Draco doesn't come to this club often. It has a certain... reputation. Not the drinking and debauchery – that's perfectly normal, and, quite frankly, the only thing that keeps him going, of late – but the place itself. It comes with a certain element of risk.
On the surface level, it simply doesn't compare with the high-end fetish clubs he frequents, that promise binding contracts and confidentiality for the right sum. Tonight, he has traded velvet chaises for dirty walls and stained cushions. He has traded first class service for a nameless, faceless den of iniquity, so embroiled in the stench of despair and shame that it would as soon plead ignorance of his name as he would forget theirs.
He walks down the corridor and listens to the desperate cries behind the closed doors, and knows he would choose it all again in a heartbeat. The fetish clubs of the aristocracy bore him. Too often, the night devolves into passionless cries carefully crafted to elicit the largest tip he can afford. The art of submission becomes meaningless, bereft of emotion and bereft of need.
The need of this place closes around him, as intoxicating as any perfume. The people here will take what he gives, and gladly. His name and his money means nothing to them; what he can give them means far more, and Draco already feels drunk on the power.
He takes a breath, forcing a meagre amount of self-control back into his body before his senses threaten to overpower him. He has requested a submissive – that comes with a certain sense of responsibility. He cannot give in to the temptation that permeates the air until his submissive's needs are met.
The madame reaches the door at the end and opens it for him without a word, averting her gaze as she does so. She is well trained to read her clients, and despite the fact that she is acting as coyly as any partner Draco would choose tonight, he would bet large amounts of money on the fact that her patronage as a Dom is as highly requested as the rest of them.
He thanks her and enters the room.
The man in the centre waits on his knees, fully clothed and head bowed, awaiting instruction. His hair is brown, streaked with blond, and beneath his lowered eyelids are dark eyes, either brown or black, Draco can't see from here. But the magical scent of the room hits Draco like the Hogwarts Express, and he nearly falls over from the weight of recognition.
Harry Potter is kneeling before him, begging to submit.
No amount of transfiguration or Polyjuice Potion – and it looks like Potter has used both – would hide this man from Draco. Draco would know him if he were hidden in a closet on the other side of a crowded room. No one Draco has ever met has such a strength of power lying dormant in their magic. No one else can get under Draco's skin without ever uttering a word.
Draco nearly turns and leaves, nearly requests another sub. The madam would acquiesce without question, and Potter would never again be offered to him, no matter how often either of them frequented the club.
Potter waits, his chest rising, fast and shallow, as he withstands the assessment of his new Dom. Draco stops and wills his heart to slow. He lets his gut reaction fade away, and watches the man before him. Head bowed, shoulders straight, legs firm but relaxed – the madam has chosen well. Potter is experienced, although the disguise makes it clear that he doesn't want anyone to know that. Draco wonders why Potter has chosen here, of all places, when he has the money and power to choose anywhere at all.
He pushes the thought from his mind and makes a decision. He could walk away, and Potter would be none the wiser, thinking he had simply not met his Dom's satisfaction. But Potter has the same right, and Draco is not wearing a disguise. It's a move fraught with danger, although Draco can't articulate why. And once it has entered his mind, he can think of nothing else.
He wills all trace of recognition from his face.
“Look at me,” he commands. “Let me see you.”
Potter lifts his head, and there it is. The faintest trace of shock, of recognition. And then it's gone, and Potter's eyes drop to Draco's chin.
Draco waits. “If you desire another Dom,” he says, his voice a bored drawl. “Now is the time to speak.”
Potter says nothing.
“Do I meet your satisfaction?” Draco asks quietly.
The question sounds routine, uninteresting. Draco's skin is burning as he waits for a response.
Potter nods. “Yes.”
Draco crosses the room before he is even aware he has moved. He lifts one finger to Potter's chin, tilting his head up so that their eyes meet. Potter looks uncomfortable with the eye contact – it is unusual, particularly at first introduction.
“Do you want me to fuck you?” Draco asks.
Potter shudders. Draco can feel it where their skin meets – a charge of electricity.
Draco feels his knees give, but he retains his composure – he isn't sought after in these circles for nothing. He steps back until he is standing in front of the sofa, and sits down.
“Take off your clothes.”
Potter's eyes drop to the floor, and there is already a flush rising in his cheeks. Submissives can show such acute reactions so early in a scene, particularly if the relationship is new, but Draco has never seen a reaction quite like this. It is already personal between him and Potter, even if Potter doesn't know he is aware of it too. Every move Potter makes is for him, and the knowledge makes Draco unsteady, even though he is already sitting down.
Potter stands, pulling his t-shirt up and over his head in a quick motion that lets it get caught up in his hair. Draco's heart gives an unexpected flutter that he refuses to acknowledge. The shirt is discarded, and Potter's hands drop to the clasp of his jeans.
Draco feels a small shred of incredulity that anyone would think to wear jeans to a place like this, and then it's gone, as Potter somehow manages to step out of his jeans and pants in one smooth, graceful motion.
He has been keeping fit. Quidditch? Exercise? Draco doesn't know or care, although an image of Potter entangled in a sweaty heap with a redhead of indeterminate gender fills him with a jealous anger that he immediately squashes down.
He is standing now. The ropes suspended from the ceiling dangle just above his head, and Draco itches to bind them to him. But he can't, not yet. Not until he knows for sure that this is real. Not until he knows Potter isn't going to run. Draco stands.
“Turn around,” he commands.
And Merlin help him, Potter does. Not a word, not a protest. Not one flash of anger in those beautiful green eyes, and Draco almost misses it. Almost.
Potter bends, his lithe form stretching forward until he is braced on the leather pommel in front of him. Draco takes a second to compose himself. He feels flushed and unsteady, like he hasn't felt since he was just starting out.
He walks over to the table tucked discreetly in the corner, and chooses a medium-length whip. He usually starts with the paddles, but he doesn't think he has the control right now to moderate the strength of the blow. He needs to be able to let go and give it everything. He suspects Potter needs that too.
“I'm going to whip you.”
Potter's back quivers in an unconscious arch as the reality of Draco's words hits him. Images of Potter spread over the pommel horse, thrusting against it uncontrollably while Draco whips him, cross through Draco's mind, but he puts them aside for now.
“Five lashes. Keep count.” Without further warning, Draco brings down the whip.
Potter cries out and thrusts forward into the air. “One,” he pants.
Draco cracks it again, lashing it across Potter's arse so that it leaves a bright, red strip across his left cheek.
Another, across his back.
“Three.” Potter's teeth are gritted now; Draco has not eased him into it.
The other side of his back – a beautiful red stripe across tan skin.
“Four.” Almost a sob, but Draco isn't worried. Potter's safe word is burrow – whatever that means – and the madame assured him he is comfortable using it.
One final hit, on his right arse cheek again, where the first one landed. Potter gasps, his voice cracking, and his back arches as if he were already being fucked open.
“Five,” he breathes, his tone soft and languorous.
Draco raises his eyebrows. He's never had a sub drop so quickly into sub space, but he supposes the added history between the two of them is more than enough to render the physical pain of secondary importance to whatever is going through Potter's mind.
Not for the first time, Draco wonders why Potter didn't run screaming into the corridor the second he laid eyes on Draco. The knowledge that he didn't makes Draco even harder then he already is, and he reaches forward to grab Potter's hair and pull him upright until their bodies are pressed firmly together.
Potter leans into the touch, his head tilting back toward Draco's shoulder while his hands grasp at the air. Draco wonders if Potter is wishing he had Draco's body beneath his hands, but he pushes the thought from his mind. It's not welcome here, now, where there relationship is irrelevant, and all that matters is that Draco can give Potter what he needs, and that Potter is desperate to do the same for Draco.
Draco grips Potter's hair tighter, and Potter's mouth falls open.
“Get on your knees.”
Potters falls so quickly that Draco almost scalps him before he has realised what is going on. He lets go of Potter's hair and steadies himself with the ropes above him when Potter grips his hips and waits for further instruction.
“Lick it,” Draco says, his voice hoarser than it should be for a Dom in control. “Don't suck.”
Potter moans and brings his hands to Draco's front, undoing the clasp of his trousers and pushing them down to his hips far too quickly. He should be taking his time, checking in with Draco to make sure everything is to his liking, but instead he is eager and sloppy. Draco should stop him, stretch him out on the pommel and make an example of him, but Potter's lips close around the end of his cock and he can hardly think anymore.
Potter licks slowly up the underside of his shaft, pausing each time to close his lips in a kiss at the end, but never sucking. It's just like Draco told him to, but it pushes the boundaries every time in such a recalcitrant way that Draco feels his knees buckle at the reminder that this is Potter, on his knees and begging to please him.
“Stop,” Draco demands, relieved to hear that his voice is completely steady, revealing nothing of the torment he is currently suffering.
Potter stops, his lips poised around Draco's cock as he looks up at Draco with an expression that is part acquiescence and part defiance. That needs to change.
Draco takes a step back, tucking himself back into his trousers and relishing the small whimper of protest that Potter probably doesn't even mean to give.
He points to the pommel, watching as Potter turns to look, his eyes darkening in anticipation.
Potter stands and mounts the pommel, his hips grinding involuntary against the leather as he stretches out and grasps the end. He's done this before, and the knowledge fills Draco with a strange sort of anger that he's started to get used to around Potter, even as it makes him harder than he'd thought possible. It's the same sort of anger that Draco used to feel when he would see Potter across the Great Hall, laughing with his friends, and over the years he's learned not to analyse it too deeply.
Draco comes to stand behind him, and in his head he can see the perfect scene – Potter's arms, held taught by the ropes above him, his hips thrusting uncontrollably against the pommel, and his mouth – his warm, arrogant mouth – held still as Draco fucks him until he comes down his throat.
Draco swallows and wills himself to count to ten. Potter begins to tremble, his skin flushed and shining with a thin sheen of sweat. Draco picks up a small paddle from the table and runs it along Potter's back. Every time Potter arches up into it, Draco brings it down with a sharp thwack, and it doesn't take long until Potter is perfectly still, his desperate groans the only indication that he is still conscious.
Draco never would have thought Potter was so vocal during sex, but then, he never would have thought to find him here either.
“What do you want me to do to you?” Draco asks, swatting Potter's arse with the paddle and smirking when Potter remains perfectly still.
“Anything,” Potter moans.
Draco smacks him harder; he grinds against the fabric.
“Fuck me,” Potter whispers.
Draco's eyes widen. Although the admission is hardly a surprise, given where they are and what they're doing, he can still hardly believe it.
“What was that?” Draco asks, because he's a bastard, and because it's his role to give Potter what he wants, and Potter wants to beg.
“Please, fuck me.” Potter is panting now, and Draco thinks he isn't the only one who has forgotten all about the toys in the room that are meant to be the sole reason the two of them are here right now, together.
“Address me by name when you talk to me,” Draco whispers before his mind has caught up to his mouth.
Potter freezes, but his breath, when he releases it, is a throaty moan. “Please, fuck me, Draco.”
Draco gasps, undoing his trousers in seconds and taking his cock in hand so he can rub it along Potter's crease. It doesn't mean anything, that Potter admits he knows who Draco is – most people can recognise him by sight. But it's just enough that Draco can almost pretend this thing between the two of them is honest and real. That Potter knows Draco recognises him, and that he wants him all the same.
Draco slips one finger in, watching as Potter arches into his touch, then another. Before long, Potter is writhing beneath him, and he pulls his fingers out just before he slams into Potter so hard he can feel the floor where the pommel is mounted to it shaking under his feet.
Potter is crying out words that are an incoherent mix of curses and Draco's name, over and over again, and Draco isn't much better. He only just manages to hold back from yelling Potter's name, and then the two of them are gasping and coming together, Potter gripping the pommel desperately while Draco collapses on top of him.
Slowly, his breathing manages to calm down, and he is forced to acknowledge that, as far as scenes go, this could barely be called one. But he did give his sub what he needed, even if most of that came from his mere presence alone.
He pushes himself into a standing position, frowning as, for the second time, he wonders what it is about his presence that makes Potter so weak.
Potter pushes back from the pommel and falls to his knees, head bowed, arms clasped loosely behind him, and Draco nearly loses it all over again. He brings a hand to his own hair, grasping it almost hopelessly as he stares down at Potter, his eyes wide, and his breathing rapid.
It has only been about an hour, at most, since he set foot in this place, but somehow, everything has changed.
“Why do you come here?” Draco asks before he can think.
You never get personal – it's an unwritten rule.
Potter stiffens, but answers all the same, like he can't help it. “No one knows me here.”
Draco nods, even though Potter can't see him. “Will you see me again?” He knows that he hasn't exactly shown his best work today – as usual, Potter has reduced him to nothing more than his basest instincts.
“Yes,” Potter answers instantly, the tips of his ears pink as he gazes at the floor.
“Good,” Draco says, unable to stop the smile that lifts the corners of his mouth.
He's glad that Potter isn't looking.
He straightens his robes and moves back towards the doorway. He can't bring himself to look away from Potter just yet. He knows he'll be back here before long. If he isn't, he'll be doing something far worse, like owling Potter at his home address, requesting the pleasure of his company, and the opportunity to let old grudges rest.
He feels a small twinge of bitterness rise inside him; this only worked today because they could both pretend it wasn't real. If Potter knew that Draco had recognised him, they would have been at each others' throats.
He sneers, pushing the image of Potter, flushed and crying out his name, well away from his mind.
“I'll see you next time, Potter,” he says, waiting for the look of horror and fear that will ensure this thing between them – misguided at best – will never happen again.
Potter looks up at him, his mouth twisting into a smirk so arrogant it should be illegal. “Until next time, Malfoy,” he says, looking Draco right in the eye.
The bastard knew. He knew all along.
Draco swallows, feeling his throat go dry. Without another word, he turns and leaves, wondering how long Potter will stay there, on his knees, waiting for him to return.