Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
When his owl flies through my window, I know without looking at the parchment what it is the bastard wants. As usual, his prose is very brief.
I Floo Pansy and apologise for cancelling on her so late. From the look on her face I know she knows where I’m going.
‘Draco, you said you would stop this.’
I did. I remember that. I remember lying on Pansy and Millie’s couch, my head in her lap, making promises I knew I’d never keep.
I shrug. ‘I changed my mind.’
Her pursed lips are the last thing I see before I close the Floo and contemplate what to wear.
I know it won’t matter. I know what this is. Potter’s had a bad day at work or a fight with Granger or Weasley or his ex-girlfriend. He’s drunk and he’s horny, and he knows I’ll come. I know he fucks around. I know I’m not the only one. I don’t care. I know I’ll go, just as Potter knows he never really has to ask. That’s the way it is with us. The way it’s been for the last three years.
I drop out of his Floo and land in the empty living room of his flat. It’s is even more of a mess than usual. There’s a stack of papers and red file jackets on the coffee table. His Auror robes are thrown across the couch and his broom and Quidditch gear are tossed in a heap in a corner.
I scratch the back of my neck and call his name. It’s unusual for him not be waiting for me on the sofa when I arrive.
There’s a bit of noise form the kitchen. ‘In here,’ he yells.
I drop my robes next to his and walk through the narrow hallway to his kitchen. He’s sitting shirtless on a stool next to the small table in his breakfast nook, with a glass of Firewhisky and an empty bottle. He doesn’t look up when I walk in.
‘Hey,’ I say.
He knocks back the last of his drink and wipes his palms on his loose flannel sweatpants.
‘It’s just like you to drink all for yourself,’ I say. ‘Prat.’
A ghost of a smile flickers on his face. ‘If I knew you wanted, I’d have asked you to come sooner.’
I smile, walk around behind him and place my hands on his shoulders.
‘You look tense,’ I tell him, smoothing my hands across the smooth planes of his back and massaging his neck. He groans under my touch and his head falls forward, almost to the table.
‘Rough day,’ he says.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
He groans again. ‘No,’ he says.
It’s the answer I expect.
He never wants to talk about his work with the Aurors. I know he’d rather be on a Quidditch pitch playing for the league. He’s been offered at least four contracts that I know of, but the idiot doesn’t want to leave Weasley to find a new partner, or let anyone else down. Everyone expects him to be Harry-bloody-Potter, and so, he does it. The last time I tried to talk to him out of it, I had a black eye and a bruise on my chest for a week. I’m not about to bring it up again anytime soon.
I drape my arms across his shoulders and he holds my palm in his hands for a moment. His skin is warm. It’s all I can do not to press my lips at the nape of his neck and pull him into my arms. But the bastard doesn’t do hugs, or dates or anything more than a Floo call every once in a while for a quick fuck and a drink.
He presses his lips on the inside of my palm and I immediately stand very still. It’s not like him to do something so --intimate. His back is tense and I know something must have happened today. Something I’m going to see in the Prophet tomorrow. Something that’s upset him enough to make him unguarded and unsettled.
I’ll have to ask Granger about it in the morning.
He gently lets my hand drop and I step back when he stands up to toss the empty bottle in a bucket next to the fridge. I watch him as he slowly turns to me, crossing his arms across his chest and trying his best to keep his face carefully blank. But his eyes are too bright, so I know something’s wrong. Of a sudden, he walks over to me a kisses me on the mouth, pushing us backward until he’s pressing me into the wall. He shoves his fingers into my hair and grips my head tight. I open my mouth beneath him and he swipes his tongue over my own. He tastes like whiskey. I can’t help it. I groan his name into his mouth and arch into his lean frame.
He pulls away and rests his forehead against my chest.
‘Fuck me, will you?’ he says breathlessly.
I want to. So much. And I know I shouldn’t, but I always do. I always come back.
He steps back and looks and me, just looks at me with those fucking green eyes, and I want to tell him to quit ―just say fuck you to the Corps, because I know it’s completely fucking him up, and he hates it and all he wants is to play sodding Quidditch in the league and make charity calendars with his team and sign autographs for 11-year-old boys with wide eyes and glasses just like his. And if he would just talk to me we could work something out where we didn’t have to be passing fucks anymore, and it’s okay for him to be scared or hurt or ashamed. But I don’t say any of these things. Instead, I take his hand and lead him to his room like I always do.
He follows me with his head bowed, and I take him to his oak bed and let him sit on the edge. I take off his glasses and rest them on his side table. He looks at me for a moment, and then he does it again: he takes my palm and kisses me on the inside of my wrist. My heart shudders. This is why I told Pansy I couldn’t do this anymore. I remember now.
I kneel in front of him. He leans forward and kisses me again slowly, his legs on either side of my body. His lips are soft. He’s an amazing kisser, better even than Theo, who we’ve both fucked at one time or another. He pulls away and tugs at my shirt and we both pull it up over my head. My hair falls around my face and after he tosses the shirt on the floor, he pushes the soft strands off my forehead with his fingers. I tug at the waistband on his hips and he helps me pull his sweats off. He isn’t wearing pants and his prick is half hard already.
I stand quickly and shuck the rest of my clothes and he watches me with heavy lidded eyes.
I know he wants me. I’ve never doubted that. He likes my body. I know he doesn’t let anyone else fuck him the way I do. It’s what keeps me coming back. Hoping, I suppose, that it means something. I’m the only one who’s ever been inside him. He’s the only one who’s ever been inside me.
When did I become so pathetic?
I think, perhaps, it was after the first time he came inside me. I’m a complete and utter idiot, believe me, I know.
I kneel in front of him again and without any warning, I take his cock into my mouth. He gasps and grips my shoulder. I let his cock slide as far down my throat as I can manage. It’s thick and hot. It twitches in my mouth. I suck the head, pushing back the foreskin with my lips and sucking in my cheeks.
He rests his hand softly on the back of my head and arches his body backwards. I hold the base of his cock in my hands and jerk him off slowly while I tease the head with my lips.
I love it when he says my name like that.
I let his cock pop out of my mouth and look up at him.
‘In me,’ he says. ‘Now.’
I nod and stand up quickly. My knees crack.
‘Where’s the lube?’
He pushes himself up on the bed and pulls an almost empty tube of lube out from under his pillow. Easy access, I suppose. I wonder how many other people he’s fucked this month. How many other heads he’s messing with.
I crawl up on the bed and watch and he dabs a dollop of lube into his hole and fucks himself on his fingers. My cock is dripping now; I can’t help but pull on it a few times, watching him prepare himself for me. He lies back on the bed.
‘I’m ready,’ he says.
I position myself over him and slide a finger inside him to be sure. He arches up off the bed.
I spread some lube over my cock and start pressing into him. He’s tight. He always is. I don’t know how he does it. He lifts his leg over my shoulders and I lean into him more, bracing my palms on the bed, just above his shoulders. He puts his hands on either side of my face. I press into him further and try hard to stop myself from losing control too quickly.
‘Fuck me, Draco. Please.’
I start moving in slow even strokes, and when he says Harder, you bastard I thrust faster and faster and the bed head slams into the wall again and again. He snakes his hands between us and stokes himself, and when his body clenches around me it takes all in me not to come the same time he does. He groans as his own thick white spunk splatters across his stomach.
I lean in and kiss him and he surprises me by pulling me close and digging his nails into my back. I thrust in and out of him a few more times, and when I feel my balls start to tighten I close my eyes.
He threads his fingers into my hair and says: ‘Look at me.’
I open my eyes and come inside him, and he kisses me and it’s the best I’ve felt in months and this─ this is why I keep coming back. He fucks me like he loves me. Every time.
I collapse on top of him and start to slide out, but he grabs my arm.
‘Not yet,’ he says.
I turn on my side and he lies next to me, one leg wrapped around my hip, with my now softening cock still inside him. He brushes a few sweaty strands of hair off my forehead.
‘Stay with me,’ he says.
I’ve never stayed the night before and I don’t think for a minute before I say Yes.
He nods and closes his eyes. I slide out of him carefully and he drapes his arm across my chest. He’s falling asleep already. He must be fucking exhausted. He never sleeps. I kiss his forehead and pull him closer. I stay awake for as long as I can.
I take what I can get.