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Foreplay

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Getting a raging hard-on on the duelling room floor, pinned under Harry Potter’s sweaty body, is not how Draco saw his day going, but… Well, here he is.

They shouldn’t even be here. They’re not trainees; they’re Aurors, teachers. Draco, Advanced Wand Technique for Defence. Potter, Physical Combat. It was Robards’s idea, that they do a demo. It’s his fault. You can’t pit magic against brute force. Well, you can. It’s simply that magic ought to come out properly on top, so to speak, pretty much one hundred per cent of the time. The fact that it didn’t this time is… an unfortunate bending of statistics to Harry Potter’s will.

It’s also cheating, plain and simple. Because Draco had stripped Potter of his wand, quite handily. That should have ended it. Only it so happened that Potter wandlessly Expelliarmused it right back, swiped Draco’s feet out from under him, threw his newly reacquired wand aside, and then tackled Draco with all his stupid, sweaty might.

Thus began the tussling.

Draco’s slighter frame has never been a disadvantage, and he’d successfully writhed out from under Potter at first, although Potter’d crawled after him, yanked his ankles, and plopped right back down on top of him, this time his front to Draco’s back. And still Draco had fought valiantly, managing to twist beneath him and (he’s not proud of this) pull Potter’s hair, hard enough to at least surprise him into inaction while Draco got his legs around Potter’s torso and attempted to fling him off.

Which had not worked. And had only resulted in Draco getting his offending hand (and then the other one) pinned high over his head, Potter’s body anchoring him down to the floor.

And that’s when a variety of humiliations occurred on Draco’s person. First and foremost, he’d looked into Potter’s eyes. Glittering green. Apocalyptic green. Shadows like clouds on a lake. Never has anyone looked so alive as Potter holding Draco down while his struggles slowly die off.

Then, Potter’s body. Heavy. So heavy. His muscles all taut, weight implacable. As Draco tried to wrench his arms free, Potter’s fists tightened; he exerted only the smallest increase in force, and it stilled Draco’s attempts. Arms no longer of any use, Draco bucked, such that he could, and Potter’s pelvis ground down hard into his own. No small miracle that Draco was not, at this point, hard as hell. The shock still worked through his nervous system, adrenaline choking off anything but fight or flight. For just that one last moment...

...before Draco smelled him. Bright. Citrus. And then, under that, rich earthy sage. And under that. Sweat. Clean and salty. Not sour. Not rank.

He’s wearing a white vest, loose enough to be a liability, something Draco could have leveraged, yanked on, ripped right off. It shows the sweat-darkened hair under his arms, some of it matted down, strands clinging together. And Draco smells him. Bright. Dark. Penetratingly sexual.

This is what does it finally, Draco’s writhing now becoming not a legitimate bid to escape, but a shameful ploy for the tiniest bit of friction between them. He makes it look good. Of course he does. He grits his teeth and yanks at Potter’s hold on his arms, in effect wrenching up a bit and rubbing their chests together. It makes Potter have to hold him down harder, his strong arms rippling. Draco bucks again, pressing his hardening cock against Potter’s granite slab of a body. Their gazes hold, anger to anger. At least to anyone watching. But Draco sees the shift in Potter over him, the inkdrop spread of pupil, the flare of his nostrils as he breathes Draco in. And he feels the sharp jut of a thick cock swelling against his inner thigh.

In this moment Draco could slip his leg out a bit, could find more leverage and try to throw Potter off. But then the last humiliation happens: A drop, just one fat drop of sweat, clings for a moment to the hair in the cup of Potter’s underarm… and then it gives up. It falls. And it lands on Draco’s cheek. His lashes flutter, the instinct to wipe it away strong. But with Potter holding him there, all he can do is let Potter’s sweat roll down his own cheek. Potter sees it, watches it, and when he meets Draco’s gaze one last time, Draco’s cock rears up. Hard.

“And that’s how you disable your opponent without a wand,” says Robards.

Neither Potter nor Draco have said anything the entire time. Draco rather forgot he was to be teaching. From the slightly bewildered blinking that Potter’s doing over him, Draco thinks he rather forgot too.

Potter swallows, his throat moving. Stubble and shine. Draco moves under him, just a tilt of his hips. “You going to let me up anytime soon, Potter, or have I worn you out so badly you’re just going to take a kip right here?”

The bewilderment clears, and there’s now a wry slant to Potter’s lips. He doesn’t immediately let Draco up. He does slowly release Draco’s wrists, sitting up but now straddling Draco’s hips. Draco flexes his wrists as Robards drones on about other techniques Potter might have used, all of them requiring less bodily contact but certainly more violence. A punch to the throat, wrenching back an arm, etc. And while he does, Potter sits on top of Draco, catching his breath, the heaviness of his cock insistent against Draco’s body.

Draco rises onto his elbows as Potter wandlessly Summons a water bottle and tips his head back, drinking deep, some of the water cascading down his chin and chest. He wipes his lips with the back of a wrist and offers the bottle to Draco. When Draco only raises a brow (despite the ferocity of his own thirst), Potter shrugs and finally, finally, rises from the floor with a small grunt.

It’s only when Draco realises that his own cock is merely half-hard now that it dawns on him: Potter sitting there might have been a mercy. He might have done so to give them both time for it not to be stupidly obvious.

Draco stares after him as Potter walks away, retrieving a towel from the rack by the door and then disappearing through it. Not even a ‘good match’ or ‘see you, Malfoy’ or anything. Draco’s cheeks flame with heat; he Summons his wand back with too much force, and the sting as it hits his palm makes him hiss.

~

The water’s running as Draco enters the locker room. He’d expected the showers to be empty. He’d certainly given Potter enough time. He could turn around and walk out. He could Floo back to his own flat and shower there.

He makes the mistake of sneaking around the nearest row of lockers and taking a peek.

The shower heads line two walls of what operates as one large communal shower room. Potter’s there, in the open, ducking his head under the hard spray of a shower nozzle, his palm flat to the tile.

Merlin and good Christ, that arse.

There’s a rumour that Potter’s a powerful Legilimens… that he doesn’t even have to try… and Draco’d believe it right about now, because Draco’s made no noise whatsoever, but Potter lifts his head from the deluge and, without turning, says, “In or out, Malfoy.”

When Draco only holds his breath in response, Potter slants a look his way, blinking drops of water from his eyes.

Fight. Flight. Freeze.

Draco makes himself stand straighter. He clears his throat. And as he strips his top off over his head, Potter watches him.

Potter keeps watching. His eyes linger as Draco toes off his shoes, as he flings off dirty socks. As Draco hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his stretchy trousers. He expects Potter to avert his gaze now. But he’s a mannerless git and doesn’t.

Draco swallows, and then he pulls down pants and trousers both and discards them.

It takes all his will to do what he does next—which is to simply stand there, pressuring Potter to look away first. Draco doesn’t let his eyes wander. He stares at Potter’s face in challenge.

But Potter either doesn’t understand the challenge, doesn’t care, or has his own agenda, because he’s all too willing to look away first.

Except not away. Down.

Potter’s gaze drags down Draco’s body, starting with his lips, fixating there a moment. Then Potter’s head tilts, and he admires the line of Draco’s neck. Draco tries not to swallow and fails. Potter’s eyes on his chest are like fingers pinching his nipples rosy. Shivers skitter up Draco’s back, into his hairline. He tries not to react as Potter makes his way down his stomach. Slowly. Down to his hip bones, the thatch of hair around his cock.

And when Potter eyes his cock, a tiny flicker of a smile curves at one corner of Potter’s lips. Then he turns back to his shower, picks up a bottle of shampoo, and dumps some into his disastrous hair.

Draco releases his breath. At least he’s managed not to get a hard-on under Potter’s perusal. Though he feels his own desire like some fierce, unknown magic… something moving so deep under his skin he didn’t realise it lived there, in the dark of him.

He should just pick up his bloody clothes and walk out—concession number two, a double loss—before he loses even more.

Instead, Draco stalks over to a showerhead, across from Potter’s, not close. He Summons his own shampoo and gets under the hot spray, rubbing his fingers hard into his scalp until they tingle. He feels his arse jiggle with it but doesn’t turn to see if Potter’s watching him again. He takes a moment and sighs in the heat of the water, the sluice of it through his grime and sweat. He rinses his hair, letting the water run clean.

He turns then, only to find Potter facing him, blatantly staring, Potter’s hand on his stomach making uselessly slow soapy circles. It’s inevitable now. Dear fuck. Draco can’t not watch him.

It’s not as though he hasn’t seen Potter nude before and Potter him—they’ve been employed by the Ministry roughly the same amount of time; they do sweaty work—but this is different. To Draco’s knowledge, Potter’s never committed himself like this. (Like this: leaned back against the tile, gaze somehow both relaxed and intent on every move Draco makes.) There may have been glances. Draco’s stolen a few. But to openly assess one another. This isn’t offhand observation. It isn’t idle curiosity.

This is foreplay.

Potter soaps his hand and then runs it over his soft cock, through the dark hair. He massages his bollocks, slowly, and Draco watches, starting to get hard. It’s just a sharp jolt at first, the beginnings of his cock swelling. Then Potter takes himself in hand… and he strokes it. Draco’s prick jerks, and Potter raises an eyebrow at it. His own cock isn’t even getting hard as quickly as Draco’s is, and Potter is actively beating off, albeit at a glacial pace.

“I thought maybe it was the friction,” Potter says. “I guess not.”

Draco’s breath hitches, aroused and affronted, and he flushes hot.

“Are you going to come over here then?” Potter goes on, his hand tugging down to the crown of his cock and twisting a little… then doing it again. It gets bigger in his hand, poking through his fist and turning a dull red.

Draco does his best to give Potter an arch look, though his heart is hammering through his whole body like he’s in the thick of Quidditch. He turns around again, grabbing the soap and running it under one arm and then the other, lathering and then rinsing under the spray.

He can’t help the gasp when he feels body heat at his back, close but not yet touching. Draco stifles a shiver at Potter’s proximity, the feel of his magic already surrounding Draco, submerging him in warm wisps of curiosity and desire.

“Borrow your soap?” Potter asks.

Draco scoffs. “No.”

And when Potter’s hand reaches for his own, for the slippery bar Draco’s got in his palm, Draco whirls around to face him and knocks his hand away. Potter blinks. He huffs a soft laugh. He goes for the soap again, and Draco shoves his arm. This time Potter’s pursuits continue, and he tries to grasp Draco’s arms instead. Draco half-wriggles and half-wrenches free, shoving Potter in the stomach. Potter stumbles back, his eyes lit up like mischief itself. Draco feels it deep in his chest, an arrow striking there and leaking its giddy poison into his stomach, his balls. His cock is so hard it aches.

He holds Potter’s gaze, his jaw firm to keep from panting with how much he wants it. And when Potter stalks back in close, Draco lets him, only to go for his arms, to disrupt Potter’s expectation that he is the only one on the offensive. But just as Draco slithers out of Potter’s grasp, so Potter does to him, his smile growing, the heat in his gaze as intense as bare sunlight.

They scrabble, feet slipping on wet tile, small grunts echoing. The soap lands in a wet splat, and Potter and Draco wrestle, muscles gleaming, each too slippery for the other. Until Potter shoves him, and Draco has reflexes enough to grab Potter and jerk him in as his back collides with the wall.

They fight still, a ridiculous sort of slapping that only lasts a moment. Only until Potter actually starts trying and easily pins Draco’s arms to the wall over his head. Draco gasps as their bodies slam together, and again as Potter, staring into his eyes, ruts against him. Draco wraps his leg behind Potter’s calf and rides his thrusting, a breath tremoring out of him for every desperate rock of their hips together.

If Draco had the use of his arms he would pull Potter’s hair again, harder than he did in their duel. He would scratch his skin bloody. But not to make him stop. To make him go harder. Draco stares into Potter’s eyes, his lips parted on every hot breath. Their cocks mash together, stroke against each other. Draco throbs, a soft whine coming from his throat, as precome dribbles from his slit suddenly. Potter drops his gaze, feeling it happen, and watches.

It’s enough of a distraction, and Draco mourns that he’s about to use it. He could come so easily, so soon. And he wants to. He fucking almost needs to. Which is, itself, enough to rekindle a bit of rage.

Draco acts fast, yanking his arms down and out of Potter’s grip. He uses the momentum to shove Potter, but not back, not away, only so that it’s Potter’s arse against the wet wall rather than his own, the water raining down on them both.

Draco presses close, his hands smoothing up Potter’s stomach, up his chest, like a lover might do. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Potter’s hands, risen to, perhaps, cup Draco’s arse, fall back to his sides.

Hands flat to Potter’s chest, nails digging into the muscle there enough to make Potter inhale sharply, Draco leans in and breathes his words against Potter’s jaw. “Put your arms up. Grab that pipe and hold on.”

There’s the beat of hesitation, but when Draco glances down, it’s to see Potter’s cock so hard it’s kissing the skin of his hip, leaving a little shine there. Merciful Salazar, it’s beautiful too.

Draco half expects Potter not to do it, such that when he does, when his arms rise and he wraps calloused fingers around the neck of the shower over his head, the thrill of shock runs over Draco’s skin.

“Bloody hell, Potter,” Draco breathes. And then he strokes his hands down Potter’s torso, around behind, grips his arse, and inhales the musky salt of his neck. He licks there, kneading Potter’s arse and smothering the air between them, so close he’s practically burrowing in against Potter, their bodies flush, cocks throbbing one against the other.

Before he can think to stop himself, Draco turns his head and presses his face into the hair beneath Potter’s arm. Potter gasps.

Draco wraps his arms around Potter’s bigger body, feeling the muscles of his back shift. He nuzzles under Potter’s arm, breathing him. He smells… like a man. Like fresh dirt. Like arousal. Like everything Draco wants. He licks Potter’s underarm hair and feels the shiver rack Potter’s body.

“Ticklish?” Draco asks, nibbling where the hair ends and shoulder begins.

“No,” Potter shivers. “Yes. Y-yes.”

Draco licks under his arm again, and Potter’s body wriggles deliciously, his breath shuddering. “But it’s good,” Draco supplies.

Potter’s all breath now. “Yesss…”

Draco brings his hands to Potter’s arms, letting his thumbs stroke through the wet armpit hair and watching Potter’s face as it scrunches up, feeling Potter buck against him, his cock slick from leaking.

Draco smiles a little. “You liked being on top of me today.”

“Stellar deduction, Malfoy.”

Draco’s smile widens. His fingers tangle in the hair under Potter’s arms. “I could smell how much you wanted to fuck.”

A gentle growl rumbles in Potter’s chest. His hands make hard fists around the pipe.

Draco starts to slip down, fingers softly clawing Potter’s sides as he descends. “Tell me, Potter, how long have you wanted to get your dick inside me?”

The growl, devoid of breath, grates and struggles back to strength.

Draco’s heart flips around in his chest for no good reason. He still basically hates the bastard. But the bastard has a fine cock, and it’s too bloody tempting. And so Draco, hatred drowning in desire, leans in, opens his mouth, and takes Potter’s thick cock inside.

Potter’s groan is something that comes from the ground up, struggling through his bones and tearing his throat. Just from the first little suckle. Just from the tip of his cock between Draco’s stretched lips. Draco cannot help but answer that sound, his own softer, choked off. He reaches between Potter’s legs and fondles his sac. Draco looks up, even as he moves on Potter’s cock, taking him deeper. He watches Potter turn his head, shut his eyes, squeeze them tightly closed on the severity of his pleasure. “Oh god,” he whispers. And Draco chooses to believe the name he then swallows down with his next breath is Malfoy.

Potter starts pulsing his hips, fucking Draco’s mouth gently. Draco groans his approval. He wraps one arm around Potter’s hips and braces against the wall with his hand. He takes it. It’s easy to take, the least violent thing they’ve exchanged today.

When Draco glances up again, it’s to find Potter watching. Lids heavy, eyes storm-dark. He works his cock over Draco’s tongue, between his slippery lips. His biceps are bunching with the effort to control himself, and Draco wishes he wouldn’t. Wishes he’d drop his hand into Draco’s hair and hold his head still while he comes.

Instead he holds Draco with his gaze alone, fingers going bone-white around the pipe, hips slowing. Draco is gifted at fellatio; he knows this. But that is not at all what this is, what it’s become. It’s so purposeful, so measured, so not what Draco would have expected: some wild loosing of whipcord muscle as Potter goes down Draco’s throat. No, he slides in and out while looking so deep into Draco’s eyes it feels fathomless. That’s how Harry Potter comes. Like that. Spilling into Draco’s mouth and moving through it. Holding Draco there, holding him on his knees with a look.

He tastes like skin, like rivers on hot days. Some of his come leaks from the corner of Draco’s mouth, down his chin. Draco swallows the rest, and the only time Potter’s eyes drift from his own is to watch the movement of his throat.

Draco pulls off, breathless, and in the next moment, Potter’s hands are yanking him up like he’s light as dust, like a Leviosa. Potter whirls them so that Draco’s back presses to cool tile once more. His eyes drop to it first, and then Potter traces his finger along the shine clinging to Draco’s chin, swiping him clean. Draco’s on the cusp of wondering why, when Potter reaches around, and that same swiping finger drifts between the cheeks of Draco’s arse.

Draco inhales. And then Potter’s rubbing around his rim, spreading his own come there. It could be territorial, it could be utilitarian, but Draco feels it like a question. They’re so close still, they’re one heat, sharing breaths. Draco nods jerkily. And then Potter’s finger pushes inside him, and his breaths turn to gasps instead. He clutches onto Potter’s body, his shoulder, his arm. He feels the muscles shifting under his hand as Potter finger-fucks him.

It’s unaccountably intimate. Draco can’t remember the last time someone had just a finger inside him, but he’s sure it wasn’t face to face. And it certainly wasn’t someone with Potter’s import. And this isn’t how he thought Potter would do it, all deep, searching gaze, pulse point flickering like neon. He’s doing it shallow, so that Draco feels every bit of it like a tease.

Potter’s cock, Draco sees when he glances down between them, has only gone a little soft. It’s still big, still throbbing. Draco still tastes it.

Suddenly, the door opens and voices—bloody hell, multiple voices—enter the room.

Draco had forgotten there was a world.

His eyes shoot to Potter’s, and Potter’s finger stills, the tip just inside him. Potter shakes his head to curtail Draco’s impending freakout. And then Potter lifts his other hand, swiping hard through the air, trailing a waft of magic like smoke. All at once, a powerful Disillusionment curtains them, paired with a Muffliato like a klaxon, at first, taking up all the room in Draco’s ears. It dwindles to something plastic between them and the others, something humming. Draco would be aghast at the ease of such complex magic from the palm of Potter’s hand—Potter is physical combat... physical, not magical, and yet…

Draco’s eyes widen for fresh reasons. Because clearly, Potter intends to keep going.

The voices distill to a staticky murmuring, something underwater, distorted. A laugh sounds like a weapon discharging. Potter’s eyes hold Draco’s, silent. And he steps closer even, the two of them under the spray. His finger pushes, and he watches Draco’s eyes for his reaction. Whatever he sees there makes him flare like a fire under a gust of wind. His other hand wraps around Draco’s cock, and the moan is out of Draco’s mouth before he can rein it in.

Draco’s gaze flicks over Potter’s shoulder to see one blurry figure shove another, their words meaningless little syllables of sound.

“Malfoy,” Potter says, clear and quiet. Draco turns his attention back, and he shudders when Potter’s finger sinks inside him in time with the hand stroking down his cock.

“Fuck,” Draco whispers to Potter’s wet lips. And he feels like an utter slag when he lifts his leg, curling it around Potter’s hip, so that Potter’s finger moves in and out easily. On the tip of Potter’s tongue is a lube charm, and then warm oil drips down Draco’s thighs. He clings to Potter’s neck, his shoulders, hips rocking, a compulsion, a need.

When Potter’s finger goes faster, Draco’s hips can’t keep up and he begins to shake. They’re so tight together, Potter can barely move the hand around Draco’s cock, but Draco feels his thumb under the crown, rubbing little circles, pushing at the foreskin, stroking over the wet head, the slit.

They’re so close, Potter’s lips are at his ear. “You going to come for me, Malfoy?”

Draco can only answer in a plaintive whine. He answers with the slight arch to his back so that he’s open for Potter’s finger to slip in and out of. And it’s all he can feel, all he wants to feel, his cock dribbling an embarrassment of precome over Potter’s squeezing hand.

“You going to come so hard you break through my magic? So they know what I’m doing to you?” It’s low, close.

Draco breathes shudderingly against Potter’s body, sage and sweat, and Potter’s strength is the only reason he hasn’t crumpled to the tile. It’s too good. Draco cries out in a small, broken voice, burying his face in Potter’s warm chest as he comes, as he clings on and rides, as he’s held tightly, as Potter’s finger dips into him. He breaks and he breaks and he breaks, and the small cry becomes a wave of them, a torrent. A tear races down his cheek as he comes in the palm of Harry Potter’s hand.

~

He’s still a little shaky, even though his breath is nearly caught, his hands braced on Potter’s chest.

Without words, Potter Summons the soap and begins cleaning them both up, dragging the bar gently up and down Draco’s stomach before flinging it into the air and letting it hover there while he soaps Draco’s softening cock, around into the crack of his arse. Draco snatches the bar out of the air and runs it over Potter’s chest. “Lift,” he says, as though he’s in a dream, and when Potter obeys, lifting his arms, Draco does his armpits, massaging the soap into a lather with both hands, thumbs sliding through, fingers tugging a little at the hair. He listens to Potter’s breathing change, to the low little laugh. “Rinse,” Draco says, and then as Potter steps under the spray, he moves behind and soaps Potter’s broad back, cups his arse, massages it, wraps a hand around his front and fondles his soft cock.

“Mm,” Potter groans. He lets Draco handle him, hands now pressed flat to the wall, head down—and Draco experiments, pinching the foreskin over the head; rolling his balls this way and that; waggling Potter’s impressive dick, like brandishing a wand while drunk. Potter gives another of those sexy laughs, watching it probably, and then turns. His gaze, briefly intense on Draco’s lips then goes over Draco’s shoulder, settling into a small frown as he sighs.

“Still there?” Draco asks.

“Mm. Shaving. All in a line.” Then he turns his gaze back on Draco. His eyes are still a bit glazed, as Draco imagines his own must be. Ah, the lassitude of having come really hard. Blasphemously hard. He’ll miss it when it wears off and that sharp, angry tightness he always feels around Potter returns to take its place.

“Apparition,” Draco says. And then, because in this moment he can, he runs his blunt nails up the outsides of Potter’s thighs, dense and useful like a wrestler’s.

“To where? We’re naked and wet.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at him. “Well, not to the middle of Conference Room B or anything.” Draco turns his head, looking behind himself, hands settled on Potter’s hips. “I don’t think there are any of them in that corner. You know, by Pearson’s locker.” He turns back to see Potter’s bottom lip clamped in his teeth. Which only reminds Draco how badly he’d like to kiss him—and of the fact that they haven’t.

“Okay, but you do it. You’re better at it,” Potter says, as though it’s nothing.

Draco blinks at him.

Potter processes his astonishment and then smirks. “So the next time I want to best you, I could just send a compliment your way then.” When, still, Draco merely looks at him, Potter jerks him in close. “Go on. Do it. Side-along me.”

Draco swallows. “Right.”

“No, wait.”

“What is it?”

Potter sighs.

Draco’s stunned blink later: “You want to kiss me.”

Potter frowns at his lips. “I should have done it while we were…”

“While you had my arms pinned over my head? When you were finger-fucking me?” It comes out a little breathy, because fuck yes that would have been good. Not that it wasn’t already.

“Yeah,” Potter agrees. “Because now it’s going to be…” He shrugs.

“All sweet and docile?” Draco offers, wrapping his arms around Potter’s neck and leaning in to press parted lips to Potter’s. He lets his tongue slip over his bottom lip and Potter’s meets it, pushing into his mouth.

“Yeah,” Potter breathes between kisses. “Not very like us is it?” His hands span Draco’s ribs, and he tilts his head for a fresh angle, letting Draco tongue into his mouth.

Dear Salazar, he and Harry Potter are kissing. Kissing. This day is mental.

“Mm,” Draco hums into the kiss. “You could—” He sinks his teeth gently into Potter’s bottom lip. “—bite me.”

Their tongues touch, warm, languid. Desire pools in Draco’s belly; he’s lightheaded from it. He inches his fingers into the hair at Potter’s nape. He tugs. Potter inhales, lips parting still more, and Draco bites down harder on his lip.

Suddenly, they’re turned, and he’s pressed back into the wall again, and Potter is kissing him—wet, forceful—and Draco opens for it, a groan ascending his throat and releasing hot into Potter’s mouth.

“Like this?” Potter growls, his teeth around Draco’s lip. Potter pulls back a little, and it springs free. Potter licks it.

“Yes,” Draco says. Because yes. Even though, Merlin, it was good when it was soft too. It was, perhaps, too good. Unexpectedly so. All of this is. They’re kissing hard and open, with teeth and breath and sounds from deep in their chests, hands all over each other, both of them getting hard again.

Until Potter pulls back, breathing raggedly. “That Disillusionment’s not going to hold.”

“Cast another one.” Somehow Potter’s cock has slipped into Draco’s hand and he’s stroking it, palm up, loose circle of a couple fingers and thumb.

“Apparate us before I fuck you.”

“Is that supposed to be… dissuasive?”

Potter takes his wrist in a bruising grip, and Draco reluctantly lets go of his cock.

“Apparate us or I will.”

Draco’s not sure what he sees on Potter’s face. It’s not regret. He knows that. An exertion of self-control, maybe frustration, definitely want. Maybe doing it twice would mess with Potter’s ability to characterise this as a one-off. Which is certainly what this is. Draco knows that. Maybe a couple years down the road they’ll both get drunk at a party and find themselves compromised in a guest bathroom, panting as they undress as quickly as they can. Maybe. But it’s nothing Draco can count on.

This is it. This is all it should be.

Draco touches his fingertips to Potter’s elbow and concentrates on the other side of the room, side-alonging them there. They arrive with a soft splat, and when Draco waggles his fingers back at the shower, he turns off the water and brings down Potter’s wards, flick-flick.

For his part, Potter Summons their wands and a couple of towels. Draco palms his wand and Vanishes his pile of dirty clothes to the Elf Laundry and then retrieves the clothes he intends to wear home from his locker. There’s only a brief pause in the conversation on the other side of the room, as it’s not unusual for clothes to go independently flying around.

They dress, and the silence that falls between them now descends awkwardly, punctuated by Morrison’s terrible gnome jokes at which only Keating laughs.

“Not wearing your uniform?” Draco asks.

Potter shrugs. “I’m off the rest of the day.”

“Oh,” says Draco. “Me too.” He clears his throat.

Clothes righted, they sneak out the door with nary a glance from the others.

“Well,” Draco says. “I’m…” He nods his head down the hall.

“Yeah, me too,” says Potter.

They wind up traversing the long DMLE corridors together like random acquaintances.

They step into the same lift, much to Draco’s chagrin. As the gates shut, his jaw tightens, and he clasps his hands in front of him, fingers strangling each other.

“Going home then?” Potter asks, and when Draco glances at his profile, he’s watching the numbers tick off as they descend toward the Atrium.

I could go down on him again in here, Draco thinks unhelpfully. I could suck him off between Magical Sports and Creatures.

“What?” Draco asks when he realises Potter’s looking at him expectantly. “Oh. Probably. I have paperwork.”

At this, Potter scoffs, gaze back on the hand of the dial, slowly cranking out the floors. “You do realise it’s Friday, don’t you, Malfoy?”

He hadn’t, actually. “Of course.”

The lift dings their arrival. Potter sticks beside him as they pass the fountain, the wand checker. Potter nods a greeting and receives one in return. Draco stops at the line for the first Floo, and Potter stops as well.

“I detest these lines,” Potter says. “I always fly in to work.”

Draco darts a glance at him, at the little muscle jumping there in his cheek. “I see.”

There’s an endless pause. They step forward inch by inch. Then Potter says, “You know…”

“What?”

Suddenly, Draco’s stomach is up near his heart, and his heart seems to be trying to pummel it.

“You could come with me,” Potter says.

Draco swallows. “Home with you?” he whispers.

The corner of Potter’s mouth quirks up. “No,” he says. “I mean, I’m meeting friends for drinks.”

“Oh.”

Potter looks at him a moment, an assessing gaze. And then he tugs on Draco’s sleeve, jerking his head in the direction of the exit that leads to the broom shed, which hardly anybody but Potter uses, most people preferring to wait in their lines to the time it takes to fly anywhere.

They burst through the doors at the end of a winding hall just off the Atrium and step out into early dusk. The broom shed, to a Muggle eye, looks like a dumpster in an alley. Smells like one too. There’s a door on the side though, that when swung open reveals a spacious barn-like room, capable of housing a thousand brooms easily, though it’s nearly vacant, all except for five brooms, one of them Potter’s. An elf older than Draco’s possibly ever seen hands Potter’s broom to him with a croaked yet regal, “Auror Potter, sir.”

“Thank you, Hubert.”

Potter walks his Firebolt Classic to the take-off point, a tiny runway of sorts between rubbish bins, a magically shimmering X at the end. Potter stands on it, swinging a leg over his broom. “Coming?” he asks.

Draco can’t control the flame of his cheeks, the memory of riding Potter’s finger. Then, before all that, them on the floor, Draco hard underneath him, a few ostensible struggles away from having an orgasm in front of a class of their combined trainees.

“I, er… I thought there might be a spare broom I could use?”

Potter smiles at him. “Afraid not.”

Draco sighs.

Potter’s smile softens when he says, “You’ve done this before.”

Draco’s gaze flicks briefly to Potter’s. “I know.”

Potter pulls on flying gloves, his broom held tight between his thighs. “It’ll be different this time.”

Draco inhales slowly. Everything’s different this time. “I know,” he says.

“I’ll buy you a drink.” Potter’s quirky little smile is back.

Those lips at his ear: ”You going to come for me, Malfoy?” His finger pumping inside Draco’s arse.

Maybe Potter doesn’t want a one-off. Maybe he just didn’t want to fuck Draco in a cooling shower while Morrison told gnome jokes five metres away.

Maybe… Draco can just see where this goes. He can just climb on the back of Potter’s broom and see.

“I must be mad,” Draco huffs as he stalks over. Potter smiles all the brighter, and Draco tries not to return it as he slings his leg over, shuffling in close behind Potter and wrapping his arms around Potter’s body.

“Ready?” Potter asks, and Draco can already feel Potter’s magic brimming, roiling, hot and ready.

“Hardly,” Draco says, scooting even closer, his crotch to Potter’s tight arse.

When they lift off the ground, it’s sudden but so easy, only a blink of Draco’s eyes. A Disillusionment settles over them, and they gain height and speed, soaring effortlessly into the London skyline, becoming a part of it, just a bird winging out over the bridge, over the river. Nothing but a shimmer.

The wind rushes at Draco’s face, burning his eyes. It’s been so long since he’s flown. Why the bloody hell is that? He loves to fly. The broom vibrates against his bollocks, and Draco muffles a happy little groan against Potter’s back. Potter slides a hand forward on the broom, the other back a bit, and Draco feels the flex of his buttocks as he veers the broom left, up over Kings Cross. They rise above waves of humidity, into the cool sky, pink with clouds.

Draco nuzzles Potter’s back and then insinuates his face into the space beneath his arm. He breathes in the bright, dark scent of Potter’s body.

“Hold on, Malfoy,” Potter says. Draco does, fingers digging into Potter’s stomach. And they shoot into the sky.