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Endowment

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Potter’s always been a bit of a tight-arse. What was true at 11 is no less true at 21.

It is, however, far more literal.

I had assumed, at first, a simple prudishness at the root of his reluctance to take a finger or two. His Muggle upbringing, perhaps, or an adolescence subsumed by war and without the benefit of weekends in the Slytherin common room.

That theory is long since disproven. He loved my hand slipped down the front of his pants at a Muggle club. Loved it even more in the loos at the fourth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Loved my lips wrapped around his cock in an alley behind the Leaky at one of their Friday night Auror drinks things. Loved me whispering filth to him when he finally dropped to his knees and reciprocated on the landing outside my flat.

I loved it too. All of it, but none so much as that first glint of curious fear in his eyes when he took my prick from my robes in the dim light of the hallway and properly saw it.

He’d felt it, of course. I play a long game, not an unselfish one. But whether due to adrenaline, Firewhisky, or both, his drunken fumbling had never captured the size of it. How could it? I’m longer than his fist, thicker than the circle of his fingers. Big enough to elicit that unmistakable, bug-eyed, open-mouthed moment of alarm.

Such a Gryffindor, Potter is. Until the very end. Until the skin at the juncture of his lips was straining, until I felt his throat convulse against my tip, until he gagged down the better part of a thick load and pulled back coughing with thin, white, spit-diluted strands sliding from the corner of his mouth.

Shortly thereafter, I found what eluded even the Dark Pillock: a limit to Potter’s reckless bravery.

He was pressed to the wall, pants around his thighs, prick heavy in my hand, my spunk still scenting his breath. I had a solid grip on his arse, all firm muscle, tense and shaking. He didn’t pull away. No, not until I slid a finger down the crevice of his arse and pressed against his hole.

I might’ve thought he was bucking into my fist, but Potter is not the first man to pull away from these advances. In their fits of locker room envy, no one considers the drawbacks to an endowment like mine. But I have become familiar with the shy dismissals, the conciliatory hand jobs, the “why don’t we instead”s. That I thought better of Potter would be a testament to my own stupidity, if he wasn’t going to follow through.

If.

But Potter has got under my skin for far too long, in far too many ways. I fully intend to return the favour.

We have rarely found ourselves in a bed. Our sort of arrangement doesn’t lend itself to that sort of thing. There was the impulsive rental of a room following another Friday night alley rendezvous, when Potter proved himself a decent, if nervous, top. The illicit usage of the Granger-Weasley’s marital bed, when Potter proved himself decent with a cleaning spell. Once, his own bed, when he Apparated us out of a Muggle club and claimed my arse again.

There may be an element of intrigue, then, in my invitation. I hope so, as I wait for him, Scotch in hand. Though whether this missive holds any particular interest for him depends almost entirely on whether he’s recognised the address. My address.

When he tumbles out of the Floo, his outfit suggests that he hasn’t. He’s dressed for a club, tight jeans and barely there tank and the hideously worn leather jacket he insists on wearing, which he claims is vintage and which is, to its credit, softer than silk against bare skin.

The fleeting look of surprise confirms it. The uneasy shift. The way he cards his hair as he takes in the room. The nervous laugh. “Nice club.”

He hasn’t expected this, then. Hasn’t ever thought to look up my address. My stomach twists. I’m all too happy to ascribe it to the Firewhisky.

“Very exclusive.” I lift my glass in salute and take a slow sip. I want to watch him assess the room. See if he figures it out.

It’s a pleasure he denies me. He has eyes for my trousers, my dress shirt, for the two buttons I’ve left undone and the skin between them. Perhaps I should be unsurprised that his attention doesn’t extend to impeccable interior decorating.

His attention turns to my glass. “Where’s the bartender?”

I smirk, spread my hands. “At your service.”

“Aren’t you supposed to ask what I want?”

“You assume I don’t already know.”

He smirks. I let him.

We lock eyes across the rug. I count to ten, then stand. “Ogden’s, 12 year, rocks?”

He looks up from my trousers to my face.

“Ogden’s, 12 year, rocks,” I repeat. “That’s what you want.”

“Right,” he answers. “Sure it is.”

I focus on the drink. The smell of the whisky, the cracking ice. Potter’s eyes flitting up from my arse when I turn around to hand it to him.

“Thanks.” He brushes his fingers over mine as he accepts the glass. “Didn’t know you were moonlighting.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“As ever.” His gaze flickers to my trousers, just for an instant. Long enough for me to notice, briefly enough to guess that he didn’t mean for me to. “So, why the change of pace?”

“Some things are best accomplished in filthy Muggle back rooms. Others are not.”

“What, time for some wizard’s chess?”

“I’ve rather a different sort of game in mind.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Gobstones?”

“Hardly.” I cross my arms. “Pin the tail on the saviour.”

He laughs. “Brought me out for a secret kid’s party? Kinky.”

“Yes, obviously. It’s in the bedroom, if you’d like to see for yourself.”

He drains his glass and moves to set it next to the bottle. “Lead the way.”

At least he’s not feigning innocence.

I’ve prepared the bedroom in advance. My bedroom, rather than the guest room. I want to remember Potter’s arse laid open for me every time I lay my head down. He doesn’t need to know that, nor see the trinkets that would’ve given it away, now safely stashed in trunks and wardrobes. All he needs to see is the four poster and, perhaps, the chest at its foot.

I hold the door for him. He steps through. Takes it in. Turns to me with a maddening smirk and mock-surprise. “There aren’t any children here, Malfoy. Where’s the party?”

His wrist is thick and tenses instinctively when I wrap my fingers around it, guiding it to my flies. “Here.”

“Want me to pin your tail?”

“No.” I take a step forward, fingers tightening around him. “Exactly the opposite.”

He steps back. “Nice try.”

“Who said anything about trying?”

“That’s all you’re going to be doing.”

I press myself against him, free hand drawing him closer by the belt loops. His breath smells of whisky, his neck of fresh aftershave. “That so?”

“Ye—” the word starts decisively enough. My teeth set against his jaw slow it considerably. “Yeah,” he breathes.

Debating has never been his forte. More a man of action. It makes him terribly predictable. I bite down, then lick the toothprint I’ve left behind. Move down his neck. Repeat. Repeat. Slip his jacket off his shoulders. He tilts his head, exposing the pulsing vein at the base of his throat.

Releasing his wrist, I turn my fingers to better purposes. The thin cotton of his top hides nothing. His nipples have made themselves apparent and he presses his groin towards mine when I pinch one, giving it the slightest twist and waiting for the throaty moan that follows.

“Fuck, mmm, Malfoy.” His eyes are closed, his voice is low, his neck arched. I reach for the other nipple. He presses into the touch, gasps out, “Still not gonna fuck me.”

“Why’s that?” The question is directed to his clavicle, and goosebumps spring up where my breath leaves its mark.

“’Cause no,” he breathes, pushing my hand towards his waistband.

“Not an answer.”

“No,” he admits, his eyes still closed.

“Tell me.” I slip my hand into his waistband and slide it round the back, dipping down to cup his arse.

He jerks, eyes flaring open. “No,” he repeats.

“Why not?” It’s almost a pout, and I know it. Poor strategy; I know that too.

He jerks his wrist free and crosses his arms. I feel the space between us acutely. I hope he does too.

“That’s not what I do.”

“Not what you do?” Indignation may not be ideal either, strategically, but it’s certainly genuine.

“It’s, er,” he mumbles, looking down. “It’s gross.”

“It’s gross?” Strategy is barely hanging on. “It’s gross.” I take a step back. “You’ve no problem sticking your prick up other men’s arses, but it’s gross when yours is on the line?”

“I don’t—” he stops, turns away. “Whatever. No.”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t. Just don’t, okay?”

“You don’t fuck other men’s arses?”

He ignores me. The hot twist of anger in my belly coils, ready to strike. “Do you let them fuck yours? Is it gross when it’s their cocks? Their side-of-the-light, non-Death Eater pricks pounding into you?”

“No!”

I want to vomit. To leave him covered in it, the bastard.

He looks up at me and he’s wild-eyed, suddenly, gripping my shirt, grabbing my jaw and pulling my face in line with his. “No, No— that’s not. It’s not that, fuck, it’s not that.”

“Not what? Not that—” I can’t finish. I won’t give him this particular ammunition. Let him say the words himself.

“No, no, Malfoy. It’s not— I don’t care— no, it’s not that I don’t care, but I know you’re not, that it’s not that you’re.” He stops. Takes a deep breath, trying, I suspect, to tame the feral panic in his eyes. “Therearenoothermen.”

“What?” I don’t know if I need to hear it again. I don’t know if I’ve even heard it correctly the first time.

He grits his teeth. “There are no other men.”

“What do you mean, ‘There are no other men’?”

“There. Are. No. Other. Men.”

“Right now?” Surely, he’s plenty of suitors. I’ve seen him at the clubs, seen how they fall all over him.

He whispers so quietly I barely make him out. “Ever.”

“Women, then.” It’s not an idea I particularly enjoy, but it’s the only feasible answer. “You fuck women.”

He shakes his head.

“Women fuck you?”

He snorts, shakes his head again.

“Yes. Yes, there are women. There have been women.”

Again, he shakes his head, this time with his eyes cast to the floor.

Merlin. “There haven’t been women.”

Intent on his shoes, he barely manages a nod.

“Or men.”

The slightest bob to indicate his agreement.

“There hasn’t been anyone?”

A shake of his head, just barely.

“Except…” I can’t say it; can’t even entirely comprehend that fucking my arse is the only sort of fucking he’s done. “Ever?”

He looks up. I expect demure. He’s always confounded my expectations. As he’s doing now, with his blazing eyes, with his sudden fierceness. With his virgin, untouched, fucking arse. “No. Happy?”

I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off. I’m almost too shocked to find it rude.

“And there won’t be.”

I scramble for a response. Something to change his mind. If I wanted his arse before…well. The only thing that comes to mind – that makes it through this suffocating haze of lust – is an awful line. Overused. “How do you know you won’t like it, if you’ve never tried it?”

It would be predictable to anyone who’s ever tried to wrangle a bit of straight arse. But, I realise, that’s not Potter. Potter, who is, at least momentarily, visibly perplexed by the question. At last, he mumbles, “Just do.”

“And when you’re on the giving end?”

“I—” He frowns. “I don’t know.” A shrug. “Feels all right, I guess. You’re very clean.”

I swallow my outrage at that “all right.” If he’ll only say my arse is all right…well, it’s a good thing I’m a man on a mission. “You’re telling me you don’t want to be fucked because you lack proper hygiene?”

“No! That’s disgusting.”

“And, I suspect, untrue.”

“Definitely.”

“So then why?”

He pauses, looks away.

It hits me all at once. “You’re scared.”

“No!”

“Yes, you are.” Gloating is even more disastrous than pouting, but I simply can’t help it.

“No way!”

“Prove it.”

He freezes as though he’s been petrified.

“Prove it, Potter.”

“I don’t…”

“You don’t know. You have no idea.”

He shrugs. Not exactly a concession, but I’ll take it.

I step closer. “You’re not even curious?”

He shrugs.

“You’ve never wondered what it would be like?” I lean in, put on a throaty whisper. “Never wondered what it feels like when you’re pounding in to me?”

“No,” he says, and the syllable is broken in half when his breath catches.

“Never even, for a second, wondered why I come so hard with your cock up my arse?”

He swallows audibly, and remains stock still otherwise.

“Never wanted to know how it feels to be so full there’s no room left for anything but pleasure?”

His breathing is shallow.

“I think you have.”

His shrug is so tiny I almost miss it.

“I could show you, you know.”

He shrugs again.

“Could show you right now. Could open you up so sweetly you’ll forget your own name.”

He shivers.

“Fill you so slowly you’ll be begging for more.” I nip his earlobe. “If you get on the bed.”

His voice is scratchy, barely a whisper. “What?”

“Get on the bed.”

He looks to it, back to me. I do my best to look reassuring. He’s wary, but he’s not running.

And then—he doesn’t meet my eye, but he does it. Steps away, and perches on the edge of the mattress.

I come to stand between his spread knees and card a hand through his hair, bringing it to rest on his shoulder. He leans in to my touch. “Take your top off and lie back.”

He looks up, alarmed.

I crook a finger under his jaw and tilt his eyes up to face mine. “Trust me.”

He doesn’t look away, even as he slips the thin cotton over his head. As soon as it’s off, he’s holding my gaze and begins to lie back. He crosses his arms behind his head, aiming for some sort of a challenge. He succeeds, though I’m loath to admit it. He looks as accusatory as he does trusting.

Best not fuck this up, then.

I break eye contact first. Drop to my knees in front of him, hands on his thighs, and nudge his legs apart. He tenses under my palms. I run my hands over the muscle, stopping on his waistband.

He inhales when I reach for his flies, arching so his stomach drops away from my fingers. It only makes my work easier. The button pops open easily, the zipper follows, and he lifts his arse to let me bring his pants and jeans down his legs together.

He’s more than half hard, prick lying swollen across his thigh. With his clothes around his knees his arse is hidden by shadow and his cock is out of mouth’s reach. I grip his calves, massaging my way towards his ankles, then pulling off one shoe, the other, his jeans, his pants.

Suddenly, I’m faced with his knees. He’s staring up at the ceiling, away from me, with his legs closed to hide any hint of his hole.

Maddening. Maddening fucking tight-arse Potter.

I slide a hand over his kneecaps, attempting to tease them open. He tenses.

If I can’t get a fingertip between his knees, getting my cock into his arse seems Herculean.

But then, his prick isn’t between his knees. He jerks when I take it in hand, suffocating a moan into the thinnest of whimpers.

He’s heavy and warm against my palm, and he responds in spite of himself. His mouth falls open before his knees do. He breathes deeply, and the tension in his legs falls away. When I lean forward, he lets me in. First to nip at the inside of his knee, then to trail kisses up his thigh, until he’s spread open well enough for me to mouth at his bollocks. It’s something he loves, and something the circumstances of our encounters doesn’t often permit.

He’s torn between disappointment and desire when I take his cock in my mouth. It’s the perfect excuse to drop a hand to the base of his shaft, then lower, cupping his balls, rolling them in my palm as I suck him down.

Any pretence of restraint has disappeared. His hips buck into my mouth, the head of his cock butting against my throat as he descends into abandon.

The ideal, moment, then.

My hand drops lower still, and lower, until it’s the back on my knuckles rubbing against his bollocks, until I run my thumb over his cleft.

He freezes.

Fuck.

I relax my throat, try to take him down. Something that usually undoes him, and it has no effect.

I press my thumb against him again. He jerks off the bed. I pull away.

“Potter,” I start, trailing off into a sigh.

He’s covered his face with his hands and refuses to respond.

“Potter,” I shake his knee. “Come out of there.”

He shakes his head furiously.

“You’re making it rather difficult to proceed.”

The look he gives me is so withering as to kill the average house plant, but at least he’s looking.

“When I let you fuck me—why?”

“What?” Confusion supersedes his scathing stare.

“When I let you fuck me, did you think I was being magnanimous? Some sort of arse-first charity project?”

His confusion escalates to bewilderment. “I...um.”

“Because I assure you, Potter, Malfoys don’t do charity unless there’s something to be gained.”

“Then...why?”

“I’m trying to show you.”

“That…it really feels good?”

I fail to suppress an eye roll. “No, I was faking it. I’ve ridden your prick as simple courtesy because I’m such a giving, generous sort of a wizard.”

He frowns. “No need for sarcasm.”

“No,” I agree. “No need for any sort of talking at all, if you’d just turn over.”

“Turn...?”

“Over.”

He stares at me. Between us, his cock twitches. Interesting. “Over?”

“Yes.”

“Just…?”

“It’s not Arithmancy, Potter. On your stomach.”

He gives me a last, sceptical look, and turns, sliding up the bed so that only his toes hang off the edge.

Potter’s body is a thing of beauty. I’d always thought he’d be scrawny; perhaps the impressions of our youth don’t leave us as easily as we might like. But three years of Auror training – and, I suppose, a war – have done well by him. His arse is firm and high, his waist trim, back muscled, his legs toned. I’ve never had the opportunity to take him in like this.

“Malfoy?” He mumbles it over his shoulder, his voice tinged with barely concealed nerves.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Are you going to...you know?”

“You’ve got a magnificent arse.” I don’t mean to say it. It just...slips out.

“Um,” he mutters, and he tightens it without realising. Merlin help me, it’s got dimples when he does that. “I...yeah?”

“Mmm. Yes.” I slide a hand up his calf. “Lovely.”

“Um, thanks,” he replies, and buries his head in his elbow.

It takes a good deal of effort not to stare at him. The scrutiny clearly makes him nervous, but oh, it’s a delight. I feel myself, perhaps unwisely, beginning to hope that these proceedings will mean more opportunities to look. Many more.

He wiggles, settling himself into the duvet. It’s a useful reminder, intentional or not, to get down to it.

I slip a knee into the space between his calves. Rest my hands on the backs of his legs. Rake my nails up his thighs.

He shivers. He doesn’t pull away.

I take him in my hands now. Properly, in my hands. Not a quick squeeze in an alleyway. No turning away. His back tightens and I hear him hold his breath, but he doesn’t move. Lets me rest a palm on each side, squeeze his cheeks so I can feel the shape of them, feel his flesh and muscle under my palms.

Slowly, so as not to spook him, I begin to knead. His arse is so firm, so perfectly round. And as I work the muscle, I begin to pull his cheeks apart.

If he notices, he doesn’t protest. Doesn’t make a sound, though I feel some answering pressure as I work his arse.

This tiny indication of approval almost disappears when I pull him far enough apart for him to feel it. He jerks away from me.

“Potter,” I soothe - or try to. “I won’t hurt you.”

He nods, mumbles something mostly indiscernible into his elbow.

“That’s it,” I answer, rubbing the backs of his thighs. “Relax.”

He pokes his head up just far enough for his mouth – his flushed, plump mouth – to pull clear of his arm. “Just tell me, okay?”

“Tell –” I realise what he means and am rather glad he can’t see my smile. “Of course. I’ll tell you. Just relax.”

“No surprises.”

“No surprises,” I agree. “I’ll tell you. If you’ll relax.”

He takes a deep breath, nods, and turns back into his arms.

“And if you’ll do as I say.”

He freezes, then. The moment seems to last forever. And then, an even slighter nod.

“Good. I’m going to touch your arse, all right?”

He nods again.

‘Touch’ might’ve been an understatement. It’s a light slap and a firm grab, and I’m rather pleased to see him arch into it.

“Good,” I continue. “Very good. Open your legs for me.”

I’m on the verge of repeating my instruction when he obeys. It’s not much, but enough for me to slide my knee further between his thighs, to keep his legs open so I can see the swell of his bollocks, full and flushed, resting between them.

“Yes,” I breathe, “that’s good. Your arse, it’s...I want to see it.”

The muscles move beneath his skin as he tenses and forces himself to relax

“I’m going to open you, Potter. I want to see your hole.”

I swear I hear the faintest whine as I spread him open.

“Merlin.” I’m not sure if I want him to hear it. I’m not sure if I care. Seeing him, after so many months...it’s not as though it’s a masterpiece. It’s an arsehole, a pink ring surrounded by dark skin and darker hair. But it’s his arsehole, this place no one’s touched, or licked, or seen before.

I’m rock hard and newly grateful for my trousers. It’s hard enough not to slip into him as it is. So much as touching my cock would incendiary.

“Merlin,” I repeat. “I want to taste you.”

“What?” He jerks up at that. “What? You can’t, that’s—”

“Trust me,” I interrupt. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.”

“Never felt a Bludger to the bollocks either, doesn’t mean I’d like to.”

I bend over him, bracing an arm on each side of his chest, bringing my mouth to his ear. “You think this is going to be like a Bludger to the bollocks? Potter, I’ll lick your hole so well, you’ll be begging for more.”

His shoulders roll into my chest as he swallows.

“Have I ever hurt you?”

“No,” he concedes.

“Ever done anything that didn’t end with you coming so hard you saw stars?”

“‘Potter Stinks’ badges.”

“Oh, shut up, Potter. Spread your fucking legs and bring me your hole.”

Am I angry with him? No. But impatient might be an understatement.

Fortunately for us both, he obliges.

“We’ll start with something you like.” I breathe it into his ear, then move down, kissing and nipping down his back, sinking my teeth into his arse, biting down his thigh, and putting my mouth to his bollocks.

He moans, quietly at first, as I take one into my mouth and let it drop again, moving to lave the other, and back again. He bucks against me. I do my level best not to do the same to the mattress.

And then, I lift away. “Like that?”

“Mmm,” he breathes, nodding.

“Wait for this.” I slide my tongue up, pressing into the sensitive spot between his arse and balls, and he moans again. Spreads his legs for more. So much the better.

My tongue slides up another inch, and then another, and I can feel the coarseness of his thickening hair, then, at last, the smooth ring of muscle.

I don’t pause, don’t hesitate at all, just drag my tongue over his hole, running it almost the length of his crack. Then again, and again, moving a hand to grip his waist.

He’s holding his breath, I realise. I hum, and lift up. “That bad?”

“Wet,” he whispers.

“Wasn’t the question.” I lick again, slowly, from his bollocks to the fine hairs at the base of his spine. “Is it bad?“

“No,” he breathes.

I pull him towards my face. He’s startled enough to roll his hips, and I feel as much as hear his gasp when I go to work, licking, sucking, kissing his hole.

He gasps again when the tip of my tongue pushes against him, and again when I moan. The feel of him, tightening around my tongue, responding to it...I drop a hand to my tenting trousers and have to pull away at once. I’m so close.

Though if I intend to fuck him I’ll want to make it last, something I’m currently incapable of.

I moan into his hole once more. There it is again – the slightest pressure as he pushes into me.

“Do you like that?”

He doesn’t respond, except with the smallest cant of his hips.

“I do. Your arse is delicious.” I press a kiss to his thigh. “I could eat it all night.”

His breathing speeds.

“Do you know how hard it makes me? How hard I am from eating your arse?”

He yelps when I pull him towards the end of the bed and looks over his shoulder, indignant.

I catch his eye. “So hard, Potter.” I lean back and unbuckle my belt. “So hard I’m going to come. Come in my fist while I’m eating your hole.”

His pupils are dilating, edging out his irises. His mouth has dropped open and I’m tempted, so tempted, to crawl over him, to shove my cock in it.

But I have bigger plans.

He looks down when he hears my flies. My eyelids flutter shut when I touch myself; when I open them again he’s staring at my face, entranced.

A smile curls my lips. “Your arse, Potter. I want it.”

He swallows again.

Then he drops his knees over the side of the bed and bares himself.

I can’t suppress the groan. My cock twitches against my palm. I grab his waist, pull him back, and bury my face in him. His taste is so mild. He needn’t have worried. Sweat and skin, and I want more of it. More of him.

He rolls his hips against my face; I’m beginning to think he wants me to have more of him, too. And at this angle, I can. I lick him in time with my fist, both speeding as I detect the first hint of a proper moan. He’s opening under my tongue, loosening for me, letting that tight ring of muscle contract and release against the tip of my tongue, between my lips.

My thighs tense. My bollocks are painfully tight and I want it to last, want it to keep going.

Then he pushes back against my face, grinds into me with a desperate whine, and I’m coming, coming, spilling all over my hand, all over my trousers, moaning into him, and the vibrations only seem to urge him on.

I have to grip his hip with my free hand to steady him and oh, what a bittersweet turn of events that is. I give him a long, last lick as I pump myself dry, nip his arse before I pull back, resting a hand on his flank and catching my breath.

He tenses under my hand, and I realise he’s sat back on his calves and turned to look. I can’t quite discern his expression. “I—” he looks me, his faces inches away from mine. “That’s it?”

I let loose a smile, heart still pounding. “Should it be?”

He studies my face, won’t quite meet my eye. “No,” he replies. “No, I don’t think so.”

But when he glances down towards my cock, I see that familiar fear. My heart sinks as I wait for the rejection, the ‘just your fingers,’ the ‘I love a plug.’

It doesn’t come. Instead, he twists at one of my shirt buttons, plucking it open.

And then I remember. Never. He’s never done this. He’s seen other pricks, I’m sure, but apparently in a locker room sort of way. The sort of context where bigger is always better. He doesn’t know how a smaller man feels. Has no reason to fear my cock more than he would any other.

My heart races. I have to work to maintain the appearance of calm control. “Good. I don’t think so either.”

He look up, startled. “How do we...?”

“Turn around again.”

“Like before?”

“Yeah.” I cup his cheek, turn his face so he won’t see my excitement. “On your knees.”

“Right.” He nods slowly, and turns, bending over the edge of the bed, his arse open to me.

I tuck myself away and slide a hand down his back. “I’m going to lick you again, and I’m going to add a finger this time.”

He nods.

This reception is miles from the first. It’s less than a minute before he’s rolling his hips, pushing back against my face. He’s not so quiet, either. Breathy little gasps, whimpers. The start of something throatier, deeper as I make sure he’s sloppy wet. Then, when I replace the tip of my tongue with the tip of my finger a nervous intake of breath.

He holds himself still, tense, bracing for it.

“Relax.” I run my free hand over the curve of his arse. “It’s going to feel so good, Potter.”

His nod is clearly unconvinced.

“Promise,” I add, still stroking his skin.

He nods again, a bit feebly.

I repress a sigh. “Lie down on the bed.”

He looks over his shoulder, confused. “I thought…?”

“I love seeing you.” Merlin, the way he blushes. “But you need to relax. Your whole body is tense.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “On my back?”

“Eventually.” I rock back and stand, offering him a hand. “Stomach first.”

He takes it, pulling himself up so we’re almost eye level. “Why?”

I lean in to nip at his earlobe. “Because I’m not done looking at you.”

He shivers; it’s not for a lack of warmth. “Oh.”

“Yes,” I murmur. “Now, on your stomach. On the bed.”

This time he catches my eye as he moves. He brings his hands to the untucked hem of my shirt. He doesn’t look away as he unbuttons it. Not when he fumbles. Not when I gasp, reflexively, when his knuckles brush my chest. Not when he pushes it off my shoulders and runs his hands down my arms. His fingertips are deliciously calloused, his hands perfectly firm. He doesn’t stop until his fingers are linked in mine. “If we’re doing this, it’s together.”

A million remarks compete to make it out of my mouth first. ‘Really, Potter? I was just going to leave you to it.’ ‘So I should call off the Cannons, then?’ ‘Finally decided to go fuck yourself after all?’

He looks at me. He’s so fucking earnest. They die on my tongue, one after the other, and all I manage is a nod.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” I affirm.

“Okay.”

I don’t shiver – really, I don’t – when he squeezes my hand, when he runs his knuckle down my bare chest. When he lies down, arse up, arms down, feet shoulders-width apart, head turned towards me, eyes closed.

Harry Potter. In my bed. Harry Potter’s virgin arse, spread across my duvet.

I don’t shiver, but I do swallow, hard, and resist the urge to stand there, watching.

I toe off my shoes and follow him on to the bed instead, kneeling to one side of him, caressing his calves, following the lines of his muscled legs to his waist, and down again.

He shifts, tilts his hips to invite my touch.

Not the sort of invitation one declines.

He’s so warm, as I run a single finger down his cleft, glancing over his hole. He tenses again, but less vigorously, and he relaxes once it’s passed.

I reach for the bedside table, and the unexpected movement startles him into opening his eyes. I show him the lube and run a hand through his hair, hoping it calms him. Nevertheless, I’m surprised when it works, when he nods and shuts his eyes again, even as I move back down the bed.

“Know how good my tongue felt?” I open the phial and let a good amount drip onto my fingers. “That’s just the beginning.”

“Yeah?” He breathes.

“Oh, yes.” I drop my hand to the base of his spine and trail a lubricated digit down his cleft. “You’ve no idea.” I rest a wet fingertip on his rim. “Though you’re about to.”

He inhales and holds it, and I push. He’s loosened from my tongue, and there’s the lube, and I slip into him to the second knuckle, so easily, like it’s nothing at all, like my finger belongs there.

His instincts catch up in a second’s time. He bears down hard around me and good Merlin but he’s tight. A moan escapes my lips. My cock begins to fill at the implications. I can barely move my finger, he’s got such a grip on it. It’s extraordinary. He’s...Merlin.

His back rises and falls, deep and steady, not moving into it, but not moving away, either. The lube lets me slide against the thick walls of his rectum just enough to rotate my finger. “You’re so tight.”

I hear his sharp intake of breath, but he doesn’t shy away. “Yeah?”

“Mmmm.” I twist my finger again as I answer. “Yeah?”

“That’s good?”

“Yeah.” I laugh, just once. “Yeah, that’s good. Fuck, your arse is good.”

“Yeah?” He breathes, a hint of genuine nervousness creeping through.

“Merlin, yes. You look so fucking good around my finger.” I pull it out to the first knuckle and push in again for emphasis. “You’re gonna be so tight around me.”

He clamps down and I want to curse that particular declaration. “You’ll be so ready for it, I’m gonna get you so ready for it.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck, yeah.” I withdraw my finger and add more lubricant. “Push back against me this time.”

“Against you?”

“Mmm.”

“‘Kay.” He nods and relaxes his arse.

“Perfect,” I tell him, bringing my fingers back.

He does just as he’s been told. The pressure is delicious, and then I’m through his rim, past the second knuckle, my finger disappearing into him. I’m able to move, too. Out again, back in. “Perfect,” I repeat. “So good.”

He nods, exhales.

“Like that?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Full.”

‘Full.’ I’ve heard of worse, but this is nothing to compare with how full he’ll be. “I’m going to add another.”

“Another?” he opens his eyes, alarmed, and tightens around my finger.

“Another,” I confirm. “I want to see you full of me.” I pull my hand away and slick two fingers. “Just push out when I do it.”

“You’re sure?” There’s a dangerously endearing shakiness to his voice.

“Very.” I rest one fingertip against him. “If you think that was fullness,” I slip the first finger into him, “you’re going to feel so good, Merlin, you don’t even know.”

He’s comfortable enough with one now, letting me move inside of him, relaxing around my index finger.

Then my second fingertip joins the first, and the tension returns.

“Just like the first,” I promise. “Gonna go into you so easily.”

He takes a deep breath and, to my surprise, spreads his legs even further.

“Merlin,” I breathe. “You’re fucking gorgeous. You should see yourself like this.”

He laughs, a half-nervous, half-pleased huff of air that I can’t take any offence to. He sounds pleased. As well he should be.

It relaxes him, too. I seize the moment, sliding a second finger alongside the first.

He bites off an exclamation, hissing at the inevitable burn. “Fuck,” he pants. “Fuck.”

I stop, both fingers inside him. “I know. I know.” Whether I want to reassure or distract is an open question, but I’m damned if I’m going to stop. “It stings, I know.”

He’s panting through gritted teeth.

“It’ll stop though. Promise. It’ll feel so good when you’re ready for it. So full, so good.

His eyes are screwed shut, his bottom lip pinched between his teeth. He seems not to hear my reassurances, so absorbed is he in his discomfort. I can imagine his response to the suggestion of a third, and it doesn’t bode well for my cock. But once the burning is over, once he’s loose and ready…I know this pain, but thus far it’s all he knows. Not the pleasure that comes after and makes this worthwhile.

“Justonemore,” I spit out, sliding a third next to the first two.

He roars. I push down. I’ve survived many epithets and ‘gentle’ was never among them. Whereas all the words Potter’s using certainly were.

“Yes, that’s it,” I reassure.

“Fuck, Malfoy,” he bites out. “Fuck, that fucking hurts.”

“I kno—”

“You know? You think you fucking know?

“You know I fucking know,” I snap, “as it’s been your prick up my arse. I know, Potter. And I know it’s fucking worth it, too, if you’d shut up and let me show you.”

“It fucking hurts.”

“Does it still?”

He pauses. Lets out a breath. “Yes.”

“As badly as it did?”

He pouts.

“Exactly. Now, just relax.”

Just relax? Are you joking?”

The walls of his rectum contract around my fingers as I begin to twist them. “No.”

“Fuck, Malfoy.”

My cock stirs. “I’d like to.”

“You,” he huffs, but it’s subsumed by a wince as I push into him. “Fucker.”

“As I said.” I pull out again, until I can see the better part of all three fingers.

“Y—” he cuts off as I slide them back in, pushing back against me, and his attempt at a word descends into a gasp.

“F—” he tries again, this time pulled up short by a twist of the knuckles upon re-entry. He lifts his hips this time, bearing down on my fingers.

“Yes?”

“Fff—” it peters out into a hiss. His hips begin to move in time with my hand.

And oh, it’s a divine sight. My pale fingers against the dark skin of his hole, the beads of sweat that have begun to gather in the small of his back, the way his rim grips onto my fingers, pulling them back, and deeper.

I’ve kept something back from him, of course. The fullness is enough, something he should learn to enjoy. But there’s so much more to this. So much more I can show him. Make him feel.

“Still hurting?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.” I bring my free hand to stroke his thigh. He’s breathing evenly, if quickly. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Full,” he breathes.

“Just full?”

He shakes his head again.

“Tell me.”

“It’s,” he rolls his hips, meeting me on a thrust, “all right.”

Those words, again. “All right?”

“Yeah.” He arches back into me. “Feels…yeah, good.”

Better. “Ready for more?”

“More?” He repeats it, half-overwhelmed with new sensation.

“More,” I confirm, pulling my fingers out, repressing a victorious exclamation when he raises his arse off the bed to follow them.

When he realises what he’s doing, he collapses back to the bed, resting his head on his forearms.

I find I’m conflicted about this next command. I love seeing him like this. His back and thighs all muscle, his arse rocking into me. The clear view of his hole, of course. But I want to see his face when I fuck him.

“Turn over.”

He turns to look at me. Halfway there already, then. He winces when he moves his hips and lies back very delicately, flinching when he rests back on his arse.

I move to correct him at once. This pain is not necessary. Kneeling between his legs, I lift one knee over my shoulder. He looks as relieved as he does startled.

“It helps to take the weight off.”

He nods, gives me something of a grateful look, which I almost miss for staring at his cock.

For all his protestations, it’s rock hard and dripping. There’s a pool of precome already forming on his stomach; I resist the urge to lick it off.

“You’ve still got your trousers on.”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t more…?” He looks pointedly at the very noticeable bulge that’s reasserted itself beneath my waistband.

“Is that what you want?”

Confusion crosses his features. “Isn’t it...what else is there?”

I smile and reach for the lube, coating my fingers again before lining two up at his entrance. “This.”

He’s so much more open. He winces, sore around the rim, at first, but it’s easy to slide into him now. I’m almost hypnotised for a moment, watching my fingers disappear so easily into his arse, watching his cock bob against his stomach.

And though he looks pleased – more than pleased – the edge of confusion remains. My cock twitches at the thought of what comes next.

He’s so pliant when I push into him again. Takes my fingers beautifully, moans when I twist them, and then, I push up and – there it is.

His eyes fly open, really open, and he fists the duvet so hard the fabric strains. His mouth moves. He tries to form words. There are none. Just a gasping, shocked inhale.

And then I press up and it comes out in almost a scream. He drops the duvet to slam a fist into the headboard and looks at me with such bewildered desperation.

“More,” I whisper, leaning over him. “That’s more.”

“More,” he mouths. “More.”

“Like that?”

He nods wildly. His cock twitches against my stomach.

“Told you, didn’t I?”

He nods, not caring about the admission in the slightest. “More,” he croaks.

“Is that a request?”

“Yes,” he moans.

“My fingers look so good inside you.”

He’s bracing himself on the headboard, hips bucking up to meet my fingers.

“You’re so hungry for it, aren’t you?”

He nods again, dropping a hand to my back, urging me closer, faster.

“Think of how good that’s going to feel with my cock inside you.” I only hope it’s true. I’m quite certain that a cock would feel good, but mine is so frequently another story.

Potter seems wholly unconcerned with that detail, though. He nods furiously, twisting his fingers against my scalp.

He whines when I withdraw my hand. It’s a beautiful sound.

A beautiful sight, too. His hole is glistening with lube, his prick is dripping. My own jerks at the sight of it. His breathing is shallow and his chest is flushed, and his eyes follow my hands to my waistband as I push pants and trousers down my thighs and slip out of them.

Again, his eyes flit to my cock. It’s rock hard again, and massive as ever.

He licks his lips.

My stomach flips. Is it – could it be – possible that he likes the sight of it?

It hits me all over again that he’s something of a virgin. That he – though I still can’t quite comprehend it – isn’t the cock connoisseur I’d imagined. That he’s never had a smaller cock. Any cock. That he doesn’t know to be afraid of mine.

He reaches out a hand for it. Pleasure shoots down my shaft and up my spine as his fingers graze the underside. He looks up at me with such want, it’s all I can do not to plough into him.

But I musn’t. He’s not ready for that.

Yet.

I slide two fingers into him again. There’s almost no resistance now, and he arches to meet them. He grips my shaft reflexively, and fuck, but his hand feels good.

“You’re so open for me.”

He nods furiously.

It turns to a frown when I lift his hand from my erection and replace it with my own. He reaches out again and I block him with a few outstretched fingers. “Touch yourself.”

He pauses, unsure.

“Touch yourself for me,” I repeat. “It’ll feel so good while I fuck you.”

With a staggered breath, he nods, and drops his hand to his prick.

I resist the urge to watch; I hope it can wait for another time.

“Spread your legs for me.”

He complies immediately.

“Good,” I whisper, leaning over him. “That’s right.”

My cock’s heavy in my hand. I’m so hard, and light-headed, and I half wonder if they’re related, but it’s not always the case. I don’t feel this dizzy when I’m wanking, or when it’s a stranger sucking me off behind a club somewhere. Though I’m loathe to admit it, I know viscerally that this has everything to do with him.

I withdraw my fingers and reach for the lube. Coat myself. I want to make sure this is good for him. He’ll remember this always. There’s every reason in the world to make the memory a good one.

I guide the tip to his entrance, and bite down on my lip when his hole clenches around me immediately. It wasn’t just words; he really is hungry for it.

He strokes himself tentatively, distractedly. His eyes are on my hips, focused on my pelvis with a mix of fear and anticipation.

Cock still in one hand, I brace myself with the other and press forward.

He winces. I remind myself that that’s inevitable. I know this burn. Have felt it under him before. It’s not the burn that matters, it’s what comes after. It’s a matter of fucking him so well that he comes to recognise it for the promise of pleasure.

It takes more focus than I’d like to continue. To continue slowly. Purposefully. He winces again as I press forward. “S’all right,” I reassure, hating the sound of my own slurred words. “Just wait.”

He nods, and grips my shoulder with his free hand.

Slowly, so slowly, I inch forward. He’s so slick I’m more than half tempted to slide in to the hilt and let him feel it all at once. Were I a smaller man, I might. But I’ve learned restraint the hard way and I’m already certain I don’t want this first time to be the last.

His breathing is shallow and his hand has dropped from his cock to the sheets, but he still looks so intent. I suppose determination has always been at home on his features, and why should this be any exception?

“I’m gonna fill you,” I whisper.

He nods. “Yeah. Do it.” It’s breathy and uneven, but he looks at me with such fire. “Fuck me, Malfoy.”

Something in my chest twists. Merlin, I want him, with an irrational lust that almost overcomes my cautiousness. “Yeah,” I reply, hoarse but sure. “I’m gonna fuck you, Potter.”

He locks eyes with me, and I move, press forward until I feel his pucker against my fist. I let go and slide my cock through my fingers, further into him, and further still. I can feel his body struggling to yield to me, and it makes him so tight around me, so fucking tight, and if I hadn’t already come this would be over far too soon.

He winces again as he takes a seventh inch, but he doesn’t stop me. I ought to ask him if he’s all right, but I’m not sure I still can. It’s been ages since I’ve been this deep inside anyone and it’s…I’m not sure I could still speak even if pressed.

An eighth inch disappears into his arse. He whimpers, but he cants his hips for more, too, and his hole is so open, my cock so slick, that the remaining inch slips into him like nothing.

I look down, try to hide my shock. I’m inside of him, completely.

“In?”

I nod, still looking down in a bit of awe.

“Full.” His voice sounds strained.

“Yeah?” I manage.

“Yeah.”

I don’t want to lose this, this feeling, but I have to know it’s real. I slide out an inch, and in again. I hear him hiss, but he doesn’t look pained. I try it again, and there’s another sibilant sort of half-whisper, but he meets my hips this time. He’s breathing heavily, and his chest is covered with a fine sheen of sweat, but when I don’t move again, he cants his hips, almost as if to encourage more.

I have to know. “Like that?”

He manages a breathy smile. “Yeah.”

“More?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

I move with a bit more confidence this time. I’ve been in him and he likes it. I pull halfway out this time, and slide in again.

“Aah.” He reaches for my shoulder with another hiss. He’s breathing hard.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he swallows. “Yeah. Just…”

My stomach sinks. I wait for it: ‘too much,’ ‘too soon,’ ‘fingers again?’

“Faster, maybe?”

“What?” The word slips out before I freeze, and thank fuck for that because he says it again.

“Faster, I think?” He sounds fucking shy about it, like he’s asking for a favour, and how he could think that I’ll never know. “Felt good before.”

I stare down at him, amazed, but I guess it looks like something else, because he’s tentative when he speaks again.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” I force myself to respond. 'Okay' doesn’t begin to cover it. “Yeah.”

I withdraw again, and slide into him. Again, again. He wraps a leg around my back and his fingernails dig into my shoulder. The hissing is gone, replaced with heavy, shuddering breaths.

“Like that?” I barely manage it, for the sensations shooting down my shaft.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, that’s good.”

I speed up, pulling half out of him and pushing in again. The muscle of his rectum is unbelievably soft, and firm, and it feels too good for words, this.

“Yeah,” he whispers again. “So full.”

“So full,” I repeat. “Gonna fill you up.”

“Yeah, do it.”

I chance a deeper thrust this time, and he gasps. Holds me closer.

“Like that?”

“Yeah,” he breathes.

“Yeah,” I repeat. “Yeah, you do.”

“Yeah,” he agrees on an exhale. He grips me tighter. “Fuck, can you, what you did before?”

“Slower?”

“No!” He smiles, a bit shyly, at his own vehemence. “Before,” he gasps, “with your fingers, when you, sort of, when you pressed up, and—?”

“Ah.” I know what he means now and, from the intensity of his reactions, hadn’t even realised I haven’t been hitting his prostate. “Yeah.”

Lifting a hand from the bed, I take his leg from my waist and slip it over my shoulder. He winces again as I bend forward to lean over him again, and I pause. “Ready?”

He nods, breathing through this new fullness.

I pull out again, and press forward.

His eyes fly open and he grips my shoulder so tightly his nails might break the skin and he makes this sound, this animalistic moan, and I know, know with certainty, that I’ve got it. And fuck if it doesn’t look amazing on him.

My hips move automatically, pumping into him. I know I’m losing some control, but he doesn’t look like he minds.

Not at all.

He’s got his head thrown back and when I roll my hips he groans so deeply his chest vibrates with it.

“More,” he gasps again. “Harder.”

Never, in my years of fucking, has anyone made that request with my cock up their arse. Some tiny, niggling part of my brain wants to be angry that it’s him.

The rest of me is too busy fucking him to care.

As requests go, this one is easy. I drive into him and he gasps, arches his back, screws his eyes shut and moans. One hand fists the sheets, the other drops from my shoulder to my arse.

More,” he insists. “Fuck, Malfoy, more.”

I pull all the way out this time, my cock leaving his hole with a wet pop, and he looks up at me in open anguish.

That is, until I drive back into him in one hard thrust that leaves him screaming, clenching around me with such force I see stars.

Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, yeah.”

I’d never pinned Potter for either a masochist or a cockslut, but whichever it is, I’ll take more of it.

I drive into him again, my bollocks almost too tight now to slap against the soft muscle of his arse.

But then, I can go harder if I want them to. Can go as hard and as deep as I want, and it seems Potter will take it.

Again. I drive into him, he arches and grabs my arse and lets out one of those beautiful, unearthly, moans. And again, and again. I’m sweating too, now, can feel it as our bodies slide together, but no power on this earth could stop me from pounding into this unbelievable arse.

And still, he pants for more. I can feel myself getting closer.

“Touch yourself,” I manage, just barely.

He looks almost surprised to realise he hasn’t been. He looks down to his own dripping erection, and lifts a hand from the sheets to stroke himself.

The sight of it does something to me. I have to think of anything but this, of—, of—

Everything I can think of is too dark to belong here. And I don’t want that. Not distraction. Not darkness.

All I want is the heat of Potter’s rectum gripping my cock, and the sight of him passing a thumb over the head of his prick to smooth his precome down the shaft.

“Yeah, like that,” I manage. “Wank yourself with my cock up your arse.”

He moans and strokes harder, his eyelids fluttering shut as he does it.

I watch him as I move, harder and faster, just like he’s wanted, snapping my hips forward to bury myself in him. I can feel it coming now, unstoppable, gathering in my thighs and then—

I fall forward as I come, shooting into him. I can feel his hand still beneath me. I can hear myself moaning his name. I don’t stop rolling my hips, thrusting slowly now, as he contracts around me till I’m bone fucking dry and stunned with the force of my orgasm.

I’m almost too fucking dazed to pull out, half tempted to collapse on top of him and be done with it.

But when I glance down, I see his uncertainty, and his erection, and realise that while I’ve come twice, he’s yet to come at all.

It’s my turn to wince as I pull out of him. I’m so sensitive, so spent.

Still, I swallow when I see his hole. I’m so big, and he was so well prepared, that he’s still open for me. He’s slicked with lube and his hole is dripping as my come runs into the crease of his arse.

Experimentally, I trail a thumb over his entrance. He presses against me.

Interesting.

I look up and find him propped on his elbows, staring down at me, half unsure, half hopeful.

He wants this.

He likes this. Likes me in his arse. He wants more of it.

I don’t think I manage to hide my smile.

“Lie back,” I order, getting to my knees. He hesitates. “Lie back,” I repeat, ”Or I won’t fucking touch you.”

He drops to his back.

“Hands above your head and don’t move them.”

He obeys without argument.

I swipe my thumb over his hole again. “Like that, do you?”

He nods.

“Answer me.”

He breathes in. It’s shallow, nervous. “Yes.”

“You want more of it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Want me to fingerfuck you with my own come, do you?”

“Yes,” he whispers.

“Say it.”

“I want –“ He swallows. “I want you to fingerfuck me with your own come.”

“Until?”

“Until, um.” He’s flushing. “UntilIcome.”

“Good.”

My thumb slides into him, up to the knuckle. “Like that?”

“Yes, but,” he falters. “It’s good, but…more?”

“More,” I repeat, sliding another half inch of thumb into his arse. “More like that?”

He shakes his head. Remembers himself. “No.”

“How, then?”

“More fingers,” he whispers.

I replace my thumb with my index and middle fingers.

He gives a contented moan, nods.

“You like that?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, his eyes fluttering shut again. “Yeah.”

“Think you could come just like this?”

He shakes his head. “No, need to – can I touch?”

I stop to consider. He could, I suppose, but it’s not quite the same experience, doing the work yourself. “No, you can’t.”

He looks distraught until I move to catch the tip of his cock between my lips. I give it a kiss. “Tell me now. Would you rather touch yourself?”

Wide-eyed, he shakes his head furiously.

“Didn’t think so.” I lick a strip up the underside of his shaft. He whines so beautifully. I wonder how he’d sound begging.

“Want me to suck your cock while I fuck you?”

“Yes, fuck yes.”

“Manners, Potter.”

His blink turns into an eye roll. He almost smiles. I withdraw my fingers in warning and the smile vanishes instantly. “Please,” he says. “Please suck me.”

He relaxes when I slide into him again. “If I’m sucking you, you’ll have to tell me what you want.”

“Thought you knew,” he breathes, with a hint of a laugh.

I jerk my fingers up to hit his prostate again. His eyes flutter back into his head. “I do.”

He nods, gasping for breath.

“I just want to hear you beg.”

If it gives him pause, it’s not enough to outweigh the pleasure he must be feeling now. He nods. “Okay.”

I dip my two fingers into him again. “You stop, I stop.”

“’Kay,” he gasps. “Okay.”

Satisfied, I lean down to lick him again, ending at the tip of his cock and taking him in my mouth.

He moans. “Yeah, that’s good.”

I lift off and slide halfway down, letting him feel my tongue against his shaft.

He clenches around my fingers. “Don’t stop fucking me.”

He doesn’t know this, not yet, but, given my endowment, fingerfucking has become a particular mastery of mine. I crook my fingers up to hit his prostate and feel him tighten around them.

“Holy fuck, yeah, just like that.”

I stroke his prostate again, and hollow my cheeks to suck him in.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, I wanna come in your mouth.”

I hum my agreement, which only seems to move us closer to that point.

“Harder, please. And – more, can you?”

I can. I slip a third finger into him, and he’s so slippery, so open, it goes like it’s nothing. When I move to slide them out again he tightens around me, determined to keep them there. I suck him down so far he’s hitting the back of my throat, thinking it might release the grip he’s got on my fingers, but it’s quite the opposite. He bears down harder, arching his back and making it almost impossible for me to move.

But I manage, crooking the tips of my finger so his prostate is stimulated from every reachable angle, and hum around his shaft as I slide off it, and down again.

I hear a noise and look up. He’s pounded his fist into the headboard, and is pushing against it in some combination of desire and frustration. It gives him leverage, too, to grind down against my fingers. Which he does, rolling his hips with open enthusiasm.

“So close,” he gasps. “Please fuck me, please, don’t stop.”

As if I would, at this sight. His eyes are glazed, he’s glistening with sweat, I can feel his cock twitching in my mouth.

I lick down to suck his balls into my mouth. They’re high and tight and I can’t imagine we’re far off now.

“Fuck, your mouth. Please, Malfoy, need your mouth.”

The urge to tell him he already has it is strong, but I’ve got better things to do than taunt. I lick a feather-light stripe up his shaft and wait, my fingers still working against his prostate.

Please,” he repeats.

“Suck you?”

He groans. “Yes, fuck me, suck me, please, just do it.”

“Why?” I kiss his tip again.

“Need to come. Need to – so close.”

“Tell me how.”

“Your mouth,” he says again. “Need your mouth.”

“And?”

“Fingers. Fuck me with your fingers.”

“Three?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah. Or more. Four.”

I slip my pinkie in next to the others. “Like that.”

He gives a guttural moan. “Yeah, fuck. Big as your cock, perfect.”

My cock is showing interest, though Merlin knows we’ll both be too sore to do that again.

I twist my hand inside of him. He screams, bucking off the bed and into my waiting mouth. I suck him down, hear him punch the headboard again.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “So fucking good, I’m gonna, gonna…”

It’s all about rhythm now. I fuck my fingers into him, bob my head around his shaft, feel him clenching and gasping.

Then he’s arching off the bed, chanting, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, fuck.”

He shouts, and I feel his spunk fill my mouth. I swallow with an eye to keeping up. He hits the headboard again, and lets out a guttural groan as his hips fall to the bed.

I don’t stop fucking him until he whimpers and pulls away, and I’m surprised at how acutely I feel the loss of him around me. My fingers are sticky with come and lube, and cold.

It’s almost a full minute before he manages to open his eyes. “That…” he whispers. “That was…”

He looks to me, searchingly, but I want to hear his word for this, and if he says ‘all right,’ on Slytherin’s grave, I’ll fucking slap him.

“Incredible,” he breathes.

A narrow escape.

“That was…fuck.” He blinks and props himself up. “That was so fucking good, I had no idea, no idea at all, but your cock…Merlin, your fucking cock.” He collapses back on to the bed.

Not so narrow, perhaps.

I move to lie back next to him. “Not as awful as you’d thought?”

He laughs. “No.”

“Not some painful, disgusting trial?”

“It did hurt,” he replies. “But then…”

“It always hurts a bit,” I offer, after a moment’s silence. “Burns. But if it’s worth it...”

He reaches for my arm, gives it a squeeze. “Yeah. Worth it.”

And then there’s the question I’ve never dared ask before. The answer’s always been evident, if we’ve even got that far. “Worth it again?”

My stomach drops as soon as the words are out.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Fuck yeah.” He laughs. “Your cock, Malfoy, is a thing of beauty.”

I’m glad he’s looking at the ceiling instead of my face. I doubt this particular combination of shock and smugness would be quite my best look.

“Though,” he says. I’m on the cusp of despair again – ‘though I wish it was a bit smaller?’ ‘though maybe just your fingers next time?’ - until he continues, with a nervous laugh, “don’t know how you’d be able to fuck me that long at a Ministry do.”

I swallow, shocked, again, such that words that don’t seem to be forthcoming. “True.”

“The bed thing might’ve been a good idea.”

“Yes, well. I’m full of those.”

“Apparently.” He laughs again, and out of the corner of my eye I see him rest his arms behind his head. “Can see why you had it in mind.”

“You might still be surprised at how well I could fuck you at a Ministry do.”

“Yeah.” He rolls over, propping himself on one elbow to grin down at me, his satiation tinged with challenge. “Yeah, I just might be.”