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I have no care in the world. My mind is blank. Bodies moving all around me, touching, brushing.

I want more.

More heat.

More skin.

More him.

I want him more than anything. He’s so close and yet so far. His palms on my hips, flexing fingers. He barely dances, just moves from side to side. I can dance for both of us, then. But if I do, he will let go and I cannot stand it. So, I move from side to side with him, barely dancing.

I push closer, put my head on his shoulder, smelling his neck. His hands move around my waist, to my back, pressing. I breathe him in and smile. I brush my nose along his jaw and see him swallow. I kiss him there, just a brush of lips, barely noticeable. But he notices and tilts his head. I kiss lower, his skin so hot. Then I turn my head away, close my eyes and wait. My fingers playing with the black hair at his nape.

And I think - what if this is it? Point of no return, for me, at least. Because I am here, restraining myself like never before, just because I’m scared he will bolt if I push even a bit harder.

Because there’s history that will never disappear or be forgotten. Because he might realise that this is really not what he wants, it’s not me he wants. Because it’s not enough that I’m trying - changing, apologizing, being better. Because I never will be better, not completely. Because there will always be something rotting inside of me.

What if he sees it, sees right through it all, all of me, and is just having me on?

And I think – I don’t care.

I don’t care if this is just for tonight or few more days or hours. I will take whatever. Because I don’t want to let go. If he does, that’s another matter. I will let him, I will watch him leave, I will wait until I’ll go cold completely.

I will let him.

I will.

I feel his breath in my hair, next to my ear. I shiver.

His hands are restless on my back, moving up and down. Soothing and unsettling, firm and gentle, all at once. So I come even nearer, hips to hips. I want no space between us. No air.

I straighten up and look at him. His face is flushed - so pretty. The lights reflecting on his skin, pink and blue and purple. He looks like a dream. Like my personal fever dream.

He smiles and then leans in.

We kissed before, so many times, so many ways.

But this one… I don’t know. I can feel it deep in my tainted heart, now beating out of my chest, like it wants to give out and kill me.

I lay my hand on his neck, touching his pulse point with my thumb, pressing gently. And it does me in.

I open his mouth, breathing him in. The only chant in my mind is more, more, more.

His tongue in my mouth, lips firm against mine, his heat, all of him, in me, around me.

I devour him. I push and pull and he goes. He gives back the same to me. He tugs my head back, deepens the kiss. I moan, shamelessly, paying it no mind. He pulls back, I guess to take a breath, silently opening his mouth but I chase after him, putting my lips back on his. He doesn’t protest, he lets me. And when he wants to take some air in his lungs yet again, I allow him the smallest inch of space between us before I kiss him anew.

I don’t care we’re in the middle of a crowd or whether anyone’s watching. I want to be kissing him until he says enough. And he doesn’t, thank goodness.

He doesn’t for a long time.

But, eventually, he slows it down, shifting to my neck and only then do I realise I really need to take a breath.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he says, touches my wrist and walks away from me, weaving through the crowd.

I stand there, still, alone for a moment and I mind quite a lot that people are brushing against me now.

I go and order a drink to calm down, watching in the direction he’s left, waiting if he’ll come back. Fearing he won’t.

Finally, after what feels like forever, I see him striding to me. He smiles and orders as well, sidling up to me, telling me how dirty the loos are here and I laugh, saying I hope he washed his hands otherwise I won’t let him touch my silk shirt. He whispers in my ear ‘I want to touch much more than just your shirt,’ and then he kisses my cheek, lingering, grinning.

I pay, take his hand and we’re leaving.

I want to take him home, get him naked and touch him everywhere.

‘Wait,’ he says when we’re outside and I’m about ready to Apparate us. ‘Let’s go to mine, yeah?’

That’s the first. It’s never his.

Still, I nod. In the next moment we’re gone and in another he’s pulling at my clothes, standing in his kitchen.

‘God. Let’s go,’ he exhales, pulling me behind him. I follow, close to his back. I kiss his nape and he laughs. He takes me into his bedroom, closes the door and watches me, leaning against it.

I unbutton my shirt.

I take it off.

I step out of my trousers and he just keeps watching, chest moving rapidly.

I am fully naked and, finally, he comes over. He brings his hot hands to my chest, stomach, shoulders, back, caressing. I am so feverish I want to shed my skin.

I undress him.

I imagined I would do it slowly, savouring it, because it’s always way faster than I would like. Alas, I almost rip it all off him in my haste to get to more warm skin.

He manhandles me down on the bed, not that I put up any fight. I’m that easy for him.

He lies between my thighs, we kiss. I roll my hips and I love his gasp. I love how he moves against me, how his hair is already plastered to his forehead with sweat, how he wrenches his glasses away, how he looks at me, how he touches me, how he makes me feel insane.

I love him. I want to tell him. I want to whisper it to him among all other sickening things that come to my mind and make me go all red and anxious.

I love you. Your eyes are my favourite colour. I want to kiss you all the time. I want to argue with you about all your bad habits I hate. I want to take your hand and introduce you as my boyfriend. I want to fuck you. I love you. I love when you’re rough with me, I love it when you’re gentle. I want to sleep next to you every night. I want you to make me breakfast, I want to make breakfast for you. I love your hair, how ridiculously messy it always is. I want to take photos of us and put them in an album. Your magic makes me heartsick. I like that you’re strong most of the time and weak the rest.

I want you. I love you.

I roll us around, nuzzling his neck, kissing and breathing in. I grind against him, all frantic and crazy. I want to slow down but it’s impossible.

I just hope I won’t hit a wall at the end of this all.

‘Draco.’ He says my name, palming my ass, pushing up, hard and heavy. ‘Wait.’

‘What?’ I ask, kissing his shoulder.

‘I almost came,’ he laughs.

‘That’s the point,’ I mumble, moving my mouth lower to his chest.

‘Not like this.’

‘Okay. How then?’ I don’t let him answer when I slide my tongue in his mouth, savouring his taste, his heat and gasps.

He grabs my thighs and turns us around, pinning me down and I grin at him, reaching up, wanting to kiss him some more. He lets me, for a bit, then he puts his cheek next to mine and I can barely hear him through the pounding of my blood when he whispers ‘I want you inside of me’,  followed by the smallest chuckle. I can practically feel the heat rising in his cheeks.

‘Do you? Really?’ I whisper back, scared he will think about it more, deciding that no, not really, running away, never seeing him again.

He nods and sits up. He takes us both in hand, observing his strokes. ‘How would you want me?’ he asks, not looking me in the eye.

‘However you want.’ In every and any way you would have me.

He looks up at me. His fist tightens and releases and he goes to lie down on his back next to me.

I stay put for a while, just watching him.

Gradually, his smile stills. ‘I mean, you don’t have to. I just thought… I wanted… but it’s okay, we can do anything else. What do you want to do?’

I realise what in my head was two seconds, must’ve been more in reality.

I roll on top of him, sudden and quick, making him gasp. ‘I want you. I want it. Of course I do. Sorry, I spaced out.’ He nods and the smile returns, but just a small one. ‘I adore you, Harry. I want you however you let me.’

I don’t think about what I’m saying until it’s out and it cannot be taken back.

Before he can say anything at all, I slide down his body and kiss him there.

I take him in my mouth.

I make him moan.

I take my time with getting him ready.

Once he says ‘Jesus, that’s enough, come here’, I oblige, looking at his shaking arms as he’s reaching for me and I push inside.

His exhale is almost silent when I’m all in. His grip on my hair is a bit tight and he scratches my back, but I don’t care.

He’s looking at me, his chest heaving and eyes wide. Suddenly he laughs and then there’s a moan and I kiss him until he lifts his hips, until he says ‘yes, yes, now’.

I move, slow at first, eyeing his face, whether it’s too painful or too much or not enough.

Then faster when he starts pushing against me with every thrust, stroking himself.

Towards the end he demands I go harder, so I do, making him growl and writhe beneath me until I come inside him, grinding to a stop.

I’m wrung out, lying on top of him, feeling his fist stilling between us. I look down and he’s still hard. I knock his hand away and once again I suck him in and suck him off, I push my fingers inside of him, making him come in my mouth on a beautiful raspy groan. It really sounds incredible.

After, my head rests on his stomach and his fingers play with my hair, stilling when he falls asleep.




I wake up with my face against a pillow and Harry plastered to my back, thigh to thigh, arm to arm, back to chest.

I wish I’d feel like suffocating because I’m uncomfortable, pinned down by another warm body. But I’m suffocating because I vaguely remember the things I said and revealed.

I want to get up, get dressed and leave. I want to throw him off me and I want to kiss him and I want to leave and stay here.

It’s so difficult to even move, though. One, because he’s lying on me. Two, because I’m content exactly as I am.

So I just snuggle deeper into the sheets. Whatever happens, happens. If he wakes up and says it was weird, fine. If he recoils from what he allowed me to do to him, painful but still fine.

He hums, his breath tickling my shoulder. He kisses me there and I stiffen because he’s awake sooner than I’d like him to be. He strokes my arm, my waist and stops on my stomach, petting there. He pushes his thigh higher, bent over my hip.

‘Good morning,’ he mumbles and rocks his hips, only a little, but it makes me hot all over anyway.

‘Morning,’ I answer, barely opening my mouth.

He kisses my ear, jaw, cheek. ‘Am I crushing you?’


‘Okay. I’m sorry, I fell asleep after. I wanted to cuddle with you.’ And this is the thing with Potter. He says the most outrageous things, especially after sex. Especially if we wake up together. And then, because he starts it, I follow up.

‘We can do it now,’ I try to shrug and at that there is cold air on my back and then he turns me on my back, positions himself and kisses me. So sweet and slow, morning breath and all and I don’t even care.

‘I thought you wanted to cuddle,’ I gasp out between kisses when he strokes me until I’m hard.

‘I did. Now I want to have you again.’

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is. We just grind against each other, hand here and there, all slippery and lazy, the morning sun barely out.

I absolutely can’t stop touching him.


When we finish, I pant, looking at the ceiling, my fingers still gripping his thigh and waist. When I can finally catch my breath, I release my hold on him and lie limp underneath.

‘I should go,’ I say and I hate myself.

‘Why?’ he asks and props himself up, looking down at me.

‘It’s morning and I need shower and fresh clothes; hence, I should go.’ My insides turn. The sooner I’m gone, the better.

‘Hence?’ he smirks. ‘You can shower here.’ He nods towards a door and pecks me on the lips. ‘You can even borrow some of my clothes. Even though you keep insulting my style. They’re in the wardrobe, have your pick.’ He gets up, puts on some trousers and says: ‘I’ll be downstairs.’

He’s gone.

I jump up. I want to do this as quickly as possible.

But the bathroom smells like him. Combination of honey and air and grass? Just … him.

I shower, using a big amount of his soap. And if I haven’t before than I definitely smell like him now.

I use a quick spell to freshen my clothes, put them on and go down as quietly as possible - I try Apparating in his room, but there are wards, of course.

Yet as I pass the kitchen, I see him standing there, naked from the waist up, whisking something and my heart jumps, hurts and then plummets.

He’s making breakfast. Maybe he’s making it for me too. Maybe.

I linger too long, watching him. He must hear me because he turns and his expression falls. I should’ve left, I think, that’s what is expected and polite.

‘I see none of my clothes passed. Well. Bit disappointing but I might survive.’ He walks up to me, hooks his fingers in the belt loops and yanks me forward, presses his mouth on mine. ‘You look fresh. Come, I’m making breakfast.’

He walks backwards, pushing me down on a chair, kissing me some more and then leaving me, carrying on with the food.

When he’s done, he puts a plate in front of me, Full English, tea, coffee and a bowl of fruit.

‘I hope you like it.’ He eats and so I eat too.

I think it tastes delicious, but I can’t be sure because I also think I’m dreaming or hallucinating or I am very ill.

We don’t speak. He finishes before me, so I shovel in the rest of mine.

He frowns. Yes, I am impolite.

‘It was great, thank you,’ I tell him, at last.

‘You’re welcome.’

‘So. I better get going then.’ I feel hot. I can tell I’m sweating as well. I might need to see a healer.

He sighs. ‘I don’t know what’s happening right now, but I can’t tell I’m enjoying it.’

‘Er. What do you mean?’ I touch my forehead. Not too hot.

‘Yesterday you were telling me all these things and now you can barely look at me.’ He’s frowning.

‘What things?’ I ask.

What else is there to say? Did I say it out loud? My private thoughts and musings? All of them?

‘You know what things. And okay, I will not hold it over you, you said it during sex, but still. You could treat me as always, at least.’ He’s angry, standing up, taking the plates and cutlery, putting it in sink.

‘But I do treat you as I always do, I don’t…’

‘No, you don’t, Draco. You’ve barely spoken to me or looked at me this morning. Usually you at least snark or something.’ He goes on glaring at me.

I feel dazed.

He sighs, turns his back to me. ‘Since you’re in such hurry, I let you go now. The door is at the end of the hall, to the left.’ He starts washing the dishes, muggle way.

I stay put. I think if I stand up I might just fall back down. Because this can’t be. It’s moving way too quickly.

Just two weeks ago he left me cold and alone in my bed, saying he’s busy that week and sending an owl yesterday inquiring if I want to meet him for a drink. How am I the bad guy now? I stayed, ate his food.

I made love to him, for fuck’s sake. And I’m still here.

I am still here.

‘You’re the one to talk, Potter,’ I sneer because I can’t help myself. ‘You can barely stay with me until the sunrise, in most cases. So excuse me if wanted to extend the same courtesy of not overstaying my welcome.’

At least he has the decency to blush. Always so pretty, damn it.

‘I work mornings, sometimes very early mornings. Besides, you never tell me to stay, you just turn on the other side and keep on sleeping.’

‘Well I thought it was given that sometimes… we’ve been sleeping together for five months, fucking hell! You could stay!’ I can’t believe what’s pouring out of my mouth. I’m essentially begging him to spend mornings with me. ‘Sometimes,’ I finish, trying to save face.

‘I didn’t know what you were expecting,’ he says, stepping away from the sink. ‘I wasn’t sure how you’ve felt. I’m sorry if we misunderstood,’ he’s close now, so close I can feel his heat, ‘each other.’ Closer. ‘But I do know. Now.’

My face flushes red immediately.

I try to remember exactly what I said, how I said it, how many times and whether it was that most damning thing. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’ I haven’t moved an inch and now his palm is on my chest, tips of his fingers under my shirt. He leans in, breath on my ear and whispers: ‘I adore you, too,’ he presses his lips to my cheek, then on my lips and we’re kissing.

Morning, in the middle of his kitchen, after or during an argument about mornings and I never want to do anything else. I never want to let go.

I forget everything.

That I might be going down with something.

That I’m so hot I must be sweating through my silk shirt and trousers too.

That I apparently told him I adored him.

That I will definitely be embarrassed after I’m lucid again.

That we now absolutely must define what it is we’re doing.

‘Do you really have to go or were you just being a dick?’ he asks.

He’s managed to unbutton my shirt and we’re now chest to chest, his arms around me, no space, no air between us.

‘It is Saturday, so, I guess not.’ I gaze at him as he grins.

And so, I stay. And he stays.

He’s all around me, holding me, holding him back.

I want him to hold me tighter, not letting me fall or falling with me, hard.

I want him to make me warmer than I already am, never being cold again.

Maybe, with time, as most things, even this will pass.

This need. This love. This want.


But who cares about maybe when there is him?

He’s here and he’s mine. Now.