FIC: Snakefood (Harry/Draco)
Mar. 1st, 2010 05:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaysh posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hpkinkfestTitle: Snakefood
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vaysh11
My own prompt: How could a chaser/chubby dynamic play out between Draco and Harry?
Kink Showcased: fat admiration, feederism
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: Harry's a bit heavier when he comes back to Hogwarts after the Christmas holidays.
Warnings: PWP, excessive use of fifth year canon details
Word Count: 10,000
Beta: So many thanks to the fabulousmarguerite_26 who must have a heart the size of an elephant for putting up with me. ♥
Author's Notes: The quote (indicated with an asterisk) is from Antoine Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince. Many thanks toshezan who, unbeknownst to herself and via her Meatball Blog, lead me towards Jacqueline and her mention of the confiseur Charpentier in Paris, creator of "La Rivoirine". The chocolate house obviously is in the hands of wizards and witches, as they don't have a website, and not one image of their magical confection exists in the world wide net.
Snakefood
The little prince was talking to a snake.
Usually Harry wasn't allowed to listen, but he had been cleaning the kitchen when Aunt Petunia was reading from the book to Dudley in the living room. Weeks later, in the darkness of his cupboard Harry remembered it: the little prince had been talking to a snake. Just like him.
Uncle Vernon had not given him any food since the morning in the zoo. Harry was so hungry, it made his stomach cramp. The taste of the lemon ice lolly was still on his tongue; sour-sweet and fruity. "I can talk to snakes," he whispered to himself, making the words hiss and vibrate in his throat. Sometimes he stashed left-over food on the shelves beside the narrow cot – a half-eaten sandwich from lunch or a piece of chocolate that Dudley had dropped and never picked up. But now all he found was a rancid piece of cheese. There was dust and bits of spider webs on it and he licked them away before he put it into his mouth. He chewed on the cheese forever, imagining the sweetness of ripe cheddar underneath the rot.
Boa constrictors swallow their prey whole,* it said on the first page of the little prince's book. Hopefully, the snake from the zoo had been fed well, so it could make it all the way home without needing dead mice and whatever else it was that snakes ate. Six months, the book said; snakes could go six months without food. Harry swallowed the mouldy cheese, but all it did was make his stomach cramp badly again. He started crying, softly, so nobody heard. He could talk to snakes, but he was too old to believe that he was a little prince who'd landed on the wrong planet and would soon return home to his beautiful star.
That night Harry dreamed of eating a mountain of cheese sandwiches and a shelf stacked full of chocolate bars. He dreamed of being big, bigger than Dudley even, big as a snake, pale-gold in the moonlight, who had swallowed an elephant whole, from the tip of its trunk to the reddish fuzz on the end of its tail. In his dream Harry was sliding down Privet Drive, his belly warm and full, heading for a far-away country called Brazil.
* * *
Hogwarts, fifth year, January 17, Friday night
The room is a smear of green and silver as Potter twirls Draco in wild, breathless rounds. His arms are strong around Draco's waist, lifting him up a foot or more, and Potter laughs and laughs and searches for Draco's mouth; he is so happy –
Draco's an inch taller than Potter, but he feels perfectly safe in his arms, in this room that is spinning fast around them. The guest-room in the dungeons near the Slytherin dorms has become their home these last three months, a home like no other place for Draco, least of all the Manor.
He leans towards Potter's smiling face, mumbles, "Let me down, git," and kisses him, pulling him closer with his arms around his neck. It's been more than three weeks since he's last seen him, and he's forgotten how solid Potter is, his body agile and muscular against Draco's chest and feeling so incredibly warm. Draco has been hard since the moment Potter's owl knocked on the window, saying Meet me tonight? I want to see you (want to touch you, kiss you, fuck you). Now blood and need plummet towards Draco's groin heavy and fast, as he's getting harder still with Potter twirling him through the green and silver of the room. They both press closer as they spin and spin, holding each other so tight, with Potter whispering in Draco's ear, "Missed you, I missed you so much."
Finally, after Draco tells him again to bloody let him down, Potter loosens his hold. Feet safely on the floor, Draco keeps him at arm's length and cannot help but stare at him. He knows this face so well by now, after they've been meeting at the lake for weeks, touching first, then kissing and frotting and coming, both of them, in their pants. Potter's eyes still startle him, even hidden behind those dreadful glasses. During the last months Draco has fallen in love with Potter's long black lashes, the way they'll flutter closed and the way they open up to reveal eyes darkly green like the firs standing tall on Hogwarts' grounds.
But Draco knows much more about Potter's face; knows the dark smudges underneath his eyes, knows how Potter's lips can be pressed closed so painfully tight. The tension is gone now from his mouth that glistens and turns into a half-arsed smile as Draco stares and wants to bite and lick and lose himself in Potter's kiss.
He wonders what happened during Christmas holidays, for there is a fullness to Potter's face that was not there before. It suits him, this softness to his chin, those smooth curves of his cheeks. Draco lays his palms against the sides of Potter's face, and he puts his mouth on Potter's lips more gently than he'd ever thought he'd kiss a boy. He's never sure whether Potter truly wants him, truly needs him like Draco needs Potter. But he does, he does and opens his mouth and they slam into each other, all teeth and tongue and spit.
"So you had a good time during hols?" It's a whisper when they move apart, just an inch to come up for breath. Draco regrets asking the moment the words are out of his mouth and he feels Potter wincing in his arms. But something burns in him, something sharp and bitter like bile that makes him grip Potter's shoulders too hard. The thought of Potter laughing with the red-haired Weaselette, under the scraggly Weasel Christmas tree, that fat broad of a witch smothering him with biscuits and baked apples and mince pies ... it fills Draco with such longing. Not for the Weasel's hovel of a home, but for Potter, Potter happy and warm and soft and looking at Draco like he wants him here, with him, always.
Potter mumbles something inarticulate like he always does, searching Draco's face. "Yes, it was fun. Well, some of it." He leans back, and Draco lets go of him, but Potter stays close. "Mr Weasley," he says, voice low and wary, "he was ... sick. We ... um, I was staying in ... well, some place in London. So we could visit Mr Weasley in St Mungo's, you know?"
What Draco knows is that Potter's telling the least of what happened. Rumours even reached the Manor – of an accident in the Ministry that involved Arthur Weasley. Some place in London. His father would pay a good many Galleons for such intelligence. Draco wishes he'd never asked; he doesn't want to hear anything more. Whenever they talk, it's all secrets and lies, and he hates it so much. Potter's here with him in their room, and even if there's a joy in his face that is not for Draco, but for someone else, for something that happened during the holidays, Draco doesn't care. So what if he's kissed that slit-eyed Chang (whatever the fuck he could see in that bird). So what if he's been happy without Draco, when Draco missed him … missed …
It doesn't matter. Potter's here, warm and hard against him.
"You all right?" he asks, lips ghosting over Draco's mouth. His hands slowly move up Draco's back, until they reach his shoulder blades.
He nods, unable to speak. And yet Potter understands, like he's done from that first time in the Potions classroom, without any words. He wraps Draco in his arms, holding him close, offering his whole body. And there is so much of him, so much ... Draco shoves his hands underneath Potter's jumper, he pulls at the undershirt to get at heat and skin and the softness of flesh stretching over Potter's hips.
The next moment, they stumble towards the bed. Draco pushes Potter back onto it, and he looks so bloody gorgeous against the bedspread's pattern of green and black spades. Draco settles between Potter's thighs, buries his fingers in Potter's hair, buries his face in his neck. Potter smells of dust and sugar, and Merlin, Draco wants him badly.
Within seconds they have their ties and jumpers and shirts torn off. Leaning in for a kiss, Draco sees that Potter's undershirt is hitched up to reveal his stomach that is swelling out above the trousers like it's never done before. Draco cannot help but stare at it, pale and smooth and round, a wide stretch of rosy-pale skin vanishing underneath the waistband. He's reaching for those soft new rolls of flesh, wanting to touch them with a sudden, inexplicable craving, unaware almost of what his hands are doing.
Quickly Potter yanks his shirt in place, covering himself up. Heat washes over Draco, startling and embarrassing, as he pulls back. When he looks up, Potter glances away, and a blush, pink and blotchy like the early tulips in the Manor's garden, is spreading from his throat.
Something did change over the holidays, Draco is certain of it now. Potter's never been shy about his body. Not like Draco who needed the evening twilight at the lake to shed his robes and allow Potter to touch him (kiss him, lick him, fuck him). It's taken Potter weeks to make Draco undress in the light of the fireplace and have Potter look at him, completely naked. Draco's never done this with anybody else, not with Nott, not even with Pansy, years ago. Which is yet another reason why this, this ...
He feels Potter's eyes on him, lids half closed over green that gleams even brighter than usually with Potter's cheeks so flushed. There's heat in Draco's face too; it burns all the way to the roots of his hair. His scalp tingles and goes numb at the same time, and it's something he's not felt before, arousing and yet not sexual at all. He is hard, all right, so bloody hard he's sure he will come if Potter as much as grinds his hip against his cock. But he doesn't want that, not for a while at least. He wants to keep on floating on this tingling heat, all wrapped in the presence of Potter so close he can smell him and feel his every shiver and breath.
Draco lays down on the bedspread at Potter's side. Their legs are still clad in trousers and all tangled up. He brings his mouth to Potter's neck and kisses the smooth pinkish skin as gently as he can. Potter turns into his touch and moans very softly. His hand that's been wound tight in the cotton of his undershirt, pulling it down, loosens its hold and he splays his fingers, deliberately, over his belly. The undershirt must have been white once but now it's a pale grey, threadbare at places from too many washs. Potter's hand looks fragile against it, too pale somehow, and it seems as if he's pressing it into his stomach. There are stacks of expensive undershirts lying in Draco's trunk and he wonders how their silk would feel on Potter's skin. He places his own hand upon Potter's, covering finger with finger; he wants to feel what Potter feels.
Potter's breath hitches when Draco's palm touches the back of his hand, and Draco realises he's been holding in the air, breathing light and shallow. His belly barely moves under the weight of both their hands. Draco caresses his hand, letting his fingers wander over the fullness hidden by the shirt. Potter's always been much too skinny, a thin sliver of a boy – is he ashamed now of this bit of weight he's put on over the holidays? A strange, burning need wells up in Draco's groin at the thought; his prick strains painfully against his closed fly. Draco wants to see, he wants to feel with his hand what Potter is trying to hide from him.
"Breathe," he whispers, his voice low and raw. He licks at Potter's neck, tasting the sweat that has been gathering there. "Take a deep breath."
Potter croaks out a, "yes," but he's holding his breath for a moment longer. They both look at their hands on the cotton covering the bulge of Potter's gut. Draco can feel him draw a big gulp in; he takes a deep breath, too. He can smell the smoke from the fireplace and the scent of mossy earth from the lake that always lingers in the dungeons. Potter's stomach rises and expands, wider and wider, bigger than Draco expected. He slides his hand across it, cups the fullness in his palm. With a strangled sound, Potter starts to writhe wildly. His other hand, the one that is not splayed across his stomach, is clutching the bedspread at his side. The tingling is back on Draco's scalp. It does things to him, to see Potter moving and stretching and bucking up like this, things that make his cock leak and his mouth dry. He cannot stand it anymore; he needs to touch the skin of Potter's belly that has widened two inches at least since they've last met. He pushes the bloody shirt up, slides his hand underneath. Potter arches into Draco's touch as he caresses the hot, smooth skin curving from groin to navel. Silver lust flashes through him, sharp as lightning, and Draco cannot hold back any longer: he's digging into the flesh, kneading it violently and hard.
"Does this feel good?" He's trying for smug, but his voice is shaking too hard. The tingling is moving down his back, a fiery thing, like flames dancing on his skin.
"God, yes," Potter moans and Draco looks up into eyes reflecting the golden orange from the flames. There's smouldering coal in Potter's eyes as he murmurs, "More", and he yanks his undershirt up, giving Draco access to touch and knead and stroke his bulging middle.
Draco's burning up. He is so hard it hurts. He cannot remember wanting so much. It feels like the first time he had somebody else's hand on his prick, a distant cousin who tossed him off during a summer spent in Brittany. Draco had been barely thirteen, his stiffy small and mostly soft and spurting drops of thin stuff, not real spunk. Clement had been older and a lot bigger than him, and Draco recalls with sudden clarity how good it had felt to frot against the boy's sturdy body.
The memory triggers another wave of lust that pierces through him like the red-hot tip of a knife. He needs to get his hands onto Potter's gut. In one swift move he straddles Potter, he pushes down hard onto the full erection that is straining against Potter's jeans. A rumbling growl forces its way up from somewhere deep within. It scares him, that wild and shameless growl, his rutting need so obvious in it, like he's lost all control over the sounds coming from his mouth. It scares him and yet it turns him on so much he has to lift his hips because otherwise he'd come, this instant. Potter's panting underneath him, belly rising and falling, his fingers on Draco's hips, holding him close, rubbing his thumbs over Draco's hipbones. Draco puts his own hands around Potter's stomach, his fingers splayed wide with the thumbs touching just at the middle. He's roughly digging into the flesh, trying to be gentle, trying hard, but he can't, he needs to grab and hold on to Potter who feels so lusciously smooth and soft and solid in his hands.
Another flash of need crashes through him and he lowers his head to flick at the small, tender well of Potter's navel. He pushes his tongue into the intimate folds, licking and tasting a powdery sweetness he's not tasted before, all Potter, all of it. Draco presses his tongue deeper, he wants to …
Something tells him to stop, tells him he's hurting Potter, no matter that he's arching up against his mouth, body tightly strung like a bow, and panting hard.
"Don't stop," Potter moans, and Draco wants so much, it's like a sharp pain hovering deep within, held back by a lead strung so tight it's going to snap any second now.
Then Potter thrusts his hips up, and suddenly it's plain as day what Draco wants. He fumbles with the unwieldy Muggle zipper, pushes the trousers down as Potter lifts his hips. Moments later he has him in his briefs, white and innocent but for the thick outline of his prick.
Draco palms the fat bulge and Potter groans and reaches for Draco's trousers. Expert of wizarding attire that he has become, it takes him only seconds to untie the lacings, even with Draco's erection pressing full and hard against them. His cock springs free, and a shudder runs through him.
"Want you so much," Potter whispers as he rubs his thumb over Draco's prick, making his hips snap forward by their own accord. Potter's laugh is hoarse as he wraps his fingers around Draco's erection and tugs a couple of times. Within seconds he brings Draco to the brink of orgasm, and he moves backwards, moaning, "No."
Potter smiles at him, that half-arsed smile again. "Let's get you out of those trousers then," he says and for a minute they struggle with wool and cotton and socks, until they are lying fully naked side by side.
Usually, this is the moment when Draco will draw a blanket over them. Usually, he feels more comfortable when they're fucking in the dim light from the fireplace at the other side of the room. To lie beside another person all in the buff, without any cover, is still new. There's a sweet, arousing lightness to it that makes up for how exposed he feels, but usually he needs Potter skin-close to be able to let himself go.
But tonight is different. There has been no Nox from Draco; the magical candles burn brightly beside the bed. Tonight he wants to see taunt skin snap back into place after he's dug his fingers into Potter's bulging middle. Tonight he wants to see Potter's face when he fondles the soft weight he's put on. And so the light stays on and he's keeping a bit of a distance, close enough to feel Potter's heat, but their bodies not as tightly pressed together as they usually are.
Draco lets his hands wander over Potter's stomach and sides, grabbing small fistfuls of fat that weren't there before the holidays. He reaches Potter's arse that is fuller, too, with a new soft layer over the muscles underneath. Carefully Draco slides two fingers into the crack, moving them from the hollow just below Potter's back, over his hole all the way into the silkiness of his balls. He knows that Potter loves to be touched like this, even when it still feels strange to Draco to put his hands back there. Strange and dirty and so arousing that most nights during the holidays he wanked to the memory of his cock gliding up and down Potter's crack, his own spit-sleek fingers buried in his hole. Predictably, Potter pushes back against his touch, but it isn't his arse that Draco wants tonight. He's hot and hungry for the way Potter's belly is smashed against his cock.
They kiss, and Potter licks Draco's mouth with slow languid swipes. The gentle touch makes his lips prickle and the tingling on his scalp flares up again; it feels like he is about to drown in Potter's mouth. Their bodies move closer, and Draco's pushing Potter's legs apart with his hips, as he burrows into him. Potter opens up easily; he hooks one leg over Draco's waist and pulls him in. They are so bloody close, with nothing but skin between them. Draco's prick is engulfed within the softness of Potter's belly, yielding and yielding. He cannot help but force his tongue into Potter's mouth that is so hot and slick and wet. Potter starts sucking gently, and Draco groans with need. He wants to be eaten whole, he wants to be drenched in spit, he wants to pierce through Potter's skin and spill right into him. He wants so much, and Potter sucks and moans, circling his hips in small, fast moves that feel, feel so bloody good.
They barely have been at it for a few moments when Draco realises he will not last. The soles of his feet are going numb, as the pressure builds and threatens to overtake him. Potter sucking at his tongue is too much, and Draco pulls away, settling for a kiss. But he should know by now that his body is spelled to respond instantly to the plumpness of Potter's lips. His balls contract abruptly and Draco's whole body is tensing up with an ache so sharp it turns into burning lust that makes words spill from his lips, ragged words like "fuck" and "need" and "you" …
The magical candles make the sweat on Potter's skin shimmer like pearl; the tiny nub of his nipple is flushed and shiny, like it's sculpted from red coral. Draco catches it between his lips; he sucks gently, but it's as if someone is sucking his cock, milking him for all he's got. Potter cries out and thrashes against him, his prick stabbing into Draco as he's rubbing frantically against his hip. Draco cups the soft flesh around Potter's nipple; he strokes and squeezes it, and Potter's head falls back onto the bedspread with a groan. A spasm tears through Draco, flashing silver. He arches up, pulls away from the fleshy muscle of Potter's tit that feels so firm and good, but Draco needs to let it go because it's all too much: the sounds that Potter is making, his thrusts, his strong leg pulling Draco in, holding him close. And his belly that pushes and rubs against Draco's cock. All of it makes the tingling on his skin flare into a storm of blinding silver and verdant green, so bright, so incredibly bright he has to close his eyes and just let go ...
Potter whispers, "Come on me," as he pushes against Draco, using this new weight to shield him from the light (the Dark). Words rise in Draco's throat, words that betray everything – how afraid he was that Potter would not come back to him, that what's been going on those cold winter nights in the Manor scares him shitless. He beats them down, those treacherous words, and lets his body do the talking. It's the easiest thing, really, with Potter all safe and solid around him. His chest is sliding over Draco's nipples, his belly's rubbing forcefully against Draco's cock. The tingling is all over him now, taking his breath away and forcing his insides into a tangle of lust and aching need. There is nothing, nothing he can do but let himself fall into the fullness of Potter's body. He thrusts one more time and all the silver and green's crashing in on him, and he comes with a force so hard, so –
- so painfully sweet and Draco shakes, minutes still, it seems, after he came. He's taking in gulps of air, with his mouth scorched dry and in his throat the raw taste of a scream that he doesn't remember but is still ringing in the air.
He returns to the room and to a light touch on his back. Potter is looking at him with awe and joy and a hunger so fierce it makes his gaze keen and needy at the same time. He murmurs Draco's name, easing him back into the here and now. Back to his impatient cock; back to the slickness of come and sweat on his paunch. Draco slides against it until, not quite by accident, Potter's lips catch his mouth. He can feel the satisfied smile and underneath, the undeniable shiver of desire.
Draco allows himself to be kissed gently, still trembling from coming so hard. His groin feels bloodless and numb, and in this moment he's dead certain he never will get it up again.
Potter whispers something against his cheek, and Draco croaks, "What?"
"Missed me, did you?" Potter asks with a smile that Draco hears rather than sees because he's nestled close to Potter's chest.
"Yeah," he says. It's easy to admit when he's calm and content, like he hasn't felt in weeks; not since Potter left with no word to Draco, two days before Christmas.
"Did your friends come … visit? You were saying … all those parties ..." Potter sounds both coy and oddly shy. His body that's been rocking gently against Draco, goes still. When Draco looks up into his face he cannot believe the unspoken question in Potter's eyes.
"Salazar, what do you think? That I'm fooling around when – bloody fuck, Potter!" He stops himself. He must be careful to not betray anything. Potter has no idea what Draco's holidays were like. He must not know about it – the night-time summons of the Dark Lord, the surprise visits of Greyback and his pack. Draco hasn't been able to sleep through one single night when downstairs in the parlour stern voices were swearing oath after oath. Potter must never hear about the talk Draco had with Father – about his duties as heir to one of the oldest pure-blood families in wizarding Britain. A shiver runs through him and he presses closer against Potter whose hands are still warm and safe on his back.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to … didn't mean …" Stumbling on words again, still Potter voice is soothing. But Draco can hear the uncertainty in it. And underneath, as always – seething anger. By now Draco knows it has nothing to do with him; it's what puts the darkness around Potter's eyes and makes him so tense sometimes, Draco fears he's going to snap. Dumbledore should pay more attention to their Golden Boy. Or Snape, who's been seeing more of Potter than usual. Just the other day, a third-year watched Potter enter Snape's office after dinner.
Draco realised during those last three months that Potter's magic is stronger than it seems, stronger than Draco had given him credit for. Certainly stronger than his own. He understands now why it's Potter whom the Dark Lord wants, and not Dumbledore or any of the misled wizards and witches from the Order of the Phoenix. But can't they see what it's doing to him? There were moments between them – silent moments, with both their hearts hammering fast – when Potter was an inch away from telling him the secrets he keeps locked inside himself. And Draco doesn't want to know any of this, and damn it – it's safer if he doesn't know.
They are back to this twisted tangle of overwhelming need and silence, always silence between them. What they have here – it's bound to end soon. There's no way Saint Potter will still want to be with Draco, not when the secrets start to spill and his father's plans are all put into action. That blood-traitor Weasley in St Mungo's was only the beginning; if they think the Dark Lord will stop at Azkaban, they're silly idiots who deserve what's waiting for them.
Draco sighs and starts to slide off Potter, but the git won't let him. They struggle for long moments, full strength against full strength, then Potter whispers, "Please don't go."
"I'm not going anywhere." For he cannot leave, not when this ... this thing with Potter is the only bright spot in Draco's life these days. He looks at him glistening with sweat, one hand caressing his belly, smearing Draco's spunk all over himself. He has to close his eyes at the sight. The thought alone, that Potter likes to touch the sticky mess he left on him – it makes Draco shiver with something that has little to do with his cock that is showing interest again, not five minutes after he'd come so hard.
This is ridiculous. He's a Malfoy. He can't let himself lose control like this, not with anyone, least of all Potter who hates him outside of this room. Draco's even got a present for him – pathetic. A love-struck fool, that's what Potter's turned him into with his secret touches in the hallways and those stolen evenings of phenomenal sex. Just looking at him, spread out on their bed and bloody gorgeous, Draco longs to do things no Malfoy should be wanting to do, like licking Potter throat to belly, from his cock to that musky crack of arse. The silly voice in his head that made Draco get a present for Potter in the first place, tells him that this is the perfect moment to hand his lover a belated Yule gift
Draco gets up to fetch his robes that are lying in a heap. The square shape of the box is outlined underneath the black cloth. It isn't much, and really, who's ever heard of a bloke giving another bloke a gift for Christmas? Not in Slytherin House, they don't.
Draco would have never thought of it, but then the shipment arrived from France like every year. Mother and the house-elves unwrapped all those delicate French confectioneries, filling the Manor with the aroma of anise, cinnamon and orange peel. Watching the enchanted look on his mother's face, Draco remembered the stories about Potter having been raised with some poor Muggle relatives of his. They likely didn't even have a tree, much less expensive biscuits from the Continent. He wanted to bring Potter home with him, all of sudden, and show him their Christmas tree, rising up eighteen feet and covered with glittering fairy garlands and thousands of small globes illuminated by a Lumos inside. It was such a silly wish. Draco could not bring Potter home, and not only because the Dark Lord was residing in the parlour more days than not. He would never be allowed to bring Potter to Malfoy Manor as a friend. But he could give him some of those French luxuries his mother loved so much. And so, after Christmas, he wrapped a box of sweet, sticky Rivoirines in lavender tissue that seemed suitable enough for a bloke.
Potter is watching him when he takes the box out of his robes. Merlin, what a sappy, stupid idea this has been! Still, something about Potter, who's up on his elbows now, eyes big and curious, makes Draco put the lavender-wrapped gift onto the bed, casually, as if this is no big deal at all. Which it isn't, damn it.
"For me?" Potter sounds plain incredulous.
"It's nothing special," Draco says, lying down at his side. "Just some sweets." He tries to sound nonchalant but the pains he's taken to make the gift special are obvious. Merlin, did he have to use such an ostentatious ribbon of black silk? And why, despite all his efforts, does the box still look as if a clumsy first-year used all of his Spellotape on it?
"Sweets?" Potter wipes his come-smudged fingers on his arm, the gesture so natural as if Draco's spunk belongs onto his skin. Then he reaches for the gift, moving closer. He turns the box slowly in his hands, like it's going to break if he shakes it. He looks up, green eyes veiled and –
"What?" Has he misjudged Potter entirely? Is there some stupid Gryffindor rule of honour that doesn't allow Potter to take presents from him, despite all of those awfully intimate things they've done with each other?
"I-I don't ..." Potter makes a small, helpless shrug. "I don't have a present for you."
Oh. Draco wants to roll his eyes at the git. "Don't worry. I'll just help myself to some of those Rivoirines, too, then." He pronounces the confection's flamboyant name in his best French, which has Potter blink one moment and then snort out a laugh the next.
"No, you won't." The relief in Potter's voice is bright and clear. Playfully, he knocks Draco's shoulder, which bloody hurts but he doesn't care. Not when Potter's excitement flutters around them like a light warm cloak and his eyes sparkle with joy. He has the ribbon untied in seconds, and Draco just has to smile at him, trying for indulgent, but he can feel an idiotically happy grin plastered on his face.
"My mother gets them delivered every year from Charpentier's," he explains, as Potter tears the wrap from the box. "She used to spend Christmas with relatives in France as a child –"
He stops. Something's wrong. Potter's fingertips are moving over the brown and crème-coloured emblem, over and over again. A double C for Chocolate confiseur, the embossed drawing of a rectangular piece of chocolate, four cacao-brown squares – there's nothing worrisome about the old-fashioned box that Draco can tell.
"Have you been inside my head?"
Draco can hear what Potter said, but he doesn't grasp the meaning of the words. Potter's voice has become icily cold. And when did the box of chocolates get dropped and Potter move away to the side of the bed?
"What?"
"Did you bloody read my mind, Malfoy?"
Potter's sitting on edge, his face pale and beautiful but for the hurt in his eyes. He looks as if he's forcing himself to stay; as if he owes Draco this last chance to explain before he ends this, all of this, for good.
"No!" Draco wants to scream but only manages a squawk. Does Potter know about the Legilimency Father has been teaching him? Not even Mother knows. It takes time, Father keeps saying, and a strong will. Has Dumbledore been teaching ...? "What are you talking about? What's the matter?"
"Nobody … nobody knows about these." Potter points at the confectioneur's box with a gesture so helpless Draco wants to wrap him in his arms.
"Potter, please …" He cannot keep the pleading out of his voice. Something's gone horribly wrong, and all he knows is Potter's about to walk out on him, because of it. "I swear, I never used Legilimency on you. I bloody can't do it. I'm pants at it."
Potter watches him, making Draco wonder how much he can see without his glasses. "B-but …" he stutters, jerking his head. The tight lines around his mouth are back, and Draco hates it.
"My mother gets French confections delivered, every year on Christmas. I just thought …" He has to clear his throat and tries again. "They're really good and I thought with you liking pudding so much –"
"Sirius gave me those. A box exactly like this." Potter reaches for the unopened box: he clutches it to his heart like a shield.
"Sirius?" Draco's heard the name, of course. Sirius Black, the killer on the loose who's broken into Hogwarts to get Potter. There's a reward of ten thousand Galleons on his head. He's heard the name, too, a whisper on the Dark Lord's lips. What's Black got to –
"He's my godfather." Potter is pale as a sheet, his voice is shaking. "He's not a murderer, that's a lie! He sent me a box of those, for Christmas. By owl."
And that's a lie if Draco's ever heard one. Something about Black niggles in the back of his mind, something Father said. But he does not pursue the memory, for he does not want to know. Who cares where exactly Sirius Black has been when he gave Potter expensive confections that have to be imported fresh from Paris?
Potter shoots him a look of dangerous green, and Draco slightly shakes his head. Nobody else would notice, but Potter does. He moves his head, too, an almost imperceptible nod that he knows only Draco will understand. Silence is the price they pay for being together like this, but silence is better than lies.
And yet, no matter how hard they try, the outside has crept in on them, with a bloody box of Rivoirines, of all things. Draco should have known it was a bad idea. Potter's erection is drooping like a flower that's gone too long without water. He's turning the box in his hands again and again.
"They're my favourites," Draco tries again, helpless to recover the mood. He wants to pull the bedspread over him, to hide his nakedness.
But then Potter says, "That's what Sirius said. His favourite sweets in the world." He gives Draco a smile, then tears into the box. He doesn't wait even a moment to appreciate how carefully the lengthy, chocolate-covered, sugar-dusted biscuits are wrapped in fine tissue and placed side by side, eight of them each, three layers deep, with not one touching another. Potter unceremoniously grabs one and licks at the chocolate first, then bites into the rich confection that is filled with almond paste, raisins and rum. His eyes go wide, and oddly, his prick twitches, then he swallows the biscuit with a happy sigh.
Draco knows what Potter's doing, mentioning his godfather's name as if there was nothing to it and Black not a murderer on the run. In this room, when they are together, this is how things are.
He gently strokes Potter's leg. And as if Draco's touch summoned him close, Potter puts the box down and crawls towards him. Draco doesn't quite understand what Potter has in mind when he roughly pushes Draco into the bed. All he knows is that Potter isn't leaving, and he's so glad that he doesn't resist. Potter moves his hands all over his body until he reaches his face. Draco's cock is hardening, as Potter straddles him. Thank Merlin all that useless talk is over and they are back to what really matters.
Potter's cock is filling, too, as Draco wraps his fingers around it and gives it a couple of gentle tugs. Then he strokes Potter's come-smeared belly; he lets his nails trail over the taunt skin, wondering whether Potter can feel their sharpness through those layers of muscle and fat. And Potter must feel it, for he laughs and leans down to catch Draco's mouth in a wet, chocolatey kiss. He is here, here with Draco in their room. Potter's never seemed more real to Draco than in this moment, smelling like honey and rum, half-dried spunk on his skin and his soft paunch settled in a perfect fit in Draco's hands.
When they come up for air, Potter sits back, holding Draco in his dark green gaze. He reaches for another biscuit, never taking his eyes of Draco. With Draco caressing his middle and sides, Potter takes a bite. The sticky mix of the mealy sweet of almond with the sting of rum is simply the most delicious stuff Draco's ever tasted. Potter seems to agree, because he moans with pleasure as he swallows bite after bite.
Perhaps it's that soft moan coming from his lips. Or perhaps it's the fact that Potter's getting hard fast and making small, enticing thrusts with his hips. Or perhaps it's the heat underneath Draco's hands that he cannot keep away from Potter's rounded stomach. But before he has finished the second Rivoirine, Draco has him on his back, hands pinned above his head, and his cock frotting against him.
Potter simply smiles, swallows the last bite and licks his lips. He watches as Draco picks another biscuit up. But when Draco starts sucking at its sugar-sprinkled coating, his smile turns feral and hungry, but not for biscuits, Draco is sure of it. Their cocks are touching and they start to move the same instant, rubbing against each other. They brought each other off like this before, just hot friction and the movement of their bodies. It's even better tonight, with Potter's middle bigger and softer for Draco to push into.
He keeps eating the biscuit, and Potter watches with eyes black and hazy.
"Give me that," he says, a low growl in his voice that sends shivers down Draco's spine. Perhaps Potter means for him to hand him the biscuit, but it seems faster, somehow, to simply prod his lips open with it. Potter licks the filling away eagerly until it's gone. "Mmmm," he makes, then chews and swallows, as Draco shoves the gutted biscuit into his mouth.
There's chocolate on Potter's chin, and Draco cannot help but lick him clean. Potter arches up at the touch of Draco's lips, and he draws him in, desperate for a kiss. For a while it's all tongues and spit mingled with cacao and spice. Potter has both hands firmly on Draco's arse, holding him close and pushing against him. Stroking Potter's sides, where the soft flesh moves underneath his hands, is turning Draco on so much he is groaning into Potter's mouth.
When they break apart, there's a smear of precome on Draco's stomach – Potter's getting close.
"Feed me another one," he says. His lips are bruised from kissing. Draco cannot remember ever having been so turned on by just looking at his lover. He's never felt like this with the any of other boys he's fooled around with – never so close, never so bloody out of control. He reaches for the box again, takes another Rivoirine and pushes it between those gorgeous lips. Potter starts to chew, and Draco shoves his fingers into his mouth, making him suck at them, swallowing the almond-rum filling around them.
"Another one," Potter demands the moment the biscuit is gone.
Draco feeds him one Rivoirine after the other, with his fingers and sometimes, his mouth, kissing and biting around the confection, mixing chocolate and spit, licking rummy sweetness from his lips. Potter scoffs them all down with a lustful hunger that seems to know neither reason nor end. The bed is strewn with tissues when they are down to the third and last layer of biscuits. Potter's eyes are glassy with need. His cock is rock-hard, pressing into Draco's thigh, and still he is asking for more.
"You're certain?" Draco asks, and Potter growls as him again. He sounds hungry and dangerous, and Draco casts a worried glance at the almost empty box, even though he knows it's not the Rivoirines that Potter craves.
"I want all of them. Make me – " Whatever else he meant to say is smothered by another biscuit Draco shoves into his greedy mouth. He watches as Potter chews and when he swallows, he puts a trail of kisses along his throat.
"Does this feel good?" Draco murmurs, so close to Potter, his mouth is not an inch away from those sugar-sprinkled lips.
Potter mouthes, "Yeah, brilliant. Give me another one," thrusting and fidgeting beneath Draco, whether to seek more friction or to give his bloated stomach more room, he cannot tell. He puts another biscuit on Potter's lips, lets him lick off the powdered sugar first, then the chocolate, then the crumbling pastry and last, the sweet filling. Around the biscuit, Potter moans, "Need to come, Malfoy," and he twists and squirms more, rubbing his cock forcefully against Draco.
"Yes," he whispers, "am going to make you." He lifts his body to reach for Potter's cock that juts up hot-red and so hard the one thick vein winding upwards from its base looks ready to rupture. Draco palms it gently and is about to give it a first squeeze, when Potter groans out, "Suck me."
The command makes Draco stop. Potter's belly is moving up and down fast because he's panting so hard, and Draco ... he needs to put his hand on it and feel the paunch expand and shrink and expand again. It's exhilarating, turning him on in an odd, overwhelming way that almost brings his cock to bursting whenever the skin stretches and widens. Potter responds to his touch, too, taking deeper breaths and pushing his belly up with each inhale.
A wave of hot desire washes through Draco, and he grinds his dick down with a curse, moaning fuck! or Potter's name – anything to ease his need for more. More of that delicious pale skin, more of that fullness that makes Draco want to give himself over to Potter and spill all that he's holding inside – Father's secrets, the Dark Lord's commands, all those things he never told Potter.
A shiver runs through him, and Potter pulls him closer. His eyes are dark with a need that all the sweets from Paris cannot satisfy.
"Suck my dick," he says again, face sweaty and flushed, with bits of chocolate in the corners of his mouth. He's licking at them, moving his tongue along his lower lip, clearly in expectation of Draco's lips around his cock. Potter loves it when Draco blows him; he's been thrilled whenever Draco went down on him, whether in their room or between classes in the deserted boys' loo on the fourth floor. But tonight is different, and it has to do with the two dozen Rivoirines Potter's gobbled down and Draco's hand that is lying heavy on his belly. It feels hot and hard and full. He rubs it and presses down some more. With a gasp, Potter arches up, sounding half pained, half crazed with need.
"Please, Malfoy," he whimpers, "need you to, need you …" He grabs Draco by his shoulders and shoves him down. Pushy bastard. But finally Draco is settled between Potter's thighs, legs spread out on their bed. His cock's pushed into the folds of the bedspread that is soft and smooth just like Potter's paunch, and he cannot help rocking into it. He moves his hand along the swell of Potter's stomach before he takes his first lick at his swollen cock. For moment, he takes the head all in, then lets it slide out again with an audible plop.
Potter groans out, "God, bloody suck me already," grabbing a fistful of Draco's hair and pushing him down into his groin. His other hand rubs across his belly, and Draco cannot take his eyes of it. There's Potter's cock in front of him, bouncing slick-red and smooth, so smooth, the cock of a boy who's not yet fully grown, and he takes it deep into his mouth, making Potter sigh loudly with relief, but his hand is rubbing harder still on his bloated, come-smeared gut.
Potter's often touching himself, telling Draco without words what he likes and where he wants Draco's hands and mouth to be. It startled him at first, that shameless display of desires, but it's never failed to turn him on. Draco thought himself a straightforward bloke – snog, grab, fuck and come. There's never been more to it in those breathless encounters with other boys. Once Draco's fucked, really fucked, Theo up his arse. And once – but nobody knows this, least of all Vince – he let Gregory fuck him, both of them pissed out of their minds. Draco didn't even come, but after that, he's started wanking, sometimes, with two fingers in his hole and the memory of Gregory's weight and warmth in his mind. Not since Potter, though. Since that afternoon in the Potions classroom Potter's all he fantasises about – Potter's hands, his mouth, his nipples, his eyes, his voice. Sometimes Draco thinks he can come just from imagining the smell of Potter's hair.
And now Potter's kneading his swollen belly, and it does something to Draco that he knows is not straightforward, but twisted and sick, but Merlin, he wants to do that to Potter – he wants to dig his fingers into that bulging flesh. He licks and swirls his tongue around the head of Potter's cock; he sucks with a sudden need. Drops of precome mix with the spit in his mouth, and Potter's head falls back onto the bedspread as he cries out and clutches his belly. Draco stares at the twisting, digging, grabbing fingers as he blows Potter, moving up and down the whole length of his cock. Potter's shaking, his body taunt with the effort to not thrust up into Draco's mouth. His belly looks huge, pushed up like this, his fingers splayed out on it, rubbing and pressing. His other hand combs through Draco's hair, then his fingers move over Draco's face, touching his mouth, his lips, circling and pushing into Draco's mouth that is chock-full with pulsing cock.
"Touch me," Potter whispers, "touch me, Malfoy. Malfoy, please."
Draco slides his hand up Potter's thigh and lets it trail along the tender skin beside his groin. He moves further up where Potter's stomach rises and falls in erratic bursts. All the while he sucks eagerly at Potter's fingers and cock; he is hungry for the taste of come. Potter shudders and his balls contract as Draco's fingers lightly move up to his navel. Wheezing sobs spill from his lips, he has his eyes closed, his head's fallen back even further, leaving his throat fully exposed. The sight is almost Draco's undoing; his cock is rutting against a wet spot of precome and sweat that's gathering underneath him. He moves back a bit, so he can take the full weight of Potter's erection on his tongue, letting it glide along the pulsing vein on its underside. At the same time he lays his hand upon Potter's, stroking knuckles and fingers slowly, like before, weighing down on the full belly underneath.
Potter whimpers and moans, "God, yes, yes –" and Draco knows he's about to come. He takes his cock all in, as far as he can, trying to make his throat relax and allow Potter in deeper than ever before. Perhaps Potter can feel it or he just knows, but he's thrusting upwards at the same instant that Draco takes him in. A spasm is shooting all the way through Potter's body, and Draco grabs Potter's hand, the one holding his belly. Because now Potter's coming, coming hard and hot, shooting his load into Draco's throat. He squeezes Potter's fingers and swallows the stuff, but there's more and more and he gags on it.
Tearing up, gulping for air, he sees Potter licking his other hand that's been between Draco's lips just moments before, fucking his own mouth with glistening fingers. The image of a Rivoirine in Potter's mouth flashes silver through Draco's mind. He has to let go of the spurting cock, because now he's coming, too, untouched, with his prick buried deep in the linen folds, thrusting and thrusting and thrusting still even after he's soaked the bedspread with his come.
They collapse and lie unmoving, for minutes or hours, Draco doesn't know. And he doesn't care a bit. Curfew? Umbridge's ridiculous new Rules with a capitalised R? Fuck them. He's here with Potter all around him. They are safe in the quiet of this room, the soft crackling of the fire and the ever-present murmur of the lake the only sounds but for their breathing. In and out they breathe, rough and stuttering, like they cannot get enough air, or it's too much. Potter's hand is back in Draco's hair, a touch so light he's half convinced he's imagining it. His own hand is on Potter's thigh; he can feel it trembling deep inside.
When they are both able to move again, they grin at each other. Potter says, "Fuck," and Draco says, "Bloody hell," for really, what else can you say after sex like this? He reaches for his wand on the bedside cabinet to clean up the mess of tissues, spunk and crumbs of biscuits all over the bed.
But before he can cast the Scourgify, Potter grabs his wrist. "Don't! Don't Vanish the crumbs away. You never know when I get hungry again." He's grinning when he says it, but there's a haunted look in his eyes that Draco knows by now to take serious.
"I won't, don't worry. You get to eat every bit of your gift." He cleans off the tissues, closes the box and puts it on the cabinet, all under Potter's watchful gaze. Draco will have to visit Honeydukes soon, definitely before the next Hogsmeade weekend comes up. It's time to start exploiting those privileges Umbridge has promised the Slytherins for helping her enforce her stupid Rules. Honeydukes is selling a special kind of Belgian truffles, hand-made and delicious. They're not on the shelves, but sold from the backroom only, to special customers with enough Galleons to spend. Potter will love them.
Pulling Draco close, Potter is lying half on top of him; he kisses him, a light and gentle kiss. Then he puts his arms on Draco's chest and looks at him.
"Thank you for the … the Revaurines?" He laughs at himself for the way he mangles the French word.
Draco pronounces it slowly and correctly, "Ri-voi-rines."
"Should have known you speak bloody French, git." Potter lays his head on Draco's chest, letting his body fully relax.
The quiet in the room makes Draco drowsy. He thinks of white truffles from Honeydukes and how Potter will lick and suck at them when Draco puts them into his mouth. He spreads his legs and Potter at once slides between them. Merlin, the weight of him against his groin feels good. Draco's hands are lying at Potter's sides; he's slowly moving his feet up Potter's thighs. He wonders how it would feel to have Potter fuck him like that, face to face. He wonders how it would feel to have his arse pierced, with that big belly of Potter's rubbing against his cock. A languid wave of desire swashes through him, and he moans a bit, wondering how many truffles it will take for Potter to gain more weight, stretching his belly another two inches, perhaps. He fondles the soft flesh at Potter's sides, all the while imagining his belly growing bigger and heavier. Invariably, his cock twitches and starts filling out. Potter raises his head with a tired growl and he gives Draco his half-arsed smile.
"Again?" he asks, sounding baffled and amused, a bit proud, even.
And happy. Happy. Draco can hear it in Potter's drowsy voice; he can feel it in the way he thrusts lightly, very lightly, against his groin.
He's pulling Potter's head down gently on his chest. "I need to get you another present first," he whispers, wondering whether Honeydukes will gift-wrap the box for him.
*
Harry woke up to the sound of the waves sloshing against the castle's wall. He had been dreaming of the corridor again. Voldemort was furious; Harry had felt his frantic impatience when the Dark Lord urged the snake on by the power of his will. But in this dream Snake-Harry had never even got close to the door.
He moved back deeper into the warm body behind him. Malfoy was breathing in a quiet rhythm much like the waves of the lake. He had his arm wrapped around Harry's waist, his hand curled around his full stomach. At Harry's movement he twitched, pulling him closer instinctively.
"Shh," he mumbled, "it's all right."
It was not the first time Harry'd awoken from a nightmare in Malfoy's arms. But this time he was not crying out in pain, bathed in cold sweat and filled with a rage that was not his own. He'd never told Malfoy about his dream; for all Harry knew Malfoy's father was standing right at Voldemort's side in some night-time graveyard when his Lord penetrated Harry's mind. Usually Malfoy just held him, waited until the shaking passed and then squeezed Harry's arm, as if to make sure it was over and he was fine. He never asked what Harry dreamed, and Harry wondered whether Malfoy knew about nightmares, too. He thought about asking him but then – Malfoy rarely asked Harry anything personal. All he asked was, "Does this feel good?" or "Do you want to meet tonight (to kiss, to touch, to fuck)?"
The odd sense of being in the snake's powerful, smooth body faded. Malfoy was snoring softly at his neck and Harry turned, to look at him.
The flames were throwing shadows on Malfoy's face, and Harry reached out to trace the smudges underneath his closed eyes. The skin felt dry and fragile like a page in an old book. There was a sharpness to Malfoy's cheek-bones and nose that made Harry's heart ache, as if Malfoy were made of glass underneath the skin and could splinter much too easily. It was hard to not forget how easily this face could turn snotty or cruel. It was hard to not forget that this was Draco Malfoy, who'd tormented Ron relentlessly all of last year and had stood so bloody proud beside that toad Umbridge not two days ago.
"Is it time already?" Malfoy brought his mouth to Harry's face, his touch not quite a kiss with his lips all soft and slack from sleep.
"Not yet. It's not even midnight." Harry turned around again, and Malfoy's hand found its place immediately, fingers pushed underneath Harry's belly, his warm palm cupping the fullness of it. It felt good, Malfoy holding him like this.
In his dream, Harry had slithered along the corridor, tasting with his flickering tongue the juiciness of mice and the lingering smoke of magic. His master's will had drawn him along metal bars, trying to find a way towards the door. But he'd felt drowsy from the sweet prey he'd devoured. All he wanted was to curl up on that shimmering patch in the corner where he had smelled a green and silver heat, warming the stone floor from underneath. He had moved there in this smooth body and wriggled into the corner spot. Voldemort's rage was a thin red sliver at the edges of his dream, and once he'd tucked his slender head onto the scaly tip of his tail, it was gone. Seemed like not even the Dark Lord could rouse a snake that had just swallowed an elephant.
fin
Author:
vaysh11My own prompt: How could a chaser/chubby dynamic play out between Draco and Harry?
Kink Showcased: fat admiration, feederism
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: Harry's a bit heavier when he comes back to Hogwarts after the Christmas holidays.
Warnings: PWP, excessive use of fifth year canon details
Word Count: 10,000
Beta: So many thanks to the fabulous
marguerite_26 who must have a heart the size of an elephant for putting up with me. ♥Author's Notes: The quote (indicated with an asterisk) is from Antoine Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince. Many thanks to
shezan who, unbeknownst to herself and via her Meatball Blog, lead me towards Jacqueline and her mention of the confiseur Charpentier in Paris, creator of "La Rivoirine". The chocolate house obviously is in the hands of wizards and witches, as they don't have a website, and not one image of their magical confection exists in the world wide net.The little prince was talking to a snake.
Usually Harry wasn't allowed to listen, but he had been cleaning the kitchen when Aunt Petunia was reading from the book to Dudley in the living room. Weeks later, in the darkness of his cupboard Harry remembered it: the little prince had been talking to a snake. Just like him.
Uncle Vernon had not given him any food since the morning in the zoo. Harry was so hungry, it made his stomach cramp. The taste of the lemon ice lolly was still on his tongue; sour-sweet and fruity. "I can talk to snakes," he whispered to himself, making the words hiss and vibrate in his throat. Sometimes he stashed left-over food on the shelves beside the narrow cot – a half-eaten sandwich from lunch or a piece of chocolate that Dudley had dropped and never picked up. But now all he found was a rancid piece of cheese. There was dust and bits of spider webs on it and he licked them away before he put it into his mouth. He chewed on the cheese forever, imagining the sweetness of ripe cheddar underneath the rot.
Boa constrictors swallow their prey whole,* it said on the first page of the little prince's book. Hopefully, the snake from the zoo had been fed well, so it could make it all the way home without needing dead mice and whatever else it was that snakes ate. Six months, the book said; snakes could go six months without food. Harry swallowed the mouldy cheese, but all it did was make his stomach cramp badly again. He started crying, softly, so nobody heard. He could talk to snakes, but he was too old to believe that he was a little prince who'd landed on the wrong planet and would soon return home to his beautiful star.
That night Harry dreamed of eating a mountain of cheese sandwiches and a shelf stacked full of chocolate bars. He dreamed of being big, bigger than Dudley even, big as a snake, pale-gold in the moonlight, who had swallowed an elephant whole, from the tip of its trunk to the reddish fuzz on the end of its tail. In his dream Harry was sliding down Privet Drive, his belly warm and full, heading for a far-away country called Brazil.
Hogwarts, fifth year, January 17, Friday night
The room is a smear of green and silver as Potter twirls Draco in wild, breathless rounds. His arms are strong around Draco's waist, lifting him up a foot or more, and Potter laughs and laughs and searches for Draco's mouth; he is so happy –
Draco's an inch taller than Potter, but he feels perfectly safe in his arms, in this room that is spinning fast around them. The guest-room in the dungeons near the Slytherin dorms has become their home these last three months, a home like no other place for Draco, least of all the Manor.
He leans towards Potter's smiling face, mumbles, "Let me down, git," and kisses him, pulling him closer with his arms around his neck. It's been more than three weeks since he's last seen him, and he's forgotten how solid Potter is, his body agile and muscular against Draco's chest and feeling so incredibly warm. Draco has been hard since the moment Potter's owl knocked on the window, saying Meet me tonight? I want to see you (want to touch you, kiss you, fuck you). Now blood and need plummet towards Draco's groin heavy and fast, as he's getting harder still with Potter twirling him through the green and silver of the room. They both press closer as they spin and spin, holding each other so tight, with Potter whispering in Draco's ear, "Missed you, I missed you so much."
Finally, after Draco tells him again to bloody let him down, Potter loosens his hold. Feet safely on the floor, Draco keeps him at arm's length and cannot help but stare at him. He knows this face so well by now, after they've been meeting at the lake for weeks, touching first, then kissing and frotting and coming, both of them, in their pants. Potter's eyes still startle him, even hidden behind those dreadful glasses. During the last months Draco has fallen in love with Potter's long black lashes, the way they'll flutter closed and the way they open up to reveal eyes darkly green like the firs standing tall on Hogwarts' grounds.
But Draco knows much more about Potter's face; knows the dark smudges underneath his eyes, knows how Potter's lips can be pressed closed so painfully tight. The tension is gone now from his mouth that glistens and turns into a half-arsed smile as Draco stares and wants to bite and lick and lose himself in Potter's kiss.
He wonders what happened during Christmas holidays, for there is a fullness to Potter's face that was not there before. It suits him, this softness to his chin, those smooth curves of his cheeks. Draco lays his palms against the sides of Potter's face, and he puts his mouth on Potter's lips more gently than he'd ever thought he'd kiss a boy. He's never sure whether Potter truly wants him, truly needs him like Draco needs Potter. But he does, he does and opens his mouth and they slam into each other, all teeth and tongue and spit.
"So you had a good time during hols?" It's a whisper when they move apart, just an inch to come up for breath. Draco regrets asking the moment the words are out of his mouth and he feels Potter wincing in his arms. But something burns in him, something sharp and bitter like bile that makes him grip Potter's shoulders too hard. The thought of Potter laughing with the red-haired Weaselette, under the scraggly Weasel Christmas tree, that fat broad of a witch smothering him with biscuits and baked apples and mince pies ... it fills Draco with such longing. Not for the Weasel's hovel of a home, but for Potter, Potter happy and warm and soft and looking at Draco like he wants him here, with him, always.
Potter mumbles something inarticulate like he always does, searching Draco's face. "Yes, it was fun. Well, some of it." He leans back, and Draco lets go of him, but Potter stays close. "Mr Weasley," he says, voice low and wary, "he was ... sick. We ... um, I was staying in ... well, some place in London. So we could visit Mr Weasley in St Mungo's, you know?"
What Draco knows is that Potter's telling the least of what happened. Rumours even reached the Manor – of an accident in the Ministry that involved Arthur Weasley. Some place in London. His father would pay a good many Galleons for such intelligence. Draco wishes he'd never asked; he doesn't want to hear anything more. Whenever they talk, it's all secrets and lies, and he hates it so much. Potter's here with him in their room, and even if there's a joy in his face that is not for Draco, but for someone else, for something that happened during the holidays, Draco doesn't care. So what if he's kissed that slit-eyed Chang (whatever the fuck he could see in that bird). So what if he's been happy without Draco, when Draco missed him … missed …
It doesn't matter. Potter's here, warm and hard against him.
"You all right?" he asks, lips ghosting over Draco's mouth. His hands slowly move up Draco's back, until they reach his shoulder blades.
He nods, unable to speak. And yet Potter understands, like he's done from that first time in the Potions classroom, without any words. He wraps Draco in his arms, holding him close, offering his whole body. And there is so much of him, so much ... Draco shoves his hands underneath Potter's jumper, he pulls at the undershirt to get at heat and skin and the softness of flesh stretching over Potter's hips.
The next moment, they stumble towards the bed. Draco pushes Potter back onto it, and he looks so bloody gorgeous against the bedspread's pattern of green and black spades. Draco settles between Potter's thighs, buries his fingers in Potter's hair, buries his face in his neck. Potter smells of dust and sugar, and Merlin, Draco wants him badly.
Within seconds they have their ties and jumpers and shirts torn off. Leaning in for a kiss, Draco sees that Potter's undershirt is hitched up to reveal his stomach that is swelling out above the trousers like it's never done before. Draco cannot help but stare at it, pale and smooth and round, a wide stretch of rosy-pale skin vanishing underneath the waistband. He's reaching for those soft new rolls of flesh, wanting to touch them with a sudden, inexplicable craving, unaware almost of what his hands are doing.
Quickly Potter yanks his shirt in place, covering himself up. Heat washes over Draco, startling and embarrassing, as he pulls back. When he looks up, Potter glances away, and a blush, pink and blotchy like the early tulips in the Manor's garden, is spreading from his throat.
Something did change over the holidays, Draco is certain of it now. Potter's never been shy about his body. Not like Draco who needed the evening twilight at the lake to shed his robes and allow Potter to touch him (kiss him, lick him, fuck him). It's taken Potter weeks to make Draco undress in the light of the fireplace and have Potter look at him, completely naked. Draco's never done this with anybody else, not with Nott, not even with Pansy, years ago. Which is yet another reason why this, this ...
He feels Potter's eyes on him, lids half closed over green that gleams even brighter than usually with Potter's cheeks so flushed. There's heat in Draco's face too; it burns all the way to the roots of his hair. His scalp tingles and goes numb at the same time, and it's something he's not felt before, arousing and yet not sexual at all. He is hard, all right, so bloody hard he's sure he will come if Potter as much as grinds his hip against his cock. But he doesn't want that, not for a while at least. He wants to keep on floating on this tingling heat, all wrapped in the presence of Potter so close he can smell him and feel his every shiver and breath.
Draco lays down on the bedspread at Potter's side. Their legs are still clad in trousers and all tangled up. He brings his mouth to Potter's neck and kisses the smooth pinkish skin as gently as he can. Potter turns into his touch and moans very softly. His hand that's been wound tight in the cotton of his undershirt, pulling it down, loosens its hold and he splays his fingers, deliberately, over his belly. The undershirt must have been white once but now it's a pale grey, threadbare at places from too many washs. Potter's hand looks fragile against it, too pale somehow, and it seems as if he's pressing it into his stomach. There are stacks of expensive undershirts lying in Draco's trunk and he wonders how their silk would feel on Potter's skin. He places his own hand upon Potter's, covering finger with finger; he wants to feel what Potter feels.
Potter's breath hitches when Draco's palm touches the back of his hand, and Draco realises he's been holding in the air, breathing light and shallow. His belly barely moves under the weight of both their hands. Draco caresses his hand, letting his fingers wander over the fullness hidden by the shirt. Potter's always been much too skinny, a thin sliver of a boy – is he ashamed now of this bit of weight he's put on over the holidays? A strange, burning need wells up in Draco's groin at the thought; his prick strains painfully against his closed fly. Draco wants to see, he wants to feel with his hand what Potter is trying to hide from him.
"Breathe," he whispers, his voice low and raw. He licks at Potter's neck, tasting the sweat that has been gathering there. "Take a deep breath."
Potter croaks out a, "yes," but he's holding his breath for a moment longer. They both look at their hands on the cotton covering the bulge of Potter's gut. Draco can feel him draw a big gulp in; he takes a deep breath, too. He can smell the smoke from the fireplace and the scent of mossy earth from the lake that always lingers in the dungeons. Potter's stomach rises and expands, wider and wider, bigger than Draco expected. He slides his hand across it, cups the fullness in his palm. With a strangled sound, Potter starts to writhe wildly. His other hand, the one that is not splayed across his stomach, is clutching the bedspread at his side. The tingling is back on Draco's scalp. It does things to him, to see Potter moving and stretching and bucking up like this, things that make his cock leak and his mouth dry. He cannot stand it anymore; he needs to touch the skin of Potter's belly that has widened two inches at least since they've last met. He pushes the bloody shirt up, slides his hand underneath. Potter arches into Draco's touch as he caresses the hot, smooth skin curving from groin to navel. Silver lust flashes through him, sharp as lightning, and Draco cannot hold back any longer: he's digging into the flesh, kneading it violently and hard.
"Does this feel good?" He's trying for smug, but his voice is shaking too hard. The tingling is moving down his back, a fiery thing, like flames dancing on his skin.
"God, yes," Potter moans and Draco looks up into eyes reflecting the golden orange from the flames. There's smouldering coal in Potter's eyes as he murmurs, "More", and he yanks his undershirt up, giving Draco access to touch and knead and stroke his bulging middle.
Draco's burning up. He is so hard it hurts. He cannot remember wanting so much. It feels like the first time he had somebody else's hand on his prick, a distant cousin who tossed him off during a summer spent in Brittany. Draco had been barely thirteen, his stiffy small and mostly soft and spurting drops of thin stuff, not real spunk. Clement had been older and a lot bigger than him, and Draco recalls with sudden clarity how good it had felt to frot against the boy's sturdy body.
The memory triggers another wave of lust that pierces through him like the red-hot tip of a knife. He needs to get his hands onto Potter's gut. In one swift move he straddles Potter, he pushes down hard onto the full erection that is straining against Potter's jeans. A rumbling growl forces its way up from somewhere deep within. It scares him, that wild and shameless growl, his rutting need so obvious in it, like he's lost all control over the sounds coming from his mouth. It scares him and yet it turns him on so much he has to lift his hips because otherwise he'd come, this instant. Potter's panting underneath him, belly rising and falling, his fingers on Draco's hips, holding him close, rubbing his thumbs over Draco's hipbones. Draco puts his own hands around Potter's stomach, his fingers splayed wide with the thumbs touching just at the middle. He's roughly digging into the flesh, trying to be gentle, trying hard, but he can't, he needs to grab and hold on to Potter who feels so lusciously smooth and soft and solid in his hands.
Another flash of need crashes through him and he lowers his head to flick at the small, tender well of Potter's navel. He pushes his tongue into the intimate folds, licking and tasting a powdery sweetness he's not tasted before, all Potter, all of it. Draco presses his tongue deeper, he wants to …
Something tells him to stop, tells him he's hurting Potter, no matter that he's arching up against his mouth, body tightly strung like a bow, and panting hard.
"Don't stop," Potter moans, and Draco wants so much, it's like a sharp pain hovering deep within, held back by a lead strung so tight it's going to snap any second now.
Then Potter thrusts his hips up, and suddenly it's plain as day what Draco wants. He fumbles with the unwieldy Muggle zipper, pushes the trousers down as Potter lifts his hips. Moments later he has him in his briefs, white and innocent but for the thick outline of his prick.
Draco palms the fat bulge and Potter groans and reaches for Draco's trousers. Expert of wizarding attire that he has become, it takes him only seconds to untie the lacings, even with Draco's erection pressing full and hard against them. His cock springs free, and a shudder runs through him.
"Want you so much," Potter whispers as he rubs his thumb over Draco's prick, making his hips snap forward by their own accord. Potter's laugh is hoarse as he wraps his fingers around Draco's erection and tugs a couple of times. Within seconds he brings Draco to the brink of orgasm, and he moves backwards, moaning, "No."
Potter smiles at him, that half-arsed smile again. "Let's get you out of those trousers then," he says and for a minute they struggle with wool and cotton and socks, until they are lying fully naked side by side.
Usually, this is the moment when Draco will draw a blanket over them. Usually, he feels more comfortable when they're fucking in the dim light from the fireplace at the other side of the room. To lie beside another person all in the buff, without any cover, is still new. There's a sweet, arousing lightness to it that makes up for how exposed he feels, but usually he needs Potter skin-close to be able to let himself go.
But tonight is different. There has been no Nox from Draco; the magical candles burn brightly beside the bed. Tonight he wants to see taunt skin snap back into place after he's dug his fingers into Potter's bulging middle. Tonight he wants to see Potter's face when he fondles the soft weight he's put on. And so the light stays on and he's keeping a bit of a distance, close enough to feel Potter's heat, but their bodies not as tightly pressed together as they usually are.
Draco lets his hands wander over Potter's stomach and sides, grabbing small fistfuls of fat that weren't there before the holidays. He reaches Potter's arse that is fuller, too, with a new soft layer over the muscles underneath. Carefully Draco slides two fingers into the crack, moving them from the hollow just below Potter's back, over his hole all the way into the silkiness of his balls. He knows that Potter loves to be touched like this, even when it still feels strange to Draco to put his hands back there. Strange and dirty and so arousing that most nights during the holidays he wanked to the memory of his cock gliding up and down Potter's crack, his own spit-sleek fingers buried in his hole. Predictably, Potter pushes back against his touch, but it isn't his arse that Draco wants tonight. He's hot and hungry for the way Potter's belly is smashed against his cock.
They kiss, and Potter licks Draco's mouth with slow languid swipes. The gentle touch makes his lips prickle and the tingling on his scalp flares up again; it feels like he is about to drown in Potter's mouth. Their bodies move closer, and Draco's pushing Potter's legs apart with his hips, as he burrows into him. Potter opens up easily; he hooks one leg over Draco's waist and pulls him in. They are so bloody close, with nothing but skin between them. Draco's prick is engulfed within the softness of Potter's belly, yielding and yielding. He cannot help but force his tongue into Potter's mouth that is so hot and slick and wet. Potter starts sucking gently, and Draco groans with need. He wants to be eaten whole, he wants to be drenched in spit, he wants to pierce through Potter's skin and spill right into him. He wants so much, and Potter sucks and moans, circling his hips in small, fast moves that feel, feel so bloody good.
They barely have been at it for a few moments when Draco realises he will not last. The soles of his feet are going numb, as the pressure builds and threatens to overtake him. Potter sucking at his tongue is too much, and Draco pulls away, settling for a kiss. But he should know by now that his body is spelled to respond instantly to the plumpness of Potter's lips. His balls contract abruptly and Draco's whole body is tensing up with an ache so sharp it turns into burning lust that makes words spill from his lips, ragged words like "fuck" and "need" and "you" …
The magical candles make the sweat on Potter's skin shimmer like pearl; the tiny nub of his nipple is flushed and shiny, like it's sculpted from red coral. Draco catches it between his lips; he sucks gently, but it's as if someone is sucking his cock, milking him for all he's got. Potter cries out and thrashes against him, his prick stabbing into Draco as he's rubbing frantically against his hip. Draco cups the soft flesh around Potter's nipple; he strokes and squeezes it, and Potter's head falls back onto the bedspread with a groan. A spasm tears through Draco, flashing silver. He arches up, pulls away from the fleshy muscle of Potter's tit that feels so firm and good, but Draco needs to let it go because it's all too much: the sounds that Potter is making, his thrusts, his strong leg pulling Draco in, holding him close. And his belly that pushes and rubs against Draco's cock. All of it makes the tingling on his skin flare into a storm of blinding silver and verdant green, so bright, so incredibly bright he has to close his eyes and just let go ...
Potter whispers, "Come on me," as he pushes against Draco, using this new weight to shield him from the light (the Dark). Words rise in Draco's throat, words that betray everything – how afraid he was that Potter would not come back to him, that what's been going on those cold winter nights in the Manor scares him shitless. He beats them down, those treacherous words, and lets his body do the talking. It's the easiest thing, really, with Potter all safe and solid around him. His chest is sliding over Draco's nipples, his belly's rubbing forcefully against Draco's cock. The tingling is all over him now, taking his breath away and forcing his insides into a tangle of lust and aching need. There is nothing, nothing he can do but let himself fall into the fullness of Potter's body. He thrusts one more time and all the silver and green's crashing in on him, and he comes with a force so hard, so –
- so painfully sweet and Draco shakes, minutes still, it seems, after he came. He's taking in gulps of air, with his mouth scorched dry and in his throat the raw taste of a scream that he doesn't remember but is still ringing in the air.
He returns to the room and to a light touch on his back. Potter is looking at him with awe and joy and a hunger so fierce it makes his gaze keen and needy at the same time. He murmurs Draco's name, easing him back into the here and now. Back to his impatient cock; back to the slickness of come and sweat on his paunch. Draco slides against it until, not quite by accident, Potter's lips catch his mouth. He can feel the satisfied smile and underneath, the undeniable shiver of desire.
Draco allows himself to be kissed gently, still trembling from coming so hard. His groin feels bloodless and numb, and in this moment he's dead certain he never will get it up again.
Potter whispers something against his cheek, and Draco croaks, "What?"
"Missed me, did you?" Potter asks with a smile that Draco hears rather than sees because he's nestled close to Potter's chest.
"Yeah," he says. It's easy to admit when he's calm and content, like he hasn't felt in weeks; not since Potter left with no word to Draco, two days before Christmas.
"Did your friends come … visit? You were saying … all those parties ..." Potter sounds both coy and oddly shy. His body that's been rocking gently against Draco, goes still. When Draco looks up into his face he cannot believe the unspoken question in Potter's eyes.
"Salazar, what do you think? That I'm fooling around when – bloody fuck, Potter!" He stops himself. He must be careful to not betray anything. Potter has no idea what Draco's holidays were like. He must not know about it – the night-time summons of the Dark Lord, the surprise visits of Greyback and his pack. Draco hasn't been able to sleep through one single night when downstairs in the parlour stern voices were swearing oath after oath. Potter must never hear about the talk Draco had with Father – about his duties as heir to one of the oldest pure-blood families in wizarding Britain. A shiver runs through him and he presses closer against Potter whose hands are still warm and safe on his back.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to … didn't mean …" Stumbling on words again, still Potter voice is soothing. But Draco can hear the uncertainty in it. And underneath, as always – seething anger. By now Draco knows it has nothing to do with him; it's what puts the darkness around Potter's eyes and makes him so tense sometimes, Draco fears he's going to snap. Dumbledore should pay more attention to their Golden Boy. Or Snape, who's been seeing more of Potter than usual. Just the other day, a third-year watched Potter enter Snape's office after dinner.
Draco realised during those last three months that Potter's magic is stronger than it seems, stronger than Draco had given him credit for. Certainly stronger than his own. He understands now why it's Potter whom the Dark Lord wants, and not Dumbledore or any of the misled wizards and witches from the Order of the Phoenix. But can't they see what it's doing to him? There were moments between them – silent moments, with both their hearts hammering fast – when Potter was an inch away from telling him the secrets he keeps locked inside himself. And Draco doesn't want to know any of this, and damn it – it's safer if he doesn't know.
They are back to this twisted tangle of overwhelming need and silence, always silence between them. What they have here – it's bound to end soon. There's no way Saint Potter will still want to be with Draco, not when the secrets start to spill and his father's plans are all put into action. That blood-traitor Weasley in St Mungo's was only the beginning; if they think the Dark Lord will stop at Azkaban, they're silly idiots who deserve what's waiting for them.
Draco sighs and starts to slide off Potter, but the git won't let him. They struggle for long moments, full strength against full strength, then Potter whispers, "Please don't go."
"I'm not going anywhere." For he cannot leave, not when this ... this thing with Potter is the only bright spot in Draco's life these days. He looks at him glistening with sweat, one hand caressing his belly, smearing Draco's spunk all over himself. He has to close his eyes at the sight. The thought alone, that Potter likes to touch the sticky mess he left on him – it makes Draco shiver with something that has little to do with his cock that is showing interest again, not five minutes after he'd come so hard.
This is ridiculous. He's a Malfoy. He can't let himself lose control like this, not with anyone, least of all Potter who hates him outside of this room. Draco's even got a present for him – pathetic. A love-struck fool, that's what Potter's turned him into with his secret touches in the hallways and those stolen evenings of phenomenal sex. Just looking at him, spread out on their bed and bloody gorgeous, Draco longs to do things no Malfoy should be wanting to do, like licking Potter throat to belly, from his cock to that musky crack of arse. The silly voice in his head that made Draco get a present for Potter in the first place, tells him that this is the perfect moment to hand his lover a belated Yule gift
Draco gets up to fetch his robes that are lying in a heap. The square shape of the box is outlined underneath the black cloth. It isn't much, and really, who's ever heard of a bloke giving another bloke a gift for Christmas? Not in Slytherin House, they don't.
Draco would have never thought of it, but then the shipment arrived from France like every year. Mother and the house-elves unwrapped all those delicate French confectioneries, filling the Manor with the aroma of anise, cinnamon and orange peel. Watching the enchanted look on his mother's face, Draco remembered the stories about Potter having been raised with some poor Muggle relatives of his. They likely didn't even have a tree, much less expensive biscuits from the Continent. He wanted to bring Potter home with him, all of sudden, and show him their Christmas tree, rising up eighteen feet and covered with glittering fairy garlands and thousands of small globes illuminated by a Lumos inside. It was such a silly wish. Draco could not bring Potter home, and not only because the Dark Lord was residing in the parlour more days than not. He would never be allowed to bring Potter to Malfoy Manor as a friend. But he could give him some of those French luxuries his mother loved so much. And so, after Christmas, he wrapped a box of sweet, sticky Rivoirines in lavender tissue that seemed suitable enough for a bloke.
Potter is watching him when he takes the box out of his robes. Merlin, what a sappy, stupid idea this has been! Still, something about Potter, who's up on his elbows now, eyes big and curious, makes Draco put the lavender-wrapped gift onto the bed, casually, as if this is no big deal at all. Which it isn't, damn it.
"For me?" Potter sounds plain incredulous.
"It's nothing special," Draco says, lying down at his side. "Just some sweets." He tries to sound nonchalant but the pains he's taken to make the gift special are obvious. Merlin, did he have to use such an ostentatious ribbon of black silk? And why, despite all his efforts, does the box still look as if a clumsy first-year used all of his Spellotape on it?
"Sweets?" Potter wipes his come-smudged fingers on his arm, the gesture so natural as if Draco's spunk belongs onto his skin. Then he reaches for the gift, moving closer. He turns the box slowly in his hands, like it's going to break if he shakes it. He looks up, green eyes veiled and –
"What?" Has he misjudged Potter entirely? Is there some stupid Gryffindor rule of honour that doesn't allow Potter to take presents from him, despite all of those awfully intimate things they've done with each other?
"I-I don't ..." Potter makes a small, helpless shrug. "I don't have a present for you."
Oh. Draco wants to roll his eyes at the git. "Don't worry. I'll just help myself to some of those Rivoirines, too, then." He pronounces the confection's flamboyant name in his best French, which has Potter blink one moment and then snort out a laugh the next.
"No, you won't." The relief in Potter's voice is bright and clear. Playfully, he knocks Draco's shoulder, which bloody hurts but he doesn't care. Not when Potter's excitement flutters around them like a light warm cloak and his eyes sparkle with joy. He has the ribbon untied in seconds, and Draco just has to smile at him, trying for indulgent, but he can feel an idiotically happy grin plastered on his face.
"My mother gets them delivered every year from Charpentier's," he explains, as Potter tears the wrap from the box. "She used to spend Christmas with relatives in France as a child –"
He stops. Something's wrong. Potter's fingertips are moving over the brown and crème-coloured emblem, over and over again. A double C for Chocolate confiseur, the embossed drawing of a rectangular piece of chocolate, four cacao-brown squares – there's nothing worrisome about the old-fashioned box that Draco can tell.
"Have you been inside my head?"
Draco can hear what Potter said, but he doesn't grasp the meaning of the words. Potter's voice has become icily cold. And when did the box of chocolates get dropped and Potter move away to the side of the bed?
"What?"
"Did you bloody read my mind, Malfoy?"
Potter's sitting on edge, his face pale and beautiful but for the hurt in his eyes. He looks as if he's forcing himself to stay; as if he owes Draco this last chance to explain before he ends this, all of this, for good.
"No!" Draco wants to scream but only manages a squawk. Does Potter know about the Legilimency Father has been teaching him? Not even Mother knows. It takes time, Father keeps saying, and a strong will. Has Dumbledore been teaching ...? "What are you talking about? What's the matter?"
"Nobody … nobody knows about these." Potter points at the confectioneur's box with a gesture so helpless Draco wants to wrap him in his arms.
"Potter, please …" He cannot keep the pleading out of his voice. Something's gone horribly wrong, and all he knows is Potter's about to walk out on him, because of it. "I swear, I never used Legilimency on you. I bloody can't do it. I'm pants at it."
Potter watches him, making Draco wonder how much he can see without his glasses. "B-but …" he stutters, jerking his head. The tight lines around his mouth are back, and Draco hates it.
"My mother gets French confections delivered, every year on Christmas. I just thought …" He has to clear his throat and tries again. "They're really good and I thought with you liking pudding so much –"
"Sirius gave me those. A box exactly like this." Potter reaches for the unopened box: he clutches it to his heart like a shield.
"Sirius?" Draco's heard the name, of course. Sirius Black, the killer on the loose who's broken into Hogwarts to get Potter. There's a reward of ten thousand Galleons on his head. He's heard the name, too, a whisper on the Dark Lord's lips. What's Black got to –
"He's my godfather." Potter is pale as a sheet, his voice is shaking. "He's not a murderer, that's a lie! He sent me a box of those, for Christmas. By owl."
And that's a lie if Draco's ever heard one. Something about Black niggles in the back of his mind, something Father said. But he does not pursue the memory, for he does not want to know. Who cares where exactly Sirius Black has been when he gave Potter expensive confections that have to be imported fresh from Paris?
Potter shoots him a look of dangerous green, and Draco slightly shakes his head. Nobody else would notice, but Potter does. He moves his head, too, an almost imperceptible nod that he knows only Draco will understand. Silence is the price they pay for being together like this, but silence is better than lies.
And yet, no matter how hard they try, the outside has crept in on them, with a bloody box of Rivoirines, of all things. Draco should have known it was a bad idea. Potter's erection is drooping like a flower that's gone too long without water. He's turning the box in his hands again and again.
"They're my favourites," Draco tries again, helpless to recover the mood. He wants to pull the bedspread over him, to hide his nakedness.
But then Potter says, "That's what Sirius said. His favourite sweets in the world." He gives Draco a smile, then tears into the box. He doesn't wait even a moment to appreciate how carefully the lengthy, chocolate-covered, sugar-dusted biscuits are wrapped in fine tissue and placed side by side, eight of them each, three layers deep, with not one touching another. Potter unceremoniously grabs one and licks at the chocolate first, then bites into the rich confection that is filled with almond paste, raisins and rum. His eyes go wide, and oddly, his prick twitches, then he swallows the biscuit with a happy sigh.
Draco knows what Potter's doing, mentioning his godfather's name as if there was nothing to it and Black not a murderer on the run. In this room, when they are together, this is how things are.
He gently strokes Potter's leg. And as if Draco's touch summoned him close, Potter puts the box down and crawls towards him. Draco doesn't quite understand what Potter has in mind when he roughly pushes Draco into the bed. All he knows is that Potter isn't leaving, and he's so glad that he doesn't resist. Potter moves his hands all over his body until he reaches his face. Draco's cock is hardening, as Potter straddles him. Thank Merlin all that useless talk is over and they are back to what really matters.
Potter's cock is filling, too, as Draco wraps his fingers around it and gives it a couple of gentle tugs. Then he strokes Potter's come-smeared belly; he lets his nails trail over the taunt skin, wondering whether Potter can feel their sharpness through those layers of muscle and fat. And Potter must feel it, for he laughs and leans down to catch Draco's mouth in a wet, chocolatey kiss. He is here, here with Draco in their room. Potter's never seemed more real to Draco than in this moment, smelling like honey and rum, half-dried spunk on his skin and his soft paunch settled in a perfect fit in Draco's hands.
When they come up for air, Potter sits back, holding Draco in his dark green gaze. He reaches for another biscuit, never taking his eyes of Draco. With Draco caressing his middle and sides, Potter takes a bite. The sticky mix of the mealy sweet of almond with the sting of rum is simply the most delicious stuff Draco's ever tasted. Potter seems to agree, because he moans with pleasure as he swallows bite after bite.
Perhaps it's that soft moan coming from his lips. Or perhaps it's the fact that Potter's getting hard fast and making small, enticing thrusts with his hips. Or perhaps it's the heat underneath Draco's hands that he cannot keep away from Potter's rounded stomach. But before he has finished the second Rivoirine, Draco has him on his back, hands pinned above his head, and his cock frotting against him.
Potter simply smiles, swallows the last bite and licks his lips. He watches as Draco picks another biscuit up. But when Draco starts sucking at its sugar-sprinkled coating, his smile turns feral and hungry, but not for biscuits, Draco is sure of it. Their cocks are touching and they start to move the same instant, rubbing against each other. They brought each other off like this before, just hot friction and the movement of their bodies. It's even better tonight, with Potter's middle bigger and softer for Draco to push into.
He keeps eating the biscuit, and Potter watches with eyes black and hazy.
"Give me that," he says, a low growl in his voice that sends shivers down Draco's spine. Perhaps Potter means for him to hand him the biscuit, but it seems faster, somehow, to simply prod his lips open with it. Potter licks the filling away eagerly until it's gone. "Mmmm," he makes, then chews and swallows, as Draco shoves the gutted biscuit into his mouth.
There's chocolate on Potter's chin, and Draco cannot help but lick him clean. Potter arches up at the touch of Draco's lips, and he draws him in, desperate for a kiss. For a while it's all tongues and spit mingled with cacao and spice. Potter has both hands firmly on Draco's arse, holding him close and pushing against him. Stroking Potter's sides, where the soft flesh moves underneath his hands, is turning Draco on so much he is groaning into Potter's mouth.
When they break apart, there's a smear of precome on Draco's stomach – Potter's getting close.
"Feed me another one," he says. His lips are bruised from kissing. Draco cannot remember ever having been so turned on by just looking at his lover. He's never felt like this with the any of other boys he's fooled around with – never so close, never so bloody out of control. He reaches for the box again, takes another Rivoirine and pushes it between those gorgeous lips. Potter starts to chew, and Draco shoves his fingers into his mouth, making him suck at them, swallowing the almond-rum filling around them.
"Another one," Potter demands the moment the biscuit is gone.
Draco feeds him one Rivoirine after the other, with his fingers and sometimes, his mouth, kissing and biting around the confection, mixing chocolate and spit, licking rummy sweetness from his lips. Potter scoffs them all down with a lustful hunger that seems to know neither reason nor end. The bed is strewn with tissues when they are down to the third and last layer of biscuits. Potter's eyes are glassy with need. His cock is rock-hard, pressing into Draco's thigh, and still he is asking for more.
"You're certain?" Draco asks, and Potter growls as him again. He sounds hungry and dangerous, and Draco casts a worried glance at the almost empty box, even though he knows it's not the Rivoirines that Potter craves.
"I want all of them. Make me – " Whatever else he meant to say is smothered by another biscuit Draco shoves into his greedy mouth. He watches as Potter chews and when he swallows, he puts a trail of kisses along his throat.
"Does this feel good?" Draco murmurs, so close to Potter, his mouth is not an inch away from those sugar-sprinkled lips.
Potter mouthes, "Yeah, brilliant. Give me another one," thrusting and fidgeting beneath Draco, whether to seek more friction or to give his bloated stomach more room, he cannot tell. He puts another biscuit on Potter's lips, lets him lick off the powdered sugar first, then the chocolate, then the crumbling pastry and last, the sweet filling. Around the biscuit, Potter moans, "Need to come, Malfoy," and he twists and squirms more, rubbing his cock forcefully against Draco.
"Yes," he whispers, "am going to make you." He lifts his body to reach for Potter's cock that juts up hot-red and so hard the one thick vein winding upwards from its base looks ready to rupture. Draco palms it gently and is about to give it a first squeeze, when Potter groans out, "Suck me."
The command makes Draco stop. Potter's belly is moving up and down fast because he's panting so hard, and Draco ... he needs to put his hand on it and feel the paunch expand and shrink and expand again. It's exhilarating, turning him on in an odd, overwhelming way that almost brings his cock to bursting whenever the skin stretches and widens. Potter responds to his touch, too, taking deeper breaths and pushing his belly up with each inhale.
A wave of hot desire washes through Draco, and he grinds his dick down with a curse, moaning fuck! or Potter's name – anything to ease his need for more. More of that delicious pale skin, more of that fullness that makes Draco want to give himself over to Potter and spill all that he's holding inside – Father's secrets, the Dark Lord's commands, all those things he never told Potter.
A shiver runs through him, and Potter pulls him closer. His eyes are dark with a need that all the sweets from Paris cannot satisfy.
"Suck my dick," he says again, face sweaty and flushed, with bits of chocolate in the corners of his mouth. He's licking at them, moving his tongue along his lower lip, clearly in expectation of Draco's lips around his cock. Potter loves it when Draco blows him; he's been thrilled whenever Draco went down on him, whether in their room or between classes in the deserted boys' loo on the fourth floor. But tonight is different, and it has to do with the two dozen Rivoirines Potter's gobbled down and Draco's hand that is lying heavy on his belly. It feels hot and hard and full. He rubs it and presses down some more. With a gasp, Potter arches up, sounding half pained, half crazed with need.
"Please, Malfoy," he whimpers, "need you to, need you …" He grabs Draco by his shoulders and shoves him down. Pushy bastard. But finally Draco is settled between Potter's thighs, legs spread out on their bed. His cock's pushed into the folds of the bedspread that is soft and smooth just like Potter's paunch, and he cannot help rocking into it. He moves his hand along the swell of Potter's stomach before he takes his first lick at his swollen cock. For moment, he takes the head all in, then lets it slide out again with an audible plop.
Potter groans out, "God, bloody suck me already," grabbing a fistful of Draco's hair and pushing him down into his groin. His other hand rubs across his belly, and Draco cannot take his eyes of it. There's Potter's cock in front of him, bouncing slick-red and smooth, so smooth, the cock of a boy who's not yet fully grown, and he takes it deep into his mouth, making Potter sigh loudly with relief, but his hand is rubbing harder still on his bloated, come-smeared gut.
Potter's often touching himself, telling Draco without words what he likes and where he wants Draco's hands and mouth to be. It startled him at first, that shameless display of desires, but it's never failed to turn him on. Draco thought himself a straightforward bloke – snog, grab, fuck and come. There's never been more to it in those breathless encounters with other boys. Once Draco's fucked, really fucked, Theo up his arse. And once – but nobody knows this, least of all Vince – he let Gregory fuck him, both of them pissed out of their minds. Draco didn't even come, but after that, he's started wanking, sometimes, with two fingers in his hole and the memory of Gregory's weight and warmth in his mind. Not since Potter, though. Since that afternoon in the Potions classroom Potter's all he fantasises about – Potter's hands, his mouth, his nipples, his eyes, his voice. Sometimes Draco thinks he can come just from imagining the smell of Potter's hair.
And now Potter's kneading his swollen belly, and it does something to Draco that he knows is not straightforward, but twisted and sick, but Merlin, he wants to do that to Potter – he wants to dig his fingers into that bulging flesh. He licks and swirls his tongue around the head of Potter's cock; he sucks with a sudden need. Drops of precome mix with the spit in his mouth, and Potter's head falls back onto the bedspread as he cries out and clutches his belly. Draco stares at the twisting, digging, grabbing fingers as he blows Potter, moving up and down the whole length of his cock. Potter's shaking, his body taunt with the effort to not thrust up into Draco's mouth. His belly looks huge, pushed up like this, his fingers splayed out on it, rubbing and pressing. His other hand combs through Draco's hair, then his fingers move over Draco's face, touching his mouth, his lips, circling and pushing into Draco's mouth that is chock-full with pulsing cock.
"Touch me," Potter whispers, "touch me, Malfoy. Malfoy, please."
Draco slides his hand up Potter's thigh and lets it trail along the tender skin beside his groin. He moves further up where Potter's stomach rises and falls in erratic bursts. All the while he sucks eagerly at Potter's fingers and cock; he is hungry for the taste of come. Potter shudders and his balls contract as Draco's fingers lightly move up to his navel. Wheezing sobs spill from his lips, he has his eyes closed, his head's fallen back even further, leaving his throat fully exposed. The sight is almost Draco's undoing; his cock is rutting against a wet spot of precome and sweat that's gathering underneath him. He moves back a bit, so he can take the full weight of Potter's erection on his tongue, letting it glide along the pulsing vein on its underside. At the same time he lays his hand upon Potter's, stroking knuckles and fingers slowly, like before, weighing down on the full belly underneath.
Potter whimpers and moans, "God, yes, yes –" and Draco knows he's about to come. He takes his cock all in, as far as he can, trying to make his throat relax and allow Potter in deeper than ever before. Perhaps Potter can feel it or he just knows, but he's thrusting upwards at the same instant that Draco takes him in. A spasm is shooting all the way through Potter's body, and Draco grabs Potter's hand, the one holding his belly. Because now Potter's coming, coming hard and hot, shooting his load into Draco's throat. He squeezes Potter's fingers and swallows the stuff, but there's more and more and he gags on it.
Tearing up, gulping for air, he sees Potter licking his other hand that's been between Draco's lips just moments before, fucking his own mouth with glistening fingers. The image of a Rivoirine in Potter's mouth flashes silver through Draco's mind. He has to let go of the spurting cock, because now he's coming, too, untouched, with his prick buried deep in the linen folds, thrusting and thrusting and thrusting still even after he's soaked the bedspread with his come.
They collapse and lie unmoving, for minutes or hours, Draco doesn't know. And he doesn't care a bit. Curfew? Umbridge's ridiculous new Rules with a capitalised R? Fuck them. He's here with Potter all around him. They are safe in the quiet of this room, the soft crackling of the fire and the ever-present murmur of the lake the only sounds but for their breathing. In and out they breathe, rough and stuttering, like they cannot get enough air, or it's too much. Potter's hand is back in Draco's hair, a touch so light he's half convinced he's imagining it. His own hand is on Potter's thigh; he can feel it trembling deep inside.
When they are both able to move again, they grin at each other. Potter says, "Fuck," and Draco says, "Bloody hell," for really, what else can you say after sex like this? He reaches for his wand on the bedside cabinet to clean up the mess of tissues, spunk and crumbs of biscuits all over the bed.
But before he can cast the Scourgify, Potter grabs his wrist. "Don't! Don't Vanish the crumbs away. You never know when I get hungry again." He's grinning when he says it, but there's a haunted look in his eyes that Draco knows by now to take serious.
"I won't, don't worry. You get to eat every bit of your gift." He cleans off the tissues, closes the box and puts it on the cabinet, all under Potter's watchful gaze. Draco will have to visit Honeydukes soon, definitely before the next Hogsmeade weekend comes up. It's time to start exploiting those privileges Umbridge has promised the Slytherins for helping her enforce her stupid Rules. Honeydukes is selling a special kind of Belgian truffles, hand-made and delicious. They're not on the shelves, but sold from the backroom only, to special customers with enough Galleons to spend. Potter will love them.
Pulling Draco close, Potter is lying half on top of him; he kisses him, a light and gentle kiss. Then he puts his arms on Draco's chest and looks at him.
"Thank you for the … the Revaurines?" He laughs at himself for the way he mangles the French word.
Draco pronounces it slowly and correctly, "Ri-voi-rines."
"Should have known you speak bloody French, git." Potter lays his head on Draco's chest, letting his body fully relax.
The quiet in the room makes Draco drowsy. He thinks of white truffles from Honeydukes and how Potter will lick and suck at them when Draco puts them into his mouth. He spreads his legs and Potter at once slides between them. Merlin, the weight of him against his groin feels good. Draco's hands are lying at Potter's sides; he's slowly moving his feet up Potter's thighs. He wonders how it would feel to have Potter fuck him like that, face to face. He wonders how it would feel to have his arse pierced, with that big belly of Potter's rubbing against his cock. A languid wave of desire swashes through him, and he moans a bit, wondering how many truffles it will take for Potter to gain more weight, stretching his belly another two inches, perhaps. He fondles the soft flesh at Potter's sides, all the while imagining his belly growing bigger and heavier. Invariably, his cock twitches and starts filling out. Potter raises his head with a tired growl and he gives Draco his half-arsed smile.
"Again?" he asks, sounding baffled and amused, a bit proud, even.
And happy. Happy. Draco can hear it in Potter's drowsy voice; he can feel it in the way he thrusts lightly, very lightly, against his groin.
He's pulling Potter's head down gently on his chest. "I need to get you another present first," he whispers, wondering whether Honeydukes will gift-wrap the box for him.
Harry woke up to the sound of the waves sloshing against the castle's wall. He had been dreaming of the corridor again. Voldemort was furious; Harry had felt his frantic impatience when the Dark Lord urged the snake on by the power of his will. But in this dream Snake-Harry had never even got close to the door.
He moved back deeper into the warm body behind him. Malfoy was breathing in a quiet rhythm much like the waves of the lake. He had his arm wrapped around Harry's waist, his hand curled around his full stomach. At Harry's movement he twitched, pulling him closer instinctively.
"Shh," he mumbled, "it's all right."
It was not the first time Harry'd awoken from a nightmare in Malfoy's arms. But this time he was not crying out in pain, bathed in cold sweat and filled with a rage that was not his own. He'd never told Malfoy about his dream; for all Harry knew Malfoy's father was standing right at Voldemort's side in some night-time graveyard when his Lord penetrated Harry's mind. Usually Malfoy just held him, waited until the shaking passed and then squeezed Harry's arm, as if to make sure it was over and he was fine. He never asked what Harry dreamed, and Harry wondered whether Malfoy knew about nightmares, too. He thought about asking him but then – Malfoy rarely asked Harry anything personal. All he asked was, "Does this feel good?" or "Do you want to meet tonight (to kiss, to touch, to fuck)?"
The odd sense of being in the snake's powerful, smooth body faded. Malfoy was snoring softly at his neck and Harry turned, to look at him.
The flames were throwing shadows on Malfoy's face, and Harry reached out to trace the smudges underneath his closed eyes. The skin felt dry and fragile like a page in an old book. There was a sharpness to Malfoy's cheek-bones and nose that made Harry's heart ache, as if Malfoy were made of glass underneath the skin and could splinter much too easily. It was hard to not forget how easily this face could turn snotty or cruel. It was hard to not forget that this was Draco Malfoy, who'd tormented Ron relentlessly all of last year and had stood so bloody proud beside that toad Umbridge not two days ago.
"Is it time already?" Malfoy brought his mouth to Harry's face, his touch not quite a kiss with his lips all soft and slack from sleep.
"Not yet. It's not even midnight." Harry turned around again, and Malfoy's hand found its place immediately, fingers pushed underneath Harry's belly, his warm palm cupping the fullness of it. It felt good, Malfoy holding him like this.
In his dream, Harry had slithered along the corridor, tasting with his flickering tongue the juiciness of mice and the lingering smoke of magic. His master's will had drawn him along metal bars, trying to find a way towards the door. But he'd felt drowsy from the sweet prey he'd devoured. All he wanted was to curl up on that shimmering patch in the corner where he had smelled a green and silver heat, warming the stone floor from underneath. He had moved there in this smooth body and wriggled into the corner spot. Voldemort's rage was a thin red sliver at the edges of his dream, and once he'd tucked his slender head onto the scaly tip of his tail, it was gone. Seemed like not even the Dark Lord could rouse a snake that had just swallowed an elephant.
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Date: 2010-03-08 10:31 pm (UTC)I am so thrilled that framing this story with Harry's pov seems to work for most readers - can you imagine how excited I was when I realised that the snake Harry frees in the zoo was a boa constrictor, same as the snake in "The Little Prince" that had eaten an elephant? :) I just love it when canon and research come together like this.
It pleases me to no end that this was a turn-on for you :) - I really went for eroticising Harry's weight gain to showcase the chosen kinks. Not that there is anything wrong with liking only skinny guys - sexuality can never be forced into what's right, and it shouldn't be.
All that you say about H/D here is so wonderfully put. There is a Damocles sword over their fragile relationship, and no, they cannot be together, not really. In canon, what happens next is that Harry will betray Draco's father as a Death Eater in the Quibbler interview. I cannot yet imagine how Draco will be able to forgive Harry for that. It may be interesting to explore, though, in a fic. I love so much what you say here, So heavy with longing and needs that can never be fulfilled but in these longings themselves. Yes and yes and yes. *loves you*
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Date: 2010-03-14 06:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-14 06:48 pm (UTC)You get so many hearts today. :)
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Date: 2010-03-14 11:11 pm (UTC)♥