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Hung Like a Horntail

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The first time Draco had seen it, it had been flaccid and dangling and wet, and Potter had been laughing in the Ministry locker rooms with his Auror friends even though Draco's team of Unspeakables had won the charity match – because of Draco – and Draco couldn't really see anything funny about Potter's situation.

Really nothing funny, nothing to be laughing about – as he stared between Harry Potter's legs and gulped.

When his gaze had risen once more, Potter's eyes were on him and his laughter was dying down, and a frown began to crease his forehead and knit his brows. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. Draco shook himself, turned around, and left.

He'd managed to Floo back to his flat before he realised that he still stank of the match. Because he hadn't showered.

Because of Potter's big dick.


And then he couldn't stop looking. Draco found himself zoning out in interdepartmental meetings. Instead of paying attention, he analysed how Potter sat: legs wide, slightly slouched. To make room for it, obviously. Or to show it off. Though nothing in his face betrayed anything smug or arrogant.

In fact, he seemed to be paying quite rapt attention in all the meetings, apparently unaware of his own crotch, his messy hair, the tarnished quality of his uniform buttons.

Draco sniffed. Still, the implication was clear; the thing needed room to breathe, to stretch out, to—

"Mr Malfoy. Is your team ready?"

Minister Shacklebolt. Brilliant.

Draco cleared his throat. "Yes, sir. We've been ready for a week." He cut his gaze back to Potter. It was the Aurors who couldn't find the evidence they needed to make the bust. Draco'd had the equipment they needed spelled for some time.

Potter's gaze was calm as it met Draco's. Potter blinked, shifted in his chair, and then it was all Draco could do not to let himself peek.

He took a deep breath and looked away.


Draco had thought he wouldn't see much of the bastard down in Mysteries, but Potter was everywhere, all the time. You'd think he had designs on succeeding Shacklebolt with how many fingers he had in other departments' pies.

What irked Draco most was that nobody seemed to mind. They all seemed grateful -- like it wasn't an enormous pain in the arse to have the Chosen One breathing down your neck while you worked.

Not that he did a lot of neck-breathing. He did seem to be aiming to help rather than steam-roll over others' work. He didn't even seem in it for the accolades. He just… looked happy to be helping.

The idiot.

And the more he walked down to Draco's floor, the more Draco suffered having to see him walk – that fast, confident stride that stretched his trousers against the muscles in his legs, his buttocks… that sometimes tested the fabric over what Draco knew was a truly spectacular—


"Hmm, what?"

Potter was standing next to his desk chair, his crotch nearly at eye-level. He was close enough that Draco could smell the lavender in his detergent and the foresty scent of his aftershave. Speaking of shaving, Potter needed one. Which Draco noticed once he finally dragged his gaze from the very obvious bulge in Potter's trousers up to his… well, all right, it was a handsome face.

"I just asked if you might want to go over the specs again. I know it's almost six. I'm running a little late today. I mean, it could wait until tomorrow, but—"

"Now's fine."

"Oh. Good. Well." And then Potter sat his arse on the edge of Draco's desk, and dear bloody Merlin, it was right there.

Somehow, Draco got his parchments together and actually spent half the time Potter hovered there going over them with him. The other half, predictably, was spent unable to ignore the elephant in the room.

"Malfoy." Now Potter sounded put-out.

Draco resolutely looked him in the eye. "Yes? What."

Potter stood. "Do you have a… a problem with me?"

Draco smirked. "Haven't I always?"

Potter compressed his lips. Draco fought to keep his gaze in place.

"So, that's it then?" Potter asked. "Nothing we need to hash out, Malfoy? Because this operation needs us both clear, you know? It needs—"

"I know what it needs." Draco's voice went hard. But then, damn it all, he looked at it again. Quickly this time. Because Draco was becoming quite aware of what he needed, and it was staring him boldly in the face.

"Right," Potter said, the heat gone from his voice and a quiet confusion taking its place. "Good then. Are you, er, playing the next charity match? Next weekend?"

Draco thought about the thrill of sitting his broom, of catching the Snitch out from under Potter's nose, of beating him… And, what the hell, of being beaten by him too.

He thought of steamy locker rooms, hot water, Potter's easy laugh, that delicious-looking bludger bat of a cock…

"Yeah... Erm, yes. Yes."

Potter nodded. "Good. Because your team is rubbish without you. I mean, they're really, really bad." He smirked, straightened his robes, and then walked away, as ever purposefully. It was hot as shit.

And the view of him leaving almost rivalled his approach.



The case had been brutal but successful. The match had just been brutal. It rained, and mud was everywhere. Potter beat him to the Snitch, but only after five hours of play that felt more like battle.

They'd both been slow to trudge off the pitch. Potter because he was signing autographs for his fans. Draco because he thought he might have some bruised… well, everything.

There were only a few people left when they got to the showers, and by the time Draco had soaped himself up, everyone but Potter was gone – off to the pub to lubricate their woes or celebrate their drenched victory.

Draco resolved not to look, even though Potter's stall was just there, and if Draco leaned a hair to the left—

But when he glanced, it was to find Potter already leaned to his right and…

"Are you checking out my arse?" Draco blurted.

"What? No!" Potter had straightened hurriedly and began going at his armpits like he was personally offended by them.

Draco felt heat rise to his cheeks. His heart sped. He swallowed and leaned left, taking a peek himself.

And blast if it wasn't half-hard. Potter's cock, easily eight at rest, was… Draco gulped… growing.

Draco only got a moment to both appreciate and fear it, because suddenly Potter was throwing his soap to the shower floor and striding – quick and confident, just like he did in his Auror robes at the office, and bloody hell wasn't this a sight to see… that same powerful gait but completely and utterly and blissfully nude – striding hot and wet and inexplicably angry into Draco's shower stall.

"Well?" he shouted, throwing his fit arms wide. Dark nipples, ripped stomach heaving… Draco felt faint.

"Well, what?" He hadn't meant it to sound dickish, but Potter seemed to take it that way.

"Well, here I am! Here it is, Malfoy. Make all the fun you want! You don't think I've heard it? You think I'm unaware of how bloody stupidly big it is? You think it's nice for me getting gawked at, laughed at, that the 'what if it doesn't fit' jokes don't hurt just a little bit? Eh, Malfoy? You think I want to hurt my lovers? Think I get a kick out of laughing about that? Bloody just go for it then! Have your turn! I know you've been dying to, you bastard."

Draco blinked. "You… You think I want to make fun of it?" Then at Potter's sharp glare, "Of you?"

Potter blinked, still seething, though now the confusion was returning, and Draco thought it was such a ridiculously sexy look on him that—

"What do you want then?" Potter asked.

The ironic laugh was out before Draco could stop it. The crooked smile earned him a death glare for the moment he stayed standing.

It disappeared as Draco sank to his knees.

He ran his hands up Potter's thighs, heard him gasp, and then took that magnificent cock in his hands – Merlin, it was so warm and the skin so silky soft -- and steered it toward his mouth.

"What are you---? Oh fucking shit…"

Draco fit his mouth around the heavy crown. He worked his hands – one on the thickening shaft, one around his bollocks – and hollowed his cheeks around Harry Potter's huge prick. "Mmm," he couldn't help but moan as the head popped in and out of his mouth.

"M-Malfoy, what--?"

Draco laughed around Potter's cock and kissed his way off it to look up at him. "Are you really that slow on the uptake, Potter? I'm sucking your cock; is this somehow news to you all the way up there?" Draco tongued the slit, so pink and ready, shiny with a pearl of pre-come.

"Just… Merlin… I…"

Draco kissed open-mouthed under the crown. He whispered, "Yes, Potter?"

But then Potter was hauling him up roughly. He was stopping him? Draco frowned, on the edge of bereft – before Potter spun him, pressed him to the shower wall, and then grabbed both globes of Draco's arse in a painful squeeze.

"It's fucking criminal to have an arse this hot," Potter murmured behind him.

Draco whimpered. And then Potter fit his dick between Draco's cheeks and started riding his cleft. "Trust me. It'll be better this way."

Draco braced against the wall and moaned. Potter squeezed Draco's arsecheeks against his cock and thrust, breath heavy and moist against his back.

"Salazar… Fuck…" Draco spread his legs.

"Keep them close," Potter admonished.

Draco ignored him and arched his back.

"Malfoy, no." His hands tightened on Draco's flesh.

Draco arched more.

"I bloody can't."

"You can. Just get me plenty slick, all right?" Draco felt a bit mad with wanting Potter's cock inside him.

Potter sighed angrily. But Draco felt the nice long steam of pre-come release onto his lower back. There was a moment of stillness, of Draco feeling like his heart would burst out of his chest. And then Potter Summoned some lube and stepped back to slick himself.

"Fuck yes," Draco sighed.

Then Potter's dripping fingers – two of them – pressed to his hole.

"Fuck yes." Draco braced, felt himself breached, and whined in response.

Potter finger-fucked him slow and deep – harder as Draco moved against his hand, panting.

"Stop it," Potter ordered. He slowed, added a third finger, and pushed in again.

"God…" Draco cried out.

"All right?" Potter thrust in and out.

"More than." Draco laid the side of his face against the tile and shut his eyes in bliss.

"Malfoy…" A warning.

"God, do it."


"Potter, open me up and fuck me, why don't you?"

A rush of breath along his wet skin. Three fingers withdrawn with care.

Potter's cock lining up and touching his stretched entrance instead. "Do you know how long I've wanted to fuck this arse?" Softer, stronger, "To fuck you?"

And before Draco could answer, though he had parted his lips to do so, the searing, burning, stretching, aching press of that massive prick inside him – and Draco couldn't breathe, couldn't answer, couldn't move.

Then it was Potter begging him. "Please, Malfoy. God, please. More? Can I? Please?"

Draco swallowed against the pain of it – because paired with the pain was everything perfect. Like he'd never quite be the same and this was what he'd unconsciously been grieving for.

"Yes," he breathed. He spread his legs and folded forward. Potter shuffled back to give him room. Draco dropped his head, saw his own flagging erection hanging there. He saw Potter's thighs trembling.

Draco smiled. "Fuck me, you prick. Fuck it all into me."

"God," Potter gasped. Then he took Draco's hips in his hands and drove forward. He whipped into Draco, his body slamming home. And it fit. It bloody fucking fit. Draco felt his body respond, recalibrate, open. His cock filled with blood and got hard. The arousal shot through his veins, and before he knew what he was doing, he started butting back against Potter's thrusts. The way was slick and swollen and sore, and it was the most mind-blowing fuck of Draco's life.

"Potter…" he whimpered, loving the slapping sound they made while they… well, fuck, it felt like mating. Draco blushed to think the word. His prick throbbed, bouncing luridly. "Potter, your cock…"

"What?" Potter slowed, his breath hitching.

Draco reached back and touched his flexing hip. "It's perfect… Perfect… God, perfect. Don't bloody stop, you tosser."

Potter growled, tugged him close so that Draco gasped, and then he stayed deep, pressed to Draco's back, and he fucked fast, hips jerking. Draco's eyes rolled back, the orgasm building fast and then shooting out of him while he moaned desperately, reduced to a repository for the most magnificent cock he'd ever seen.

Draco smiled at that, leaned his face against the cold tile, and then let himself be used – utterly fucked into oblivion. Because that's what Potter did. As he neared his own orgasm, he bounced against Draco's arse, the most delightfully dirty and plaintive sounds coming from his throat.

Then it happened, and he filled Draco's arse with his warm semen, fucking slower, longer, the whole of his cock going in and then almost all the way out. It felt so bloody marvelous, Draco wanted to cry. Maybe he did cry. Just a little. As Potter stroked his strong, shaking hands over Draco's back, into his hair, down his spine, to his hips – always moving even as the fuck slowed to a stop.

Potter, still touching him, wanting him, even as his thick cock slid free and swung useless between his legs. Potter's hands ran up Draco's sides, pulled him upright, and held him back against his own chest.

"Jesus," Potter sighed, his palms wet and warm over Draco's stomach. His lips on Draco's skin.

And then there was nothing left to do but laugh.