FIC & ART: Taken Breathless
Feb. 14th, 2011 09:00 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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hpkinkfestTitle: Taken Breathless
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
plotting_pen
Prompt Number: 014 submitted byeevilalice
Kink Showcased: breathplay
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Draco, Hermione
Summary: This is the start of a dangerous game, and it is irresistible.
Warnings: breath play, some D/s, some dirty talk, crude language, mentions of torture, smoking (yes I know…)
Word Count: ~7700
Author’s Notes:vitaxzen was kind enough to provide art despite her very busy schedule, and for that, I bestow upon her lots of virtual cookies and fried bananas <333 I ♥ you babe (even if Harry's supposed to be wearing clothes ;-))
I was on a post-Administration series high while writing this, so if Harry's acting out of sorts, well, it's because it's all Toreth's fault *shifty look*
Many thanks to TevildoCat and Mamacita for their impeccable betaing skills and swift responses! This would’ve been a giant mess without them, no joke. All remaining mistakes are mine.
It starts with the Muggle’s live wire. Draco is called onto the scene to do some damage control after a blackmail incident gone wrong, some wizards getting involved with a Muggle mob. Nothing too major, but it ‘requires Auror intervention’, bullshit as that is. This is a job for Accidental Magic and the Obliviators, not a sleep-deprived, on-call Auror. But since he is on call that night, Draco has no choice but to Apparate to the scene, a broken down warehouse with a faulty sprinkler system and too many sizzling electrical cords. Focussed on the culprits at hand, he doesn’t realise what’s happened until he steps into a puddle of water and feels his entire body spark up in blazing, hot pain.
When he jerks back to consciousness, it’s to the sounds of people rushing around him and Granger’s hands pressing down repeatedly on his chest. He gasps, choking on his own breath.
“Malfoy, good God, you’re alive,” Granger’s voice is breathless. “Nick, oxygen, please. Malfoy, can you hear me?” Her hands shake him lightly.
It takes him a few minutes to open his eyes.
That’s when he notices it. His body, starved for oxygen, struggles to pull in air. Each inspiration feels like knife sharp pain tearing through him, but, mingled with a rush of cool air, it’s accompanied by gradual consciousness and a hazy spread of something. He doesn’t have a chance to place a name on the feeling before his consciousness slips out again. The last thing he recalls is Granger’s impossible hair brushing his nose as she leans over him, her face filled with concern and relief.
-
Hardly a day back in England, and already he is put on a case. In hindsight, if he had known what would happen, it might have been wise to accept a job offer of a permanent kind from the Italian Ministry.
The problem starts with the undercover op that night. Harry and Hermione are placed together on this assignment, to infiltrate a nightclub and retrieve information from some idiot who thinks he can get away with murder just because his father has money and influence. Apparently the bastard doesn’t realise that in the reformed post-war Ministry money and influence mean very little to a lot of those who matter. Harry grins; he can just imagine the mess they’ll be in once the father finds out his precious son is going to Azkaban for a long, long time.
After Harry and Hermione are briefed, he realises how far from his comfort zone this nightclub happens to be. For one, it caters to customers with more… peculiar tastes. In bed.
Harry is by no means vanilla when it comes to sexual play. He can think of plenty of occasions when he role-played or used bondage as foreplay. But honestly, what he’s read about the club borders on outright torture. He can’t imagine people getting off on this stuff, let alone paying to have it done to them.
That said, when he enters Hermione’s room at her request, his body can’t help responding to the scene presented.
Hermione stands in front of a full body mirror with her back to him, though that means very little as he can see her reflection. She’s clad in a black corset with some sort of silvery lining, and pretty much nothing else. The leather wraps around her tightly, pushing so that her modestly sized breasts look significantly larger.
And firmer, his mind helpfully supplies. Harry squashes down the heat that’s rushing quite insistently down south, trying to convince himself that this is Hermione and, no matter how deliriously incredible she looks in leather, he can’t.
“Nice arse,” he says, coming into the room. The temperature feels as if it’s risen ten degrees.
“Don’t joke. I’m embarrassed enough as it is,” Hermione says with a hint of irritation in her voice. “Help me with the straps, please. When I signed up for this never did I imagine seducing a masochist would be part of the job description. Tighter, please – Good God.” She gasps at a particularly forceful pull on the strings.
Harry tries to breathe slowly and forces his hands to remain steady. Overexcitement is something he suffered ten years back, when he was a teenager learning what a woman looked like underneath clothes, and should not be a problem now, when he’s thirty and a dozen or more relationships in.
“Sorry,” Harry says, his voice steady. “You were telling me earlier about the case you and Malfoy just closed?” The black strap loops into the last hole, cutting through the air with a definite, swishing sound as Harry tugs at it. His breath catches at the sound.
“Yeah, bloody Malfoy almost got himself killed. I always tell him not to run to the scene without backup, but does he ever listen? The man is a menace. All the paperwork I have to sort through every time we partner up is enough to make me want to strangle him.” Hermione pauses, face flushed and chest heaving. It’s clear that the corset is giving her trouble. For some reason Harry doesn’t want to dwell on, he pulls hard on the cords one last time, watching her gasp and willing his body to stay calm. Unconsciously, he moves closer.
“A-anyway, he’s back from hospital. Kingsley’s furious with him, which is one of the reasons I think he put you on this case. The electrocution must have affected Malfoy more severely than I thought, because he hasn’t said a peep about it since he found out. He might be pissed off at me, though, because he keeps staring at me. I can’t imagine why; it’s not like I have any power over Kingsley’s decisions. Oh, Harry, could you please loosen it a little…”
Harry has never noticed before how good Hermione smelled, like shampoo and cake. That might have something to do with her love for baking, but at the moment all Harry can think of is the smell of leather mingling with her familiar scent, stirring instinctive reactions out of his body against his will. His eyes are fastened on the way her shoulders move restlessly, muscles shifting, the hue of her skin striking against the black, supple leather. His fists, curled around the sturdy straps, shake perceptibly as he tries to hold himself back. God, he wants to come closer, to lean down and put his ear against her lips, so he can hear her harsh, breathless whimpers and feel her heart fluttering helplessly in her ribcage…
Harry blinks and stumbles when Hermione slumps back against him, her weight knocking him to his knees. Startled, he looks into the mirror and realises that Hermione’s eyes are closed, dark lashes damp against unnaturally pale skin.
“Shit!” Harry exclaims, setting her down on the floor and making haste to rip the corset apart. Occupied with his thoughts, he didn’t notice how tight he cinched her corset. “Hermione, wake up!”
Hermione jerks up with a gasp, hands coming up to curl threateningly around his wrists. Even half-lucid, her instinct for potential danger holds true. Harry scoots away from Hermione, taking care not to look at her thong or her practically exposed breasts.
“Jesus,” Hermione chokes, her breaths deep and fast. Harry tries hard not to hear her. “That was awful.”
“Sorry,” Harry says, peering at her once he feels more in control of himself. “Didn’t realise it could do that.”
“Maybe next time I’ll try it on you, see how you like it,” Hermione snaps, but the rancour is dampened by her quick heaving. Harry says nothing in reply. He fears his voice will give away his feelings on the matter.
“Let’s try this one more time without jeopardising my life,” Hermione says once she’s got her wind back. She stands up and holds onto the corset that’s half hanging off her, leaving practically the entire expanse of her back in view. “Stop staring, for fuck’s sake, and help me lace this up. We’re going to be late and I will not be the one doing the extra paperwork if we fuck this up.”
Harry moves to do as he’s told, relieved that Hermione doesn’t notice – or, at least, is kind enough to pretend – that anything is amiss and equally perturbed about his reaction to her asphyxiation episode.
There is no denying it: he is most definitely hard.
-
Draco Apparates on the scene – without backup as usual – and swears that after tonight, he is going to force Kingsley to find another on-call Auror, or else he’ll quit. He doesn’t give a shit if it backfires in the end. He’s just returned from a near death episode, for fuck’s sake. One would think the Head Auror would be considerate enough to let him sit behind a desk for a few days while he recuperates. Instead the damn bastard placed him on-call, again. Just because he can’t find a partner to stay with him long enough to warm the seat doesn’t mean Kingsley can just drop him into a job any half competent idiot can do with the half-arsed excuse of safety (for him or the people around him, he’s still yet to figure out). Not his fault if his explosive temper and the tattoo on his arm give a few fuckers the willies. He’s here to do a job, not to play babysitter. Apparently, not playing nice means taking the backseat. Damned politics.
When he feels less disoriented from the Apparation, Draco is once again thrown by the patrons of this place and their attire. Or rather, the lack thereof. It takes him another minute to remember he’s here to do a job, not to stare.
BDSM club, bloody hell. Draco breaks through the crowd, ignoring the surprised and occasionally interested looks as he follows the Patronus across the dance floor and through a dark hallway. It doesn’t take long to find the crime scene; there are people crowding around it. Draco casts a Memory Charm on each of them before entering the dimly lit room. Civilians.
The first thing he sees under the low lighting is a heavily decorated area draped in deep red, then the sex toys haphazardly tossed around the floor, and finally the bed, where a naked man is tied up and seemingly unconscious. On top of him Granger is straddled, dressed in what appears to be a leather corset and black stockings gartered to a flimsy piece of what can only be described as uncomfortable accessory.
The sight momentarily renders him speechless and leaves him choking for breath. He can see her toned legs wrapped in fishnet all the way down to her feet, where red stilettos press forcibly against the black sheets. Her chest rises and falls in a short, sharp rhythm that tells him she’s equally as breathless as he is. It’s no wonder, with her ribcage trapped in that impressive corset, pulled taut by sturdy straps, the ends of which fall softly between her buttocks, trailing down to rest on the man’s thighs under her straddling stance.
I want it. The thought materialises in his mind, a whisper so sly that he doesn’t even realise it’s there, not then.
“Close your mouth, Malfoy, you’re drooling.” The voice cracks like a whip, startling him out of his reverie.
When he’s able to place the voice with the face, his surprise mercifully allows other thoughts to take flight.
“Potter?”
Potter stands against the wall, body at apparent ease as he surveys Draco impassively. This is an impressive feat, considering that he’s dressed in a pair of skintight, slick black pants and nothing more.
The last time Draco saw him, Potter was hugging Granger goodbye before the Portkey whisked him away. Potter had supposedly been assigned to an international incident, big shit, and had been eager to leave England. He had been twenty-five, two years out of the Academy, fresh faced, bright eyed and green nosed. Draco had looked at him and made a personal bet that Potter wouldn’t last three months in the criminal division of the Italian Ministry, which was rumoured to have some of the cruelest methods of dealing with criminals.
Five years later and Potter couldn’t look more different if he tried. His face has matured into hard lines and serious eyes. Cold, calculating, touched with a humourless quirk of the firm mouth, Potter watches him, arms across a well-built chest, muscles sliding under sun-kissed skin.
Half-shadowed by the dim orange light, he appears dangerous and almost, if Draco doesn’t know better, cruel.
“Why was I summoned?” Draco directs his question toward Granger when it’s clear Potter is going to stand there and be ridiculously close-mouthed.
Granger frowns when the man below her groans and delivers a sharp blow to his head with her elbow, effectively knocking him out.
“That’s for the wandering hands,” Granger says with a self-satisfied smirk before stepping off the bed. She walks toward them, and Draco swallows, eyes drawn to her breasts lifting with every click of her heels on the cold floor, sweat making her skin shine.
As Granger nears, Potter holds up a black cloak for her to take. Once she is covered enough for Draco’s blood to re-circulate northward, she replies, “I need you to help Harry finish the job. I’m late for a date.”
Before Draco can come up with a proper retort, Granger twists and disappears.
A moment passes before Draco says, “Sodding hell.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Potter slowly smile.
-
Draco sits on his bed, hunched in the dark with his elbows on his knees. The flat is quiet, save for the occasional sounds of pedestrians and speeding cars outside. He has chosen his bachelor pad based on its location in central Muggle London, conveniently close to most Wizarding spots. The rent is ridiculously high, but the accommodation is top-rate, and the neighbours mind their own business. Draco didn’t wish to live in the Wizarding world after the war, and was a relief to find a place whose tenants acknowledge his presence but otherwise ignore his eccentric wardrobe and the occasional male he lets out of his flat the morning after.
Draco has been openly dating men since he left home at twenty-one. He spent most of his youth fucking his way across Europe and then alternating between recklessly chasing criminals and fucking once he joined the Auror force. Pleasure is good, he likes to believe, which is why he never feels the need to hide or curb any desire out of uncertainty or fear. Sex, drugs, magic: they’re all the same to him, something to take and get off on.
And now, danger, apparently.
The note lies crumpled, hidden in his left fist. Draco’s read the words so many times that they blur until only the memory is left imprinted in his mind.
Russian Roulette. Password ‘all in’.
The slip of paper was pushed into his hand when he exited the club. A man, veiled by darkness, wrapped an arm around his chest and leaned close, lips brushing his neck. He smelled sweat and come and heard the whispered words, heated, honeyed.
I can see what you want. Come back tomorrow night and I’ll show you how it’s done.
The mysterious man ended their curious exchange by crushing his arm down on Draco’s chest, forcing the breath out of his lungs with an abruptness that rivalled his equally abrupt departure. When Draco looked back, wanting to know who it was who had caused his cock to take notice, the man had already blended back into the sultry crowd of naked flesh.
The only person standing stark against the inviting club was Potter, wand lifted to levitate the Stupefied body under a Notice-Me-Not Charm. Potter stared at Draco, unblinking, unmoving. With the flashing lights behind him, Potter’s features stood out, bold lines and primary colours, green eyes and black hair on white skin. The sight made Draco’s skin prickle and his cock ache.
His cock aches now at the thought. Almost of its own volition Draco’s hand slides down his bare chest, grazing his right nipple, the touch drawing out an unexpected groan. He feels odd, sensitive, like he’s riding the high of some club drug, hazy with the numbingly good feeling while letting some nameless bloke suck him off in a back alley.
Black hair.
His fingers move lightly down to his navel, one digit dipping inside. He imagines his hands tangled in thick hair, coal black, feeling ghosting touches against his abdomen.
Green eyes.
His head tilts back, lips parted, legs falling open. His cock weeps at the first contact with his sweating palm. He sees green eyes, bright, hooded by heavy lashes. They focus on him, unwavering, challenging him as wet lips seal around his cock, sucking, fucking, with a slow, steady pressure. His flesh disappears and reappears, glistening with saliva, red and hard and needy. His hand squeezes harder, cock in moving fist, wanting the feeling, needing the pleasure. The image burns vivid behind his eyelids.
Hands around his throat, fingers tensing, knowing, waiting. A body presses flush against his back, firm pectoral muscles branding fire into his shoulder blades. Draco moans low, back hitting the mattress, legs dangling from the bed. He can see it, taste it, the rush of fire, the burn, taking him, provoking his fighting instinct, forcing his obedience.
Draco’s body snaps taut, eyes jerking open as he comes, gasping for the breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding. The orgasm explodes from his cock, the influx of endorphins so powerful that his eyes fill with tears. Disorientation hits him like an earthquake, and he lies there, overwhelmed by the aftershocks, skin highly sensitised to the painful contact with his sheets.
For a long time there’s only the sound of his loud, frantic breathing mixed with the wild beating of his heart. His brain waits until the supply of oxygen is sufficient for rational thought.
He just had the best orgasm of his life by picturing Potter choking him.
-
Harry sees Malfoy at the Ministry the next day, talking to Hermione. With the surrounding being too dark and him being too occupied the night before, Harry didn’t have a chance to take a good look at him.
Malfoy mostly looks like Harry remembers him, with less hair and more attitude. Pale skin, a sharp nose and sharper eyes, his face makes Harry think of knives and precarious self-control. Malfoy’s clearly irritated as he speaks with Hermione, but that’s not what Harry’s interested in. Under the snarl and the impatience, there’s something else brimming, threatening to break the surface. Experience tells him it’s the expression of a man trapped inside a secret, practically trembling with the need to let loose whatever it is he’s hiding away.
Malfoy’s saying something angrily to Hermione, Harry notices as he nods absently to a co-worker yapping excitedly at him. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Malfoy gestures with his arms impatiently. Harry catches a flash of a dark shape against the pale inner arm and feels a sudden spark of interest. The way Malfoy holds himself, so at ease, so carelessly displaying his Mark, intrigues him. Has Malfoy ever been so comfortable in his own skin before?
Harry gives a quick excuse to Connor and moves toward the pair of Aurors standing in front of Hermione’s office.
Harry grins when he notices Hermione talking. He knows that stance and that expression well, having been on the receiving end multiple times in the past. He can only imagine how Malfoy must feel, listening to Hermione patiently enunciating every word as she explains to Malfoy what he’s done wrong. Harry usually feels properly berated by end of her admonishments, but Malfoy looks as if he’s not even paying attention to what she’s saying.
Harry narrows his eyes, curious, as Malfoy’s gaze flickers to Hermione’s chest, adopting that glazed look that on a straight man can be considered quite suggestive. But from what he’s gathered, Malfoy’s a poof, so his fascination with Hermione’s tits makes little sense.
When Harry draws near enough for their voices to overcome the background chatter of the Auror floor, Hermione is affecting her slow, expressive voice, as expected.
“You need to learn to let go of the little things, Draco. It has been seven years, so get the fuck over yourself and make nice with someone. You do realise it is due to your stubbornness that you are in this predicament, yes? Kingsley would not be so severe with you if he didn’t think you were capable of building a lasting relationship…”
“Stop talking to me like I’m a bloody idiot,” Malfoy snaps. With one pale hand he pushes his wayward blond hair away from his face, revealing three small scars near his eyebrow. “Christ, I need a fag.”
Harry smiles inwardly when he sees Hermione roll her eyes. “I don’t even know why I bother. Write the damn report yourself and give it to Kingsley. I imagine he’ll want to talk with you.” With those parting words Hermione strolls into her office and closes the door behind her, right in Malfoy’s face.
Harry steps forward when Malfoy sees him. “Hermione can be a right bitch when she wants,” he comments casually.
Malfoy arches an eyebrow, drawing Harry’s eyes to the shift of his scars. Small, clean, separated by probably one or two millimetres in between. They’re intriguing, like the rest of Malfoy.
“She’s all right,” Malfoy says slowly, his gaze never wavering from Harry’s face. “Her latest fuck must’ve been horrendous for her to be a right tit the morning after. She was much more pleasant when she was fucking Pansy.”
Harry unexpectedly finds himself smiling. Malfoy sounds like he’s old friends with Hermione, and isn’t that a surprise, when all Malfoy’s ever spouted is Pureblooded bigotry? Then again, the last time Harry was around Malfoy was five or six years back. Perhaps it’s self-absorbed to assume he’s the only one who’s grown up.
“Sorry I kept you late yesterday.” Harry decides a change in the subject is called for. “Interrogation can be tedious at times.”
Malfoy’s eyes flicker and the lines on his face twist, as if he is remembering something unpleasant and coincidentally telling Harry exactly what he thinks about the incident.
“I wouldn’t call it tedious,” Malfoy answers, his voice belying his true feelings on the matter. “If anything, it was more… informative.” He speaks the last word as if it’s drenched in something revolting.
So Malfoy dislikes his interrogation techniques. Harry knows some people like that, back in Italy, who wrinkle their noses and pretend what goes on after an arrest never happens. Harry doesn’t understand the sentiment, and cares for it even less. He’s of the opinion of the Italian MLE that the end justifies the means. Case in point, the bastard confessed to everything last night.
“I’m hoping Kingsley will agree to implement some of the methods you witnessed,” Harry says, testing Malfoy. “They have certainly proven to be effective and time saving.”
Now Malfoy is staring at him with a different light in his eyes, obviously catching on to Harry’s game. Wariness seeps into his face. Harry finds himself feeling disappointed. Malfoy’s quick at throwing up his walls; his expression is practically a blank sheet of paper now.
Eventually Malfoy smirks, and it’s so familiar and nostalgic that it disorients Harry for a second.
“I’m sure he will be delighted to hear of your new hobbies,” Malfoy retorts coolly, yet his words leave Harry feeling as if he’s the butt of a joke. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare myself for the hell Granger’s put me in.” Malfoy turns to leave.
“Want to grab lunch?” The question, Harry realises, is as much a surprise to him as it is to Malfoy. He affects an offhand smile. “I’ll wager you’re going to need a drink if you’re meeting with Kingsley later.”
Harry is pleased when Malfoy, after giving him a long, complicated look, accepts.
-
The smoke curls briefly between his parted lips before rising into the air and vanishing. Draco lets the fag drop from between his thumb and forefinger, the third one tonight, and stares up at the rather unobtrusive sign above a black door.
He’s been standing here for over an hour now, protected by a Glamour Charm, watching people in heavy coats disappear behind the ominous black door. He’s nervous, and he’s fucking annoyed that he’s nervous. So what if it’s an S&M club? It’s not as if he’s never been to one in thirty years of living. There was an especially memorable occasion back when he turned twenty-one and went to Amsterdam to celebrate, and another particularly noteworthy weekend spent with a married couple in Austria. No, he’s not a stranger to this scene, even if it’s been a while. So why the fuck is he so jittery?
He doesn’t want to think about it. He just wants to find the mysterious man and let him do what he promised. Granger’s face appears in his head, sudden and completely uncalled for, skin glistening against the slick leather corset. He can still remember her hands on his chest, can still remember the way his lungs burned, the way his accessory muscles contracted to accommodate the lack of oxygen, the sensation of light-headedness and the undeniable, pure pleasure.
He wants it. He knows he wants it. It’s dangerous and irresistible and it fucking terrifies him.
Draco looks up at the sign one more time, the words Russian Roulette quiet against the subdued background, a warning if he ever saw one.
Draco takes a step forward.
He wants it.
-
Draco knocks back another shot, focussing on the burn as it goes down his throat and forcing himself not to dart a look. He already feels like an alien in this place, no need to make it more conspicuous by acting like a bloody nervous wreck.
Despite such determination, he can’t help but look anyway. He’s on the first level, where there’s a bar and a large dance floor, with a few scattered booths strategically set away in the darkness. Draco already passed by one, but after hearing muffled screams coming from the area he fled to the brightly lit bar, where the bartender is currently giving him a knowing, pitying look. Draco’s only glad the man’s too busy to try and talk, the fucking horror. Could he stand out any more?
He’s rusty, Draco decides after the third shot. When he joined the Auror Academy he went semi-celibate because he’d been so exhausted from the training alone. Then afterward it’s been all undercover ops and paperwork that takes up even more time and isn’t as much fun. Sleep, he suddenly realizes, has been more important than sex, and Draco thinks he’s fucking lost it if that’s the case. He’s only thirty. Sleep shouldn’t be more important than sex when you’re fucking thirty.
Draco turns to the dance floor, lounging against the bar with both his elbows resting on the surface, watching. He’s lucky he had the password, otherwise he wouldn’t have made it in. It’s not an S&M club like he’s been to before. It could easily be a regular dance club if not for the choice of attire and the occasional couples disappearing off to the floor above, or to the entrance he went through the night before, where many rooms are available for disposal, furnished with equipment. He can only imagine what type of “equipment” they utilize on the floor above.
The alcohol is working its magic. He’s feeling mellow, a little more at ease with just a pinch of anxiety and anticipation. His eyes travel to the dancing couples, threesomes, lost in the heat of the music. There’s a familiarity in each of the patrons’ movements, the ease with which they carry themselves, knowing exactly what they want and how they will get it. Watching them, with their skin rubbing, their hands easy and purposeful, he is compelled to join in, to be a part of their coupling. This is foreplay, he can tell, eyes drawn to one particular couple swaying close on the edge of the dance floor, half hidden by bright lights and shadows. Their bodies twist sinuously, foretelling the end to their night. Draco’s body reacts, cock hardening, lips dry, eyes tuning to the hand reaching between thighs, to the back, arching, and the arse pressing to pelvis. One mouth curves into a smile, the other a gasp. Draco’s breath hitches.
There is a hand on his shoulder. A voice in his ear.
“Fancy a dance, Malfoy?”
Draco almost drops his glass. That’s not the stranger from last night.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Draco says incredulously.
Potter smiles in return. “The same reason you’re here, I expect.” Pause. “Well, not entirely the same.”
Draco narrows his eyes. “If this is some sort of prank then you’d better run before I hex your fucking balls off–”
Potter leans close. His smile is predatory. He stares straight into Draco’s eyes like he wants to tear Draco’s head apart and extract all his secrets.
“Not a prank.” Potter’s lips part slyly. “An offer.”
Draco’s cock gives a twitch, but otherwise he is not surprised at Potter’s easy, knowing response. Potter wants to fuck, that much is obvious. The cryptic exchange earlier this morning, the subtle glances, the surprisingly sophisticated lunch spot are obvious signs. But those words flip the light switch, making Potter’s intention irrevocably clear. Potter knows what he wants, and he’s offering it to him, carte-blanche.
Draco’s well-versed in mind games, and Potter’s clearly an expert; he wants to push Draco’s buttons, to test his control, to draw out his discomfort as he waits for expected reactions. It’s a game they’re used to.
Draco tries to think through the thrumming lust that courses through his body. If he says no, Potter will gain the upper hand because he’ll know that Draco is wary and potentially afraid of his presence – anyone who’s seen what Potter’s capable of would be – and Draco could never live with the knowledge that he’d let Potter think he can intimidate him, Draco Malfoy, of all people. Inversely, if Draco agrees, then he’s willingly giving Potter free reign to do as he wishes for the night. It’s a terrible and irresistible choice.
Draco licks his lip, hiding a smirk when Potter’s gaze tracks the movement. “What did you do to the man?”
Potter shrugs. “Does it matter?” He reaches out, unexpectedly, and takes the shot glass from Draco’s fingers.
Potter’s too close. Draco can feel his lips and hair brushing the side of his face. The smell of whisky hits him hard.
“I want to take you upstairs, Draco.” Potter speaks quietly, but every word shoots through him like an arrow claiming its mark. “I want to tie you up and fuck you hard. I want to put you in a corset and pull the strings so tight you’ll think I’m killing you. I want to see you beg me to hurt you, make you scream as I mould your body. It’s a sturdy thing, you know? Meant to reshape the body. I imagine it’ll hurt a lot when it narrows your waist, compresses your chest. It won’t break your ribs, but by the time I’m finished with you you won’t be able to tell the difference.”
Draco’s dizzy, his body reacting to every word Potter’s saying. So smooth, when did Potter become so fucking smooth? He’s going to come if Potter doesn’t stop talking, he’s that hard, but Potter, damn him, finishes his promise with a twist to Draco’s guts.
“And yes, I will make you love every second of it.”
Potter has his hand on Draco’s arm, gripping brutally, and he thinks he’s really fucked up, because he likes how it hurts. He revels in the way his brain identifies Potter as dangerous and attempts to trigger his fight-or-flight response. It’s deliriously addictive, to fight his control, forcing himself to concede to another power, to be someone else other than Draco Malfoy, the wildcard of the MLE, the Death Eater with an ugly past.
With Potter, he’s simply fucked.
Perhaps Potter sees something in his face, or perhaps Potter feels his resolve breaking, because he presses his lips once against Draco’s neck and pulls him away from the bar, toward the stairs.
Draco doesn’t bother to resist.
-
The room Potter chooses is dimly lit. Draco’s barely inside before he’s stumbling from a hard jab between his shoulder blades. He hears the door click shut and everything is thrown into momentary darkness. His eyesight tries to adjust but Potter is faster. He takes Draco by the shirt collar and drags him toward the bed, wordlessly, purposefully, like Draco’s his possession and Potter’s going to make use of him regardless of his feelings on the matter.
At least, it feels like it.
That’s the most important part, Draco thinks, looking up at Potter from his position on the bed. The power play is delicious, Potter’s a pro, and Draco knows that, doesn’t he? After all, he saw Potter in action when the man broke his prisoner like snapping a twig, fast, merciless. Is that what Potter plans to do to him? Take him apart, make him beg and curse and cry and permit him his release?
Oh yes, he hopes so.
“Strip,” Potter says, arms across his chest. The limited lighting and his stance make him look large, imposing, emotionless. Draco swallows, fingers trembling with anticipation as they make quick work of his shirt and trousers.
Potter gives him a long, inscrutable look before reaching into his back pocket and fishing out his wand. Draco watches as he enlarges an object in his hand.
Draco knows, from Potter’s smile, that the hunger is evident on his face as he gazes at the corset Potter’s holding. The same one Granger wore.
“Safe word?” Potter inquires softly. The man’s playing his role to perfection, body and face giving nothing away. Draco wants to know what Potter’s thinking, but the thrill of the game prevents him from asking.
Without missing a beat, Draco replies, “Granger.”
Potter quirks an eyebrow. Draco returns his look, resisting the smile that’s pulling at the corner of his lips. The joke’s not lost on either of them.
“Get on the bed,” Potter commands, “and turn around.”
Draco bites his lips and does as he’s told. He can see his own cock, hard and red, begging for a touch. He’s tempted to give in to the urge, but Potter – still fully clothed – is watching him, and that makes Draco feel as if he’ll lose if he does anything out of turn. That thought makes him smile: even now, he’s still unwilling to completely give up his control. With Potter, perhaps that will change.
Draco hears shifting and then feels hands sliding under his armpits.
“Hands on the headboard,” Potter tells him, and Draco does so. His eyes flutter shut, his skin tingling at Potter’s skimming touch, at the scratch of his cotton sleeves above warm wrists, the feeling of leather grazing his body as Potter adjusts it around his chest. He can feel the bones under the sturdy build of the corset running in vertical lines, first softly, like a caress. His ears are tuned to the hissing of the straps as they loop around the holes in the back. Potter’s efficient, Draco’ll give him that. Soon enough the straps are in their places, and Draco knows this because the corset’s lining against his flesh is slowly, teasingly tightening around him. The fine bones under the leather introduce themselves more definitely to his flesh, and every breath Draco draws becomes increasingly difficult.
Potter keeps up the steady pressure, so slow, so unhurried, one hand pulling the straps, the other resting on Draco’s hip, holding him in place. It’s maddening, overwhelming, how Potter makes him feel every single shift of the leather, the way his body gives way to the predetermined shape. He’s neither slender nor fleshy; his body is made of planes and angles and compact muscles. He doesn’t know how it’s moulding to the corset, his waist cinching in first, but it’s working, and Draco’s system is feeling the first prick of discomfort, spreading into something more prominent, more… ah, yes, painful. A rush of pleasure spirals downward, and his cock weeps.
The corset is not his size, but the straps hold true as it tightens around his chest. God the sound the leather makes as the edges – sturdy, reliable – inch little by little closer together, stirs reactions from his body similar to ones he has listening to the noise of hexes flying across the battlefield. His body is finely tuned to the slide of leather, hyper-aware of everything around him.
Potter has hardly started.
It’s the anticipation, Draco decides as his ribs begin to protest at the compression. Potter could’ve taken this very quickly, turned Draco into a puddle of incoherent goo in mere seconds, but he draws it out like it’s a well-practiced game, playing on Draco’s stubbornness, letting Draco take the lead in his own undoing, knowing he will. Draco, unfortunately, has never been too patient when it comes to satisfying his own desires, whatever the cost.
It’s the last coherent thought he has before he jerks forward, startled by the sudden glide of a finger down between his buttocks. It’s the wrong move, Draco realises too late. The corset pulls tighter at the unexpected movement, and for a second Draco’s certain that his ribs have broken, the force is that strong. He feels strangled from the chest up, all his breath gone in one quick flash, vanished as if by magic. It’s like agony drenched in acid, burning from the inside, but Draco hardly has time to adjust before the corset loosens and he’s sucking in air like a man clinging onto life. His body’s trembling from the tease – because that’s what it is, damn Potter – and his cock feels ready to burst. He wants to touch it, his hand’s already reaching down…
Potter tugs him back by the straps, and Draco follows with a soundless scream.
“Don’t fucking touch yourself until I say so,” Potter warns, voice low, one arm swung around Draco’s shoulders. Draco’s arse is pressed against Potter’s denim clad groin, and helplessly he grinds, wanting the friction, something, to relieve him of this wild heat scorching inside.
“Potter,” Draco whimpers, grasping onto Potter’s forearm. “I want, please…”
“I know what you want,” Potter confirms. “And you’ll get it, when I fucking say you can.”
He’s unable to draw in another breath, but Potter’s relentless. He hurts everywhere, deep, visceral pain that tears through his bones. His nerves sing from the oxygen deficit, brain screaming for relief. Through the sound of his blood roaring he hears Potter speak calmly, slowly.
“… five, six, seven...”
It takes his brain a fraction too long to catch up, but eventually he understands what Potter’s doing. He’s counting the seconds until Draco passes out. He learned this in training, but he can’t recall. How long does it take for an oxygen-deprived man to fall unconscious?
Not too long, if Potter keeps it up…
As if sensing Draco’s imminent loss of consciousness, the constriction around his chest eases up with a suddenness that shocks him as much as the hand that curls around his neglected cock.
If Potter hadn’t taken hold of the base and squeezed, Draco would be coming all over the bloody sheets. The sheer power of pleasure that explodes seemingly from all over his body renders him momentarily senseless.
“Not yet,” Potter hushes into his ear, soft lips on his skin. Draco’s on fire, and Potter’s as cool as a breeze. “Now it’s my turn.”
The blatant statement, the implication… Draco moans loudly as his body responds like that of a wanton, cock leaking freely. Potter’s taken his control so completely and skillfully that Draco thinks he’d laugh if he wasn’t so desperate, so needy, for more.
The sharp sound of Potter’s fly unzipping resonates in the room. When Draco feels a hard cock against his arse, he knows that Potter’s not going to undress, that he’s going to fuck Draco fully clothed. Before he can think too much about it, about how hot that is, Potter speaks again.
“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” Draco’s spine arches involuntarily, body jerking at the sensation of the corset tightening. His body remembers the sharp sting of restraint, is fighting it before it can overtake his entire being, but Draco’s helpless against his own lust. His two basic instincts war for dominance. Pleasure and pain. Draco can’t remember sex feeling so dangerous before. It’s terrifying, fucking exciting.
“You’re so far gone you can’t even talk,” Potter continues in that hushed tone, sex dripping from every word. “I can do anything to you right now and you wouldn’t care, would you? I can fuck you dry if I want. Are you going to let me? Lie there and take it like a good little whore?”
Yes, Draco moans incoherently. He’d let Potter do anything right about now, he hurts so much wants so much but Potter won’t let him—
And that is the last thought he has. He screams himself hoarse when Potter pushes into him, the slick cock stretching its way through his channel persistently. He doesn’t even have time to get used to the intrusion before he feels Potter pull at the straps as if reining in a horse. Draco’s lips part, but all sounds are long gone, lost in the throes of twisting pain and pleasure.
His hands find purchase on the headboard, but they slip, going weak with the combination of Potter’s thrusting hips and the gradual loss of oxygen. He can’t focus, doesn’t know what to do. He wants to shriek from the harsh, piercing pain and cry from the pleasure that tears him apart with every stab of Potter’s cock against his prostate. It hurts mother of god it hurts but he doesn’t think he can bear it if it stops.
Potter’s saying something in his ear, lips brushing words against his skin, but Draco can’t hear him. He can hardly see, for that matter. He’s completely helpless and he knows it, they both know it, and they both know that it’s here, fucked open under Potter, that Draco wants to be, that Draco is willing to be that vulnerable to Potter. The knowledge exists between them like thrumming heat, rising until the unbearable clarity of it crashes over them.
With one final show of strength Potter gathers the straps in his fists and wrenches. Potter’s harsh breathing fills his ears, and it’s the last thing he knows before his arse contracts around Potter’s thick cock, his own come spurting all over his chest and the sheets.
-
When he wakes up, Draco is amidst cool, soft sheets, smelling faintly of clean laundry. Potter is across from him, head resting on a folded arm, gazing at him as if trying to figure out a secret. The sound of their breathing surprises Draco. Slowly, he inhales, testing his lung function. There’s an ache in his chest, like residual pain. Draco closes his eyes briefly, savouring the feeling, trying to stay calm because his cock is twitching in interest and he doesn’t want to fuck. Not yet.
When he opens his eyes, Potter is still looking. Countless unspoken words hang between them, so obvious, so ready to be said.
Draco begins. “You’re very good at this. I take it you had fun in Italy?”
Potter smiles his sheepish smile, mouth quirking in that familiar, boyish way that’s never failed to capture a little bit of Draco’s heart every time.
“I wanted to give you everything,” Potter replies, sidestepping his inquiry and telling him exactly what he needs to hear at the same time.
Draco shifts closer until their thighs are touching. He raises a hand and presses it to Potter’s cheek. “You didn’t have to run away for five years to learn how to torture people.”
“I don’t do anything by half, you know that. And it’s not like you’d have wanted me to.”
“All I wanted was a change.”
Potter raises an eyebrow in mock dubiousness.
Draco rolls his eyes. “Okay, yes, I love these games, and I wasn’t going to let you touch me when you had no fucking clue what to do.”
“And now?” Potter’s face is open and curious, eyes bright green and honest. He looks nothing like the man who knows torture methods so creative and effective that Voldemort would have been impressed, who stood in front of Draco at the MLE talking in riddles and eyefucking him like his reputation depended on it. Draco knows this man, lying here in the aftermath of a hardcore fucking. This is the man who kissed him in the middle of a simulated stakeout back in the Academy, who made him breakfast in bed, who swore he’d make Draco the happiest man alive.
This is the face of a man Draco’s been in love with for the past seven years.
Draco’s never been one to show affection, but he arches toward Potter and crawls on top of him. His hands tangle in the thick black hair. Potter looks up at him with utmost vulnerability, and Draco just knows that he’s the only one to ever see it.
“I might need a bit more convincing,” Draco replies impishly.
The glint in Potter’s eyes is positively wicked and knowing when he reaches up to pull Draco down for a kiss, and more.
End.
Author:
plotting_pen Prompt Number: 014 submitted by
eevilalice Kink Showcased: breathplay
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Draco, Hermione
Summary: This is the start of a dangerous game, and it is irresistible.
Warnings: breath play, some D/s, some dirty talk, crude language, mentions of torture, smoking (yes I know…)
Word Count: ~7700
Author’s Notes:
vitaxzen was kind enough to provide art despite her very busy schedule, and for that, I bestow upon her lots of virtual cookies and fried bananas <333 I ♥ you babe (even if Harry's supposed to be wearing clothes ;-))I was on a post-Administration series high while writing this, so if Harry's acting out of sorts, well, it's because it's all Toreth's fault *shifty look*
Many thanks to TevildoCat and Mamacita for their impeccable betaing skills and swift responses! This would’ve been a giant mess without them, no joke. All remaining mistakes are mine.
It starts with the Muggle’s live wire. Draco is called onto the scene to do some damage control after a blackmail incident gone wrong, some wizards getting involved with a Muggle mob. Nothing too major, but it ‘requires Auror intervention’, bullshit as that is. This is a job for Accidental Magic and the Obliviators, not a sleep-deprived, on-call Auror. But since he is on call that night, Draco has no choice but to Apparate to the scene, a broken down warehouse with a faulty sprinkler system and too many sizzling electrical cords. Focussed on the culprits at hand, he doesn’t realise what’s happened until he steps into a puddle of water and feels his entire body spark up in blazing, hot pain.
When he jerks back to consciousness, it’s to the sounds of people rushing around him and Granger’s hands pressing down repeatedly on his chest. He gasps, choking on his own breath.
“Malfoy, good God, you’re alive,” Granger’s voice is breathless. “Nick, oxygen, please. Malfoy, can you hear me?” Her hands shake him lightly.
It takes him a few minutes to open his eyes.
That’s when he notices it. His body, starved for oxygen, struggles to pull in air. Each inspiration feels like knife sharp pain tearing through him, but, mingled with a rush of cool air, it’s accompanied by gradual consciousness and a hazy spread of something. He doesn’t have a chance to place a name on the feeling before his consciousness slips out again. The last thing he recalls is Granger’s impossible hair brushing his nose as she leans over him, her face filled with concern and relief.
-
Hardly a day back in England, and already he is put on a case. In hindsight, if he had known what would happen, it might have been wise to accept a job offer of a permanent kind from the Italian Ministry.
The problem starts with the undercover op that night. Harry and Hermione are placed together on this assignment, to infiltrate a nightclub and retrieve information from some idiot who thinks he can get away with murder just because his father has money and influence. Apparently the bastard doesn’t realise that in the reformed post-war Ministry money and influence mean very little to a lot of those who matter. Harry grins; he can just imagine the mess they’ll be in once the father finds out his precious son is going to Azkaban for a long, long time.
After Harry and Hermione are briefed, he realises how far from his comfort zone this nightclub happens to be. For one, it caters to customers with more… peculiar tastes. In bed.
Harry is by no means vanilla when it comes to sexual play. He can think of plenty of occasions when he role-played or used bondage as foreplay. But honestly, what he’s read about the club borders on outright torture. He can’t imagine people getting off on this stuff, let alone paying to have it done to them.
That said, when he enters Hermione’s room at her request, his body can’t help responding to the scene presented.
Hermione stands in front of a full body mirror with her back to him, though that means very little as he can see her reflection. She’s clad in a black corset with some sort of silvery lining, and pretty much nothing else. The leather wraps around her tightly, pushing so that her modestly sized breasts look significantly larger.
And firmer, his mind helpfully supplies. Harry squashes down the heat that’s rushing quite insistently down south, trying to convince himself that this is Hermione and, no matter how deliriously incredible she looks in leather, he can’t.
“Nice arse,” he says, coming into the room. The temperature feels as if it’s risen ten degrees.
“Don’t joke. I’m embarrassed enough as it is,” Hermione says with a hint of irritation in her voice. “Help me with the straps, please. When I signed up for this never did I imagine seducing a masochist would be part of the job description. Tighter, please – Good God.” She gasps at a particularly forceful pull on the strings.
Harry tries to breathe slowly and forces his hands to remain steady. Overexcitement is something he suffered ten years back, when he was a teenager learning what a woman looked like underneath clothes, and should not be a problem now, when he’s thirty and a dozen or more relationships in.
“Sorry,” Harry says, his voice steady. “You were telling me earlier about the case you and Malfoy just closed?” The black strap loops into the last hole, cutting through the air with a definite, swishing sound as Harry tugs at it. His breath catches at the sound.
“Yeah, bloody Malfoy almost got himself killed. I always tell him not to run to the scene without backup, but does he ever listen? The man is a menace. All the paperwork I have to sort through every time we partner up is enough to make me want to strangle him.” Hermione pauses, face flushed and chest heaving. It’s clear that the corset is giving her trouble. For some reason Harry doesn’t want to dwell on, he pulls hard on the cords one last time, watching her gasp and willing his body to stay calm. Unconsciously, he moves closer.
“A-anyway, he’s back from hospital. Kingsley’s furious with him, which is one of the reasons I think he put you on this case. The electrocution must have affected Malfoy more severely than I thought, because he hasn’t said a peep about it since he found out. He might be pissed off at me, though, because he keeps staring at me. I can’t imagine why; it’s not like I have any power over Kingsley’s decisions. Oh, Harry, could you please loosen it a little…”
Harry has never noticed before how good Hermione smelled, like shampoo and cake. That might have something to do with her love for baking, but at the moment all Harry can think of is the smell of leather mingling with her familiar scent, stirring instinctive reactions out of his body against his will. His eyes are fastened on the way her shoulders move restlessly, muscles shifting, the hue of her skin striking against the black, supple leather. His fists, curled around the sturdy straps, shake perceptibly as he tries to hold himself back. God, he wants to come closer, to lean down and put his ear against her lips, so he can hear her harsh, breathless whimpers and feel her heart fluttering helplessly in her ribcage…
Harry blinks and stumbles when Hermione slumps back against him, her weight knocking him to his knees. Startled, he looks into the mirror and realises that Hermione’s eyes are closed, dark lashes damp against unnaturally pale skin.
“Shit!” Harry exclaims, setting her down on the floor and making haste to rip the corset apart. Occupied with his thoughts, he didn’t notice how tight he cinched her corset. “Hermione, wake up!”
Hermione jerks up with a gasp, hands coming up to curl threateningly around his wrists. Even half-lucid, her instinct for potential danger holds true. Harry scoots away from Hermione, taking care not to look at her thong or her practically exposed breasts.
“Jesus,” Hermione chokes, her breaths deep and fast. Harry tries hard not to hear her. “That was awful.”
“Sorry,” Harry says, peering at her once he feels more in control of himself. “Didn’t realise it could do that.”
“Maybe next time I’ll try it on you, see how you like it,” Hermione snaps, but the rancour is dampened by her quick heaving. Harry says nothing in reply. He fears his voice will give away his feelings on the matter.
“Let’s try this one more time without jeopardising my life,” Hermione says once she’s got her wind back. She stands up and holds onto the corset that’s half hanging off her, leaving practically the entire expanse of her back in view. “Stop staring, for fuck’s sake, and help me lace this up. We’re going to be late and I will not be the one doing the extra paperwork if we fuck this up.”
Harry moves to do as he’s told, relieved that Hermione doesn’t notice – or, at least, is kind enough to pretend – that anything is amiss and equally perturbed about his reaction to her asphyxiation episode.
There is no denying it: he is most definitely hard.
-
Draco Apparates on the scene – without backup as usual – and swears that after tonight, he is going to force Kingsley to find another on-call Auror, or else he’ll quit. He doesn’t give a shit if it backfires in the end. He’s just returned from a near death episode, for fuck’s sake. One would think the Head Auror would be considerate enough to let him sit behind a desk for a few days while he recuperates. Instead the damn bastard placed him on-call, again. Just because he can’t find a partner to stay with him long enough to warm the seat doesn’t mean Kingsley can just drop him into a job any half competent idiot can do with the half-arsed excuse of safety (for him or the people around him, he’s still yet to figure out). Not his fault if his explosive temper and the tattoo on his arm give a few fuckers the willies. He’s here to do a job, not to play babysitter. Apparently, not playing nice means taking the backseat. Damned politics.
When he feels less disoriented from the Apparation, Draco is once again thrown by the patrons of this place and their attire. Or rather, the lack thereof. It takes him another minute to remember he’s here to do a job, not to stare.
BDSM club, bloody hell. Draco breaks through the crowd, ignoring the surprised and occasionally interested looks as he follows the Patronus across the dance floor and through a dark hallway. It doesn’t take long to find the crime scene; there are people crowding around it. Draco casts a Memory Charm on each of them before entering the dimly lit room. Civilians.
The first thing he sees under the low lighting is a heavily decorated area draped in deep red, then the sex toys haphazardly tossed around the floor, and finally the bed, where a naked man is tied up and seemingly unconscious. On top of him Granger is straddled, dressed in what appears to be a leather corset and black stockings gartered to a flimsy piece of what can only be described as uncomfortable accessory.
The sight momentarily renders him speechless and leaves him choking for breath. He can see her toned legs wrapped in fishnet all the way down to her feet, where red stilettos press forcibly against the black sheets. Her chest rises and falls in a short, sharp rhythm that tells him she’s equally as breathless as he is. It’s no wonder, with her ribcage trapped in that impressive corset, pulled taut by sturdy straps, the ends of which fall softly between her buttocks, trailing down to rest on the man’s thighs under her straddling stance.
I want it. The thought materialises in his mind, a whisper so sly that he doesn’t even realise it’s there, not then.
“Close your mouth, Malfoy, you’re drooling.” The voice cracks like a whip, startling him out of his reverie.
When he’s able to place the voice with the face, his surprise mercifully allows other thoughts to take flight.
“Potter?”
Potter stands against the wall, body at apparent ease as he surveys Draco impassively. This is an impressive feat, considering that he’s dressed in a pair of skintight, slick black pants and nothing more.
The last time Draco saw him, Potter was hugging Granger goodbye before the Portkey whisked him away. Potter had supposedly been assigned to an international incident, big shit, and had been eager to leave England. He had been twenty-five, two years out of the Academy, fresh faced, bright eyed and green nosed. Draco had looked at him and made a personal bet that Potter wouldn’t last three months in the criminal division of the Italian Ministry, which was rumoured to have some of the cruelest methods of dealing with criminals.
Five years later and Potter couldn’t look more different if he tried. His face has matured into hard lines and serious eyes. Cold, calculating, touched with a humourless quirk of the firm mouth, Potter watches him, arms across a well-built chest, muscles sliding under sun-kissed skin.
Half-shadowed by the dim orange light, he appears dangerous and almost, if Draco doesn’t know better, cruel.
“Why was I summoned?” Draco directs his question toward Granger when it’s clear Potter is going to stand there and be ridiculously close-mouthed.
Granger frowns when the man below her groans and delivers a sharp blow to his head with her elbow, effectively knocking him out.
“That’s for the wandering hands,” Granger says with a self-satisfied smirk before stepping off the bed. She walks toward them, and Draco swallows, eyes drawn to her breasts lifting with every click of her heels on the cold floor, sweat making her skin shine.
As Granger nears, Potter holds up a black cloak for her to take. Once she is covered enough for Draco’s blood to re-circulate northward, she replies, “I need you to help Harry finish the job. I’m late for a date.”
Before Draco can come up with a proper retort, Granger twists and disappears.
A moment passes before Draco says, “Sodding hell.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Potter slowly smile.
-
Draco sits on his bed, hunched in the dark with his elbows on his knees. The flat is quiet, save for the occasional sounds of pedestrians and speeding cars outside. He has chosen his bachelor pad based on its location in central Muggle London, conveniently close to most Wizarding spots. The rent is ridiculously high, but the accommodation is top-rate, and the neighbours mind their own business. Draco didn’t wish to live in the Wizarding world after the war, and was a relief to find a place whose tenants acknowledge his presence but otherwise ignore his eccentric wardrobe and the occasional male he lets out of his flat the morning after.
Draco has been openly dating men since he left home at twenty-one. He spent most of his youth fucking his way across Europe and then alternating between recklessly chasing criminals and fucking once he joined the Auror force. Pleasure is good, he likes to believe, which is why he never feels the need to hide or curb any desire out of uncertainty or fear. Sex, drugs, magic: they’re all the same to him, something to take and get off on.
And now, danger, apparently.
The note lies crumpled, hidden in his left fist. Draco’s read the words so many times that they blur until only the memory is left imprinted in his mind.
Russian Roulette. Password ‘all in’.
The slip of paper was pushed into his hand when he exited the club. A man, veiled by darkness, wrapped an arm around his chest and leaned close, lips brushing his neck. He smelled sweat and come and heard the whispered words, heated, honeyed.
I can see what you want. Come back tomorrow night and I’ll show you how it’s done.
The mysterious man ended their curious exchange by crushing his arm down on Draco’s chest, forcing the breath out of his lungs with an abruptness that rivalled his equally abrupt departure. When Draco looked back, wanting to know who it was who had caused his cock to take notice, the man had already blended back into the sultry crowd of naked flesh.
The only person standing stark against the inviting club was Potter, wand lifted to levitate the Stupefied body under a Notice-Me-Not Charm. Potter stared at Draco, unblinking, unmoving. With the flashing lights behind him, Potter’s features stood out, bold lines and primary colours, green eyes and black hair on white skin. The sight made Draco’s skin prickle and his cock ache.
His cock aches now at the thought. Almost of its own volition Draco’s hand slides down his bare chest, grazing his right nipple, the touch drawing out an unexpected groan. He feels odd, sensitive, like he’s riding the high of some club drug, hazy with the numbingly good feeling while letting some nameless bloke suck him off in a back alley.
Black hair.
His fingers move lightly down to his navel, one digit dipping inside. He imagines his hands tangled in thick hair, coal black, feeling ghosting touches against his abdomen.
Green eyes.
His head tilts back, lips parted, legs falling open. His cock weeps at the first contact with his sweating palm. He sees green eyes, bright, hooded by heavy lashes. They focus on him, unwavering, challenging him as wet lips seal around his cock, sucking, fucking, with a slow, steady pressure. His flesh disappears and reappears, glistening with saliva, red and hard and needy. His hand squeezes harder, cock in moving fist, wanting the feeling, needing the pleasure. The image burns vivid behind his eyelids.
Hands around his throat, fingers tensing, knowing, waiting. A body presses flush against his back, firm pectoral muscles branding fire into his shoulder blades. Draco moans low, back hitting the mattress, legs dangling from the bed. He can see it, taste it, the rush of fire, the burn, taking him, provoking his fighting instinct, forcing his obedience.
Draco’s body snaps taut, eyes jerking open as he comes, gasping for the breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding. The orgasm explodes from his cock, the influx of endorphins so powerful that his eyes fill with tears. Disorientation hits him like an earthquake, and he lies there, overwhelmed by the aftershocks, skin highly sensitised to the painful contact with his sheets.
For a long time there’s only the sound of his loud, frantic breathing mixed with the wild beating of his heart. His brain waits until the supply of oxygen is sufficient for rational thought.
He just had the best orgasm of his life by picturing Potter choking him.
-
Harry sees Malfoy at the Ministry the next day, talking to Hermione. With the surrounding being too dark and him being too occupied the night before, Harry didn’t have a chance to take a good look at him.
Malfoy mostly looks like Harry remembers him, with less hair and more attitude. Pale skin, a sharp nose and sharper eyes, his face makes Harry think of knives and precarious self-control. Malfoy’s clearly irritated as he speaks with Hermione, but that’s not what Harry’s interested in. Under the snarl and the impatience, there’s something else brimming, threatening to break the surface. Experience tells him it’s the expression of a man trapped inside a secret, practically trembling with the need to let loose whatever it is he’s hiding away.
Malfoy’s saying something angrily to Hermione, Harry notices as he nods absently to a co-worker yapping excitedly at him. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Malfoy gestures with his arms impatiently. Harry catches a flash of a dark shape against the pale inner arm and feels a sudden spark of interest. The way Malfoy holds himself, so at ease, so carelessly displaying his Mark, intrigues him. Has Malfoy ever been so comfortable in his own skin before?
Harry gives a quick excuse to Connor and moves toward the pair of Aurors standing in front of Hermione’s office.
Harry grins when he notices Hermione talking. He knows that stance and that expression well, having been on the receiving end multiple times in the past. He can only imagine how Malfoy must feel, listening to Hermione patiently enunciating every word as she explains to Malfoy what he’s done wrong. Harry usually feels properly berated by end of her admonishments, but Malfoy looks as if he’s not even paying attention to what she’s saying.
Harry narrows his eyes, curious, as Malfoy’s gaze flickers to Hermione’s chest, adopting that glazed look that on a straight man can be considered quite suggestive. But from what he’s gathered, Malfoy’s a poof, so his fascination with Hermione’s tits makes little sense.
When Harry draws near enough for their voices to overcome the background chatter of the Auror floor, Hermione is affecting her slow, expressive voice, as expected.
“You need to learn to let go of the little things, Draco. It has been seven years, so get the fuck over yourself and make nice with someone. You do realise it is due to your stubbornness that you are in this predicament, yes? Kingsley would not be so severe with you if he didn’t think you were capable of building a lasting relationship…”
“Stop talking to me like I’m a bloody idiot,” Malfoy snaps. With one pale hand he pushes his wayward blond hair away from his face, revealing three small scars near his eyebrow. “Christ, I need a fag.”
Harry smiles inwardly when he sees Hermione roll her eyes. “I don’t even know why I bother. Write the damn report yourself and give it to Kingsley. I imagine he’ll want to talk with you.” With those parting words Hermione strolls into her office and closes the door behind her, right in Malfoy’s face.
Harry steps forward when Malfoy sees him. “Hermione can be a right bitch when she wants,” he comments casually.
Malfoy arches an eyebrow, drawing Harry’s eyes to the shift of his scars. Small, clean, separated by probably one or two millimetres in between. They’re intriguing, like the rest of Malfoy.
“She’s all right,” Malfoy says slowly, his gaze never wavering from Harry’s face. “Her latest fuck must’ve been horrendous for her to be a right tit the morning after. She was much more pleasant when she was fucking Pansy.”
Harry unexpectedly finds himself smiling. Malfoy sounds like he’s old friends with Hermione, and isn’t that a surprise, when all Malfoy’s ever spouted is Pureblooded bigotry? Then again, the last time Harry was around Malfoy was five or six years back. Perhaps it’s self-absorbed to assume he’s the only one who’s grown up.
“Sorry I kept you late yesterday.” Harry decides a change in the subject is called for. “Interrogation can be tedious at times.”
Malfoy’s eyes flicker and the lines on his face twist, as if he is remembering something unpleasant and coincidentally telling Harry exactly what he thinks about the incident.
“I wouldn’t call it tedious,” Malfoy answers, his voice belying his true feelings on the matter. “If anything, it was more… informative.” He speaks the last word as if it’s drenched in something revolting.
So Malfoy dislikes his interrogation techniques. Harry knows some people like that, back in Italy, who wrinkle their noses and pretend what goes on after an arrest never happens. Harry doesn’t understand the sentiment, and cares for it even less. He’s of the opinion of the Italian MLE that the end justifies the means. Case in point, the bastard confessed to everything last night.
“I’m hoping Kingsley will agree to implement some of the methods you witnessed,” Harry says, testing Malfoy. “They have certainly proven to be effective and time saving.”
Now Malfoy is staring at him with a different light in his eyes, obviously catching on to Harry’s game. Wariness seeps into his face. Harry finds himself feeling disappointed. Malfoy’s quick at throwing up his walls; his expression is practically a blank sheet of paper now.
Eventually Malfoy smirks, and it’s so familiar and nostalgic that it disorients Harry for a second.
“I’m sure he will be delighted to hear of your new hobbies,” Malfoy retorts coolly, yet his words leave Harry feeling as if he’s the butt of a joke. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare myself for the hell Granger’s put me in.” Malfoy turns to leave.
“Want to grab lunch?” The question, Harry realises, is as much a surprise to him as it is to Malfoy. He affects an offhand smile. “I’ll wager you’re going to need a drink if you’re meeting with Kingsley later.”
Harry is pleased when Malfoy, after giving him a long, complicated look, accepts.
-
The smoke curls briefly between his parted lips before rising into the air and vanishing. Draco lets the fag drop from between his thumb and forefinger, the third one tonight, and stares up at the rather unobtrusive sign above a black door.
He’s been standing here for over an hour now, protected by a Glamour Charm, watching people in heavy coats disappear behind the ominous black door. He’s nervous, and he’s fucking annoyed that he’s nervous. So what if it’s an S&M club? It’s not as if he’s never been to one in thirty years of living. There was an especially memorable occasion back when he turned twenty-one and went to Amsterdam to celebrate, and another particularly noteworthy weekend spent with a married couple in Austria. No, he’s not a stranger to this scene, even if it’s been a while. So why the fuck is he so jittery?
He doesn’t want to think about it. He just wants to find the mysterious man and let him do what he promised. Granger’s face appears in his head, sudden and completely uncalled for, skin glistening against the slick leather corset. He can still remember her hands on his chest, can still remember the way his lungs burned, the way his accessory muscles contracted to accommodate the lack of oxygen, the sensation of light-headedness and the undeniable, pure pleasure.
He wants it. He knows he wants it. It’s dangerous and irresistible and it fucking terrifies him.
Draco looks up at the sign one more time, the words Russian Roulette quiet against the subdued background, a warning if he ever saw one.
Draco takes a step forward.
He wants it.
-
Draco knocks back another shot, focussing on the burn as it goes down his throat and forcing himself not to dart a look. He already feels like an alien in this place, no need to make it more conspicuous by acting like a bloody nervous wreck.
Despite such determination, he can’t help but look anyway. He’s on the first level, where there’s a bar and a large dance floor, with a few scattered booths strategically set away in the darkness. Draco already passed by one, but after hearing muffled screams coming from the area he fled to the brightly lit bar, where the bartender is currently giving him a knowing, pitying look. Draco’s only glad the man’s too busy to try and talk, the fucking horror. Could he stand out any more?
He’s rusty, Draco decides after the third shot. When he joined the Auror Academy he went semi-celibate because he’d been so exhausted from the training alone. Then afterward it’s been all undercover ops and paperwork that takes up even more time and isn’t as much fun. Sleep, he suddenly realizes, has been more important than sex, and Draco thinks he’s fucking lost it if that’s the case. He’s only thirty. Sleep shouldn’t be more important than sex when you’re fucking thirty.
Draco turns to the dance floor, lounging against the bar with both his elbows resting on the surface, watching. He’s lucky he had the password, otherwise he wouldn’t have made it in. It’s not an S&M club like he’s been to before. It could easily be a regular dance club if not for the choice of attire and the occasional couples disappearing off to the floor above, or to the entrance he went through the night before, where many rooms are available for disposal, furnished with equipment. He can only imagine what type of “equipment” they utilize on the floor above.
The alcohol is working its magic. He’s feeling mellow, a little more at ease with just a pinch of anxiety and anticipation. His eyes travel to the dancing couples, threesomes, lost in the heat of the music. There’s a familiarity in each of the patrons’ movements, the ease with which they carry themselves, knowing exactly what they want and how they will get it. Watching them, with their skin rubbing, their hands easy and purposeful, he is compelled to join in, to be a part of their coupling. This is foreplay, he can tell, eyes drawn to one particular couple swaying close on the edge of the dance floor, half hidden by bright lights and shadows. Their bodies twist sinuously, foretelling the end to their night. Draco’s body reacts, cock hardening, lips dry, eyes tuning to the hand reaching between thighs, to the back, arching, and the arse pressing to pelvis. One mouth curves into a smile, the other a gasp. Draco’s breath hitches.
There is a hand on his shoulder. A voice in his ear.
“Fancy a dance, Malfoy?”
Draco almost drops his glass. That’s not the stranger from last night.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Draco says incredulously.
Potter smiles in return. “The same reason you’re here, I expect.” Pause. “Well, not entirely the same.”
Draco narrows his eyes. “If this is some sort of prank then you’d better run before I hex your fucking balls off–”
Potter leans close. His smile is predatory. He stares straight into Draco’s eyes like he wants to tear Draco’s head apart and extract all his secrets.
“Not a prank.” Potter’s lips part slyly. “An offer.”
Draco’s cock gives a twitch, but otherwise he is not surprised at Potter’s easy, knowing response. Potter wants to fuck, that much is obvious. The cryptic exchange earlier this morning, the subtle glances, the surprisingly sophisticated lunch spot are obvious signs. But those words flip the light switch, making Potter’s intention irrevocably clear. Potter knows what he wants, and he’s offering it to him, carte-blanche.
Draco’s well-versed in mind games, and Potter’s clearly an expert; he wants to push Draco’s buttons, to test his control, to draw out his discomfort as he waits for expected reactions. It’s a game they’re used to.
Draco tries to think through the thrumming lust that courses through his body. If he says no, Potter will gain the upper hand because he’ll know that Draco is wary and potentially afraid of his presence – anyone who’s seen what Potter’s capable of would be – and Draco could never live with the knowledge that he’d let Potter think he can intimidate him, Draco Malfoy, of all people. Inversely, if Draco agrees, then he’s willingly giving Potter free reign to do as he wishes for the night. It’s a terrible and irresistible choice.
Draco licks his lip, hiding a smirk when Potter’s gaze tracks the movement. “What did you do to the man?”
Potter shrugs. “Does it matter?” He reaches out, unexpectedly, and takes the shot glass from Draco’s fingers.
Potter’s too close. Draco can feel his lips and hair brushing the side of his face. The smell of whisky hits him hard.
“I want to take you upstairs, Draco.” Potter speaks quietly, but every word shoots through him like an arrow claiming its mark. “I want to tie you up and fuck you hard. I want to put you in a corset and pull the strings so tight you’ll think I’m killing you. I want to see you beg me to hurt you, make you scream as I mould your body. It’s a sturdy thing, you know? Meant to reshape the body. I imagine it’ll hurt a lot when it narrows your waist, compresses your chest. It won’t break your ribs, but by the time I’m finished with you you won’t be able to tell the difference.”
Draco’s dizzy, his body reacting to every word Potter’s saying. So smooth, when did Potter become so fucking smooth? He’s going to come if Potter doesn’t stop talking, he’s that hard, but Potter, damn him, finishes his promise with a twist to Draco’s guts.
“And yes, I will make you love every second of it.”
Potter has his hand on Draco’s arm, gripping brutally, and he thinks he’s really fucked up, because he likes how it hurts. He revels in the way his brain identifies Potter as dangerous and attempts to trigger his fight-or-flight response. It’s deliriously addictive, to fight his control, forcing himself to concede to another power, to be someone else other than Draco Malfoy, the wildcard of the MLE, the Death Eater with an ugly past.
With Potter, he’s simply fucked.
Perhaps Potter sees something in his face, or perhaps Potter feels his resolve breaking, because he presses his lips once against Draco’s neck and pulls him away from the bar, toward the stairs.
Draco doesn’t bother to resist.
-
The room Potter chooses is dimly lit. Draco’s barely inside before he’s stumbling from a hard jab between his shoulder blades. He hears the door click shut and everything is thrown into momentary darkness. His eyesight tries to adjust but Potter is faster. He takes Draco by the shirt collar and drags him toward the bed, wordlessly, purposefully, like Draco’s his possession and Potter’s going to make use of him regardless of his feelings on the matter.
At least, it feels like it.
That’s the most important part, Draco thinks, looking up at Potter from his position on the bed. The power play is delicious, Potter’s a pro, and Draco knows that, doesn’t he? After all, he saw Potter in action when the man broke his prisoner like snapping a twig, fast, merciless. Is that what Potter plans to do to him? Take him apart, make him beg and curse and cry and permit him his release?
Oh yes, he hopes so.
“Strip,” Potter says, arms across his chest. The limited lighting and his stance make him look large, imposing, emotionless. Draco swallows, fingers trembling with anticipation as they make quick work of his shirt and trousers.
Potter gives him a long, inscrutable look before reaching into his back pocket and fishing out his wand. Draco watches as he enlarges an object in his hand.
Draco knows, from Potter’s smile, that the hunger is evident on his face as he gazes at the corset Potter’s holding. The same one Granger wore.
“Safe word?” Potter inquires softly. The man’s playing his role to perfection, body and face giving nothing away. Draco wants to know what Potter’s thinking, but the thrill of the game prevents him from asking.
Without missing a beat, Draco replies, “Granger.”
Potter quirks an eyebrow. Draco returns his look, resisting the smile that’s pulling at the corner of his lips. The joke’s not lost on either of them.
“Get on the bed,” Potter commands, “and turn around.”
Draco bites his lips and does as he’s told. He can see his own cock, hard and red, begging for a touch. He’s tempted to give in to the urge, but Potter – still fully clothed – is watching him, and that makes Draco feel as if he’ll lose if he does anything out of turn. That thought makes him smile: even now, he’s still unwilling to completely give up his control. With Potter, perhaps that will change.
Draco hears shifting and then feels hands sliding under his armpits.
“Hands on the headboard,” Potter tells him, and Draco does so. His eyes flutter shut, his skin tingling at Potter’s skimming touch, at the scratch of his cotton sleeves above warm wrists, the feeling of leather grazing his body as Potter adjusts it around his chest. He can feel the bones under the sturdy build of the corset running in vertical lines, first softly, like a caress. His ears are tuned to the hissing of the straps as they loop around the holes in the back. Potter’s efficient, Draco’ll give him that. Soon enough the straps are in their places, and Draco knows this because the corset’s lining against his flesh is slowly, teasingly tightening around him. The fine bones under the leather introduce themselves more definitely to his flesh, and every breath Draco draws becomes increasingly difficult.
Potter keeps up the steady pressure, so slow, so unhurried, one hand pulling the straps, the other resting on Draco’s hip, holding him in place. It’s maddening, overwhelming, how Potter makes him feel every single shift of the leather, the way his body gives way to the predetermined shape. He’s neither slender nor fleshy; his body is made of planes and angles and compact muscles. He doesn’t know how it’s moulding to the corset, his waist cinching in first, but it’s working, and Draco’s system is feeling the first prick of discomfort, spreading into something more prominent, more… ah, yes, painful. A rush of pleasure spirals downward, and his cock weeps.
The corset is not his size, but the straps hold true as it tightens around his chest. God the sound the leather makes as the edges – sturdy, reliable – inch little by little closer together, stirs reactions from his body similar to ones he has listening to the noise of hexes flying across the battlefield. His body is finely tuned to the slide of leather, hyper-aware of everything around him.
Potter has hardly started.
It’s the anticipation, Draco decides as his ribs begin to protest at the compression. Potter could’ve taken this very quickly, turned Draco into a puddle of incoherent goo in mere seconds, but he draws it out like it’s a well-practiced game, playing on Draco’s stubbornness, letting Draco take the lead in his own undoing, knowing he will. Draco, unfortunately, has never been too patient when it comes to satisfying his own desires, whatever the cost.
It’s the last coherent thought he has before he jerks forward, startled by the sudden glide of a finger down between his buttocks. It’s the wrong move, Draco realises too late. The corset pulls tighter at the unexpected movement, and for a second Draco’s certain that his ribs have broken, the force is that strong. He feels strangled from the chest up, all his breath gone in one quick flash, vanished as if by magic. It’s like agony drenched in acid, burning from the inside, but Draco hardly has time to adjust before the corset loosens and he’s sucking in air like a man clinging onto life. His body’s trembling from the tease – because that’s what it is, damn Potter – and his cock feels ready to burst. He wants to touch it, his hand’s already reaching down…
Potter tugs him back by the straps, and Draco follows with a soundless scream.
“Don’t fucking touch yourself until I say so,” Potter warns, voice low, one arm swung around Draco’s shoulders. Draco’s arse is pressed against Potter’s denim clad groin, and helplessly he grinds, wanting the friction, something, to relieve him of this wild heat scorching inside.
“Potter,” Draco whimpers, grasping onto Potter’s forearm. “I want, please…”
“I know what you want,” Potter confirms. “And you’ll get it, when I fucking say you can.”
He’s unable to draw in another breath, but Potter’s relentless. He hurts everywhere, deep, visceral pain that tears through his bones. His nerves sing from the oxygen deficit, brain screaming for relief. Through the sound of his blood roaring he hears Potter speak calmly, slowly.
“… five, six, seven...”
It takes his brain a fraction too long to catch up, but eventually he understands what Potter’s doing. He’s counting the seconds until Draco passes out. He learned this in training, but he can’t recall. How long does it take for an oxygen-deprived man to fall unconscious?
Not too long, if Potter keeps it up…
As if sensing Draco’s imminent loss of consciousness, the constriction around his chest eases up with a suddenness that shocks him as much as the hand that curls around his neglected cock.
If Potter hadn’t taken hold of the base and squeezed, Draco would be coming all over the bloody sheets. The sheer power of pleasure that explodes seemingly from all over his body renders him momentarily senseless.
“Not yet,” Potter hushes into his ear, soft lips on his skin. Draco’s on fire, and Potter’s as cool as a breeze. “Now it’s my turn.”
The blatant statement, the implication… Draco moans loudly as his body responds like that of a wanton, cock leaking freely. Potter’s taken his control so completely and skillfully that Draco thinks he’d laugh if he wasn’t so desperate, so needy, for more.
The sharp sound of Potter’s fly unzipping resonates in the room. When Draco feels a hard cock against his arse, he knows that Potter’s not going to undress, that he’s going to fuck Draco fully clothed. Before he can think too much about it, about how hot that is, Potter speaks again.
“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” Draco’s spine arches involuntarily, body jerking at the sensation of the corset tightening. His body remembers the sharp sting of restraint, is fighting it before it can overtake his entire being, but Draco’s helpless against his own lust. His two basic instincts war for dominance. Pleasure and pain. Draco can’t remember sex feeling so dangerous before. It’s terrifying, fucking exciting.
“You’re so far gone you can’t even talk,” Potter continues in that hushed tone, sex dripping from every word. “I can do anything to you right now and you wouldn’t care, would you? I can fuck you dry if I want. Are you going to let me? Lie there and take it like a good little whore?”
Yes, Draco moans incoherently. He’d let Potter do anything right about now, he hurts so much wants so much but Potter won’t let him—
And that is the last thought he has. He screams himself hoarse when Potter pushes into him, the slick cock stretching its way through his channel persistently. He doesn’t even have time to get used to the intrusion before he feels Potter pull at the straps as if reining in a horse. Draco’s lips part, but all sounds are long gone, lost in the throes of twisting pain and pleasure.
His hands find purchase on the headboard, but they slip, going weak with the combination of Potter’s thrusting hips and the gradual loss of oxygen. He can’t focus, doesn’t know what to do. He wants to shriek from the harsh, piercing pain and cry from the pleasure that tears him apart with every stab of Potter’s cock against his prostate. It hurts mother of god it hurts but he doesn’t think he can bear it if it stops.
Potter’s saying something in his ear, lips brushing words against his skin, but Draco can’t hear him. He can hardly see, for that matter. He’s completely helpless and he knows it, they both know it, and they both know that it’s here, fucked open under Potter, that Draco wants to be, that Draco is willing to be that vulnerable to Potter. The knowledge exists between them like thrumming heat, rising until the unbearable clarity of it crashes over them.
With one final show of strength Potter gathers the straps in his fists and wrenches. Potter’s harsh breathing fills his ears, and it’s the last thing he knows before his arse contracts around Potter’s thick cock, his own come spurting all over his chest and the sheets.
-
When he wakes up, Draco is amidst cool, soft sheets, smelling faintly of clean laundry. Potter is across from him, head resting on a folded arm, gazing at him as if trying to figure out a secret. The sound of their breathing surprises Draco. Slowly, he inhales, testing his lung function. There’s an ache in his chest, like residual pain. Draco closes his eyes briefly, savouring the feeling, trying to stay calm because his cock is twitching in interest and he doesn’t want to fuck. Not yet.
When he opens his eyes, Potter is still looking. Countless unspoken words hang between them, so obvious, so ready to be said.
Draco begins. “You’re very good at this. I take it you had fun in Italy?”
Potter smiles his sheepish smile, mouth quirking in that familiar, boyish way that’s never failed to capture a little bit of Draco’s heart every time.
“I wanted to give you everything,” Potter replies, sidestepping his inquiry and telling him exactly what he needs to hear at the same time.
Draco shifts closer until their thighs are touching. He raises a hand and presses it to Potter’s cheek. “You didn’t have to run away for five years to learn how to torture people.”
“I don’t do anything by half, you know that. And it’s not like you’d have wanted me to.”
“All I wanted was a change.”
Potter raises an eyebrow in mock dubiousness.
Draco rolls his eyes. “Okay, yes, I love these games, and I wasn’t going to let you touch me when you had no fucking clue what to do.”
“And now?” Potter’s face is open and curious, eyes bright green and honest. He looks nothing like the man who knows torture methods so creative and effective that Voldemort would have been impressed, who stood in front of Draco at the MLE talking in riddles and eyefucking him like his reputation depended on it. Draco knows this man, lying here in the aftermath of a hardcore fucking. This is the man who kissed him in the middle of a simulated stakeout back in the Academy, who made him breakfast in bed, who swore he’d make Draco the happiest man alive.
This is the face of a man Draco’s been in love with for the past seven years.
Draco’s never been one to show affection, but he arches toward Potter and crawls on top of him. His hands tangle in the thick black hair. Potter looks up at him with utmost vulnerability, and Draco just knows that he’s the only one to ever see it.
“I might need a bit more convincing,” Draco replies impishly.
The glint in Potter’s eyes is positively wicked and knowing when he reaches up to pull Draco down for a kiss, and more.
End.
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Date: 2011-02-15 02:27 am (UTC)*silence*
*GASP!*
Oh my.
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Date: 2011-02-19 07:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 03:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 07:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 05:10 am (UTC)*Babbling because part of my mind is busy wondering what might happen if I pull my corsets back out of storage*
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Date: 2011-02-19 07:22 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!
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Date: 2011-02-15 09:36 am (UTC)This was done so, so well!
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Date: 2011-02-19 07:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 09:47 am (UTC)*wipes drool from keyboard*
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Date: 2011-02-19 07:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 12:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 07:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 07:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 06:23 pm (UTC)Lovely ending.
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Date: 2011-02-19 07:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 07:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 07:30 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading! :D
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Date: 2011-02-15 07:59 pm (UTC)Potter smiles his sheepish smile, mouth quirking in that familiar, boyish way that’s never failed to capture a little bit of Draco’s heart every time.
“I wanted to give you everything,” Potter replies, sidestepping his inquiry and telling him exactly what he needs to hear at the same time. ♥ ♥ Harry is both sweet and domineering and so... compelling. And that little hint at their history together at the end is fabulous!
The art is really good too, I love Hermione's curls and Harry's face in the last one.
It all comes together so brilliantly!
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Date: 2011-02-19 07:32 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!
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Date: 2011-02-15 11:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 07:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 11:33 pm (UTC)Second, I wasn't sure if I'd like this. Not really a kink I'm that into, but the ending totally made it for me. Well played, indeed!
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Date: 2011-02-19 07:35 pm (UTC)art was done by the ever so awesome
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Date: 2011-02-19 08:31 pm (UTC)YAY! I'm so glad! *twirls you*
And
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Date: 2011-02-20 03:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 12:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 07:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 04:55 am (UTC)so hot!!!! I loved every word of this, the corset and the way Draco first becomes obsessed with breathplay and Harry is sex incarnate and just guh!!!
Best part was when it all pulls together in the end, I literally gasped when I realized that you had fooled me all along and out favorite boys were in a relationship already *lovelovelove!!*
Great job!!!
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Date: 2011-02-19 07:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 10:40 am (UTC)So wonderfully written.
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Date: 2011-02-19 07:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 02:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 07:37 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!
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Date: 2011-02-17 12:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 07:37 pm (UTC)Art was done by the amazing
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Date: 2011-02-20 07:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-24 05:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 03:22 am (UTC)*sighs* I'll get
Thank you for reading XD
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Date: 2011-02-25 09:12 am (UTC)Oh, and I adored Hermione in this. "I'm late for a date," indeed. Cinnamon.
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Date: 2011-02-27 03:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-26 08:04 am (UTC)I really loved the longer story. You set up everything so well and took the time to really fill in the details and the pacing was perfect. Had me enthralled the entire time. Loved Draco's need and the intensity of it. Just ... gah!
Brilliant work. And I second everybody else: Hermione was great as well. Kudos!
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Date: 2011-02-27 03:34 am (UTC)Thank you for reading :)
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Date: 2011-03-06 08:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-12 08:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-10 05:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-07 03:23 am (UTC)i could write a novel on this fic and still not express how much i love it.
thank you so so so so much, you are the most talented fic writer i have come across. bdsm is so amazing when written correctly uggh <3