Fic: Come For Me - Part 1/3 (Harry/Draco)
Feb. 20th, 2012 03:46 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
frayach.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hpkinkfestTitle: Come For Me
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
frayach
Prompt: 42
Kinks Showcased: “Watersports” (Important! See author’s notes for explanation of mysterious parenthesizes!)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: After Draco is paralyzed in an accident, he and Harry discover a new way to make love.
Warnings: Watersports, fleeting mention of H/OC infidelity, a brief "threesome," gender-bending fantasy role-play – and a ridiculously happy ending.
Word Count: 26K
Author’s Notes: You may think you’re squicked by “watersports,” but this is NOT your grandmother’s watersports kink fic; in fact, I’m even reluctant to call this a “kink fic” at all (although it definitely is very very kinky). This is a romantic story that features a new way of making love when one of the partners has suffered a severe spinal cord injury and can no longer have a "traditional" orgasm. Until now, I’ve stayed away from reading & writing watersports fics because they so often involve humiliation, which I don’t like unless done exceedingly well. There is no humiliation in this story, only intense desire and a will to overcome any kind of adversity for the sake of love. *blushes at own sappiness & hides under bed* So that's what the fic is. What it is not is a "disability kink" fic. There is no fetishization of disability and no weird & creepy sexualized power dynamics related to disability.
Harry probably would’ve admitted to himself that he was gay anyway, but it might’ve taken several more years of losing erections with women and wanking guiltily to the magazines he kept in his old school trunk wrapped in his Invisibility Cloak. (When he wasn’t trying to pretend the magazines didn’t exist, he found it amusing that one of the Deathly Hallows was being used to hide a porn stash.) But then along came Ron and Pansy’s engagement party, and the universe booted his arse right out of the closet . . .
. . . and “straight” into Draco Malfoy’s waiting arms.
Malfoy hadn’t been coy about what he wanted. Just before midnight he’d followed Harry to the third-floor loo with its floral wallpaper and lavender tiles, shoved through the door before Harry could close it, and unbuttoned his shirt as Harry stood gaping at him. Before he’d realised what was happening, Malfoy was kissing him and clutching his arse with both hands and holding Harry’s groin tight against his own.
When Malfoy had stepped back after a minute, Harry (to his horror) almost whimpered like a bedraggled dog left out in the cold. But then Malfoy had slid his hand seductively down the path of his open shirt, stopping where his prick strained and bulged against his trousers. He began rubbing it with a deep moan before reaching even further between his legs to cradle his balls, kneading them with obvious pleasure and pride.
“Potter,” he’d said, his voice low and sultry.
Harry had yanked his gaze away from Malfoy’s hand and met his eyes, blushing.
“I figured you’d be here, seeing as Weasley’s your best mate and all. I haven’t wanked in days in anticipation of coming in your arse. You and I have been dancing around the inevitable for months. The dance stops here. Tonight.”
Malfoy had dropped his gaze to his hand, and Harry’s own gaze followed involuntarily. They’d both watched Malfoy caress his own balls lovingly.
“They’re swollen and aching – just waiting for me to fuck you. They’ve never been so full and heavy, and I’m going to empty all of that spunk right in your arse. I’m going to fuck my balls dry and fill you up until there’s no more room and my come flows out of your arsehole and trickles down your thighs. Your body is going to be nothing more than the receptacle for my semen, Potter. I’m going to pump you full of it while you beg for more. No one else will ever come in your arse like I’m going to tonight; no one will ever be able to fill you up like I will. You’ll try to find balls as full of come as mine, but you won’t be able to. You’ll never forget me.”
Circes’ cunt! Malfoy was beyond bold – and his mouth was beyond filthy. This time Harry hadn’t been able to hold back his whimper as Malfoy’s words travelling from his brain, down his spine, straight to his cock. Malfoy was right after all; they really had been trying to seduce each other for what seemed like forever. They probably could’ve won first place in an eye-fucking tournament.
Without removing his hand from between his legs, Malfoy had moved closer to Harry and kissed him again, thrusting his tongue into Harry’s mouth in a preview of what he obviously intended to do with another part of his body.
“I’m going to come inside you, Potter,” Malfoy had whispered possessively against Harry’s ear, “and then I’m going to suck your brains out through your dick.”
The metaphor hadn’t been particularly appealing, but its meaning was. As a result, Harry’s protestations had been less than convincing.
“Shut it,” Malfoy murmured into his mouth.
Despite his aggressive tone, Malfoy hadn’t fucked Harry that night; he’d made love to him. Harry had never had anal sex before, but even without anything to compare it to he’d known Malfoy was making love to him. He’d slid his prick into Harry’s arse so slowly and carefully that Harry felt every inch of it opening him, filling him.
“Wanted this so much,” Malfoy had said with a gutted groan as his balls finally pressed against Harry’s. Even in his over stimulated state, Harry had recognised why Malfoy had seemed so proud of them; they were heavy and full and swung to meet Harry’s with every thrust.
He’d cradled Harry’s face in his hands, dropping kisses on his lips and cheeks and forehead and throat as he rocked his hips, moaning when Harry arched his back and wrapped his legs around his waist. Malfoy had used a lot of lube, and the sounds that’d resulted from their coupling were squelchy like someone in wellies trudging through a bog. They’d driven Harry mad and made him wanton like Ginny had been the one time he’d stayed hard long enough to fuck her to orgasm.
Malfoy’s arse was just as perfect as Harry had known it would be; its muscles flexed under Harry’s hands with every thrust. He hadn’t been able to wrap his head around the fact that they were having sex, and he hadn’t cared. All that’d mattered was Malfoy’s weight pressing him against the floor, his hips thrusting between his thighs, and his wet open-mouthed kisses on his skin. And his words . . . oh, God, his words.
“Gonna come in you,” Malfoy grunted. “I’m going to make you mine. I’m going to come so far up your arse you’re going to be able to taste it . . . My balls ache so much . . .”
It wasn’t that Harry didn’t understand the concept of wanting to come (of course he did!) but Malfoy had seemed obsessed with coming inside him. He would’ve thought Malfoy would’ve wanted to come all over his face just for the humiliation factor. But Malfoy hadn’t seemed interested in humiliation; he’d seemed far more in interested in planting his seed, so to speak. It was as though Harry was a girl he was trying to impregnate.
Too soon Malfoy had signalled the approach of his orgasm with a litany of expletives gasped into Harry’s ear punctuated by a groaned “please, God, not yet, please.” He’d tried to still his hips, but he clearly couldn’t.
“Coming, oh Christ, I’m coming,” he’d groaned and thrust into Harry’s arse as deep as he could, his body tense and trembling. He’d probably imagined it, but Harry was convinced he could feel Malfoy’s balls throb as Malfoy’s climax emptied them.
After a minute, Malfoy had withdrawn and sat back on his heels. Harry had stared, fascinated, at his wet, red, still-hard twitching prick, marvelling at the fact that it’d just been in his arse. Malfoy had stared back at him, looking equally awed as he cupped his balls in his hands as though appreciating how light they’d become after his orgasm.
The blowjob had been less gentle than the sex. Malfoy hadn’t wasted a second and swallowed Harry’s prick to the root, sucking noisily and tugging on his pubic hair. Harry’d had his cock sucked before, but never like that. Never with such conviction. Malfoy grasped the back of Harry’s thighs and pushed them toward his chest, and before Harry could register disappointment at the loss of Malfoy’s devoted mouth, his mind had shut down at the feeling of Malfoy’s tongue probing his arsehole with quick jabs between gasped breaths.
“God, your arse tastes so good full of my come,” he’d groaned when he’d lifted his flushed face from between Harry’s legs and looked at him with dark, sex-drunk eyes.
And then he’d said the words that’d pushed Harry over the edge.
“Come for me,” Malfoy demanded before returning to sucking his prick. “Come for me, Harry James Potter.”
Harry’s back had snapped off the floor as he came with a shouted plea that he’d been unable to remember afterward. He’d clutched Malfoy’s head and thrust the last of his orgasm down Malfoy’s throat until Malfoy had pulled away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand with a smirk on his face that looked more pleased with himself than disdainful of Harry.
They hadn’t spoken as they dressed, but that’d been okay. The silence hadn’t been awkward, and Malfoy had taken his hands and kissed him covetously before leaving.
“I’m ready now,” he’d said when he pulled away. “Thank you.”
Harry had had no idea what he’d meant at the time, but when he saw the announcement of Malfoy’s engagement to Astoria Greengrass in the Prophet two days later, he’d figured it out.
* * * *
It took a long time and several disappointed lovers before the sting of the unexpected wound became the ache of a fading bruise. Fortunately, the slow transformation was aided by the fact that Malfoy and his wife moved to France after their wedding, thus saving Harry from the distress that encountering him surely would’ve caused.
But years of not seeing Malfoy didn’t mean that Harry could forget him. Malfoy’s was the face he saw when he wanked; Malfoy’s were the hands he imagined touching him; Malfoy’s was the cock that fucked him in his dreams, and Malfoy’s was the voice that triggered his orgasms . . .
Come for me, Harry James Potter.
Nonetheless, life went on. Harry rose through the ranks of the Aurors, eventually becoming Head of the DMLE. Hermione became Hogwarts’ Assistant Headmistress to McGonagall and Professor of Arithmancy. Ron and Pansy had twins. Teddy was made a Seeker for Gryffindor. Ginny married Dean and became a Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. Luna married Neville, and Kingsley Shacklebolt became the Minister of Magic. There were reunions and weddings and Christenings and parties and matches and charity dinners and holidays with the Weasleys. Harry sold Grimmauld Place, bought a flat, and dated and dumped a string of handsome blond men who hadn’t been able to replace the memory of the one man he really wanted – and feared he always would.
Then the accident happened.
It was entirely coincidental that he’d been there. When it started snowing Saturday evening, Harry decided to drive back to London rather than stay another night in the country with Neville and Luna. He doubted his hosts minded terribly much; he’d had a trying week at work and was in a foul mood. Luna’s eccentricities, which usually cheered him up, only made him more irritable. He suspected that what he needed was too much speed on too narrow roads and a few knuckle-whitening close calls.
He loved driving in the country – it was one of the reasons he spent most of his weekends with Hermione at Hogwarts or visiting his landowning friends. In the city, his 1965 red MGB Roadster was a coffee table replica, but everywhere else she was his one and only lady love.
He put the top down and cast a stationary warming charm, which kept him from freezing but let his hair blow back in the wet wind. The snow clung to the branches and hedges but melted when it hit the road only to freeze again in a film of black ice. He didn’t realise just how treacherous the conditions were until he took a corner too fast and skidded into the other lane. Fortunately nobody was coming from the opposite direction, and he managed to avoid crashing into a stone wall with a shouted braking spell. It scared him enough to take his mind off planning how to break up with his latest lover. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the gear stick with the other, and let his foot hover over the clutch.
It was his increased vigilance that’d probably saved his life when he rounded another sharp corner and nearly collided with a burning car.
He slammed on the brake and drew his wand. As soon as he got out of his car, he slipped on the icy road and fell hard on his knees. It took too long before he could put out the fire, but the driver had probably died before he’d even got there. The spilled petrol made the raging flames nearly as hot as Fiendfyre.
Only after he quenched the fire, did he see there was a second car. It wasn’t burning, but it was upside down – crumbled and twisted and surrounded by a halo of shattered glass. Harry ran to it, praying he’d find its occupants still alive, but the first thing he saw was a woman whose hair was so soaked with blood that he couldn’t tell what colour it was.
He was sure she was dead, but he freed her from the cage of twisted metal anyway and laid her on the ground. In the light of his Lumos he recognised her instantly.
Astoria Malfoy’s blue eyes were open, but clearly sightless.
And she was pregnant – very pregnant.
Harry stared at her, his mind as blank and empty as a frozen lake before the realisation struck him.
She’d been in the passenger seat.
He didn’t waste the time it would take to stand and instead crawled through the broken glass until he could see Malfoy. He slashed at Malfoy’s seatbelt and pulled him through the glassless window, all the time calling him every name he could think of and shouting that if he was dead, Harry would kill him.
It was terrifyingly difficult to cast his Patronus – probably because one of the memories he used was Malfoy making love to him on the lavender tiles of Ron and Pansy’s third-floor loo. But at last he succeeded, and the Healers were there in minutes, shoving him aside and casting diagnostic and life-support spells on both Malfoy and his wife.
“I don’t think we can save the foetus, but Mr. Malfoy’s alive,” one of them said.
“Barely,” another replied. “It looks like crushed vertebrae. The only question is how many and where.”
Harry stood several feet away, his arms wrapped around himself, trying to control his body’s shaking. He felt helpless in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Every now and then, he caught a glimpse of blood-streaked hair and the face that haunted his dreams, still and deathly pale.
Eventually one of the Healers stood and walked over to him.
“He’s going to live,” she said. “We’re going to Apparate him back to St. Mungo’s as soon as we can find a way to insure his spine doesn’t get jostled. His wife’s dead though. And sadly so is the baby.”
Harry nodded, too numb to speak. The Healer put her hand on his shoulder.
“You’re in shock, Mr. Potter,” she said. “Come with us. You shouldn’t be alone right now, and you definitely shouldn’t drive.”
Harry nodded again and pointed his wand at his Roadster. It took embarrassingly long to shrink it back to replica size. Someone had already Apparated with Astoria’s body. He pointed his wand at the Malfoys’ Mercedes and Banished it, leaving behind nothing but glass sparkling in the glow of the other car’s embers.
* * * *
Harry was beside him when Malfoy woke a week later. He’d only been there a few minutes when Malfoy’s eyelids fluttered weakly before opening to reveal familiar grey eyes.
“Potter,” he croaked as though it was entirely unremarkable that Harry was sitting at his bedside.
“Yeah.”
It was all Harry could think to say.
Neither of them spoke for a long time after that. Malfoy blinked and looked around, obviously confused and disoriented. The only sounds were the quiet voices of nurses and the squeak of their shoes on the polished floors as they moved from room to room delivering meals and casting painkilling spells.
Then Malfoy looked meaningfully at Harry’s glass of water.
“Thirsty.”
Harry closed his eyes. If Malfoy was going to drink, Malfoy had to sit up. If Malfoy tried to sit up, he’d realise that he couldn’t. He’d just regained consciousness; it seemed too soon . . .
. . . too soon to tell him he’d never walk again.
“Potter,” Malfoy said irritably.
Harry opened his eyes. It shouldn’t be him. He should get a Healer or have a nurse firecall Malfoy’s mother. It didn’t seem right that a former schoolboy nemesis should be the one who told him he’d been paralysed from the waist down.
But then Malfoy tried to push himself up.
He struggled and struggled even when Harry tried to press him back down with soothing words. His eyes were wide and pleading as reality dawned on him.
“You’re in St. Mungo’s,” Harry said. “There was an accident.”
Malfoy stared at him.
“You were injured,” Harry babbled. “I found you. The Healers did everything they could . . .”
“I can’t move.”
Harry bit his lip.
“I can’t feel my legs.”
Harry swallowed.
Malfoy stared at him, begging with his eyes for Harry to tell him it was going to be okay – that this was only temporary.
“I . . . I should get someone,” Harry said, standing up. He’d never been good at handling situations like this. But Malfoy’s hand shot out from under the sheets and grabbed his with surprising strength.
“Don’t you dare leave,” he rasped.
But Harry wanted to . . . desperately.
“I should get your Healer,” he said. “She’ll be glad you’re awake.”
“Awake? How long have I been here?! Where’s Astoria?!”
“It’s okay, just a minute, I’ll go get . . .”
Malfoy squeezed his hand so hard that it hurt.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he hissed. “You’re going to answer my questions, and then you’re going to tell me what the hell you’re doing here.”
Harry exhaled a shaky breath. Malfoy’s eyes were fever-bright with emotion.
“You’ve been here a week,” he said. “Your wife . . . I mean, Astoria . . .”
He couldn’t continue. This was why the DMLE offered courses to specially train less bumbling Aurors than him how to deliver bad news to family members. He hadn’t a clue what to say or how to say it.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
Harry couldn’t stand the way Malfoy’s heart bled into his voice or how his eyes, blazing and determined a minute ago, dimmed with grief.
Harry nodded.
“And you were there.”
Harry nodded again.
“She’s dead.”
Harry didn’t bother to nod again.
“And I’m still alive.”
He glared at Harry with more hatred than Harry had ever seen in his eyes before – which was saying something.
“And it’s your fault,” Malfoy yelled. “You bastard! Why did you do this to me?!”
Harry gaped at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“Why didn’t you let me die with her?” Malfoy shouted at him. “Why did you force me to live like this?”
He gestured at his legs.
“I . . .”
But Malfoy’s glare strangled his throat.
“Is this some kind of sick revenge?”
Harry frowned. Sick revenge?
“Look, Potter, it was a one-time thing. Did you think we were going to get married or something? We fucked. Once. We weren’t even sober . . .”
Harry had no idea why he said it, after all it was unimportant in the face of everything else Malfoy had said, but still . . .
“I was sober,” he said quietly.
Malfoy stopped mid-tirade.
“Merlin’s wand,” he breathed. “It’s true then. You really did do this to me . . .”
Harry didn’t know how to respond. Clearly Malfoy believed his own twisted logic. Every muscle in his face seemed to be working at once to find the right expression to convey the depth of the loathing and rage he was feeling.
“Where’s my wand?” he yelled. “Give me my fucking wand! I don’t care that Avada Kedavra’s an Unforgivable. You’re a dead man walking, Potter!”
He struggled again to sit up until his forehead was beaded with sweat. Harry wasn’t even trying to stop him anymore; he was drowning in a foreign sea in a foreign land. Mute, wounded, frightened, helpless.
“She was pregnant with my son!” Malfoy shouted at him. “I was finally going to be a father! And you ruined it! Why were you even there, Potter? Why are you always there?”
All this time Malfoy hadn’t released his hand. He hadn’t even loosened his grip. The plea of his touch was at complete odds with his words. His mouth said every cruel thing he could think of, but his hand said don’t go, don’t leave me.
But Harry couldn’t take it. Part of him knew that Malfoy was like a wounded animal, lashing out at a friendly hand in blind panic and pain. But it didn’t matter. He still couldn’t take it.
He wrenched himself free and left without looking back. When he passed Malfoy’s Healer in the hall, he told her Malfoy was awake, but he didn’t wait to answer her questions. Only when he found himself standing on the wet pavement in the cold rain did he take his first real breath . . .
. . . and release it.
* * * *
He didn’t hear from Malfoy again, and he was glad.
Malfoy’s merciless words had done what time hadn’t been able to. Harry stopped dreaming about that night they’d been together, and as soon as he stopped dreaming about it, it became easier to forget. For the first time in his life, he fell in love with someone, and they moved in together. He left for the office every morning with a slow meaningful kiss still clinging to his lips and fell asleep feeling sated and cherished. There were lilies on his mother’s birthday, breakfast in bed, and long autumn walks holding hands. People started talking of him as having a “partner,” not just a boyfriend. For the first time since he was a teenager, he didn’t spend Christmas Eve with the Weasleys. He started thinking in terms of “we.” He started feeling less alone.
He was content and happy . . . and then one day out of the blue he got an Owl from Malfoy.
It was a mistake. Even as he showered and dressed and threw down the Floo powder, he knew it was a mistake. But he found himself stepping out of Malfoy’s fireplace anyway.
To his surprise, he wasn’t met by the opulence of a mansion but rather by an open airy flat with parquet floors and brick and plaster walls featuring several abstract art paintings. There were suede couches and Oriental rugs and a large solid oak dining room table with leather upholstered chairs. In other words, it was exquisite . . . but it was also . . . odd somehow. It took a minute before he could figure out why.
And then it clicked.
Everything was lower than it should be. The kitchen counters were lower; the couches and chairs were lower; the table was lower – everything was slightly lower than usual. And then Harry remembered why when Malfoy entered the room in a wheelchair.
Harry tried not to stare, but looking away felt even ruder. He couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands: should he cross his arms and stick them under his armpits? Should he put them in his pockets? Should he just let them dangle at his sides like an idiot? He felt hot and uncomfortable and regretted that he’d accepted Malfoy’s invitation to dinner.
“Harry.”
He started when he heard his name and looked squarely at Malfoy’s face before he could stop himself. It was the same as ever, except that a kind of resoluteness had replaced the usual indolence. His hair was short and cut so that his fringe fell across his forehead, covering his left eyebrow, concealing the one scar the accident had left on his face. He looked healthy – as always his skin was pale, but his cheeks were tinged with a hint of colour and even from beneath his shirt, Harry noted the lean muscle in his shoulders, chest and arms.
Harry took it all in, and then he forced himself to look lower. He was instantly relieved by what he saw. Malfoy was wearing dark trousers and stylish black shoes. Harry had imagined visibly withered legs, but they looked completely normal. Except for the fact it had wheels, Malfoy looked like he was merely sitting comfortably in a regular chair.
“Finished with the inspection?”
Harry blushed and looked away.
“Nice flat,” he mumbled awkwardly.
“No stairs,” Malfoy replied.
Harry blushed even more hotly. Malfoy was deliberately trying to make him uncomfortable. Is that why he’d invited him? To watch him squirm and blush? If so, Harry was leaving.
“Thanks for the invitation,” he said, “but I have other plans. Glad to see you’re well and all that. Say hello to your mother for me . . .”
“I suppose your ‘other plans’ include that Adam fellow,” Malfoy said rather nastily.
Harry looked back at his face and held his gaze.
“Yes,” he said steadily. “In fact that’s exactly right.”
Malfoy sneered, but it wasn’t convincing. If Harry had thought it was possible, he might’ve said Malfoy looked disappointed – even hurt.
“He’s rather average looking, you know,” Malfoy drawled. “I would’ve thought the Chosen One could do better but apparently not.”
Harry bristled on his boyfriend’s behalf.
“Like I said, I’m leaving,” he drawled in reply. “Have a nice life.”
He’d almost reached the fireplace when Malfoy said his name again.
“Wait, Harry . . .”
Harry turned, but he willed his face to remain expressionless.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”
Malfoy looked away after he spoke. He looked ashamed.
“I’m an arsehole,” he said. “And a liar. Your . . . boyfriend is very handsome. You . . . you two look good together.”
Harry relaxed and nodded his forgiveness.
“At least stay for a glass of wine.”
Harry nodded again and pulled off his coat.
“The closet’s over there,” Malfoy said, pointing to a door next to an ornate grandfather clock. Harry had to reach down for the doorknob to open it and felt awkward again. But then he hung up his coat with an odd sensation that felt like . . . surrender to the inevitable.
“I really did mean it when I said your flat’s nice,” Harry said, turning back to look at Malfoy.
Malfoy smiled. “And I meant it when I said it has no stairs.”
He nodded in the direction of a large bookcase, drew his wand, and spoke an unfamiliar spell. The bookcase parted in the middle and moved aside like stage curtains. Behind it was a lift.
“Can’t use the Floo network anymore,” Malfoy said matter-of-factly. He spoke a counter spell and the bookcases became one again.
“Brilliant,” Harry said, meaning it. He wondered what other kinds of clever devices Malfoy had designed to accommodate his disability.
“Sit down,” Malfoy said, gesturing in the direction of an armchair that was lower than a typical armchair but looked sinfully comfortable all the same.
Harry sat down and watched as Malfoy wheeled himself into the large kitchen with its low marble countertops and gleaming brass pots and pans hanging from a rack above an equally low centre chopping block. Malfoy flicked his wand at a cabinet to open it and Levitated two wine glasses, leaving them floating in the air as he summoned a bottle of wine. The three objects followed behind him as though they were on invisible strings as he wheeled to the couch closest to Harry’s chair.
“Er, do you . . . can I . . . ?” Harry stammered as Malfoy lowered the bottle and glasses onto the coffee table and struggled to manoeuvre himself from his chair onto the couch.
“Can you what? Help me, perhaps? You do realise that I live alone and do this every day.”
Harry swallowed and looked away, once again feeling like a complete fucking idiot.
“But if you really meant if you could help and weren’t just being polite,” Malfoy continued, “then the answer is yes. I can do it myself, but it’s difficult and . . . rather ungraceful.”
Harry turned back, surprised. But when he saw that Malfoy wasn’t smirking at him, he stood and went to him . . . and then stopped. He hadn’t a bloody clue what to do next.
This time Malfoy did smirk, but it was a challenging smirk – the kind he used to give Harry when Madam Hooch released the Snitch.
“Pretend I’m a damsel in distress. Just pick me up and put me down again.”
Harry took a deep breath and leaned down to put one arm under Malfoy’s knees and the other behind his back. He was so close that he could feel Malfoy’s breath against his cheek and smell the warm clean scent of soap and skin.
Malfoy weighed a bloody ton, and Harry staggered on his way to the couch, much to Malfoy’s amusement.
“Merlin, Potter. Aren’t Aurors supposed to stay fit?”
Harry set him on the couch and then collapsed back into his chair, rolling his eyes with a relieved smile. Perhaps Malfoy wasn’t going to be a mean prat after all.
Malfoy flicked his wand, and the cork popped free of the bottle of wine. He filled both of their glasses and Levitated them. Once both glasses were in their hands, he held his out and leaned toward Harry.
“To starting over,” he said.
Harry blinked. After what Malfoy had said to him at St. Mungo’s, he wasn’t sure he could start over, but then in the space of an instant, he realised he wanted to more than anything else in the world. He leaned forward and clinked Malfoy’s glass with a shy smile that Malfoy returned just as shyly.
“So how’re things at the DMLE?” Malfoy asked. He took a sip of wine and leaned back against the couch’s cushions.
Harry shrugged. “Much as you’d imagine, I suppose. Lots of squabbling and back-stabbing with the occasional Dark Lord wannabe thrown into the mix now and then.”
Malfoy laughed. “I bet you miss the field.”
“You can’t imagine how much,” Harry said with a rueful snort. “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect Kingsley made me head of the department out of revenge for me being such a prat as a teenager. Aurors are divas. Every day there’s some kind of personnel crisis or another I have to manage, which – as I’m sure you can guess – is not a particular talent of mine.”
“I bet spending long hours together in stakeouts doesn’t necessarily breed fondness.”
“Or it breeds too much fondness.”
Draco smiled knowingly. “Indeed,” he said.
They drank in silence for a moment as Harry looked around, taking in the details of his surroundings. He didn’t see any overt signs of a female presence, but he decided to ask anyway. He wondered how Malfoy took care of himself without assistance.
“So, uhm, do you . . . uhm, have a girlfriend?”
Knowing his reason for asking, Harry couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable again. He took a long sip of wine in an effort to disguise it and looked everywhere except at Malfoy’s face.
Malfoy shook his head.
“Nope. No girlfriend – no boyfriend either.”
Harry blushed hotly. That actually hadn’t been the information he’d been aiming to elicit.
“But, yes, I do have a nurse who comes by every day. It’s still hard for me sometimes to get in and out of my chair to take a shower and use the loo and such although I’m getting better at it. She used to come three times a day; now she only comes by in the morning.”
Harry nodded, not knowing what to say in response.
Draco cleared his throat, willing Harry to look at him.
“I’m not embarrassed, Potter – at least not anymore. Being paralysed humbles one . . . quite a bit actually.”
The look he gave Harry was direct and uncomplicated.
“It . . . it still must be hard though,” Harry said, hoping he was successfully walking the fine line between interested and nosey.
“It is,” Malfoy said frankly. “But there are ways to get around nearly every impediment – if I think about it long enough and have the strength.”
“Well, you . . . er, look great,” Harry said and meant it. Malfoy definitely looked better than Harry would’ve imagined.
“Thanks,” Malfoy replied and lifted his glass in recognition of Harry’s compliment.
Harry drained his own glass and nodded at the bottle.
“Mind if I have another?”
“Not at all. There are certainly more bottles where it came from,” Malfoy replied. “Wine collecting has become one of my new hobbies. I know more about vineyards and vintages than any man probably should.”
“Well, I know nothing about wine,” Harry replied. “Except I know this one’s bloody good.” He held up the bottle and read the label. It came from somewhere in France.
“Astoria and I lived near the vineyard that produced it,” Malfoy said. “It’s a beautiful place. The fields are full of lavender in the summer and sunflowers in the fall. It’s very colourful – unlike London.”
He gestured at one of the rain-streaked windows.
Harry bit his lip and set the bottle down, blushing and uncomfortable again.
“No need to feel awkward,” Malfoy said, reading Harry’s body language like a book. “I accepted the fact that she’s dead a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled.
He felt unexpected tears prick his eyes.
“I tried,” he said, looking at Malfoy pleadingly, wanting Malfoy to believe him. “But there was . . . the other car was burning, and I . . . She was dead when I found her. If I could do it again, I’d have gone to your car first. But I didn’t know. I tried . . . I’m so sorry.”
He swallowed and put his glass on the coffee table.
“Thank you for the wine,” he stammered and stood up. “I should be getting home.”
He was getting his coat out of the closet when he felt it. An invisible tingling vine of warmth wove itself between the fingers of his left hand and gently squeezed. Startled, he glanced instinctively at Malfoy who’d drawn his wand and was looking at him with a calm steady gaze.
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I never did. Even though I know I told you otherwise at St. Mungo’s.”
Harry dragged his sleeve over his eyes to wipe away the tears that’d started to fall. He’d been holding it all in for so long. That night . . . the sheen of ice, Astoria’s blue unseeing eyes, the delicate strand of pearls around her neck, her swollen belly . . .”
“You did everything you could,” Malfoy said. “I know that.”
“But I went to the other car . . .”
“Harry. Come here.”
Malfoy’s voice was tender and so like the voice he’d used when they’d made love that Harry couldn’t not go to him. His soul felt drawn to Malfoy like a magnet to steel. He was kneeling between Malfoy’s legs before he even knew what he was doing. He covered his face with his hands and put his head in Malfoy’s lap.
After a moment, he felt Malfoy’s hand in his hair.
They didn’t speak. Words would’ve spoiled the peaceful quiet that settled over them. Malfoy stroked Harry’s head, combing his fingers through his hair, and Harry slowly relaxed into the forgiveness of Malfoy’s touch.
He hadn’t meant it to be sexual. He’d meant it to be an apology, but nonetheless he wasn’t surprised when his body temperature rose and his cock started to stiffen.
He’d wanted Malfoy for so so long.
Malfoy must’ve sensed the change in his breathing because he brushed his knuckles against Harry’s cheek.
“Show me,” he whispered.
Harry inhaled shakily and lifted his head.
“I can’t,” he said. “Adam.”
He watched the muscles in Malfoy’s throat work for a second as he fought back whatever emotion had taken hold of him at the mention of Adam’s name.
“Please,” he said after a moment. His voice sounded strangled. “I swear I won’t touch you.”
Harry looked into his eyes and tried to remind himself why he should leave.
“Please,” Malfoy stammered, choking on his words. “I promise I won’t touch.”
Harry could only imagine what it was costing Malfoy to beg like this . . . and for nothing more than a glimpse of his prick. He struggled to push Adam out of his mind. This wasn’t sex after all. And Malfoy had promised he wouldn’t touch him. This wasn’t cheating. This was offering comfort. Nothing more . . .
He nodded and stood up.
Malfoy’s eyes didn’t just watch him pull off his jumper and open his jeans, they devoured him. Harry unbuckled his belt slowly, sensing that Malfoy needed him to take his time. When his fly was open, he pushed his jeans off his hips. He was fully hard now, and the head of his cock protruded from beneath the waistband of his pants, already free of its foreskin.
Malfoy inhaled sharply. His eyes were slightly glazed as his gaze caressed Harry’s body like covetous hands.
“Oh God.” He breathed out the words with his exhale. “Harry.”
Harry had never in his life felt as aware of his cock as he did under Malfoy’s searing gaze. He felt the blood pulse into it, stiffening it even more. He felt the wetness of its tip when he rubbed it with his thumb. He could even smell it.
Malfoy must’ve been able to as well because he inhaled deeply as though he was appraising a newly uncorked wine. He wet his lips with his tongue, and his breath caught in his throat. Probably on nothing more than erotic instinct, Malfoy lifted his hands from his lap and began pinching and twisting his nipples through his shirt.
Lust surged into his veins as Harry slid his hands from his waist down onto his hips, pushing his pants and jeans along with them until his cock sprang free and his balls hung between his thighs.
Malfoy groaned and squeezed his eyes shut for a second before opening them and lifting his gaze to Harry’s face. His eyes were filled with unstaunched hunger, stripped bare of all artifice and restraint. He was shaking and breathless.
Would touching himself be cheating? After all, he watched porn and wanked to the sight of other men fucking each other. Did it make a difference if he thought of Adam while he did it?
Even though he knew he wouldn’t.
He was trying to rationalise what he wanted to do more than anything, and he knew it. Just once. Next time he saw Malfoy it would be in public where it wasn’t a possibility that anything like this could happen. He’d even invite Malfoy over for dinner with him and Adam. They’d all become great friends . . .
Harry slid his hand down from his chest, over his stomach and between his legs. He took his cock in hand and began stroking it slowly, sliding the foreskin over the head and then pulling it back down again. It was purple and wet and ready, and the slit was swollen.
“You don’t have to,” Malfoy rasped – his voice gutted with wanting.
“I know,” Harry replied. He pulled his foreskin back as far as he could so nothing obscured the pearl of clear fluid that beaded from his wide-open slit and slid down on a strand until the strand broke, and it fell to the floor.
“Don’t come too soon,” Malfoy begged, “but when you do, come on me. I need to watch you come, Harry. I need it more than anything in the world. I’ll beg if you want me to.”
Harry groaned deep in his chest and began pumping his hips, thrusting his aching cock into his tightening grip. He’d never felt so wanted in his whole life – so needed. His body responded to Malfoy’s rapt attention like an unfurling rose responds to the June sun.
“You’re so beautiful,” Malfoy said, his chest heaving and his face damp and flushed. “Come for me.”
Harry spread his legs as far as he could and wanked like he hadn’t wanked since he was a teenager. The slap slap slap was obscenely loud in the quiet room as were Malfoy’s moaned pleas.
“Tell me,” Malfoy said, making a sound like he was almost gagging on his own words. “Tell me how it feels.”
“So good,” Harry replied, out of his mind with the need to come. “Like I’m gonna explode. So much . . . so much pressure . . . . Oh!”
He’d wanted to warn Malfoy before it happened, but his orgasm slammed into him like a train with failed brakes. He seized his cock just below the head and pointed it at Malfoy, watching as spurt after spurt of come splattered his chest and throat and face. The last landed on his lips, and Harry groaned brokenly when Malfoy licked them clean; his eyes closed as though he was savouring an expensive dessert.
“Gotta sit down,” Harry gasped as he dropped onto the couch beside Malfoy and tilted his head back, struggling to catch his breath and slow his stampeding heart. Finally he pulled up his jeans and turned his face towards Malfoy.
Malfoy was staring at him wide-eyed. His blown pupils almost eclipsed the grey of his irises. He’d wiped his face clean, but his cheeks and throat were still flushed, and his hair was clinging to his forehead with sweat.
Harry had never seen anyone look so aroused. So vulnerable with need.
Fuck it. He’d tell Adam what he’d done. He’d apologise and swear he’d never do it again – and he wouldn’t. He was never going to put himself in this kind of situation again.
“I’ll make you come,” he said. “I want to more than anything.”
Malfoy swallowed and turned his face to the ceiling. He took a deep breath and then another . . . and another.
“I can’t,” he said at last.
Harry sat up and looked at him.
“You what?”
“I can’t come,” Malfoy replied, his voice dead. “I feel nothing down there. My prick is nothing but a dead piece of meat.”
He nodded disdainfully at his lap.
“But the sick thing is that I’m constantly dreaming about sex, and I can remember how it felt to get hard, to have an orgasm. But of course I never can in reality. I’m so frustrated when I wake up that I want to scream.”
He looked back at Harry’s face.
“I dream about you,” he said nakedly. “I dream about that night. I’d wanted you so much for so long, and then it happened . . . I couldn’t believe it – that you let me . . .”
“I dream about it too,” Harry said. “It was my first time.”
Malfoy made a broken sound and covered his face.
“I didn’t know . . .”
“Because I didn’t tell you.”
“I would’ve . . .”
“You did.”
Harry reached over and smoothed the damp hair off Malfoy’s forehead.
“I thought you suspected,” he said. “You were so careful.”
“I don’t remember being careful.”
“But you were. I was surprised actually.”
Malfoy laughed into his hands.
“Don’t blame you.”
Harry took a deep breath and tried to talk himself out of saying what he said next – but to no avail.
“From the way you . . . you were, I thought . . . I thought that you might be in love with me.”
He winced at his stupidity when Malfoy pulled his hands away from his face and turned to look him.
“I was,” he said.
The look in his eyes was so raw that Harry almost had to look away again.
“Then why . . . ?”
“Because getting married was what I was supposed to do,” he replied. “What I had to do – and because I really did love her, and I . . . I desperately wanted a son. More than anything in the world I wanted my own child, my flesh and blood made real.”
Harry swallowed hard, remembering Astoria’s pregnant belly.
“I was a bloody idiot,” Malfoy said.
“But you did love her.”
Malfoy smiled fondly. “Yeah,” he said. “I did. She was my best friend. She would’ve been a wonderful mother to our son.”
Harry turned his face to the ceiling. He felt tired and slightly sick. He should leave.
“But it was you I wanted,” Malfoy said. “And given time . . .”
He fell silent. After awhile Harry turned his head to look at him again.
“And given time?”
“Given time I would’ve told you.”
It was, beyond a doubt, cheating when Harry cupped Malfoy’s flushed face in his hands and kissed him deeply just like he’d been wanting to for so so long. And then he kept kissing him and kissing him and kissing him.
* * * *
Breaking up with Adam was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
They’d both cried, and Adam had yelled, and Harry had let him. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He’d been sincere when he told Adam he loved him. But none of that mattered as Harry sat on the floor, his arms around his drawn-up knees, and watched Adam pack and shrink his boxes.
“He’ll never be able to fuck you,” Adam said, cruel with pain. “And you know how much you love being fucked.”
Harry didn’t respond. What could he say? After all, he was the arsehole. He was the one breaking up with a man who loved him for a man who didn’t even know how he felt – let alone feel the same way.
For weeks Harry had struggled to convince himself that he wasn’t falling in love with Draco again. He hadn’t gone back after that evening they’d kissed. He hadn’t even replied to Draco’s Owls. But it was useless. Draco was all he could think about . . . all he wanted. Overnight, Adam had become a trespasser in his heart, which, once again, belonged completely to Draco. Whether Harry wanted it to or not.
“He’s dead sexually,” Adam said. “You’re only thirty-one, Harry. Do you really want to be celibate for the rest of your life? You’re too much of a sexual being to do that and stay sane. Don’t come looking for me when you’re pulling your hair out in frustration.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry said lamely. “If it’s any consolation, I wish I didn’t feel the way I do. I really don’t.”
“Well, it isn’t,” Adam said, pulling on his coat and shoving his shrunken boxes into his pockets.
He slammed the door so hard behind him that the photograph of them at Seamus and Susan’s wedding fell off the wall. Harry pulled his knees tighter against his chest and closed his eyes, praying he hadn’t just made the worst mistake of his life.
He was drunk when he staggered out of Draco’s fireplace, getting ashes on the rug and shouting his name.
“Malfoy, you bastard! Where the hell are you?”
It took so long that Harry concluded he wasn’t home, but before he stepped back into the fireplace, Draco appeared, looking rumpled and sleepy and highly annoyed.
“What the fuck?” he growled. “It’s three o’clock in the morning. You have a lot of bloody nerve, Potter, considering how you completely blew me off . . .”
“I broke up with Adam,” Harry blurted out.
Draco glared at him.
“And that’s supposed to be my fault?”
“You’re bloody right it’s your fault,” Harry shouted. “I was finally over you!”
He collapsed onto the nearest couch and covered his face with his hands.
“What’ve I done?” he groaned. “I finally fall in love with someone who isn’t you, and then you appear in my life again, and I ruin everything just so I can fucking kiss you!”
“Again,” Draco said coldly. “Not my fault.”
Harry didn’t respond. How could he? Draco was right. The fact that Harry had broken up with Adam wasn’t his fault – or even his problem.
“I’m really drunk,” Harry said when he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Really? Except for the slurring and the smell of Firewhisky, I never would’ve guessed.”
“Don’t wanna go home.”
“The Leaky’s ten doors down.”
“Don’t wanna go to Leaky’s. The towels smell like armpits.”
“Then firecall Weasley or Granger.”
“They’re asleep.”
Draco snorted. “Whereas I wasn’t.”
“Wanna stay here,” Harry said. He lay down on the couch and curled into himself like a caterpillar.
Draco sighed with exasperation.
“You’ll get cold,” he said. “Besides I don’t want you getting sick on my couch.”
“Sleep,” Harry grumbled, waving his hand dismissively in Draco’s direction.
“Bloody hell,” Draco said, and suddenly Harry felt himself being Levitated off the couch and following Draco like a balloon on a string as he wheeled down a dimly lit hallway.
“Put me down,” Harry protested and then got his wish when Draco said Finite Incantatem, and Harry dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Wherever it was he’d landed, it was warm and soft and smelled of Draco.
“You’d better not snore or steal the duvet or you’re exiled to the guestroom,” Draco said.
“I’m in your bed?”
“No, you’re in Hagrid’s. Of course you’re in my bed, you daft git.”
“Smells good, much better than the Leaky’s towels,” Harry murmured, too drunk to care how stupid he sounded.
“That sounds like a very low bar but thank you anyway.”
Harry’s eyes had closed but he opened them again as Draco began trying to manoeuvre himself out of his chair and onto the bed.
“Want help?” he hic-cupped.
Draco rolled his eyes.
“Sure. Please drag your drunk carcass over here and assist me.”
He laughed when Harry tried to do just that.
“I was joking, Potter. You’d be about as much help as a walrus dying of the Bubonic Plague. I’ve been doing this on my own since my nurse stopped coming by at night. Thanks for your offer, but I think I can manage it.”
“Prat,” Harry mumbled into the most heavenly feather pillow he’d ever encountered.
“Takes one,” Draco replied as he lay down beside him.
“I like coffee, by the way.”
“Too bad. I haven’t got any. You’ll just have to drag your hung-over arse to the café and bring it home.”
“Bring it home?” Harry murmured.
“That’s what I said.”
“Don’t wanna go home.”
Harry was third-quarters asleep when Draco replied, but Harry was sure he’d heard correctly all the same.
“Not your home, my home. Now shut it. I need my beauty sleep.”
“G‘Night,” Harry murmured.
“You too, Potty.”
Harry fell asleep certain he’d made the right choice.
* * * *
He’d never had so many orgasms in one weekend.
Draco was insatiable. He made Harry come and watched avidly as Harry made himself come. He had Harry bend over the arm of the couch and spread his legs far enough that he could position his chair so he could finger and eat Harry’s arse as Harry thrust into a cushion and came so hard it felt like he’d sprained his abdominal muscles.
It was heady and decadent. Harry had never felt so desired. Draco worshipped his body with his hands and mouth and eyes, moaning at every drop of precome and every twitch of his cock. He sucked Harry’s tits and caressed his shoulders and even licked his armpits and nibbled on his toes. And Harry returned the favour, kissing Draco’s bare stomach, his chest, the place behind his ear that made Draco shiver and left him panting with goose bumps on his arms.
But Draco never took off his trousers, and every time Harry tried to reach between his legs, Draco grabbed his wrist and placed his hand somewhere above his waist.
“I wish I could make you come,” he murmured into Draco’s ear more than once. “I wish it more than anything.”
But each time Draco drew away and placed a finger against Harry’s lips before pulling Harry toward him for another kiss that made Harry forget everything except the way Draco’s mouth felt against his own.
* * * *
Much to his friends’ alarm and disapprobation, Harry rented out his flat and moved in with Draco two weeks later. There was a lot of talk of “too soon” and “this is not going to end well,” but Harry paid no attention. He knew what he wanted. He wanted to dismiss the nurse and be the one to take care of Draco. He wanted to fall asleep next to Draco at night and wake up beside him in the morning. He wanted to sleep in sheets that smelled of Draco’s skin and wear Draco’s shirts and drink Draco’s wine. He wanted to eat dinner at Draco’s table and brush his teeth in front of Draco’s bathroom mirror and come at Draco’s command. He wanted to watch Draco’s throat and chest flush, and his nipples harden, and sweat bead on his brow and upper lip from nothing but a glimpse of the bulge in Harry’s jeans. He’d never even dreamed that such erotic hunger existed, and he was addicted to it . . . addicted to Draco’s fathomless desire for him.
But nothing could change the fact that Draco couldn’t have an orgasm, and too often Harry had to let him be alone after he’d come. For Draco, there was no release except the passage of time. He’d meditate until his breathing and heart rate and body temperature returned to normal, and then they’d share a bottle of wine and not talk about the elephant in the room.
Draco insisted adamantly that he didn’t mind – that he wanted to watch Harry climax, but Harry wasn’t blind to what it cost him . . . and how it reminded Draco of what he’d lost. He even caught Draco sobbing in frustration on a few occasions – not just over his inability to find some kind of release, but because he needed Harry to know beyond mere words how much he wanted him.
NEXT PART>
Author:
frayachPrompt: 42
Kinks Showcased: “Watersports” (Important! See author’s notes for explanation of mysterious parenthesizes!)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: After Draco is paralyzed in an accident, he and Harry discover a new way to make love.
Warnings: Watersports, fleeting mention of H/OC infidelity, a brief "threesome," gender-bending fantasy role-play – and a ridiculously happy ending.
Word Count: 26K
Author’s Notes: You may think you’re squicked by “watersports,” but this is NOT your grandmother’s watersports kink fic; in fact, I’m even reluctant to call this a “kink fic” at all (although it definitely is very very kinky). This is a romantic story that features a new way of making love when one of the partners has suffered a severe spinal cord injury and can no longer have a "traditional" orgasm. Until now, I’ve stayed away from reading & writing watersports fics because they so often involve humiliation, which I don’t like unless done exceedingly well. There is no humiliation in this story, only intense desire and a will to overcome any kind of adversity for the sake of love. *blushes at own sappiness & hides under bed* So that's what the fic is. What it is not is a "disability kink" fic. There is no fetishization of disability and no weird & creepy sexualized power dynamics related to disability.
Harry probably would’ve admitted to himself that he was gay anyway, but it might’ve taken several more years of losing erections with women and wanking guiltily to the magazines he kept in his old school trunk wrapped in his Invisibility Cloak. (When he wasn’t trying to pretend the magazines didn’t exist, he found it amusing that one of the Deathly Hallows was being used to hide a porn stash.) But then along came Ron and Pansy’s engagement party, and the universe booted his arse right out of the closet . . .
. . . and “straight” into Draco Malfoy’s waiting arms.
Malfoy hadn’t been coy about what he wanted. Just before midnight he’d followed Harry to the third-floor loo with its floral wallpaper and lavender tiles, shoved through the door before Harry could close it, and unbuttoned his shirt as Harry stood gaping at him. Before he’d realised what was happening, Malfoy was kissing him and clutching his arse with both hands and holding Harry’s groin tight against his own.
When Malfoy had stepped back after a minute, Harry (to his horror) almost whimpered like a bedraggled dog left out in the cold. But then Malfoy had slid his hand seductively down the path of his open shirt, stopping where his prick strained and bulged against his trousers. He began rubbing it with a deep moan before reaching even further between his legs to cradle his balls, kneading them with obvious pleasure and pride.
“Potter,” he’d said, his voice low and sultry.
Harry had yanked his gaze away from Malfoy’s hand and met his eyes, blushing.
“I figured you’d be here, seeing as Weasley’s your best mate and all. I haven’t wanked in days in anticipation of coming in your arse. You and I have been dancing around the inevitable for months. The dance stops here. Tonight.”
Malfoy had dropped his gaze to his hand, and Harry’s own gaze followed involuntarily. They’d both watched Malfoy caress his own balls lovingly.
“They’re swollen and aching – just waiting for me to fuck you. They’ve never been so full and heavy, and I’m going to empty all of that spunk right in your arse. I’m going to fuck my balls dry and fill you up until there’s no more room and my come flows out of your arsehole and trickles down your thighs. Your body is going to be nothing more than the receptacle for my semen, Potter. I’m going to pump you full of it while you beg for more. No one else will ever come in your arse like I’m going to tonight; no one will ever be able to fill you up like I will. You’ll try to find balls as full of come as mine, but you won’t be able to. You’ll never forget me.”
Circes’ cunt! Malfoy was beyond bold – and his mouth was beyond filthy. This time Harry hadn’t been able to hold back his whimper as Malfoy’s words travelling from his brain, down his spine, straight to his cock. Malfoy was right after all; they really had been trying to seduce each other for what seemed like forever. They probably could’ve won first place in an eye-fucking tournament.
Without removing his hand from between his legs, Malfoy had moved closer to Harry and kissed him again, thrusting his tongue into Harry’s mouth in a preview of what he obviously intended to do with another part of his body.
“I’m going to come inside you, Potter,” Malfoy had whispered possessively against Harry’s ear, “and then I’m going to suck your brains out through your dick.”
The metaphor hadn’t been particularly appealing, but its meaning was. As a result, Harry’s protestations had been less than convincing.
“Shut it,” Malfoy murmured into his mouth.
Despite his aggressive tone, Malfoy hadn’t fucked Harry that night; he’d made love to him. Harry had never had anal sex before, but even without anything to compare it to he’d known Malfoy was making love to him. He’d slid his prick into Harry’s arse so slowly and carefully that Harry felt every inch of it opening him, filling him.
“Wanted this so much,” Malfoy had said with a gutted groan as his balls finally pressed against Harry’s. Even in his over stimulated state, Harry had recognised why Malfoy had seemed so proud of them; they were heavy and full and swung to meet Harry’s with every thrust.
He’d cradled Harry’s face in his hands, dropping kisses on his lips and cheeks and forehead and throat as he rocked his hips, moaning when Harry arched his back and wrapped his legs around his waist. Malfoy had used a lot of lube, and the sounds that’d resulted from their coupling were squelchy like someone in wellies trudging through a bog. They’d driven Harry mad and made him wanton like Ginny had been the one time he’d stayed hard long enough to fuck her to orgasm.
Malfoy’s arse was just as perfect as Harry had known it would be; its muscles flexed under Harry’s hands with every thrust. He hadn’t been able to wrap his head around the fact that they were having sex, and he hadn’t cared. All that’d mattered was Malfoy’s weight pressing him against the floor, his hips thrusting between his thighs, and his wet open-mouthed kisses on his skin. And his words . . . oh, God, his words.
“Gonna come in you,” Malfoy grunted. “I’m going to make you mine. I’m going to come so far up your arse you’re going to be able to taste it . . . My balls ache so much . . .”
It wasn’t that Harry didn’t understand the concept of wanting to come (of course he did!) but Malfoy had seemed obsessed with coming inside him. He would’ve thought Malfoy would’ve wanted to come all over his face just for the humiliation factor. But Malfoy hadn’t seemed interested in humiliation; he’d seemed far more in interested in planting his seed, so to speak. It was as though Harry was a girl he was trying to impregnate.
Too soon Malfoy had signalled the approach of his orgasm with a litany of expletives gasped into Harry’s ear punctuated by a groaned “please, God, not yet, please.” He’d tried to still his hips, but he clearly couldn’t.
“Coming, oh Christ, I’m coming,” he’d groaned and thrust into Harry’s arse as deep as he could, his body tense and trembling. He’d probably imagined it, but Harry was convinced he could feel Malfoy’s balls throb as Malfoy’s climax emptied them.
After a minute, Malfoy had withdrawn and sat back on his heels. Harry had stared, fascinated, at his wet, red, still-hard twitching prick, marvelling at the fact that it’d just been in his arse. Malfoy had stared back at him, looking equally awed as he cupped his balls in his hands as though appreciating how light they’d become after his orgasm.
The blowjob had been less gentle than the sex. Malfoy hadn’t wasted a second and swallowed Harry’s prick to the root, sucking noisily and tugging on his pubic hair. Harry’d had his cock sucked before, but never like that. Never with such conviction. Malfoy grasped the back of Harry’s thighs and pushed them toward his chest, and before Harry could register disappointment at the loss of Malfoy’s devoted mouth, his mind had shut down at the feeling of Malfoy’s tongue probing his arsehole with quick jabs between gasped breaths.
“God, your arse tastes so good full of my come,” he’d groaned when he’d lifted his flushed face from between Harry’s legs and looked at him with dark, sex-drunk eyes.
And then he’d said the words that’d pushed Harry over the edge.
“Come for me,” Malfoy demanded before returning to sucking his prick. “Come for me, Harry James Potter.”
Harry’s back had snapped off the floor as he came with a shouted plea that he’d been unable to remember afterward. He’d clutched Malfoy’s head and thrust the last of his orgasm down Malfoy’s throat until Malfoy had pulled away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand with a smirk on his face that looked more pleased with himself than disdainful of Harry.
They hadn’t spoken as they dressed, but that’d been okay. The silence hadn’t been awkward, and Malfoy had taken his hands and kissed him covetously before leaving.
“I’m ready now,” he’d said when he pulled away. “Thank you.”
Harry had had no idea what he’d meant at the time, but when he saw the announcement of Malfoy’s engagement to Astoria Greengrass in the Prophet two days later, he’d figured it out.
It took a long time and several disappointed lovers before the sting of the unexpected wound became the ache of a fading bruise. Fortunately, the slow transformation was aided by the fact that Malfoy and his wife moved to France after their wedding, thus saving Harry from the distress that encountering him surely would’ve caused.
But years of not seeing Malfoy didn’t mean that Harry could forget him. Malfoy’s was the face he saw when he wanked; Malfoy’s were the hands he imagined touching him; Malfoy’s was the cock that fucked him in his dreams, and Malfoy’s was the voice that triggered his orgasms . . .
Come for me, Harry James Potter.
Nonetheless, life went on. Harry rose through the ranks of the Aurors, eventually becoming Head of the DMLE. Hermione became Hogwarts’ Assistant Headmistress to McGonagall and Professor of Arithmancy. Ron and Pansy had twins. Teddy was made a Seeker for Gryffindor. Ginny married Dean and became a Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. Luna married Neville, and Kingsley Shacklebolt became the Minister of Magic. There were reunions and weddings and Christenings and parties and matches and charity dinners and holidays with the Weasleys. Harry sold Grimmauld Place, bought a flat, and dated and dumped a string of handsome blond men who hadn’t been able to replace the memory of the one man he really wanted – and feared he always would.
Then the accident happened.
It was entirely coincidental that he’d been there. When it started snowing Saturday evening, Harry decided to drive back to London rather than stay another night in the country with Neville and Luna. He doubted his hosts minded terribly much; he’d had a trying week at work and was in a foul mood. Luna’s eccentricities, which usually cheered him up, only made him more irritable. He suspected that what he needed was too much speed on too narrow roads and a few knuckle-whitening close calls.
He loved driving in the country – it was one of the reasons he spent most of his weekends with Hermione at Hogwarts or visiting his landowning friends. In the city, his 1965 red MGB Roadster was a coffee table replica, but everywhere else she was his one and only lady love.
He put the top down and cast a stationary warming charm, which kept him from freezing but let his hair blow back in the wet wind. The snow clung to the branches and hedges but melted when it hit the road only to freeze again in a film of black ice. He didn’t realise just how treacherous the conditions were until he took a corner too fast and skidded into the other lane. Fortunately nobody was coming from the opposite direction, and he managed to avoid crashing into a stone wall with a shouted braking spell. It scared him enough to take his mind off planning how to break up with his latest lover. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the gear stick with the other, and let his foot hover over the clutch.
It was his increased vigilance that’d probably saved his life when he rounded another sharp corner and nearly collided with a burning car.
He slammed on the brake and drew his wand. As soon as he got out of his car, he slipped on the icy road and fell hard on his knees. It took too long before he could put out the fire, but the driver had probably died before he’d even got there. The spilled petrol made the raging flames nearly as hot as Fiendfyre.
Only after he quenched the fire, did he see there was a second car. It wasn’t burning, but it was upside down – crumbled and twisted and surrounded by a halo of shattered glass. Harry ran to it, praying he’d find its occupants still alive, but the first thing he saw was a woman whose hair was so soaked with blood that he couldn’t tell what colour it was.
He was sure she was dead, but he freed her from the cage of twisted metal anyway and laid her on the ground. In the light of his Lumos he recognised her instantly.
Astoria Malfoy’s blue eyes were open, but clearly sightless.
And she was pregnant – very pregnant.
Harry stared at her, his mind as blank and empty as a frozen lake before the realisation struck him.
She’d been in the passenger seat.
He didn’t waste the time it would take to stand and instead crawled through the broken glass until he could see Malfoy. He slashed at Malfoy’s seatbelt and pulled him through the glassless window, all the time calling him every name he could think of and shouting that if he was dead, Harry would kill him.
It was terrifyingly difficult to cast his Patronus – probably because one of the memories he used was Malfoy making love to him on the lavender tiles of Ron and Pansy’s third-floor loo. But at last he succeeded, and the Healers were there in minutes, shoving him aside and casting diagnostic and life-support spells on both Malfoy and his wife.
“I don’t think we can save the foetus, but Mr. Malfoy’s alive,” one of them said.
“Barely,” another replied. “It looks like crushed vertebrae. The only question is how many and where.”
Harry stood several feet away, his arms wrapped around himself, trying to control his body’s shaking. He felt helpless in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Every now and then, he caught a glimpse of blood-streaked hair and the face that haunted his dreams, still and deathly pale.
Eventually one of the Healers stood and walked over to him.
“He’s going to live,” she said. “We’re going to Apparate him back to St. Mungo’s as soon as we can find a way to insure his spine doesn’t get jostled. His wife’s dead though. And sadly so is the baby.”
Harry nodded, too numb to speak. The Healer put her hand on his shoulder.
“You’re in shock, Mr. Potter,” she said. “Come with us. You shouldn’t be alone right now, and you definitely shouldn’t drive.”
Harry nodded again and pointed his wand at his Roadster. It took embarrassingly long to shrink it back to replica size. Someone had already Apparated with Astoria’s body. He pointed his wand at the Malfoys’ Mercedes and Banished it, leaving behind nothing but glass sparkling in the glow of the other car’s embers.
Harry was beside him when Malfoy woke a week later. He’d only been there a few minutes when Malfoy’s eyelids fluttered weakly before opening to reveal familiar grey eyes.
“Potter,” he croaked as though it was entirely unremarkable that Harry was sitting at his bedside.
“Yeah.”
It was all Harry could think to say.
Neither of them spoke for a long time after that. Malfoy blinked and looked around, obviously confused and disoriented. The only sounds were the quiet voices of nurses and the squeak of their shoes on the polished floors as they moved from room to room delivering meals and casting painkilling spells.
Then Malfoy looked meaningfully at Harry’s glass of water.
“Thirsty.”
Harry closed his eyes. If Malfoy was going to drink, Malfoy had to sit up. If Malfoy tried to sit up, he’d realise that he couldn’t. He’d just regained consciousness; it seemed too soon . . .
. . . too soon to tell him he’d never walk again.
“Potter,” Malfoy said irritably.
Harry opened his eyes. It shouldn’t be him. He should get a Healer or have a nurse firecall Malfoy’s mother. It didn’t seem right that a former schoolboy nemesis should be the one who told him he’d been paralysed from the waist down.
But then Malfoy tried to push himself up.
He struggled and struggled even when Harry tried to press him back down with soothing words. His eyes were wide and pleading as reality dawned on him.
“You’re in St. Mungo’s,” Harry said. “There was an accident.”
Malfoy stared at him.
“You were injured,” Harry babbled. “I found you. The Healers did everything they could . . .”
“I can’t move.”
Harry bit his lip.
“I can’t feel my legs.”
Harry swallowed.
Malfoy stared at him, begging with his eyes for Harry to tell him it was going to be okay – that this was only temporary.
“I . . . I should get someone,” Harry said, standing up. He’d never been good at handling situations like this. But Malfoy’s hand shot out from under the sheets and grabbed his with surprising strength.
“Don’t you dare leave,” he rasped.
But Harry wanted to . . . desperately.
“I should get your Healer,” he said. “She’ll be glad you’re awake.”
“Awake? How long have I been here?! Where’s Astoria?!”
“It’s okay, just a minute, I’ll go get . . .”
Malfoy squeezed his hand so hard that it hurt.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he hissed. “You’re going to answer my questions, and then you’re going to tell me what the hell you’re doing here.”
Harry exhaled a shaky breath. Malfoy’s eyes were fever-bright with emotion.
“You’ve been here a week,” he said. “Your wife . . . I mean, Astoria . . .”
He couldn’t continue. This was why the DMLE offered courses to specially train less bumbling Aurors than him how to deliver bad news to family members. He hadn’t a clue what to say or how to say it.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
Harry couldn’t stand the way Malfoy’s heart bled into his voice or how his eyes, blazing and determined a minute ago, dimmed with grief.
Harry nodded.
“And you were there.”
Harry nodded again.
“She’s dead.”
Harry didn’t bother to nod again.
“And I’m still alive.”
He glared at Harry with more hatred than Harry had ever seen in his eyes before – which was saying something.
“And it’s your fault,” Malfoy yelled. “You bastard! Why did you do this to me?!”
Harry gaped at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“Why didn’t you let me die with her?” Malfoy shouted at him. “Why did you force me to live like this?”
He gestured at his legs.
“I . . .”
But Malfoy’s glare strangled his throat.
“Is this some kind of sick revenge?”
Harry frowned. Sick revenge?
“Look, Potter, it was a one-time thing. Did you think we were going to get married or something? We fucked. Once. We weren’t even sober . . .”
Harry had no idea why he said it, after all it was unimportant in the face of everything else Malfoy had said, but still . . .
“I was sober,” he said quietly.
Malfoy stopped mid-tirade.
“Merlin’s wand,” he breathed. “It’s true then. You really did do this to me . . .”
Harry didn’t know how to respond. Clearly Malfoy believed his own twisted logic. Every muscle in his face seemed to be working at once to find the right expression to convey the depth of the loathing and rage he was feeling.
“Where’s my wand?” he yelled. “Give me my fucking wand! I don’t care that Avada Kedavra’s an Unforgivable. You’re a dead man walking, Potter!”
He struggled again to sit up until his forehead was beaded with sweat. Harry wasn’t even trying to stop him anymore; he was drowning in a foreign sea in a foreign land. Mute, wounded, frightened, helpless.
“She was pregnant with my son!” Malfoy shouted at him. “I was finally going to be a father! And you ruined it! Why were you even there, Potter? Why are you always there?”
All this time Malfoy hadn’t released his hand. He hadn’t even loosened his grip. The plea of his touch was at complete odds with his words. His mouth said every cruel thing he could think of, but his hand said don’t go, don’t leave me.
But Harry couldn’t take it. Part of him knew that Malfoy was like a wounded animal, lashing out at a friendly hand in blind panic and pain. But it didn’t matter. He still couldn’t take it.
He wrenched himself free and left without looking back. When he passed Malfoy’s Healer in the hall, he told her Malfoy was awake, but he didn’t wait to answer her questions. Only when he found himself standing on the wet pavement in the cold rain did he take his first real breath . . .
. . . and release it.
He didn’t hear from Malfoy again, and he was glad.
Malfoy’s merciless words had done what time hadn’t been able to. Harry stopped dreaming about that night they’d been together, and as soon as he stopped dreaming about it, it became easier to forget. For the first time in his life, he fell in love with someone, and they moved in together. He left for the office every morning with a slow meaningful kiss still clinging to his lips and fell asleep feeling sated and cherished. There were lilies on his mother’s birthday, breakfast in bed, and long autumn walks holding hands. People started talking of him as having a “partner,” not just a boyfriend. For the first time since he was a teenager, he didn’t spend Christmas Eve with the Weasleys. He started thinking in terms of “we.” He started feeling less alone.
He was content and happy . . . and then one day out of the blue he got an Owl from Malfoy.
It was a mistake. Even as he showered and dressed and threw down the Floo powder, he knew it was a mistake. But he found himself stepping out of Malfoy’s fireplace anyway.
To his surprise, he wasn’t met by the opulence of a mansion but rather by an open airy flat with parquet floors and brick and plaster walls featuring several abstract art paintings. There were suede couches and Oriental rugs and a large solid oak dining room table with leather upholstered chairs. In other words, it was exquisite . . . but it was also . . . odd somehow. It took a minute before he could figure out why.
And then it clicked.
Everything was lower than it should be. The kitchen counters were lower; the couches and chairs were lower; the table was lower – everything was slightly lower than usual. And then Harry remembered why when Malfoy entered the room in a wheelchair.
Harry tried not to stare, but looking away felt even ruder. He couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands: should he cross his arms and stick them under his armpits? Should he put them in his pockets? Should he just let them dangle at his sides like an idiot? He felt hot and uncomfortable and regretted that he’d accepted Malfoy’s invitation to dinner.
“Harry.”
He started when he heard his name and looked squarely at Malfoy’s face before he could stop himself. It was the same as ever, except that a kind of resoluteness had replaced the usual indolence. His hair was short and cut so that his fringe fell across his forehead, covering his left eyebrow, concealing the one scar the accident had left on his face. He looked healthy – as always his skin was pale, but his cheeks were tinged with a hint of colour and even from beneath his shirt, Harry noted the lean muscle in his shoulders, chest and arms.
Harry took it all in, and then he forced himself to look lower. He was instantly relieved by what he saw. Malfoy was wearing dark trousers and stylish black shoes. Harry had imagined visibly withered legs, but they looked completely normal. Except for the fact it had wheels, Malfoy looked like he was merely sitting comfortably in a regular chair.
“Finished with the inspection?”
Harry blushed and looked away.
“Nice flat,” he mumbled awkwardly.
“No stairs,” Malfoy replied.
Harry blushed even more hotly. Malfoy was deliberately trying to make him uncomfortable. Is that why he’d invited him? To watch him squirm and blush? If so, Harry was leaving.
“Thanks for the invitation,” he said, “but I have other plans. Glad to see you’re well and all that. Say hello to your mother for me . . .”
“I suppose your ‘other plans’ include that Adam fellow,” Malfoy said rather nastily.
Harry looked back at his face and held his gaze.
“Yes,” he said steadily. “In fact that’s exactly right.”
Malfoy sneered, but it wasn’t convincing. If Harry had thought it was possible, he might’ve said Malfoy looked disappointed – even hurt.
“He’s rather average looking, you know,” Malfoy drawled. “I would’ve thought the Chosen One could do better but apparently not.”
Harry bristled on his boyfriend’s behalf.
“Like I said, I’m leaving,” he drawled in reply. “Have a nice life.”
He’d almost reached the fireplace when Malfoy said his name again.
“Wait, Harry . . .”
Harry turned, but he willed his face to remain expressionless.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”
Malfoy looked away after he spoke. He looked ashamed.
“I’m an arsehole,” he said. “And a liar. Your . . . boyfriend is very handsome. You . . . you two look good together.”
Harry relaxed and nodded his forgiveness.
“At least stay for a glass of wine.”
Harry nodded again and pulled off his coat.
“The closet’s over there,” Malfoy said, pointing to a door next to an ornate grandfather clock. Harry had to reach down for the doorknob to open it and felt awkward again. But then he hung up his coat with an odd sensation that felt like . . . surrender to the inevitable.
“I really did mean it when I said your flat’s nice,” Harry said, turning back to look at Malfoy.
Malfoy smiled. “And I meant it when I said it has no stairs.”
He nodded in the direction of a large bookcase, drew his wand, and spoke an unfamiliar spell. The bookcase parted in the middle and moved aside like stage curtains. Behind it was a lift.
“Can’t use the Floo network anymore,” Malfoy said matter-of-factly. He spoke a counter spell and the bookcases became one again.
“Brilliant,” Harry said, meaning it. He wondered what other kinds of clever devices Malfoy had designed to accommodate his disability.
“Sit down,” Malfoy said, gesturing in the direction of an armchair that was lower than a typical armchair but looked sinfully comfortable all the same.
Harry sat down and watched as Malfoy wheeled himself into the large kitchen with its low marble countertops and gleaming brass pots and pans hanging from a rack above an equally low centre chopping block. Malfoy flicked his wand at a cabinet to open it and Levitated two wine glasses, leaving them floating in the air as he summoned a bottle of wine. The three objects followed behind him as though they were on invisible strings as he wheeled to the couch closest to Harry’s chair.
“Er, do you . . . can I . . . ?” Harry stammered as Malfoy lowered the bottle and glasses onto the coffee table and struggled to manoeuvre himself from his chair onto the couch.
“Can you what? Help me, perhaps? You do realise that I live alone and do this every day.”
Harry swallowed and looked away, once again feeling like a complete fucking idiot.
“But if you really meant if you could help and weren’t just being polite,” Malfoy continued, “then the answer is yes. I can do it myself, but it’s difficult and . . . rather ungraceful.”
Harry turned back, surprised. But when he saw that Malfoy wasn’t smirking at him, he stood and went to him . . . and then stopped. He hadn’t a bloody clue what to do next.
This time Malfoy did smirk, but it was a challenging smirk – the kind he used to give Harry when Madam Hooch released the Snitch.
“Pretend I’m a damsel in distress. Just pick me up and put me down again.”
Harry took a deep breath and leaned down to put one arm under Malfoy’s knees and the other behind his back. He was so close that he could feel Malfoy’s breath against his cheek and smell the warm clean scent of soap and skin.
Malfoy weighed a bloody ton, and Harry staggered on his way to the couch, much to Malfoy’s amusement.
“Merlin, Potter. Aren’t Aurors supposed to stay fit?”
Harry set him on the couch and then collapsed back into his chair, rolling his eyes with a relieved smile. Perhaps Malfoy wasn’t going to be a mean prat after all.
Malfoy flicked his wand, and the cork popped free of the bottle of wine. He filled both of their glasses and Levitated them. Once both glasses were in their hands, he held his out and leaned toward Harry.
“To starting over,” he said.
Harry blinked. After what Malfoy had said to him at St. Mungo’s, he wasn’t sure he could start over, but then in the space of an instant, he realised he wanted to more than anything else in the world. He leaned forward and clinked Malfoy’s glass with a shy smile that Malfoy returned just as shyly.
“So how’re things at the DMLE?” Malfoy asked. He took a sip of wine and leaned back against the couch’s cushions.
Harry shrugged. “Much as you’d imagine, I suppose. Lots of squabbling and back-stabbing with the occasional Dark Lord wannabe thrown into the mix now and then.”
Malfoy laughed. “I bet you miss the field.”
“You can’t imagine how much,” Harry said with a rueful snort. “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect Kingsley made me head of the department out of revenge for me being such a prat as a teenager. Aurors are divas. Every day there’s some kind of personnel crisis or another I have to manage, which – as I’m sure you can guess – is not a particular talent of mine.”
“I bet spending long hours together in stakeouts doesn’t necessarily breed fondness.”
“Or it breeds too much fondness.”
Draco smiled knowingly. “Indeed,” he said.
They drank in silence for a moment as Harry looked around, taking in the details of his surroundings. He didn’t see any overt signs of a female presence, but he decided to ask anyway. He wondered how Malfoy took care of himself without assistance.
“So, uhm, do you . . . uhm, have a girlfriend?”
Knowing his reason for asking, Harry couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable again. He took a long sip of wine in an effort to disguise it and looked everywhere except at Malfoy’s face.
Malfoy shook his head.
“Nope. No girlfriend – no boyfriend either.”
Harry blushed hotly. That actually hadn’t been the information he’d been aiming to elicit.
“But, yes, I do have a nurse who comes by every day. It’s still hard for me sometimes to get in and out of my chair to take a shower and use the loo and such although I’m getting better at it. She used to come three times a day; now she only comes by in the morning.”
Harry nodded, not knowing what to say in response.
Draco cleared his throat, willing Harry to look at him.
“I’m not embarrassed, Potter – at least not anymore. Being paralysed humbles one . . . quite a bit actually.”
The look he gave Harry was direct and uncomplicated.
“It . . . it still must be hard though,” Harry said, hoping he was successfully walking the fine line between interested and nosey.
“It is,” Malfoy said frankly. “But there are ways to get around nearly every impediment – if I think about it long enough and have the strength.”
“Well, you . . . er, look great,” Harry said and meant it. Malfoy definitely looked better than Harry would’ve imagined.
“Thanks,” Malfoy replied and lifted his glass in recognition of Harry’s compliment.
Harry drained his own glass and nodded at the bottle.
“Mind if I have another?”
“Not at all. There are certainly more bottles where it came from,” Malfoy replied. “Wine collecting has become one of my new hobbies. I know more about vineyards and vintages than any man probably should.”
“Well, I know nothing about wine,” Harry replied. “Except I know this one’s bloody good.” He held up the bottle and read the label. It came from somewhere in France.
“Astoria and I lived near the vineyard that produced it,” Malfoy said. “It’s a beautiful place. The fields are full of lavender in the summer and sunflowers in the fall. It’s very colourful – unlike London.”
He gestured at one of the rain-streaked windows.
Harry bit his lip and set the bottle down, blushing and uncomfortable again.
“No need to feel awkward,” Malfoy said, reading Harry’s body language like a book. “I accepted the fact that she’s dead a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled.
He felt unexpected tears prick his eyes.
“I tried,” he said, looking at Malfoy pleadingly, wanting Malfoy to believe him. “But there was . . . the other car was burning, and I . . . She was dead when I found her. If I could do it again, I’d have gone to your car first. But I didn’t know. I tried . . . I’m so sorry.”
He swallowed and put his glass on the coffee table.
“Thank you for the wine,” he stammered and stood up. “I should be getting home.”
He was getting his coat out of the closet when he felt it. An invisible tingling vine of warmth wove itself between the fingers of his left hand and gently squeezed. Startled, he glanced instinctively at Malfoy who’d drawn his wand and was looking at him with a calm steady gaze.
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I never did. Even though I know I told you otherwise at St. Mungo’s.”
Harry dragged his sleeve over his eyes to wipe away the tears that’d started to fall. He’d been holding it all in for so long. That night . . . the sheen of ice, Astoria’s blue unseeing eyes, the delicate strand of pearls around her neck, her swollen belly . . .”
“You did everything you could,” Malfoy said. “I know that.”
“But I went to the other car . . .”
“Harry. Come here.”
Malfoy’s voice was tender and so like the voice he’d used when they’d made love that Harry couldn’t not go to him. His soul felt drawn to Malfoy like a magnet to steel. He was kneeling between Malfoy’s legs before he even knew what he was doing. He covered his face with his hands and put his head in Malfoy’s lap.
After a moment, he felt Malfoy’s hand in his hair.
They didn’t speak. Words would’ve spoiled the peaceful quiet that settled over them. Malfoy stroked Harry’s head, combing his fingers through his hair, and Harry slowly relaxed into the forgiveness of Malfoy’s touch.
He hadn’t meant it to be sexual. He’d meant it to be an apology, but nonetheless he wasn’t surprised when his body temperature rose and his cock started to stiffen.
He’d wanted Malfoy for so so long.
Malfoy must’ve sensed the change in his breathing because he brushed his knuckles against Harry’s cheek.
“Show me,” he whispered.
Harry inhaled shakily and lifted his head.
“I can’t,” he said. “Adam.”
He watched the muscles in Malfoy’s throat work for a second as he fought back whatever emotion had taken hold of him at the mention of Adam’s name.
“Please,” he said after a moment. His voice sounded strangled. “I swear I won’t touch you.”
Harry looked into his eyes and tried to remind himself why he should leave.
“Please,” Malfoy stammered, choking on his words. “I promise I won’t touch.”
Harry could only imagine what it was costing Malfoy to beg like this . . . and for nothing more than a glimpse of his prick. He struggled to push Adam out of his mind. This wasn’t sex after all. And Malfoy had promised he wouldn’t touch him. This wasn’t cheating. This was offering comfort. Nothing more . . .
He nodded and stood up.
Malfoy’s eyes didn’t just watch him pull off his jumper and open his jeans, they devoured him. Harry unbuckled his belt slowly, sensing that Malfoy needed him to take his time. When his fly was open, he pushed his jeans off his hips. He was fully hard now, and the head of his cock protruded from beneath the waistband of his pants, already free of its foreskin.
Malfoy inhaled sharply. His eyes were slightly glazed as his gaze caressed Harry’s body like covetous hands.
“Oh God.” He breathed out the words with his exhale. “Harry.”
Harry had never in his life felt as aware of his cock as he did under Malfoy’s searing gaze. He felt the blood pulse into it, stiffening it even more. He felt the wetness of its tip when he rubbed it with his thumb. He could even smell it.
Malfoy must’ve been able to as well because he inhaled deeply as though he was appraising a newly uncorked wine. He wet his lips with his tongue, and his breath caught in his throat. Probably on nothing more than erotic instinct, Malfoy lifted his hands from his lap and began pinching and twisting his nipples through his shirt.
Lust surged into his veins as Harry slid his hands from his waist down onto his hips, pushing his pants and jeans along with them until his cock sprang free and his balls hung between his thighs.
Malfoy groaned and squeezed his eyes shut for a second before opening them and lifting his gaze to Harry’s face. His eyes were filled with unstaunched hunger, stripped bare of all artifice and restraint. He was shaking and breathless.
Would touching himself be cheating? After all, he watched porn and wanked to the sight of other men fucking each other. Did it make a difference if he thought of Adam while he did it?
Even though he knew he wouldn’t.
He was trying to rationalise what he wanted to do more than anything, and he knew it. Just once. Next time he saw Malfoy it would be in public where it wasn’t a possibility that anything like this could happen. He’d even invite Malfoy over for dinner with him and Adam. They’d all become great friends . . .
Harry slid his hand down from his chest, over his stomach and between his legs. He took his cock in hand and began stroking it slowly, sliding the foreskin over the head and then pulling it back down again. It was purple and wet and ready, and the slit was swollen.
“You don’t have to,” Malfoy rasped – his voice gutted with wanting.
“I know,” Harry replied. He pulled his foreskin back as far as he could so nothing obscured the pearl of clear fluid that beaded from his wide-open slit and slid down on a strand until the strand broke, and it fell to the floor.
“Don’t come too soon,” Malfoy begged, “but when you do, come on me. I need to watch you come, Harry. I need it more than anything in the world. I’ll beg if you want me to.”
Harry groaned deep in his chest and began pumping his hips, thrusting his aching cock into his tightening grip. He’d never felt so wanted in his whole life – so needed. His body responded to Malfoy’s rapt attention like an unfurling rose responds to the June sun.
“You’re so beautiful,” Malfoy said, his chest heaving and his face damp and flushed. “Come for me.”
Harry spread his legs as far as he could and wanked like he hadn’t wanked since he was a teenager. The slap slap slap was obscenely loud in the quiet room as were Malfoy’s moaned pleas.
“Tell me,” Malfoy said, making a sound like he was almost gagging on his own words. “Tell me how it feels.”
“So good,” Harry replied, out of his mind with the need to come. “Like I’m gonna explode. So much . . . so much pressure . . . . Oh!”
He’d wanted to warn Malfoy before it happened, but his orgasm slammed into him like a train with failed brakes. He seized his cock just below the head and pointed it at Malfoy, watching as spurt after spurt of come splattered his chest and throat and face. The last landed on his lips, and Harry groaned brokenly when Malfoy licked them clean; his eyes closed as though he was savouring an expensive dessert.
“Gotta sit down,” Harry gasped as he dropped onto the couch beside Malfoy and tilted his head back, struggling to catch his breath and slow his stampeding heart. Finally he pulled up his jeans and turned his face towards Malfoy.
Malfoy was staring at him wide-eyed. His blown pupils almost eclipsed the grey of his irises. He’d wiped his face clean, but his cheeks and throat were still flushed, and his hair was clinging to his forehead with sweat.
Harry had never seen anyone look so aroused. So vulnerable with need.
Fuck it. He’d tell Adam what he’d done. He’d apologise and swear he’d never do it again – and he wouldn’t. He was never going to put himself in this kind of situation again.
“I’ll make you come,” he said. “I want to more than anything.”
Malfoy swallowed and turned his face to the ceiling. He took a deep breath and then another . . . and another.
“I can’t,” he said at last.
Harry sat up and looked at him.
“You what?”
“I can’t come,” Malfoy replied, his voice dead. “I feel nothing down there. My prick is nothing but a dead piece of meat.”
He nodded disdainfully at his lap.
“But the sick thing is that I’m constantly dreaming about sex, and I can remember how it felt to get hard, to have an orgasm. But of course I never can in reality. I’m so frustrated when I wake up that I want to scream.”
He looked back at Harry’s face.
“I dream about you,” he said nakedly. “I dream about that night. I’d wanted you so much for so long, and then it happened . . . I couldn’t believe it – that you let me . . .”
“I dream about it too,” Harry said. “It was my first time.”
Malfoy made a broken sound and covered his face.
“I didn’t know . . .”
“Because I didn’t tell you.”
“I would’ve . . .”
“You did.”
Harry reached over and smoothed the damp hair off Malfoy’s forehead.
“I thought you suspected,” he said. “You were so careful.”
“I don’t remember being careful.”
“But you were. I was surprised actually.”
Malfoy laughed into his hands.
“Don’t blame you.”
Harry took a deep breath and tried to talk himself out of saying what he said next – but to no avail.
“From the way you . . . you were, I thought . . . I thought that you might be in love with me.”
He winced at his stupidity when Malfoy pulled his hands away from his face and turned to look him.
“I was,” he said.
The look in his eyes was so raw that Harry almost had to look away again.
“Then why . . . ?”
“Because getting married was what I was supposed to do,” he replied. “What I had to do – and because I really did love her, and I . . . I desperately wanted a son. More than anything in the world I wanted my own child, my flesh and blood made real.”
Harry swallowed hard, remembering Astoria’s pregnant belly.
“I was a bloody idiot,” Malfoy said.
“But you did love her.”
Malfoy smiled fondly. “Yeah,” he said. “I did. She was my best friend. She would’ve been a wonderful mother to our son.”
Harry turned his face to the ceiling. He felt tired and slightly sick. He should leave.
“But it was you I wanted,” Malfoy said. “And given time . . .”
He fell silent. After awhile Harry turned his head to look at him again.
“And given time?”
“Given time I would’ve told you.”
It was, beyond a doubt, cheating when Harry cupped Malfoy’s flushed face in his hands and kissed him deeply just like he’d been wanting to for so so long. And then he kept kissing him and kissing him and kissing him.
Breaking up with Adam was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
They’d both cried, and Adam had yelled, and Harry had let him. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He’d been sincere when he told Adam he loved him. But none of that mattered as Harry sat on the floor, his arms around his drawn-up knees, and watched Adam pack and shrink his boxes.
“He’ll never be able to fuck you,” Adam said, cruel with pain. “And you know how much you love being fucked.”
Harry didn’t respond. What could he say? After all, he was the arsehole. He was the one breaking up with a man who loved him for a man who didn’t even know how he felt – let alone feel the same way.
For weeks Harry had struggled to convince himself that he wasn’t falling in love with Draco again. He hadn’t gone back after that evening they’d kissed. He hadn’t even replied to Draco’s Owls. But it was useless. Draco was all he could think about . . . all he wanted. Overnight, Adam had become a trespasser in his heart, which, once again, belonged completely to Draco. Whether Harry wanted it to or not.
“He’s dead sexually,” Adam said. “You’re only thirty-one, Harry. Do you really want to be celibate for the rest of your life? You’re too much of a sexual being to do that and stay sane. Don’t come looking for me when you’re pulling your hair out in frustration.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry said lamely. “If it’s any consolation, I wish I didn’t feel the way I do. I really don’t.”
“Well, it isn’t,” Adam said, pulling on his coat and shoving his shrunken boxes into his pockets.
He slammed the door so hard behind him that the photograph of them at Seamus and Susan’s wedding fell off the wall. Harry pulled his knees tighter against his chest and closed his eyes, praying he hadn’t just made the worst mistake of his life.
He was drunk when he staggered out of Draco’s fireplace, getting ashes on the rug and shouting his name.
“Malfoy, you bastard! Where the hell are you?”
It took so long that Harry concluded he wasn’t home, but before he stepped back into the fireplace, Draco appeared, looking rumpled and sleepy and highly annoyed.
“What the fuck?” he growled. “It’s three o’clock in the morning. You have a lot of bloody nerve, Potter, considering how you completely blew me off . . .”
“I broke up with Adam,” Harry blurted out.
Draco glared at him.
“And that’s supposed to be my fault?”
“You’re bloody right it’s your fault,” Harry shouted. “I was finally over you!”
He collapsed onto the nearest couch and covered his face with his hands.
“What’ve I done?” he groaned. “I finally fall in love with someone who isn’t you, and then you appear in my life again, and I ruin everything just so I can fucking kiss you!”
“Again,” Draco said coldly. “Not my fault.”
Harry didn’t respond. How could he? Draco was right. The fact that Harry had broken up with Adam wasn’t his fault – or even his problem.
“I’m really drunk,” Harry said when he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Really? Except for the slurring and the smell of Firewhisky, I never would’ve guessed.”
“Don’t wanna go home.”
“The Leaky’s ten doors down.”
“Don’t wanna go to Leaky’s. The towels smell like armpits.”
“Then firecall Weasley or Granger.”
“They’re asleep.”
Draco snorted. “Whereas I wasn’t.”
“Wanna stay here,” Harry said. He lay down on the couch and curled into himself like a caterpillar.
Draco sighed with exasperation.
“You’ll get cold,” he said. “Besides I don’t want you getting sick on my couch.”
“Sleep,” Harry grumbled, waving his hand dismissively in Draco’s direction.
“Bloody hell,” Draco said, and suddenly Harry felt himself being Levitated off the couch and following Draco like a balloon on a string as he wheeled down a dimly lit hallway.
“Put me down,” Harry protested and then got his wish when Draco said Finite Incantatem, and Harry dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Wherever it was he’d landed, it was warm and soft and smelled of Draco.
“You’d better not snore or steal the duvet or you’re exiled to the guestroom,” Draco said.
“I’m in your bed?”
“No, you’re in Hagrid’s. Of course you’re in my bed, you daft git.”
“Smells good, much better than the Leaky’s towels,” Harry murmured, too drunk to care how stupid he sounded.
“That sounds like a very low bar but thank you anyway.”
Harry’s eyes had closed but he opened them again as Draco began trying to manoeuvre himself out of his chair and onto the bed.
“Want help?” he hic-cupped.
Draco rolled his eyes.
“Sure. Please drag your drunk carcass over here and assist me.”
He laughed when Harry tried to do just that.
“I was joking, Potter. You’d be about as much help as a walrus dying of the Bubonic Plague. I’ve been doing this on my own since my nurse stopped coming by at night. Thanks for your offer, but I think I can manage it.”
“Prat,” Harry mumbled into the most heavenly feather pillow he’d ever encountered.
“Takes one,” Draco replied as he lay down beside him.
“I like coffee, by the way.”
“Too bad. I haven’t got any. You’ll just have to drag your hung-over arse to the café and bring it home.”
“Bring it home?” Harry murmured.
“That’s what I said.”
“Don’t wanna go home.”
Harry was third-quarters asleep when Draco replied, but Harry was sure he’d heard correctly all the same.
“Not your home, my home. Now shut it. I need my beauty sleep.”
“G‘Night,” Harry murmured.
“You too, Potty.”
Harry fell asleep certain he’d made the right choice.
He’d never had so many orgasms in one weekend.
Draco was insatiable. He made Harry come and watched avidly as Harry made himself come. He had Harry bend over the arm of the couch and spread his legs far enough that he could position his chair so he could finger and eat Harry’s arse as Harry thrust into a cushion and came so hard it felt like he’d sprained his abdominal muscles.
It was heady and decadent. Harry had never felt so desired. Draco worshipped his body with his hands and mouth and eyes, moaning at every drop of precome and every twitch of his cock. He sucked Harry’s tits and caressed his shoulders and even licked his armpits and nibbled on his toes. And Harry returned the favour, kissing Draco’s bare stomach, his chest, the place behind his ear that made Draco shiver and left him panting with goose bumps on his arms.
But Draco never took off his trousers, and every time Harry tried to reach between his legs, Draco grabbed his wrist and placed his hand somewhere above his waist.
“I wish I could make you come,” he murmured into Draco’s ear more than once. “I wish it more than anything.”
But each time Draco drew away and placed a finger against Harry’s lips before pulling Harry toward him for another kiss that made Harry forget everything except the way Draco’s mouth felt against his own.
Much to his friends’ alarm and disapprobation, Harry rented out his flat and moved in with Draco two weeks later. There was a lot of talk of “too soon” and “this is not going to end well,” but Harry paid no attention. He knew what he wanted. He wanted to dismiss the nurse and be the one to take care of Draco. He wanted to fall asleep next to Draco at night and wake up beside him in the morning. He wanted to sleep in sheets that smelled of Draco’s skin and wear Draco’s shirts and drink Draco’s wine. He wanted to eat dinner at Draco’s table and brush his teeth in front of Draco’s bathroom mirror and come at Draco’s command. He wanted to watch Draco’s throat and chest flush, and his nipples harden, and sweat bead on his brow and upper lip from nothing but a glimpse of the bulge in Harry’s jeans. He’d never even dreamed that such erotic hunger existed, and he was addicted to it . . . addicted to Draco’s fathomless desire for him.
But nothing could change the fact that Draco couldn’t have an orgasm, and too often Harry had to let him be alone after he’d come. For Draco, there was no release except the passage of time. He’d meditate until his breathing and heart rate and body temperature returned to normal, and then they’d share a bottle of wine and not talk about the elephant in the room.
Draco insisted adamantly that he didn’t mind – that he wanted to watch Harry climax, but Harry wasn’t blind to what it cost him . . . and how it reminded Draco of what he’d lost. He even caught Draco sobbing in frustration on a few occasions – not just over his inability to find some kind of release, but because he needed Harry to know beyond mere words how much he wanted him.
NEXT PART>
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}