Challenge: 40. One of the boys finds the other bound in the Quidditch supply shed. [smut]
Summary: Draco finds The Boy Who Lived at his mercy; Harry turns the tables and things don’t end up quite how Draco was intending. Not that he’s complaining.
Notes: Okay, so, you might all want to stone me for being so freaking late with this fic. Heh. I wouldn't blame you and I shall make no excuses. But I am sorry, and I hope you like it anways. It um, took me by surprise and uh, if it sucks, well, I had a really great purely smut filled plot I was going to unleash but um, somehow, well, it didn't want that. And it uh. Took a few different turns. It still has smut though! So, um, enjoy! *hides*
It was a good day and he was, apparently, God’s favorite little Slytherin. How else, he took a second to ponder, could one explain the opportunity presented to him? But Draco pushed that thought away as it wasn’t the important thing at the moment. The important thing was taking advantage of this wonderful, once in a lifetime opportunity.
After all, it wasn’t everyday that you stumbled across a bound Harry Potter, completely at your mercy.
“You know, you’re quite lucky that the Dark Lord’s dead Potter,” he said from where he leaned casually against the closed door of the supply shed. “After all, if he were alive, I would be expected to take you to him, helpless as you are.” Draco took great pleasure from those last few words.
The Boy Who Lived: helpless and at his non-existent mercy. Oh yes, God’s favorite.
“Certainly,” Potter said dryly, his eyebrow quirking. “Since of course you would have kidnapped me and given me away to the tender mercies of the Dark, what with you being such a die-hard fan of the fucker.”
Draco smiled beatifically at him. “Exactly! Now,” he hummed, “since that option is no longer possible, we’ll have to think of something else.” He tapped his finger against his chin and made a great show of thinking.
Potter rolled his eyes. “Well, gee, I don’t know. Maybe you could untie me, you over-dramatic git?” He punctuated his point by jerking on his restraints harshly. He sounded, Draco thought with amusement, a little angry.
Potter was stranded in the middle of the tidy clutter of the Quidditch supply shed. Warm light filtered in through the high windows, painting everything in shades of orange and red as the sun began to dip below the horizon, making broomsticks shine and glow and the shadows behind the trunks of balls and barrels of supplies deepen, like heavy sweeps of charcoal mixed in amidst rich pastel. Harry Potter himself stood, stretched taut with his arms pulled tightly above his head and bound with magical rope that disappeared somewhere roof ward. His feet were similarly bound.
Somehow, despite his helpless position, Potter still managed to exude menace and a certain thrill of danger. It was, probably, because Potter had never been able to cover up how he felt, and he had always been too stupid to know when he was losing. It made his eyes look like acid and Draco found himself loving it.
In fact it was funny, in a strange twisted kind of way. Harry Potter had always been different. Usually, it enraged Draco, made him furious and wrathful and painfully jealous at times. But in this way, Potter’s anger, his always mercurial temper even during a time when the world was folding in upon itself and everyone was going lovesick with peace – like no one could ever be unhappy and like everything smelled of daises and roses – it was, he found, a crazy kind of blessing.
“No, no, no,” Draco quickly dismissed, “where would be the fun in that?”
Potter snarled, and Draco smirked. “After all, someone needs to punish you.” Draco watched with great satisfaction as Potter stiffened within his confines. “Oh yes,” he purred. “The cosmic irony of it all, Harry Potter, great Savior of the Wizarding World, Defeater of the Dark Lord, etc. etc. etc. done in by a simple Thief Catcher spell.”
Draco tsked and circled his prey. “It must be mortifying.”
“Yes,” Potter spat, “and you must know everything about mortification, eh Malfoy? You, the fucking paragon of Pureblood Supremacy having to bow and scrap and kiss up to a half-blood lunatic.”
Draco stopped in front of Potter, whose eyes practically glowed and spat emerald green fire, the wicked color of the killing curse. His insides boiled with a queer mix of thick, tingling arousal and the sizzling agony of rage. “That was a low blow Potter, didn’t think you had it in you to fight so dirty.” Draco’s eyes narrowed and his body wound tight like a snake, still and ready to strike.
“You,” Potter hissed, his face flushing red with anger, red with passion, “started it.”
Draco took his rage and hate and arousal and trapped it down deep inside him. He was a Malfoy to the bone if nothing else, and it wouldn’t do to lose control. He stepped closer to Potter until there was barely an inch separating them, the heat of their bodies searing each other.
He wouldn’t be able to win against Potter with words, the damn boy just spit them back out, dripping with a vitriol that Draco swore Potter had learned from the late Professor Snape. The dark haired boy had spent enough detentions with the snarling man to pick up some of his habits. But he could win other ways. When words would not do, touch would.
Potter startled at the first touch of lips against his cheek. Draco could feel his stubble, harsh against his soft lips. He darted his tongue out, tasting sweet salty sweat and something he couldn’t describe, like musk and wind and power. Quickly, he moved his face back before Potter could jerk around and bite at him, his teeth clacking forebodingly scant inches from his nose. Draco bit his tongue in delight at the furious emotion whirling within those radioactive eyes and something giddy and heady rose up from deep inside himself to swallow Draco whole.
Draco gave a husking laugh and placed his hand lightly on the slender, corded neck of the boy before him. Slowly, he dragged it down the lean body until it rested over the top of frayed trousers right where a small slice of tanned flesh was uncovered. Thanks to the awkward position Potter was in, his shirt had ridden up and Draco took the opportunity to rake his nails slightly against that bared, vulnerable flesh.
Potter gave a great shudder, and his eyes closed once, very briefly, before pinning him with a look Draco could not interpret.
“Shh, quiet now,” Draco slowly slid to his knees, never dropping his eyes from Potter’s. “Take your punishment like a good boy. Who knows,” he added with a heavy lidded gaze, “I might even give you a reward.” Draco smiled and his knees touched the ground, his hands slowly caressing up a toned back, sneaking beneath the clinging shirt. “Give you something sweet to suck on, perhaps.”
Draco finally let his gaze drop at the little hitch that caught in the dark haired boy’s breathing. He used his hands and forearms to lift the shirt up even more, revealing sharp-ridged bones and lean, hard muscle covered over by scarred golden flesh. Beginning with a nip right below Potter’s navel, he explored his new playground, licking and nibbling and biting and mouthing along the hard spines of twisting scars until the muscles of Potter’s stomach were twitching and spasming from the onslaught and Draco had to clutch at Potter’s hips awkwardly with his elbows to keep them still.
The sound of Potter’s grudging, reluctant moans was music to his ears.
“You have so much to repent for Potter,” he whispered against the trembling flesh, trailing slow kisses along the coarse trail of dark curls traveling down Potter’s stomach to lead into tenting trousers. “So many grievances done, so much that you’ve gotten away with, you and your arrogant pride, yes.”
With a furious, impatient sound in the back of his throat, Potter jerked his hips forward as hard and fast as his bindings allowed him, knocking Draco’s head back sharply. Draco surged to his feet, glaring angrily and swiping at his mouth. Blood bloomed stark against his pale hand from where his teeth had cut into his lip.
Potter’s nostrils flared, and his breath came ragged and heavy – partly from anger, and partly from lust. “The least you can do Malfoy, if you’re really planning on molesting me, is to call me by my freaking given name.”
Draco sneered, “Still giving orders even when defenseless? You arrogant bastard,” he hissed and relished in the explosive breath the green-eyed boy gave when he socked him hard in the gut. “Well fine then, Harry. It’s so much more intimate, after all.”
Potter laughed breathlessly, and it echoed with recklessness and anger and something that sounded uncomfortably like remembered despair. “Now you’ve got it Malfoy, no more hiding behind silly masks and cloaks.” He gasped air back into his lungs, “No more hiding behind your father.”
Draco snarled and punched him again, sinking his teeth hard into the tender flesh of his neck until Pot- no, Harry went rigid with pain – though he refused to cry out – and blood welled into his mouth. He smeared the hot substance across Harry’s skin, painting him red and gold: a mockery of Gryffindor colors.
“Oh, didn’t,” Harry hissed, sounding savage, “like that one much did you? Your daddy’s dead now isn’t he, and who killed him Malfoy, who?”
Draco froze, not wanting to think about this, to talk about this, hating Potter for bringing it up, for pushing all the right buttons just the right way, like he knew the secret code to get beneath his skin when no one, no one else had ever been able to, had ever even dared to. And he hated Potter all the more for knowing all this, for knowing how Draco was pieced together and not liking the person it made one bit and wanting it to break. Hated him for wanting Draco to shatter so that he could laugh and grind the pieces to dust beneath his heel.
Cruelty tasted pungent and rancid when served from one Harry Potter.
Potter laughed, sounding strangled. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but still lanced with that razor blade edge, “That’s right Malfoy, you killed your father. You killed him, after you betrayed him. I saw it with my own eyes. Neither of you shed a tear or let that haughty Malfoy mask slip, but I could see it break him.”
Draco stood fiercely quiet, perfectly still. No one, no one had said anything. The war had ended, the dead had been tallied, the spies had been exonerated and though it was whispered from ear to ear of just who had killed Malfoy Sr. no one had ever spoken of it to him, not once. And Draco had bottled it up and shoved it to the wayside, not wanting to deal with it.
Now he couldn’t move for fear that he would crumble and he couldn’t, he just couldn’t do that, especially not in front of Harry fucking Potter, he had to remain strong, he was a Malfoy dammit, and Draco sucked in a harsh breath, his hands curling up into fists and tried to hold steady, tried so hard to hold it, hold it together, hold it closed and hold it, hold it --
“He loved you.”
-- He shattered.
He had tried so hard not to feel, to be apathetic and stone faced for the world, but Harry Potter was not the world and alone knew how to play him like a finely tuned instrument, and instead he didn’t feel apathy as he crumpled to the ground, the world blurring like a fiery carousel before his eyes and a rampage of emotion taking hold of him, and though it was cruelty that began it, cruelty wielded by Harry Potter that finally fractured his façade, it wasn’t cruelty that he felt in the strong arms that wrapped around him.
This isn’t any cruelty I know, the part of him that was always detached, even when he had screamed beneath the cruciatus, noted. He sobbed into the bend of a slick neck, smearing cooling blood across his cheeks and nose, making it run pink with his tears and arms clutched him safe against a strong body.
Somehow, he knew that if he fell right then, if he shattered into a million, jagged pieces and had to be put back together again, he knew that it was okay. Because these arms that cradled him close would catch him, and that heart that beat strong against his chest would make sure that he was pieced whole again, make sure those strong hands picked up every last part of him. Because even though Harry Potter had managed to break him, it wasn’t to walk away and leave him as such.
It was comfort he felt, as his world slipped forward into a damp black.
He woke softly, blinking his eyes languidly until a room of soft shadows and softer light came into view. He shifted slightly, and silk ran like cool liquid across his bare skin. Soft breathing came from his right, and a large, calloused hand ran gentle circles over his belly.
“I’m naked.” Draco murmured, taking in the plain ceiling above him, the sound of a fire crackling somewhere.
“You were tied up.”
“How did you get out?”
A soft chuckle caused him to slowly turn his head until his cheek rested on a smooth pillow and he could see the boy lying on his side next to him, looking at him with quiet eyes. “If Voldemort’s Death Eaters couldn’t hold me, do you really think a Thief Catcher spell could?”
Draco let his eyes run over Harry’s features, his dark, serious eyebrows, his kind mouth and stubborn chin. “No, I suppose not.” He felt strangely empty, like he had been scrubbed inside and wrung out. Limp and boneless and numb and, surprisingly, clean.
“I’m naked.” He reiterated.
“Yes, I think we’ve established that.”
Draco frowned faintly. “I think I should be mad at you.” Harry gave a small smile and almost distracted him with an interesting sweep of his thumb across Draco’s hip. He was even closer to being distracted by the thigh that brushed against his own.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’d really rather you weren’t.”
Draco nodded, and said with a certain amount of detached surprise, “You’re naked too.” Harry’s eyes sparkled when he was happy - or was it amused? Draco stared more intently. There were faint lines at the corners of those almond shaped eyes, from laughter or worry or both, and there was something decidedly tender about the way Harry was looking at him but Draco couldn’t make himself be bothered to feel disgusted at the squishiness of it. He was too busy feeling warm inside.
“We’re naked, together.”
“In bed, if you want to get technical.”
“In bed, yes. Naked together, in bed.” Draco paused for a moment to savour this fact. “I think I could learn to like this arrangement.”
Harry smiled brilliantly and it made his eyes even more shiny and happy so that Draco was hypnotized by it, like a snake’s gaze, and when Harry moved to hover over him he couldn’t move or do much of anything but stare, and wait, his mouth slightly open, his breathing slightly heavy, his cheeks still flushed from tears and sleep and when Harry touched his mouth to his he found that he didn’t want to do anything but let and accept and reciprocate.
When Harry took his sweet, sweet mouth from his he gasped, “but just so we’re clear, if you ever tell anyone what happened, I will kill you, lover or no.” Harry laughed softly and Draco rather thought Harry was probably laughing at him and that just wouldn't do at all. With a soft growl, he pulled the dark boy back down to him and captured his lower lip between his teeth. Harry stopped laughing, and moaned.
“Good boy,” Draco said softly into that wet mouth and ignored the indignant noise his words received. He was awake, but it felt like he was still dreaming, half asleep, and he didn’t want that, he didn’t want that vague existence. He wanted to feel this.
He stroked his hands over warm, rough-soft skin, skated them over muscles and scars and fed upon Harry’s mouth, shifting over to twine his legs with Harry’s beneath the cool sheets, to curl up into that warmth, that nearly palpable energy the dark haired boy had always given off. Harry Potter was like fire, strong and hot and powerful, and Draco wanted to burn himself in that heat.
It raced through his veins until he was overwhelmed with it, over heated and over emotional. Tears once more tumbled from his eyes and Harry drew back enough to give him a soft, squishy kind of smile. Draco’s heart hurt with so much strong feeling. The darker boy leaned down and lapped at his tears, like a cat, and Draco gasped and shuddered and wondered if this was what love was like.
Overemotional, messy, and really, really hot.
When Draco stopped crying Harry turned them over, Draco on top but despite that Harry was still the one in control, with the power and strength enough for both of them. He cradled Draco with his body and brought him from his sleepy shell with the twisting, almost hissing sound of his moans. Draco was brought back to earth and sensation and life, brought back from the nothing-dreamness he had ensconced himself in and anchored by the feel of Harry’s hot body beneath his, moving and rolling and coaxing and rubbing.
“I want to be inside you,” Draco breathed.
Harry gasped and moaned, his eyes glinting. Yes, he kissed across Draco’s pale throat, yes and yes and yes.
Draco moved back to watch him stretch across the bed, a hand scooping up a suddenly available glass jar of oil. “How-?” Harry smiled at him, a teasing, slow smile as he leaned back against the pillows and drew his knees up.
“It’s the infamous Room of Requirement Draco, it gives you whatever you need. What, haven’t you been here before? It’s where all the cool kids hang out, you know.” Draco hummed distractedly and settled back to watch. That was good to know, in case he ever needed to gag the infuriating Gryffindor - silence was only a wish away.
Harry drizzled sweet smelling oil onto his hands, slicking them until they glistened and smelled of aromatic spices. The dark haired boy looked up at Draco from beneath lowered lashes and bit his bottom lip gently. Draco wasn’t certain whether he was truly bashful, of playing coy.
Draco watched as Harry touched himself, stroked his hands over his chest until it gleamed like bronze in the firelight. Watched him pluck and twist his wine dark nipples, arching beneath his own bold touch, his breath raspy and wanton. Draco moaned and shifted onto his knees between Harry’s spread legs, his prick erect and throbbing with impatience.
Once Harry’s nipples were swollen and Draco was having a difficult time keeping himself from moving forward and capturing them between his own teeth, Harry poured himself more oil and continued on his route, stroking down his heaving sides, leaving tawny skin marked by nails or twitching from feather light touches, his head rolling back and giving a little shivery sigh as his hands swept just past his hard cock.
“Fuck,” Harry groaned, rubbing small, smooth circles down his hips, raking his nails along the soft, slightly furred flesh of his inner thighs. His legs fell even farther apart and he grasped the bottle of oil once more, this time letting a stream of the golden liquid splash across his thighs and hips and cock, shuddering at the feeling.
Draco clenched his hands into fists as he watched it trail and drip and slither down farther and farther as Harry spread his thighs even more, placing a pillow beneath him and arching his hips up until he was bared, completely, to Draco. Draco groaned to see Harry’s puckered hole glisten with the oil.
He wanted nothing more than to taste Harry, to kneel down and lick and thrust and penetrate, to wiggle his tongue into Harry’s arse and feel the walls convulse and Harry buck down onto him. He restrained himself though – Harry seemed to be putting on a show for him, and knowing the Gryffindor, he would be much put out if Draco stopped him.
“Get on with it,” he rasped, trembling to see what he knew would come next.
Harry grinned, all teeth and heat and lust, predatory, sensual intent. “Yes sir,” he purred and Draco’s skin practically curled with the heat exploding within him. Harry dipped his hand down, circled his tense muscle for what felt an eternity, coaxing it until it loosened enough for him to slip a slick finger inside, slip it into himself to the first knuckle, the second.
Harry’s face was a blend of pleasure-pain at the gentle burn it caused to be penetrated. He made a noise, shifted, and bucked himself down onto his finger and pulled himself off. Obviously, Draco thought with a rapidly diminishing coherency, Harry had done this before.
And then he moved. Oh God, he moved.
Harry danced for Draco, a sinuous, shimmering grind that left them both panting. Harry fucked himself on his own fingers, his head thrown back in rapture, face tight in concentration, his body bowed and shaking as he worked one, two, three fingers inside. Harry thrust in and flexed down, spread his still slick digits wide and rotated his hips in a slow circle, whimpering as his pupils dilated and he grew more agitated and excited. His prick was a thick, angry length, weeping at the end in frustration at the agonizingly patient build of arousal.
Four fingers. Four fingers wrapped tight within that grasping, greedy hole and Harry keening softly, his mouth open and lovely eyes ablaze with pleasure-pain. Four fingers and Draco could take no more of waiting, of simply watching.
Groaning he slid up, drawing Harry’s hand and fingers gently back, holding it down by the wrist. Harry whimpered and shuddered, his hips bucking, looking for what it had lost, wanting to be filled up again. Draco fused their mouths together tight and hot, thrusting his tongue inside that hot cavern before tearing himself backward to push Harry’s legs wider and place his cock at the red, hungry mouth of Harry’s arse, and thrust.
Harry sobbed and Draco couldn’t breath as he slid home, ball-deep in his green-eyed lover, and for a moment, a single, shining moment he felt like he was on a tightrope, that he had lost his balance, was about to fall, fall, fall into the deep before it all shattered into heat and sound and sensation with Harry’s whimpering moans and little, tiny bucks beneath his weight.
“Please, please, please…”
And God, how could Draco say no to that? It became a firestorm, and Draco and Harry were at the center, two opposing parts working in perfect correspondence together, Draco thrusting into Harry, driving deep, deep into him, pounding hard enough to hear the slap of flesh on flesh, for the bed to rock back and Harry to cry out in ecstasy, snapping his hips up in time to Draco’s beat, to meet him thrust for searing, delicious thrust, crying more and harder and please God and yes Draco as his entire world centered on the body above him and the voice moaning his name and the cock fucking him deep and hard and rough and the hand that managed a scrabbling, tight grasp around his own aroused flesh nearly making him scream.
In this way, the climax was almost anti-climatic; a burning burst of dazzling white, like stars being born and dying beneath fluttering eyelids. A freezing, startling moment of pure joy and release before it hazed into a distracted, lovely high.
They came back down slowly, Harry cradling Draco in his arms and Draco gripping Harry tight against him. With a murmured, half-remembered incantation, Draco cleaned the already drying seed from them and sighed. They curled up in the middle of the bed, content to bask in the afterglow of mind-blowing sex.
Soon though, Draco’s breathing evened out and his temperature reached a more normal level and he quite suddenly noticed it was cold. “Where in Merlin’s name is that sodding sheet? I’m bloody freezing my bollocks off here.”
“Humm?” Harry blinked sleepy green eyes open, still not quite as recovered as Draco. He too noticed the chill.
A quick and furious search for the missing sheet had Harry reaching over the bed to pull it off from the floor. He looked amused, Draco noticed, and he couldn’t take his eyes of the soft, lovely glow in his face, the tender look in glittering eyes. “Looks like it fell to the floor when we got a little, uh, rowdy.”
Draco laughed softly, sharing an impish grin with Harry and they curled up once more beneath the sheets together. He was almost asleep before Harry asked him, “What are you planning on doing after graduation?”
Draco snorted softly and couldn’t help it when his arm tensed. “Not really much I can do. Spy or not, I’m marked. People don’t want a Death Eater working for them.” He sighed.
Harry kissed his cheek chastely; stroking whatever skin he could reach. “We all have our scars to carry after the war, they must learn to accept that. Don’t worry Draco, we’ll find something for you to do.”
Draco’s sneered slightly, his eyebrows near his hairline. “Oh we will, will we?”
Harry nodded, completely unperturbed. “After graduation, we’ll figure something out.” He laughed softly, “It was pretty silly of them to have us go back to school and take classes huh? We learned everything during the war anyways, we should have just been allowed to take our NEWTs and be done with it.” He yawned.
“Hmmm,” Draco stared down at the drowsy man in his arms intensely for a minute. “Things have really changed, haven’t they?”
Harry nodded sleepily against his chest, his breath already evening out. “Yeah.”
Draco stroked black hair for a long time, until Harry was drooling slightly on his bare skin and Morpheus had come to wrap his soporific arms tight around him, a sleepy parody of the warm, soothing arms Harry had wrapped lovingly around him.
“Good,” Draco said, and slept.