“Merlin, Harry, point that...thing away from me, would you?”
Scowling, Harry obligingly angles his hips away before scrounging through the files on Ron’s desk. “Piss off,” he grumbles when Ron continues to stare almost fearfully at his crotch, at the tepee that Harry’s
cock erection has made in his maroon robes. “Ron,” Harry says exasperatedly, “would you please stop gawking? Fuck, you’re making this whole thing so much worse!”
“What the hell did I do?!” Ron’s voice rises shrilly. “You’re the one strutting about the place waving that thing in everyone’s face – threatening us all with it!”
“Yes! It’s not unlike having a wand pointed at you!” Ron has the decency to look sheepish now. “It’s...unnerving, mate.”
Harry’s jaw clenches as he grits his teeth, fist closing around several loose sheets of parchment in an old case file as he adjusts his uniform to fall more freely over his front. “Oh, I’m so sorry that I’m inconveniencing you all like this. Personally, I’m having a fantastic time walking around with a permanent fucking boner but, fuck, it must be so much harder on you all--”
Ron makes a sound that’s half sympathetic, half impatient. “This is why you were given permission to go on leave until you--”
“Until I what, Ron?” Harry almost yells, finally locating the right file and yanking on it so hard that the folder rips, sheets of neatly arranged parchment spilling out onto the desk, sailing off the edge and onto the floor. Sighing, Harry pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, lifting his glasses and rubbing at one eye. “Look,” he says wearily, “this whole fucking thing is mental, and I know some people are fucking laughing at me but, fucking hell, Ron, I can’t just sit at home and wait for this to go away, all right?! I’ll likely cut it off and then kill myself!”
Because he’d waited for this to fix itself. He’d waited the whole week following his discharge from Mungo’s.
“Praestolor de conpar,” the senior Healer had finally proclaimed after fifteen minutes of droning on and on about the hex Harry had been hit with, nodding solemnly as he stared morosely at Harry’s cock tenting the sheets that were drawn up to his waist. “Terribly unfortunate, Auror Potter. Our deepest sympathies.”
“So you’re telling me,” Harry said serenely, hands clasped over his midriff, “that this...problem has no actual medical cure?”
“We could...drain the phallus,” one of the junior Healers said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, his gaze carefully trained away from Harry’s erection.
“Well, let’s try that then?” Harry requested brightly.
“It’ll only provide temporary relief, Auror Potter, and we must warn that it’s an incredibly painful, not to mention inva--”
“Let’s. Try. It,” Harry bit out, his smile fixed and completely terrifying.
Fifteen minutes later, Harry had lain curled up on his side, tears of agony dripping off his nose, his whole body shaking from the pain and covered in sweat. “Okay,” he wheezed. “No more draining, then. Next option?”
“There aren’t any other options, Auror Potter,” said the senior Healer, sounding more severe than sympathetic now. “This is ancient, irreversible magic and the hex has likely woven itself around your bones by now. There is nothing you can do but...wait.”
“Wait for what; for whom, my soulmate?!” Harry grit out, baring his teeth at him as he pushed himself up into a half-sit. “That’s fucking ridiculous! You people are Healers, so heal me! I can’t go about with a fucking stiffy this size for the rest of my life, are you fucking joking?!” Harry was completely hysterical by the end.
“Rest,” he was ordered as he was pushed back down. “I’ll write you a prescription for some sleeping potions, seeing as you’re likely to have some trouble falling asleep with the...”
Harry had glared so viciously that not a single Healer came back into his room right up until he was discharged.
And then he’d spent a week in his flat, waiting...and wanking.
It’ll go away, he’d said to himself on loop, and he’d wanked.
It had been far from pleasurable.
Harry had fisted his cock until it was chaffed and throbbed painfully, the foreskin bright red and sore, his balls aching from the number of dry orgasms he’d thrashed through. His palm felt rough and calloused against the oversensitive shaft and he’d had to put on a wrist brace after a point for how painful and creaky the joint got. Cold showers did nothing but clog up his sinuses, and sleep mostly evaded him because the fucking tent-pole between his legs meant he could never get comfortable, and the aversion he’d developed towards sleeping potions after the war was still strong enough that he couldn’t bring himself to down any of it.
It’ll go away, he’d believed all through.
He’d eventually tried to simply distract himself; he’d Floo’d over to Ron and Hermione’s, and assembled an infuriatingly complicated crib for Rosie; Ron had been grateful that he didn’t have to suffer through the process, and Hermione had watched Harry in alarm as if worried that he’d suddenly keel over and pass out because of his jutting boner.
“Are you sure you feel all right, Harry?” she’d asked repeatedly, until Harry and whirled around, glaring, the bulge in his jeans twitching menacingly at her.
“’Mione,” Harry had hissed, “I told you I’m fine. I’ve just spent five days tugging at my now permanently erect penis and my wrist hurts and my balls ache but otherwise, I’m fine. Now, can you confirm whether this piece of shit was supposed to have only three legs because I can’t tell where the actual fuck I’m supposed to shove this fourth one?!”
As he’d bid goodbye after dinner, Hermione had stood there wringing her hands. “I’ve read up on Praestolor de Conpar, of course, and it’s primitive and incredibly powerful and--” she sighed sadly, “I suppose now’s the chance for you to really get out there more, to look for someone.”
“Look for my soulmate, you mean,” Harry said flatly, eyes dull and groin aching.
“Well, I know that’s what it was made to sound like – I mean, the hex was created by this witch who had her heart broken by the man she believed was her one true love and, well, she flew into a rage and--” Hermione faltered as Harry sighed tiredly, looking desperately sorry for him. “What I’m saying is, the term soulmate is relatively contemporary, yes? A product of...romance novels, and—and movies. The objective theory behind the hex states that you simply need to find the best match for your--” she’d blushed, glancing at his crotch before shaking her head and blinking rapidly, “--for you. The person who’d be the perfect match for you; with whom you’d likely spend your life and--”
“Because one of those is easier to find than a soulmate,” Harry had mumbled sadly, helplessly closing a hand over his crotch as his cock started to throb again.
Ron had walked out of the kitchen just then, indignantly squeaking, “Oi! Not in front of my wife, what’s wrong with you?!”
“Oh, would you shut it, Ron?!” Harry had yelled back, before Floo’ing home in a strop and angrily masturbating for the remainder of the night.
Nothing had helped; not even picturing Uncle Vernon in frilly, pink knickers, nor McGonagall in thigh high leather boots brandishing a crop, nor Snape in a schoolgirl’s uniform - though all of those mental images had served to make Harry gag loudly and sob, hoarse and dry, into a pillow.
But still, he’d believed that it would go away, and had determinedly rejoined work the following Monday despite having being granted as many weeks of paid leave as he may require.
All of that had been a week ago. And it still hasn’t gone away.
“We’re not asking you to sit at home and wait for it to go away,” Ron says calmly now, looking up at him steadily, hands laced over his stomach as he lounges low in his chair. “We’re asking you to go out – if not to look for your soulmate,” he half shouts as Harry opens his mouth angrily to interrupt, “then to simply hook up.” He shrugs casually as Harry stares. “Sex has got to be better than wanking by yourself, mate. Hermione figures it may even provide longer bouts of relief as compared to wanking.”
“There is no relief even with wanking,” Harry murmurs, sounding pained, as he sinks into his chair behind his own desk and tugs off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. “It just... It stays hard even after I’ve c--” He breaks off, sighing, not even sure if he’s embarrassed anymore.
“Have you slept with anyone at all since th--?”
“No,” Harry cuts in, bored. “I haven’t had my cock in a bloke’s arse in the longest fucking time and if that by itself doesn’t tell you how hopeless this whole thi--” Harry’s increasingly feverish rant is cut short as there’s a sharp knock on the ajar door and it’s pushed open.
Malfoy walks in, his rectangular, frameless glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he peers closely at a long scroll in his right hand, an enormous pile of colourfully labelled files clutched in the crook of his left arm. He’s garbed in neatly pressed grey trousers with a spotless white shirt tucked in, crimson and bronze striped tie knotted in a perfect double Windsor. His hair is as pale and shiny as ever, combed neatly into place, just a few errant strands falling across his brow. A fancy eagle feather quill is tucked behind one pink ear and there’s a smudge of green ink on his razor sharp nose.
Not for the first time, Harry observes that Malfoy is unfairly cute, and it’s not even the effects of the fucking hex that brings forth this review. Malfoy is just genuinely very pretty. And way, way out of Harry’s league.
He simply stands there, mouth working silently as he reads, for several seconds before looking up, scowling irritably into the silence of Harry and Ron’s office, as if he’d been rudely interrupted. “Do you both have the week’s reports ready for me or not?” he snaps, even as he watches Ron gather up an armful of files.
Ron rolls his eyes as he rounds his desk, pausing for a moment next to Harry’s to collect an additional two folders, before going and roughly dumping the whole pile into Malfoy’s arms.
Scrambling slightly, struggling not to drop the ridiculously large armload, Malfoy bares his teeth at Ron, his glare intensifying when his reading glasses suddenly slip off his nose and skitter onto the floor.
Ron simply sniggers, grabbing a three day-old, half empty packet of crisps from under a pile of ripped envelopes on Harry’s desk and returning to his seat. Malfoy makes a thoroughly annoyed sound as he peeks over the top of the pile of folders he’s holding to look for his glasses.
“Potter,” he waggles a finger, still clamped around the files, in the vague direction of his specs, “if you’d be so kind?” Carefully remaining seated, Harry waves a hand, levitating the delicate spectacles onto the top of the pile Malfoy holds. He receives a tiny, businesslike smile for it. “Much obliged. Aren’t you supposed to be indisposed and on leave?” he asks Harry, head tilting slightly so some more of his neatly combed fringe slides further onto his face.
Sliding his groin deeper under his desk, Harry shakes his head vigorously. “No, I’m perfectly fine.”
“You did take some sort of hex that left you permanently disfigured?” Malfoy confirms curiously. Ron hacks loudly through a mouthful of limp crisps.
Shooting him a glare, Harry shakes his head again. “Not disfigured, no,” he chuckles weakly. When Malfoy simply continues to stare expectantly at him, Harry wheezes, “I’m fine, really.”
Malfoy shrugs, turning away with his precariously placed pile of paperwork and, as he trots out, Harry pretends not to be nearly overwhelmed by the perfect rotundity of his bubble bum – were they even permitted to wear such snug trousers?!
“Sex,” Harry mutters vaguely, one hand unconsciously straying to his cock, thumb stroking the straining bulge. “I ought to have some.”
Ron looks extremely relieved. “There’s this bloke George hired to help with the shop,” he says brightly at once. “Samuel something. Should I...er—Will you be doing like a dinner or something first? Or—you know, just straight away--?” He gestures to where Harry’s cock is standing at full mast under his desk.
Harry stares, exasperated. “I have my doubts about Samuel something being my soulmate, but I still don’t intend to take him straight to bed to bugger senseless, Ron.”
“So, that’s a yes, then? Shall I ask George to get him to owl you?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Harry says miserably, burying his face in his arms. “It’s not as if I’m going to go out and do any better myself.”
“Well?” Ron leans forward excitedly, chair creaking under him. “How’d it go?”
“Great. We plan to get married next spring.” Harry slams his mug of tea on his desk before throwing himself into his chair. His hips have begun to ache now, along with his thighs nearly always trembling from the strain of walking around with a rock hard cock that bobs eagerly under his robes that have been deliberately altered to a size too big.
Ron looks astonished. “Wait, really?”
Harry clicks his tongue irritably as he picks up his tea. “No, Ron! The guy’s a fucking nutter, okay? You set me up with a fucking nutter. He wanted me to brush his hair and pretend he was a cat while he licked my toes or something.” Harry takes an angry chug of oversweet tea while Ron makes a choking sound into one fist, face steadily reddening as he carefully swallows his laughter.
After several seconds of furious gulping, Ron asks with forced nonchalance, “So...you didn’t fuck him then?”
“Well, of course I fucked him,” Harry replies blandly, pulling the day’s load of paperwork towards himself with a sigh. “Sort of the whole point, wasn’t it?”
“Was it after or before you...er, petted him?”
“How does it matter?” Harry snorts, raising his eyebrows, adjusting himself with a hiss of discomfort. “The point is that I fucked him for four hours straight and I’m still--”
“My, my, Potter,” drawls a posh, terribly familiar voice from the doorway and Harry jerks, looking around with his face heating so quickly that he can feel sweat starting to bead on his brow. Malfoy leans one shoulder on the doorframe, crisp, slim-cut robes in a pale, sky blue cascading down his willowy frame as he lounges there and smirks, grey eyes gleaming with wicked glee. “Busy weekend?”
“Shove off, Malfoy,” Ron says loudly, while Harry splutters and tries not to die of embarrassment. “Go annoy someone else, it’s too early on a fucking Monday to look at your pointy mug.”
“Oh, I can always come back later for the details,” Malfoy retorts airily. “Potter doesn’t seem to mind giving those out. Four hours straight, Potter?” And then with a snigger, “Are you on stamina potions of some sort?”
“I—I mean--” Harry’s face matches his uniform now. In his pants, his cock spurts out a dribble of precome at the exact same moment Malfoy absently licks his lips.
“For fuck’s sake, Malfoy, what the fuck do you want?” Ron demands rudely, slamming a fist on his desk, his own mug of tea rattling noisily.
“Absolutely nothing,” Malfoy answers smoothly. “I was simply walking by when I heard something about Potter fucking a cat--”
“Oh my god,” Harry bursts out, completely mortified. “Malfoy, I—I did not fuck a cat, I swear it wasn’t--” But Malfoy is laughing now, rounded shoulders shaking as he throws his head back and chortles loudly, eyes twinkling with mischief, cheeks pink with amusement. Harry stares.
“Do unclench, Potter,” he teases, straightening up and brushing his hands down his wonderfully clingy robes. “I’ve been pulling your leg for over a decade and a half now. Don’t you think it’s about time you learn to recognise it, if not learned to come up with a halfway intelligent retort?”
“Fucking tosser,” Ron mutters irritably as Malfoy saunters away, still chuckling. Harry discreetly grinds into the front of his pants, Malfoy’s pink cheeks and shiny eyes still dancing before him. “Oi, so are you meeting the cat-bloke again?”
Harry promptly stops grinding, slumping forward with a groan. “What do you think, Ron?”
“Ten points to Gryffindor.”
“What about that Andre fellow you used to Floo for a quickie every now and then?”
“I haven’t seen him in over three years. I think he’s engaged now, on top of that.”
“Shit, do you realise how pathetic your social life is, mate?”
“I will come over there and fuck you if you don’t shut up,” Harry says smoothly, straightening up and draining his mug of tea as Ron accidentally breaks his and splutters indecipherably for the next three minutes.
The water’s too hot as it sluices down his body; yet he doesn’t move or make to adjust the temperature any. He stands there, head bowed against the jets, eyes shut, hair hanging into his face, his palms braced against the tiles, shoulders slumped inwards.
His legs feel weak and overused, quivering under him, and his hips are creaky and sore. His back aches, spine clicking dully every time he stretches it out, and the long tracks that have been scratched down the length of his back burn under the extreme heat.
His prick juts out from his body, flushed dark red and twitching every few seconds from the need to be touched, veins bulging alarmingly along the thick length. Harry can still feel the soft pressure around it, clamped tight and damp. He can still hear the loud, wet sounds of lube and precome with every pump of his hips, every thrust of his cock messily squelching out the thick, sticky mixture out the arse of his date from earlier that day, the loud, deliberately wanton moans still echoing through his head, making him grit his teeth and roll his eyes much like he had while he’d still been in the act of fucking him.
Maybe one of the effects of the hex was that he’d never enjoy sex again, even while remaining permanently hard. He can’t think of any other reason as to why he hadn’t enjoyed it; why he’d rushed through the whole thing. It had felt wrong; forced – which it sort of was, if you consider the fact that he’d pushed himself to go on that lunch date and flirt aggressively until he was invited back to his date’s house where he got right down to business.
He hadn’t even kissed the bloke.
He spends the rest of the evening slumped on the sofa in his bathrobe, with a bottle of Ogden’s balanced on one thigh as he drinks and wanks himself into a stupor. When there’s a loud pounding on his door just after seven pm, Harry grimaces and holds his hands over his ears, whimpering in the direction of the noise.
“Go away,” he whines.
“Harry, open the fucking door!” Ron bellows.
“We know you’re in there, Harry, we can feel it in your wards!” Hermione calls out.
After a significant amount of time spent fumbling around for his wand, Harry cleans himself up and pulls down his locking charms with several clicks that are very loud in the quiet stillness of his flat.
“Oh, you’re alive!” Ron says, scowling as he strides in and spots Harry curled up into a miserable ball on the sofa. “I thought I asked you to Floo when you get back from your date. What the fuck happened? Merlin, it smells like spunk coated bollocks in here,” he adds, pinching his nose with two fingers and pointedly hurrying over to open a window.
Hermione perches on the sofa chair across from Harry and watches him worriedly. “Did you even go on the date?”
“Yes,” Harry answers dully; he’s not wearing his glasses and Hermione is a very blurred, bushy-headed shape floating in front of him.
“And?” she prods gently.
Harry shrugs. “’s okay.”
“Still hard?” Ron enquires stupidly.
Harry slants him a weary glare before pointedly indicating to his groin; he’d clumsily pulled his bathrobe shut just as the two of them walked in and it now resembled a terry tent.
“I’ll make tea,” Ron grunts, ears pink, before wandering away to the kitchen, the sound of the kettle filling slightly jarring in the ensuing silence.
“I’m sorry for what you’re going through, you know,” Hermione pipes up softly. “We both are.”
“Are you?” Harry raises his voice slightly in the direction of the kitchen, and he hears Ron’s impatient tch.
“This can’t be comfortable for you,” Hermione acknowledges, waving a hand at his crotch. “You look awful,” she adds, gaze roving over the dark half-moons under his eyes that plunge halfway down to his cheeks, the way he’d paled, his skin tinged with grey, the way his hair is almost frighteningly out of control.
“I feel awful, ‘Mione,” Harry admits, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbing vigorously. “I’ve barely slept in over three weeks, I can hardly think half the time with this--” he angles both hands downwards to point furiously at his erection, “—and I doubt I’m ever going to find someone anyway, so that makes it all the more--”
“Wait, what d’you mean?” Hermione interrupts, frowning. “Why d’you feel like you’re never going to find someone?”
“I never had much hope in the first place, all right?” Harry says impatiently, leaning his head against the back of the sofa. “Even before this fucking mess – I never actually thought there’d be this one guy whom I’d find and—and... You know? I don’t know if there is someone out there for me.”
Harry snorts. “Have you met me?” he asks sarcastically. “Have you noticed what my life’s been like so far? When has it ever been all roses and sunshine for me?”
“Harry, I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through, I am, but none of that is even pertinent to you finding someone to fall in love with,” Hermione says flatly all in one breath. “I know this hex has left you in a mess, but you can’t just sit here feeling hopeless and sorry for yourself. Of course you’re not going to find someone perfectly suited for you just after...what, you’ve been on three dates so far? I’m sorry none of those men were it for you, but I’m also pretty sure you didn’t want any of them to be.”
“None of them would’ve bothered with me if not for my name,” Harry mumbles, squashing his cock down with a cushion and wincing.
“And your giant boner,” Ron supplies from the kitchen.
Hermione tuts. “Isn’t there anyone you fancy? Who jumps to mind immediately?”
Harry deliberately doesn’t permit his brain to process that. “No,” he answers at once.
“Well,” Hermione sighs, “nothing to do but wait, I suppose.”
“Wait, and in the meantime what?” Harry snaps. “Why is everybody asking me to fucking wait? What do you suggest I do while I wait? Fuck my way through all of London in the hopes of finding him? What is this? Some fucked up version of Cinderella? Oh, shit,” he groans, “This is like Cinderella, isn’t it?! Like Cinderella, but with cock. Cock instead of slippers.”
“The very premise of that stupid story is flawed in my opinion,” Ron says loftily as he walks in with the loaded tea tray following him in wonky bounces midair. “I mean, how thick does that fucking prince have to be that he can’t remember the bird’s face? He did spend a whole evening necking with her, right?” He hands out their mugs of tea as Harry and Hermione turn to him, amused. “Wasn’t she the most beautiful woman in the whole kingdom or something? Then how come he had to rely on fucking shoes made out of glass – who makes shoes out of glass?! – instead of just looking the woman in the face and recognising her as the one who gave him a raging stiffy? What an utter shit. Muggles have some fucked up literature, man.”
“Maybe he had a foot fetish,” Harry suggests lamely, finally cracking a crooked smile.
“In all probability,” Ron agrees, nodding and grinning as he lifts his mug to Harry. “So, you want to put out an ad to help you find the arse that best fits your cock?”
Even Hermione dissolves into giggles at that, and Harry can do nothing but sip his tea and glare sullenly at the pair of them while the cushion in his lap dances with each twitch of his poor, hexed cock.
He loves bartenders, Harry decides. Nobody else would serve him an eighth Firewhiskey on ice without even blinking, the way the tall, thin witch with the dozen moving tattoos along her arms and shoulders does.
Harry smiles weakly at her as she swaps his empty glass for a fresh drink, wondering if he ought to have stumbled to the loo first for a quick wank-break before ordering this round.
Drinking, he decides additionally, is infinitely preferable to going on another futile date that would end in mediocre, passionless sex that left him feeling slightly nauseous. Developing a drinking problem is what he should focus on. Fuck soulmates – especially his own.
The soft, smooth greeting is in a voice that is easily familiar and startling in its pleasantness.
Harry turns his head, vision swimming slightly. “Malf...oy?” he slurs, blinking in bewilderment at the long, pale form as he folds himself onto the stool next to Harry's.
Harry’s cock twitches.
“Potter,” Malfoy nods, a single tip of his shiny head, “I didn’t know you were a drunk.”
“I’m not,” Harry replies at once. “Well, not yet anyway.” He squints slightly, pushing his glasses up his nose and blinking as Malfoy finally comes into proper focus, his expression one of wry amusement. “What’re you—what’re you doing here?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Malfoy eyes go round, “I didn’t realise this place was reserved only for Golden Prats.”
Harry rests his head in one hand, forgetting to reply for several seconds as he simply stares at Malfoy with a soft, loopy smile that slowly spreads across his face until he’s grinning at him like a stupid goof. Malfoy looks away, taking a few sips of his drink and ignoring him for a long while before turning back to him with an impatient, “Okay, what? Is it really a problem if I sit here?”
“Absolutely not,” Harry is quick to say. “I’d never have thought you’d sit beside me anyway.”
“Yeah, you and I both, Potter,” Malfoy says, lips quirking slightly. Then, slightly more seriously, “Are you all right? Where’s Weasley?”
Harry shrugs. “We do sometimes go out separately, you know?”
“Hard to believe,” Malfoy says lightly. “I was under the impression that the Weasel was your personal bodyguard.”
“Yeah,” Harry bobs his head with a sardonic smirk, “I’m the one who’s been known to strut around flanked by bodyguards. Sure.”
Malfoy flushes slightly, scowling even as he purses his lips over a smile. “Greg and Vince were my friends, you arse.”
“Sure,” Harry repeats, laughing as Malfoy shoves one sharp elbow into his arm.
“Merlin, you really are still an arse,” Malfoy says, picking up his tall glass of something clear and lemony, taking a long sip. Harry watches as his throat bobs when he swallows – and then he’s simply staring at Malfoy’s neck – the long, graceful length of it, the pale, unblemished skin. It’s that sort of neck that would only look prettier with half a dozen hickeys dotting it.
Harry’s prick jumps again.
“What’re you staring at?” Malfoy’s stunning blush is back, a touch of pique to his tone as he turns to him once more.
“You,” Harry blurts out, before sighing and adjusting the bundle of his work robes in his lap. “Why’d you have to go and get so hot?” he mumbles mournfully into his own drink. “’s really distracting.”
When he steals a quick peek, Malfoy is staring at him with his mouth hanging open, looking completely gobsmacked. “Merlin, Potter!” he hisses, colour leaking down his neck and across the little sliver of his collarbones that’s visible beneath the collar of his cream button-down, where his tie has been loosened some. “How drunk are you?”
“Drunk,” Harry confirms flatly. “Just drunk enough.”
“Drunk enough for?” Malfoy’s gaze is fixed on the slice of lemon floating around in his glass, but Harry can see how his knuckles are sticking out white and sharp where he’s gripping his glass too tightly.
Harry can feel his boner lean hopefully in Malfoy’s direction.
“To buy you a drink, maybe,” Harry says without thinking.
“I already have a drink, Potter.”
Harry reaches over and backhands the glass out of Malfoy’s hand, sending it flying over the bar. Malfoy blinks at him in shock as the tinkle of breaking glass sounds, the barest suggestion of a smile on the corners of his pink mouth. “Drink, Malfoy?”
When Malfoy’s fresh glass of gin and tonic is back between his pale, spidery hands, he slants Harry a long, inscrutable look. “Trust you to be an obnoxiously charming drunk.”
“You think I’m charming, Malfoy?” Harry’s cheek is resting in one hand, his body leaning into Malfoy’s personal space with no conscious effort to do so.
“Obnoxiously so,” Malfoy responds, carefully not meeting his eyes, voice decidedly breathy. “Is this why you were here alone tonight, Potter?”
“Is what why I was here alone?”
Malfoy smirks, gaze sharp and merciless. “To pull.”
“Oh,” Harry tilts his head, returning the same sly smile, “I didn’t realise you were available to pull.”
Malfoy swallows hard enough that Harry actually hears him gulp. “I—I didn’t say I was.”
“So say you are.”
“How d’you know I am?”
Harry’s hand is suddenly on Malfoy’s thigh. “I don’t,” he admits quietly. “I hope you are though.” He lets his hand squeeze, very briefly, and enough to draw a soft gasp from Malfoy, before pulling back.
Malfoy breathes steadily, the pause stretching on and on before he says, “Another couple of drinks, and I think I will be.”
Malfoy doesn’t wear pants, Harry is more than a little pleasantly surprised to find out, an hour later.
He’s got Malfoy’s crisp black trousers down past his slim, silken thighs, and there’s nothing else in between Harry’s desperately groping hands and Malfoy’s sinfully perfect, deliciously round bum as he grabs two handfuls of the taut, supple flesh and kneads.
Harry’s head still swims lightly, the whiskey burning through him with every pump of his furiously thumping heart. His cock is oozing slick, wetting the front of his pants and seeping slowly through his trousers.
Malfoy gasps as Harry’s erection stabs his hip. “Fuck, you’re already--” He suddenly gasps again, breaking off as Harry pushes his face into his neck and takes a firm mouthful to suck. “I never do this, fuck, but I never do this--” he rants feverishly under his breath, one hand tangling in Harry’s hair, the other winding its way between them to close around the painfully straining bulge that is Harry’s boner.
Harry groans into the bruise he’s sucked, immediately rutting into Malfoy’s hand, his whole body burning with sensation. “What don’t you do, Malfoy?” he remembers to ask after a second, yanking aside Malfoy’s collar some more so he can bite into the soft crook of his neck.
Malfoy whines. “Th-this,” he breathes, tugging Harry’s cock in a rolling swirl. “Y’know... Let someone get me pissed and then let them snog me in a back alley.”
“I’m not just someone,” Harry pulls back and says seriously, dark gaze sweeping over Malfoy’s flushed cheeks and wet mouth, his pupils round and black within the pale grey irises. “And I haven’t snogged you yet.”
“So let’s fix that,” Malfoy whispers, yanking Harry’s head forward with the hand still caught in his hair.
Their mouths meet in a ferociously hungry, terribly messy kiss, teeth clacking together too hard, tongues writhing wetly against each other. Harry can taste the zing of Malfoy’s drink on his tongue and growls as he winds a hand in Malfoy’s blond hair and roughly angles his face into place so he can shove his tongue further in. Malfoy moans, his hand tightening painfully around Harry’s erection, making Harry buck in shock and bite down too hard on Malfoy’s lip.
Malfoy hisses, a short, sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth, and jerks away, but Harry’s hand is only fisting more firmly in his hair, drawing him right back in and kissing him so hard that Malfoy’s head slams back into the rough brick wall. Harry can barely even stand at the moment, his cock practically vibrating with the need for further stimulation. Malfoy is warm and pliant and gorgeous in his arms and Harry feels as though he’s slowly unravelling, mind and body.
Whimpering now, Malfoy finally pulls his hand free from between them, choosing instead to carefully angle his own freshly risen cock so it’s slotted against Harry’s still clothed erection, and grind.
That by itself is sufficient to make Harry release his mouth and drop his forehead onto Malfoy’s shoulder, letting out a rough sound that comes out as more of a sob. Malfoy swivels his hips, repeating the firm grind into Harry’s cock and Harry shudders, the pleasure almost too much, too intense.
“Fuck, yes,” he grits out, wrapping both arms around Malfoy’s waist and squeezing. “Fucking hold on,” he growls, and doesn’t wait for Malfoy to finish wrapping his arms securely around his shoulders before Disapparating.
He has Malfoy cheek-first against the wall, his trousers pooled around his feet, about three seconds after they land in Harry’s front hallway.
“Fuck! Potter, fuck!” Malfoy sounds almost panicked as Harry’s finger finds his arsehole, but the way he presses back into his hand doesn’t leave room for doubt or pause.
Not that Harry even pauses. His erection is downright painful as he pulls it out, more actual pain than pleasure, and Harry is desperate as he slicks his fingers and swipes them against the soft furl of Malfoy’s entrance. “Fuck, please, Malfoy,” he coats his erection liberally and lines up, “please fucking let me, I’m so sorry, oh shit, please--”
He’s pressing in even before he’s finished pleading with him, and Malfoy keens, a high, tremulous note, when the bulging, purpled head of Harry’s cock slips into him with an audible pop.
It’s nothing like the other encounters Harry’s had in the past couple of weeks.
Malfoy’s arse pulls him inside, the unbearably tight channel giving way, opening up, as his wildly twitching cock ploughs in. Harry doesn’t even have to pull out and start thrusting before he’s spilling into Malfoy, gasping out his climax into the neck he’d bruised a few minutes ago.
Malfoy, meanwhile, is howling up at the ceiling, and when Harry frantically reaches around to check, he sags with relief to find that not only is Malfoy still hard, but is now leaking out long dribbles of precome, fucking his fist in frantic little bucks, hips moving as much as feasible within the tight space between Harry and the wall.
“Potter, fuck, please!” he shrieks, as Harry pulls out and shoves back in once, then again, and another time, before rucking up the rumpled cream shirt, grasping his hips and yanking them outwards. His own come slicks the way as he then proceeds to pound into Malfoy, over and over again, huffing out a breathless guffaw as Malfoy scrabbles viciously at the wall and screams, “Merlin’s fucking bollocks!”
“You’re into balls, then?” Harry murmurs, releasing Malfoy’s prick to reach further below and locate his wildly swinging balls and tug, thrusting steadily into the wet heat of Malfoy’s arse, hips pumping so hard that they bounce right off the fleshy softness of his bum. “D’you enjoy having a pair in your mouth, Malfoy?”
Malfoy moans, bracing both hands against the wall and rocking back onto Harry’s cock. “I could’ve—sworn you—came just now, Potter,” he says, fighting to breathe as Harry further picks up pace. “Shit, right there—there! Potter, there, don’t stop, keep--” he groans helplessly into one arm, “—keep going, Potter!” he manages in a high wheeze.
“Go’ng t’go all night, Malfoy,” Harry promises roughly, grabbing his cock once more and pumping swiftly. “All fucking night--” he squeezes his prick under the head as Malfoy emits a garbled shout and starts to come all over his hand, “—until you fucking pass out.”
“Potter!” Malfoy’s hand closes over Harry’s on his prick as Harry continues to massage the final few trickles out of him. “Fuck, you bastard--”
“’swhat I’m doing, Malfoy,” Harry snarls, finally pulling his hand back, grabbing Malfoy’s hips again and fucking Malfoy into the wall until he’s coming a second time into his burning hot, pulsating arse.
“Still feel those drinks, Malfoy?” Harry asks after his cock has stopped throbbing, dragging in lungfuls of citrusy air with his face pressed into Malfoy’s hair.
“Just about,” Malfoy replies weakly.
“Good. I wasn’t joking earlier. I’m not nearly done with you.”
Having Malfoy in his bed, naked and spread-eagled, is somewhat like becoming aware of himself in the middle of a particularly good dream and then immediately worrying about waking up before it’s finished in a satisfactory and fulfilling manner.
The sheer regularity with which Harry has imagined this in the past couple of years is not in any way sufficient to prepare him to deal with it in a composed, suave manner. He devours Malfoy, kissing him and kissing him until he frantically shoves at Harry and pulls away reddened, swollen lips, whimpering unintelligibly up at him, thighs falling open wider as Harry ruts his still erect, dripping wet cock against the inside of one.
“Malfoy,” Harry murmurs, nuzzling into his sharp collarbones before running the flat of his tongue up the length of his neck, kissing his jumping Adam’s apple and gnawing at his perfect jaw. “Fuck, are you okay? Did I--?”
“’m fine,” Malfoy interrupts, twitching as Harry’s teeth move further up to graze against the sensitive little cranny below his ear, sighing as his earlobe is then suckled at. “Should’ve known you’d be like this in bed too.”
“Like what?” Harry pulls back when Malfoy doesn’t answer, “Like what, Malfoy?”
Malfoy blinks, gaze unfocused. “Like... Like the world might end unless you don’t put your whole being into whatever it is that you’re doing.”
Harry snorts, mouth spreading into a wide grin before he leans back down for another kiss.
This one lasts long enough that Harry loses track of time, slow and scorching, Malfoy’s legs wound around his hips, his nails hooked into the dampness of Harry’s back; this time when Harry pulls away, Malfoy drags him back in for more.
“Tell me what you want,” Harry breathes, finally drawing away long enough to be able to talk. “Tell me how you want to—tell me what you want.”
“Did you even lose this?” Malfoy wonders out loud, shifting his leg in a slow rub against Harry’s cock. When Harry doesn’t answer, Malfoy smirks, rolling them over and slithering down to inspect it more closely.
Harry can feel Malfoy’s breath against his cock, quick and warm, as it huffs over his shaft. Malfoy’s thumb lazily traces the ridge under the head, before pressing in an unhurried slide down the bulging vein, all the way to his balls. “Wow,” Malfoy whispers suddenly, lapping away a little bead of moisture that leaks out, wrapping his hand around and drawing the folds of his foreskin down. “Consider me impressed, Potter.”
Malfoy sucks his cock with a practised ease, one hand wrapped firmly around the base, the other playing with his balls, his lips sealed in firm suction as he moves his head in long, controlled bobs.
Harry, relatively less tipsy than he was earlier, who’s still struggling to process that he has Malfoy in his bed, freshly fucked by him, and sucking his cock now, fights not to buck up into his glorious mouth, forcing himself to lie flat and still, legs shifting restlessly on either side of Malfoy. For the first time in days, in weeks, he isn’t thinking about the Praestolor de conpar.
Because Malfoy is licking at his balls now, pulling them turn by turn into his mouth and lightly pinching the thin skin between his lips. He’s rubbing the smooth, spongy head of Harry’s cock around his mouth, down over his chin and up along one cheek, leaving shiny trails of slimy precome that glisten in the moonlight pouring in the from the window.
“What do you want, Potter?” Malfoy murmurs against the thatch of tight black curls, his hand moving in loose pumps along the shaft.
“God,” Harry bucks up wildly into the teasing grip of his hand, “to fuck you again; come up here.”
Malfoy obliges willingly enough, smirking into the flat, quivering plane of Harry’s belly, tongue running up along the trail of dark hair to his navel, which it then dips into. He applies teeth every now and then on his way up, leaving bright red spots behind, teasing one dark nipple with his tongue incessantly until Harry manhandles him onto him back once more, snarling into his mouth for another loud kiss.
Weak, breathy moans sound as Harry marks Malfoy’s throat some more, sinking his teeth in and viciously sucking blood up until his skin stands out in mottled red and purple. Malfoy gasps, arching high, pressing his chest into Harry’s mouth as he sucks on tight, pebbled pink nipples, pulling the reddened tip in between his teeth and flicking his tongue over the throbbing nubs until Malfoy is sobbing with each helpless jerk of his body.
He tastes Malfoy’s cock, pulling the slender, rosy length into his mouth and sucking until it juts out stiff and wet, as hard and desperate as Harry’s own still rampant erection. He caresses Malfoy’s arsehole, gleaming wet and winking up at him as he conjures and carefully fingers lube into him.
When Malfoy’s arse is drooling lube and spasming open around Harry’s thrusting fingers, he crawls over him and lines up, bending Malfoy in half as he slings his knees over his shoulders.
“Ready?” he breathes, reaching down and thumbing himself into place.
Malfoy, flushed and sweaty, eyes slightly crossed, mouth wet and gasping open, says, “You didn’t ask the first time, Potter.”
“Didn’t I? Oops.” Harry smiles and presses into Malfoy, slipping in wet and easy, both of them muffling moans of sheer bliss against each other’s mouths. When Harry starts a patient, leisurely rut into the greedy clench of his arse, Malfoy throws his head back and lets his eyes fall shut, his breath leaving him in short, sharp bursts.
They move as one, Harry’s hips never stopping, never pausing, Malfoy’s hands in his hair, and his quiet whines of pleasure keeping Harry going for way longer than he’d ever thought he could go. The sounds they both make are low and desperate, their grip on one another never loosening, but the pace that Harry sets doesn’t speed up, doesn’t turn demanding.
That is until Malfoy’s hands fly up into his own sweat-heavy blond locks, his eyes rolling back into his head, his mouth sagging wide open as he garbles, “Potter, please,” bucking up ineffectively under Harry’s heated weight.
“Yes,” Harry’s hips move quicker now, “Fuck, yes, Malfoy--”
The pressure around his cock becomes unendurable as Malfoy bursts into sudden orgasm, his arse clamping vice like around him as he cries out and thrashes, their stomachs sliding together as Malfoy comes in long, endless jets.
“Yes, fuck, Potter, come in me--”
And Harry does; he pounds hard enough into him that the bed crashes into the wall and the mattress bounces, and he fucks an orgasm so spectacularly intense into Malfoy, that for several seconds, all he sees is white and all he hears is some sort of keening static that he then realises is his own hoarse screaming.
Malfoy’s entire body is sweat slippery and trembling under him, his sharp, breathless whimpers cutting into Harry’s own rough panting. They’re entwined tightly together, all four of Malfoy’s limbs coiled tightly around Harry, his face burrowed into the crook of Harry’s neck as he hiccups softly.
Harry’s insides feel liquefied – his brain especially. He can’t even begin to process the enormous fucking fact that he’s had sex (twice!) with Draco sodding Malfoy. His back feels sore, his legs stiff and heavy, and eventually, his cock slips out, wet and soft, of Malfoy’s arse.
“What?!” Harry leaps backwards, flying off the bed so violently that he ends up slamming the back of his head into the wall opposite the bed. Malfoy shrieks, scrambling up, endless arms and legs flailing about wildly, pale hair mussed beyond recognition. He sits up in a kneel, looking around the room as though expecting to be violently attacked, before glaring at Harry with irritated incredulity.
“What?” he snaps. “What the fuck is it? What happened?!”
Harry is staring down at his cock – his cock that’s hanging limp and heavy between his slightly sticky thighs. At Malfoy’s sharp tone, he looks up, gaping at him in silence until Malfoy makes another sound of vexation.
“My cock,” Harry says blankly, “my cock is soft.”
The look of disbelief Malfoy shoots him serves to make Harry snap out of it some – just slightly. “Excuse me?” Malfoy dips his head, looking at Harry as though he’s the dumbest, most obtuse half-wit alive. “Your cock is soft?” he repeats, one eyebrow hooking upwards. “Is that a completely unnecessary observation you’re sharing with me, or do you genuinely not know how sex works?” When Harry continues to stare with his mouth hanging open, he declares hotly, “You came thrice in the last hour! Of course your stupid, fucking cock is soft! It’s finally soft, Merlin!”
“Praestolor de conpar,” Harry says dimly, “it’s...gone.”
“What?” Malfoy asks impatiently, looking more and more frustrated with each passing second. “Potter, what are you--?” he breaks off, sighing and running a hand through his hair, “Shit, I knew there’d be some enormous fucking downside to doing this with you,” he mutters irritably. “You’re a goddamn basket case.”
“No, Malfoy, it’s not like--!” Harry hurries forward, placing one knee on the bed and grasping his cock. Excitement and relief of such immense magnitude fill him that he doesn’t quite register grasping his cock and half-shouting, “My cock! Look at my soft cock!” and waving the damp length in floppy circles at Malfoy.
Malfoy’s lip curls, his cold, totally unimpressed gaze slowly moving up from Harry’s flapping cock, to his bright, excited expression. “You really are a fucking freak,” he hisses poisonously, “and a total fucking arsehole.” Malfoy kicks himself angrily out of Harry’s bed, picking up his discarded shirt off the floor while shooting Harry another glare that’s pure, venomous fury.
Harry’s beaming grin fades a little. “Malfoy, no, wait!” He leaps forward, grabbing Malfoy’s arm and drawing him close, giving in to the inexplicable impulse to plant a long, very moist kiss on Malfoy’s snarling mouth.
Malfoy emits a squeak of surprise, shoving futilely at Harry before suddenly letting his mouth move along with his. When Harry pulls back, he stares at Harry with a mixture of impatient confusion and curiosity.
“What’s your deal, Potter?” he demands suspiciously. Then he glances down at Harry’s hand still wrapped around his soft cock, lips twisting into a sneer. “You have a problem,” he informs Harry.
“No, I had a problem,” Harry says earnestly. “I was hexed, see? Praestolor de conpar.”
“That doesn’t make any more sense to me than it did the first time you stuttered it at me.”
“It wouldn’t go down, not until I got sexually involved with my...” Harry trails off, eyes going big and round, before eventually bulging slightly, “...soulmate.”
Malfoy makes another sound of irritation. “What?” he presses exasperatedly, before his eyes narrow dangerously, “Who is your soulmate?”
Harry sinks down onto the bed, elbows on his knees, his face in his hands as he lets out a long, tortured groan on a weak chuckle. “Why am I not even surprised? I’m not surprised! Of course it had to be you! This is the fucking parody that my life is!”
There’s a long bout of complete silence, and when Harry finally lifts his face out his hands and looks up helplessly, he sees Malfoy standing there, perfectly still, his expression one of controlled panic.
“Wh-what?” he whispers at last, looking very much like he’s fervently praying he’d misheard Harry. “What did you just say?”
“We’re soulmates,” Harry mumbles glumly. “Or...like...perfectly matched for each other or something.” When Malfoy looks horrified, he hurries to add, “No! My cock is proof! My soft cock is proof, look at it!” He spreads his thighs out, pointing eagerly to his wonderfully soft cock.
But Malfoy doesn’t look. He stumbles back a step, shoving one arm into his shirt sleeve, either not noticing or not caring that the garment is inside out. He throws Harry another frightened look as he backs away. “I don’t know if it’s the effect of some brain injury you suffered, Potter, but I know a lunatic when I see one and I’m not going to wait around to confirm whether I’m right.”
Harry springs to his feet, reaching for Malfoy with both hands, shaking his head with a croaked laugh. “No, Malfoy, listen, let me explain--!”
“Bye, Potter!” Malfoy shrieks, turning around and tripping forward blindly.
“Ugh,” Ron pointedly gags, “Listen, you two, I don’t want to spend my birthday watching you both suck face.” Harry shoves his tongue further into Draco’s mouth, his hands discreetly slipping under his shirt. “I swear to Merlin!” Ron bellows. “I’m serious, Harry, I don’t give a flying fuck if he’s the one you were born to fuck or whatever!”
Harry snorts into the kiss and Draco makes a sound of annoyance, pulling away with a scowl. “That’s disgusting,” he declares, before turning to glare at Ron. “Stop saying shit like that, Weasel. We were not born to— just shut your stupid face.”
“We were,” Harry says hotly, thoroughly offended. “How can you say that after--? We were! We’re soulmates!”
“I will break up with you,” Draco assures him calmly, elbowing him away and sauntering over to where Ron is sitting sprawled out in the grass, choosing to sit on enormous square of blue and white instead of on the bare ground. “D’you want some cider or not?” he asks when he turns to find Harry still standing there sulkily.
“He’ll get himself some cider if he wants some cider, Malfoy,” Ron says rudely as Harry comes and plonks himself down on the blanket beside Draco. When Draco and Harry simply relapse into fervent snogging, Ron screams, “’Mione! Hermione! They’re doing it again! I told you not to invite them! I’m going back home, I swear I am!”
Hermione scoops up Rose from where she’s scampering around a few yards away and heads over, smiling exasperatedly at the sight of Draco crawling into Harry’s lap. “This is new for them, Ron, let them enjoy it.”
“It’s been nearly a year, are you mental?!” Ron howls, picking up his empty bottle of butterbeer and chucking it wildly at them, the bottle sailing over their heads as Harry suddenly collapses onto his back with a grunt. “I will LEAVE!”
Harry breaks away with an impatient smack, pushing himself back into a sit as Draco slides off his lap with a very pleased smirk. “Why are you such an old ballsack, you little shit?” He digs around in the enormous, magically Extended picnic basket and pulls out two bottles of chilled cider. “As if you and Hermione don’t regularly snog in front of people.”
“We’re in public!” Ron shouts, waving an arm around the completely empty stretch of green meadow.
“We’re in love!” Harry points out loudly.
“Gross,” Draco mumbles into his cider.
“”Besides, it wasn’t my idea to have a fucking birthday picnic,” Harry snorts, “like you’re fucking eight.”
“It’s a gorgeous day, Harry, come on,” Hermione sighs, turning her face up into the sun.
“Yeah, it is,” Harry murmurs into Draco’s hair, pulling him closer.
“You’re ten seconds away from having cider flung in your face, Potter,” Draco drawls, turning his face slightly to nuzzle Harry’s nose.
“Shut up, you love me,” Harry says on a wide grin.
“Disputable,” Draco says, taking another sip of cider, but readily accepting the wet kiss Harry plants on his temple. “This has got to be the dullest birthday celebration I’ve ever been to, Weasley, congratulations.”
“You literally weren’t even invited,” Ron points out.
“He’s my plus one,” Harry says smugly.
“The others won’t be here until noon, nobody managed to get an earlier Portkey,” Hermione says, carefully peeling an orange.
“We can’t stay past two,” Harry says quickly.
“Why?” Ron scowls, “Where are you going?”
“We have plans,” Draco informs him snootily.
Ron snorts. “Yeah, we all know what that means,” he glares at Harry, “Doesn’t your cock ever get tired?”
Harry grins lewdly. “I once spent almost a month with a raging boner, Ron. What do you think?”