My guy pretty like a girl / And he’s got fight stories to tell. /
I see both sides like Chanel, / See on both sides like Chanel.
- Frank Ocean, "Chanel"
When Draco looks at Harry, he feels like he’s seeing double.
The man storms out of the Floo as if he were still walking through the corridors of the Ministry: red-clad shoulders pushed back and power dripping from his coattails. His eyes are dark, his spine ramrod straight. The Prophet says it makes him look brave, but Draco thinks it just makes him look like everything they want him to be—power-hungry. Intimidating. Head Auror.
Draco should be afraid of the man, or, perhaps even in awe of him. Of the raw power that crackles around him like lightning, of the intensity that colours each of his breaths, of the Herculean strength that he exudes with every move. This is how the rest of the Wizarding World treats him, after all…
When Draco looks at Harry, though, all he can think about is how fantastic it would be to have this immensely powerful man spread out under him—begging for Draco to do whatever he'd like to him. To use him.
Draco lounges in the doorway of the sitting room, waiting, watching. His eyes snagging on Harry the way a predator's might snag on their prey. He watches as Harry walks almost mechanically to the kitchen, pausing to set his wand down on the countertop. It takes Harry a few seconds, almost as if it pains him to pry his white-knuckled grip from the wood.
Harry lingers in the kitchen, his hands pressed down flat on the counter, body hunched over like an animal in pain. Draco waits to see if the man will turn, but after a few strained moments he loses patience. He has never been one for waiting.
Draco strides across the room, allowing his footsteps to echo loudly on the hardwood floor. Harry turns suddenly and leans back against the countertop, glimmering eyes skimming over Draco in greeting. The rigid line of his shoulders seems to soften a fraction at the sight of him, but Draco can still sense tension radiating off his body in waves.
“Did I say you could turn around?” asks Draco sternly, slipping into the space in front of Harry.
“I didn’t think we should delay the inevitable,” goads Harry, a sharp smile pulling at the edge of his lips. Draco has to bite back a smile at this, secretly loving the way he has to coax the control from Harry. The other subs Draco had been with were always too eager to please; too pliant. Harry, though, always made him work for his submission—making it so much sweeter when Harry melted into his arms at the end of the night.
“Inevitable?” presses Draco, moving forward to pin Harry to the counter. He runs his hands up Harry’s thighs, digging his nails into the flesh of his hips, “It’s rather bold of you to assume that I’d want anything to do with you tonight… isn’t it, Harry?”
Harry inhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut, head dropping back against the kitchen cabinets, and cock growing steadily harder against Draco’s. The delicious reaction is enough to tug at Draco’s restraint—to make him want to surge forwards and smash his lips against Harry’s. To finish whatever was building between them in a quick, dirty fuck that makes them forget each other’s names. Draco’s well-practiced control convinces him to do otherwise, so instead, Draco pushes himself off of Harry, relishing in the whimper that escapes the other man’s lips. He doesn't look back, doesn't let himself get caught in the temptation to ravish Harry, and heads to the sitting room. He slides into one of the armchairs, picking up one of the newspapers that lay open on the coffee table and begins to read, channeling the nonchalant attitude the Malfoy's had once been known for projecting.
It feels like dying, denying himself the instant gratification of sex with Harry, but Draco knows that Harry needs more than just sex tonight—he needs to give up control. And, more importantly, he needs to choose to give up that control. Thus, Draco waits, acting as if Harry was not behind him; as if he didn’t know that Harry was fighting himself to relent, to let go.
When Harry finally joins Draco in the sitting room—sinking to his knees in front of him as he had been trained to—Draco can’t help but feel proud of him. He’s the definition of a contradiction, kneeling in his Auror robes, and Draco knows it is hard for Harry to accept this part of himself, no matter how desperately he craves it. Draco gulps down his praise, though, because Harry knows Draco expects more from him. Harry says nothing, and after the charged silence between them grows to be too much for Draco to handle, he prompts, “If you want something from me, Harry, you’re going to have to beg.”
“Please, sir,” murmurs Harry in response, eyes downcast and a flush blooming across his cheeks, “allow me to please you.” The words are slow, hesitant, and not enough for Draco.
“You’re going to have to be more specific, Harry.”
“Use me, sir. I can be the perfect cockslut. Let me worship your cock, sir. Please.” The words fly from the other man’s lips more freely now, as if something in him had broken loose.
Draco reaches out, his fingertips lifting Harry’s chin to lock eyes with him, “Is that what you want? To be used?”
“Yes, sir, please…”
“Then show me. Suck,” commands Draco. The effect is instantaneous; Harry’s mouth drops open, almost as if he couldn’t help it, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips, leaving them to glisten with an enticing sheen. Draco couldn’t wait to have them wrapped around his cock.
Draco pulls out his cock, already hard and rigid, and Harry—gorgeous in his submission—holds his head still, waiting. Draco guides himself towards Harry’s open mouth, and the other man’s lips immediately seal around his cock, eliciting a groan from Draco as he's enveloped in the tight, wet heat. Draco curls his fingers into Harry’s dark hair and begins to thrust shallowly into his mouth.
Harry takes it beautifully, mouth working around Draco’s thrusts as if he were born to do so. The pleasure is intoxicating, and Draco wouldn’t mind spending all night with his cock in Harry’s mouth, but he can see the hunger shining in his eyes—the undiluted desire for more. He pulls out from the man’s mouth, stifling a moan at the loss of heat, and he takes a moment to just admire the man in front of him.
Harry looks gorgeous with his cheeks flushed and mouth swollen. Spit shines on his lips, trailing down his chin and dripping down onto his robes. His green eyes are fixed on Draco’s cock, and his breaths come out in pants—ghosting over Draco with each exhale.
“You’re fucking gorgeous when you suck my cock.” Draco allows the compliment to roll off his tongue, indulging in the way it made Harry’s entire body shudder in response, a barely suppressed whimper caught on the edge of his spit-slick lips. He leans closer, lips grazing the shell of Harry’s ear and whispers, “You were so good for me.”
This time Harry can't stop a moan from escaping him: a loud, wanton noise that seems to make Draco even harder—if that's even possible. Draco reaches out before he could stop himself and grabs Harry by the wrist, pulling him up to straddle him, his tight hold on control slipping for a moment. The fabric of the Auror robes brushes against his cock, the delicious friction pulling a groan from him that is promptly swallowed by Harry’s lips crashing into his.
The kiss is dirty; it's the slow, messy joining of lips and tongues and moans. Draco loves it. His hands come up to cup Harry’s face and draw him in closer, kissing him until he’s too breathless to continue and has to pull back. Harry desperately ruts against him, his hardness pressing into Draco’s own with an unspoken need.
“Take off my clothes,” instructs Draco, eyes locked on Harry’s.
Harry nods fervently in agreement, still rolling his hips against Draco. His strong, scarred, Ministry-trained hands reach up to unfasten the buttons on Draco’s shirt. Harry tugs the shirt off, hands tracing a fiery path down Draco’s shoulders and arms. He runs his hands over Draco’s thighs and wandlessly vanishes his trousers and pants. The fact that Harry is able to so effortlessly conjure magic despite having fallen deep into a pleasure-induced frenzy has Draco practically salivating with lust. It makes Draco’s grip on Harry’s waist tighten, and it pushes him to surge forward and nibble at the sharp edge of Harry’s jaw, to nose at the stubble covering his chin. He finds himself drawn back to the man’s mouth, indulging in the addictive act of kissing Harry once more.
“What do you want, Harry?” gasps Draco in between another kiss.
“Fuck me.” The words erupt between them, molten-hot and sparking Draco to move with a new energy. He lifts Harry, arms curled under the other man’s thighs, and takes him to their bedroom. Draco sets him down on the counter of their dresser, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind Harry. He looks wild with desire, his hair mussed and eyes darkened into a nearly unrecognizable shade of lust.
He steps into the space between Harry's legs, which lay open—exposing the outline of his thick cock within the fabric of his robes. Draco wants Harry so badly he think he might explode with need. Words bubble out of Draco’s throat before he can stop himself, “I’m going to fuck you so good, Harry. Going to split you open with my cock, inch by inch, until you can hardly breathe. Would you like that, darling?”
He draws his gaze back to Harry, who is looking at him with his wide green eyes, a desperate gleam swimming in their midst. He can tell the man is holding himself back, waiting for Draco’s command. He can tell that Harry wants him. The thought makes him feel dizzy with power and in an attempt to keep himself from stumbling, to keep from losing all semblance of control, he surges forward and kisses Harry. He starts to pull at Harry’s robes, to divest the man of the heavy fabric so he can reach the warm skin awaiting beneath them, but they’re a hassle when he’s this turned on, so he just vanishes them off.
A low, breathy chuckle comes from Harry at Draco’s impatience, “Those were a little important, weren’t they?”
“You can replace them later, Potter. I think there are some more pressing matters to attend to,” Draco growls in response.
He runs his hands over Harry’s body, feeling the way the muscles in his shoulders have relaxed a fraction—not nearly enough to satisfy Draco, but it’ll do for now. He gets distracted for a second, eyes hungrily scanning the stunning figure in front of him. His exploratory gaze pauses on Harry’s cock.
It was nestled within a pair of black, lace knickers. Harry’s cock bulges from it obscenely—like something out of an erotic film—stretching the lace so that it wraps around him like a second skin.
“Did you wear this for me?” asks Draco, delighted, pressing his palm into the other man’s hardness.
Harry's smile is the definition of smug, “I might’ve.”
“So, you expected this to happen?”
“Like I said earlier, Draco, this was… inevitable.”
The comment shouldn’t affect him as much as it should, but it reminds him of his purpose in this game that they play. He needs to reclaim his control. He tugs Harry off the dresser and pushes him back onto their bed. He takes the knickers off slowly, pulling a nearly-feral groan from Harry as the netted fabric drags over the man's cock. Draco pauses to take a few seconds to admire the gorgeous lines of Harry’s long, hard cock. The sight is so enticing that he can’t help but lick the stray drop of precome that weeps from the tip, reveling in the low moan it pulls from the back of Harry’s throat—sore from the earlier face-fucking, he’s sure.
He takes a moment to Accio his wand from the bedside table behind him and uses it to cast a spell that spreads Harry out for him, pushing his legs up and apart and exposing the pucker of his arsehole.
“Was this inevitable, Harry?” Draco asks, his voice low and demanding.
Harry struggles a bit at the spell’s invisible restraints that hold him in place before melting into the hold, breaths rushing out of him in quick pants and eyes beginning to glaze over slightly, “No,”
“No, sir.” The words slip out of Harry’s mouth desperate and lightning-fast, almost as though he’d been hexed.
“Colour?” prompts Draco.
“Green,” answers Harry, eyes clearing for a moment.
Draco nods and leans over him, getting close enough to see the small blemishes on Harry’s face, close enough to hear the other man’s breath catch in his throat, and whispers, “Now, let’s have some fun, shall we?”
He pulls away quickly and waves his wand once more, casting a cleaning spell that makes Harry flinch and spread his legs just a tiny bit wider. Draco kneels beside the bed, putting himself eye-level with Harry’s arse. His breaths fan over the pink pucker of his hole and he can sense Harry tense in anticipation. A quick glance upwards shows him that his hands are clenched into fists, his back frozen in an arch—awaiting the onslaught of pleasure that Draco plans to deliver.
The first swipe of Draco’s tongue across Harry’s arsehole draws a loud yelp from the other man, and when Draco’s tongue continues to lick and suck and burrow its way into Harry’s arse, Harry's yelps turn into a litany of moans and curses. His hips, though restrained by the bonds of the spell, begin to thrust up towards Draco’s face.
“Fuck—yes, please, more—sir,”
Draco pulls back for a moment, strings of spit dangling from his lips, and says, “Your arse is so gorgeous, Harry. I could eat it all day.”
The praise hits Harry’s body like a bludger, and it, along with Draco’s mouth—which returns to their former position—has Harry’s hips rutting shamelessly against Draco’s mouth. In between pants Harry gasps out, “I’m going to come, sir, I—”
“—Stop,” snaps Draco, pulling away suddenly, “You will not come until I say so.”
Harry lets out a pained whine, and Draco cannot tell if its due to the loss of his mouth or the command. His hips thrust into empty air for a moment, seeking friction that will never come. All he says is pleasepleaseplease, a silent protest lingering between them in the air.
Draco obliges, sucking one of his bollocks into his mouth instead of returning to his arse. He uses his tongue to massage Harry’s balls, swiping long, wet strokes onto the flesh that make Harry unintelligible with desire. His fingers reach down, rubbing a few circles into the man’s arsehole with conjured lube before plunging a finger in. He continues this for a few minutes, alternating from one bollock to the other until Harry’s moans begin to fill the room once again.
He brings Harry towards the edge of orgasm and back again and again and again until the man is practically sobbing with need. Harry’s hoarse voice, trembling body, and hazy eyes are enough for Draco to pull back, to give Harry what he wants.
“You’re doing so good for me, baby. You took my fingers, my mouth, everything so well. Should I fuck you now? Is that what you want?” Draco lets the words fall out of his mouth as he slicks his cock with lube.
“Yes, sir. Please.”
Draco guides his cock into Harry’s slick, puckered arsehole, pushing in slowly until he’s fully seated within Harry. The feeling is incredible, almost immediately pushing him towards to edge of release. He takes a moment to let Harry adjust, to indulge in the sensation of a warm, tight arse wrapping around his cock like a glove. Harry whines, though, attempting to snap his hips forward despite the restraints and snaps him out of his thoughts and spurring him to fuck him in earnest.
Draco fucks him in slow, hard thrusts. Harry moans and curses and clenches his teeth together, hips spasming as he tries to get Draco to fuck him harder, deeper, faster. Draco can see him struggling to keep his orgasm at bay, can sense his own impending release approaching when he releases the spell with a murmured Finite.
Harry’s legs immediately wind around Draco’s waist, his heels digging into his back and his arms coming up to clutch at Draco’s shoulders as Draco begins to thrust into him more rapidly. He can feel himself losing control, evident in his thrusts getting messier by the minute. Their bodies slide together, slippery with sweat, evoking wet, slapping sounds when their skin slams together with each thrust. Harry is nearly incoherent with pleasure, pleading into Draco’s ear for release.
“Please, sir,” Draco makes out in between his moans, “I can’t hold back for much longer, please—”
“Come for me, Harry. You’ve been so good for me,” whispers Draco finally, hand slithering between them to stroke Harry’s cock. Harry comes soon after, teeth grazing Draco’s neck as he rides out the wave of his orgasm. Draco pulls out and vigorously strokes himself until he reaches completion, drinking in the sight of Harry below him, covered in sticky strands of their release.
Draco feels the insistent dregs of sleep pulling at him but resists; he needs to take care of Harry—whose prone form lays on the bed with glassy eyes and flushed cheeks—first. He cleans Harry up with a damp washcloth, heals the welts left by the bondage spell, and wraps him in a thick blanket. Draco lays beside him in bed, eyes drawn to his languid figure.
The man is gorgeous in the aftermath of sex, damp hair and glowing skin making him look like some sort of god. What Draco appreciates the most, though, is how relaxed he looks. It’s evident in the graceful slope of his neck, in the soft alignment of his features, in the slow, quiet breaths he takes. The tension from earlier seems to have completely bled out of him, making him look nothing like the Head Auror who runs the Ministry. It makes him look human.
Draco knows that by the next morning he will be forced to reconcile this version of Harry with the one who slips away to work each morning, but, for now, he cannot help but take pride in the fact that he is the one who brought Harry here—to this space where he has nothing to worry about, if only for a few more hours.