in concentration. I allowed myself to give in and moan and thrust feebly inside his mouth. I was so close I felt lightheaded when Malfoy stopped to finish me off on his face instead.

I watched transfixed as my come hit his lips, those devious, perfect lips, his cheeks, his chin. He licked anywhere he reached, touching himself.

Somehow we reached my living room, stretched on the couch, saying nothing and yet feeling completely at ease. "You're weird," I said, watching the first drops of rain falling on my windows.

"Yeah." He found the remote control and turned on the tv. "I think you like it, though."

I turned to him, trying to think of a scathing reply and coming up with nothing. I was too curious, too thirsty for everything he had to give to me.

We talked all night about everything and nothing. We fell asleep on that couch and when I woke up, he was gone.

The next day, I had my usual Saturday lunch with Hermione and Ron. They didn't approve of my lifestyle, I knew that, but they were still my best friends and so they swallowed their judgment. They just avoided asking me about my love life or 'escapades' as Ron euphemistically called them.

"Harry, could you avoid smoking while we eat?" That was the thing Hermione really couldn't avoid reprimanding me about every single time we saw each other.

"What? We're outside. I'm even using a Vanishing Charm for the smell." I put my cigarette out even as I said it, rolling my eyes.

Ron snorted. "You will stop one day. How are you anyway?"

I shrugged. "I'm fine. I'm trying to decide what Muggle uni to start, going out to pubs in the evening, had sex with Malfoy, you know, the usual things."

I saw Hermione's eyes double in size. Ron choked on his water. "Malfoy? Seriously?"

"Yeah, I mean…it's nothing serious. You know how I am. I'll fixate on someone else in no time."

From that day forward, I started seeing Malfoy regularly. It was still hard for me to understand him — one day he looked ready to take down the entire world, the next he was snobby and fastidious like he used to be at Hogwarts; the only thing I was sure of was that I couldn't stop seeing him.

It was in those first months that Hermione told me I talked about him the same way I do about cigarettes.

"You're right," I told Hermione one night. "He is like nicotine to me. I even forget to smoke when we're together. Do you think it's a bad thing?"

She looked at me for a long moment during which I feared she'd tell me that yes, indeed, it was very bad and I had to quit immediately, the same way she always tells me to do with cigarettes. "Harry, honestly? When's the last time you got smashed on alcohol or chain smoked an entire pack in mere hours?"

I shrugged. "I dunno. A couple of months ago?"

She nodded. "No, I don't think it's a bad thing."

It haunted me. The thought that Malfoy was becoming something more. That, maybe, I didn't only like his cock or arse or whatever.

The next time he came to my house — always unannounced, always damn welcomed — I'd resolved to not have sex with him. To send him home. We weren't together, we couldn't be.

He found me by the small patch of green outside my house (it's a shame calling it a garden, really) and sat next to me. "Hi, sweetie," he said, pecking my cheek.

I turned to him and found him giggling.

"Sorry, couldn't resist. You should see your face," he said, laughing and bumping his shoulder against mine.

For the first time in — fucking Merlin was it three months already? — well, he looked hesitant. I thought of my rule, that I never kissed randos.

But this wasn't any random bloke, was he? He was Malfoy. He was complicated and handsome and inevitable.

I leaned in, brushing my lips on his. I stayed there until he opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue inside my mouth, sinking his hands in my hair.

Yeah, I was fucked. I knew instantly I'd be addicted to the taste of his mouth, to the way he kissed me with small gasps and moans.

When he broke the kiss, he looked at me heavy-lidded, a small smile on his face. I tried to remind myself that he was Malfoy, I didn't like him. I couldn't like him.

"Not tonight," I said, without really knowing what I meant. He seemed to understand. He nodded with that little shake of his head, but he didn't go away like I predicted.

He stayed the night, we watched a movie in silence, sitting close but without touching.

I didn't light a single cigarette, and I didn't realise until the morning after, when we woke up in bed together, fully clothed. His fingers were circling my wrist; still, I didn't feel trapped. I didn't feel the urge to stand up and go to the kitchen to have my morning cigarette.

I thought again of Hermione's words.

It's been a year and a half since I met him the first time, but still, I don't like Malfoy.

I like Draco, all the possibilities he is, the way he smiles his little smile after he comes.

He isn't nicotine.

He's oxygen.