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The first time Harry saw it, he thought it was a mole.
Admittedly, he was not at his observational peak.
They had just won pick-up Quidditch, which everyone insisted on calling “friendly” despite the presence of an official commentator (Lee, naturally), professionally made kits (thanks, Pansy), and a stand full of friends, spouses, would-be spouses, children, a crup (Ron’s), and several people who claimed to be neutral but were lying with their whole faces.
There was also the not-so-small matter of the stakes. The losing team had to pay for pub night for a month, which meant they would be financially gutted by Seamus alone before the Weasleys even began chewing through the bar menu like ginger locusts.
Draco caught the Snitch with his usual quick, vicious grace, a style of flying Harry had never properly appreciated at school because he’d been busy hating him, competing against him, and occasionally wishing Draco would fly directly into a goalpost.
Now they were on the same team. Harry had moved to Beater after his shoulders became less suited to slipping through gaps and more suited to creating them. It was a natural progression, really. Some men grew into themselves; Harry had grown into a blunt instrument with thighs. This left the Seeker position wide open for Draco, and thank Merlin for that, because Draco made Seeking beautiful. Harry could appreciate it now that he no longer had to beat him to the Snitch and could instead watch him fly under the useful (and entirely abused) excuse of protecting him from Bludgers.
Draco landed first, hand raised, the Snitch fluttering in his fist.
Harry hit the grass a second later and launched himself at Draco’s back. “Fuck, yeah, Draco!”
Draco staggered forward with a laugh. “Watch it, Potter, you enormous idiot!”
Harry slid off him just enough for Draco to turn, and then they were hugging properly, which lasted for all of three seconds before the rest of their team crashed into them. They all piled in at once: Seamus, Angelina, Ginny, Ron, and one of Draco’s foundation people. Harry could never remember the bloke’s name; Mark, Steve, or something aggressively wizarding like Artorius. He only remembered that he laughed too hard at Draco’s jokes, which Harry found irritating for entirely selfish reasons.
Seamus was shouting directly into Harry’s ear. Ginny and Angelina had elbowed their way to the centre and were lifting Draco by the legs, tossing him into the air as if he weighed nothing. Ron was somewhere in there, starting a chant about free drinks. Mark-or-Steve-or-Artorius-or-Whatever was in the throng too; Harry knew because his laugh kept rising above the noise like nails on a chalkboard.
Eventually, Draco seemed to tire of the celebratory assault and wriggled free.
“Enough, enough!” he said, though he was laughing too much to sound properly annoyed. “Quit manhandling me, you disgusting Gryffindors. Merlin, is personal space just something Salazar made up?”
“Must be,” Ron said. “Never heard of it.”
“And why am I the only Slytherin here anyway?”
“Because you’re the only other Seeker we know,” Harry said.
“And Harry wanted you on our team,” Ron added, with a wink so obvious Harry was surprised Lee hadn’t started commentating on it.
Harry stomped on his foot.
Ron yelped and elbowed him in the ribs.
“A great choice, Potty,” Draco said, either ignoring the violence or accepting it as the natural weather of Gryffindor friendship. “Now we’ve got free pints for a month.”
The other team heard this and groaned, which was exactly the sort of noise winners liked to hear. Harry’s team rushed toward them to gloat, because victory among friends without cruelty was just exercise, and none of them respected exercise that much.
Harry stayed back to congratulate Draco again, but Draco chose that moment to pull his shirt over his head, and Harry’s sentence died young.
It should have been normal. Not something to stare at. Certainly not something to make a man forget the simple, time-tested art of speaking. Draco had taken off his shirt around Harry before—they’d been doing these matches for years now. Sweaty shirts came off after sweaty games.
Harry, of course, had watched him do it every time because he had eyes, and because those eyes had developed the unfortunate habit of finding Draco with the doomed accuracy of a tracking charm.
But Harry stopped short because there was something new on Draco’s body.
Not the bead of sweat making its slow, tantalising way from Draco’s chin, down his throat, over his chest, and toward his belly button; that was not new, although Harry’s nervous system continued to receive it as breaking news. No—it was the mark Harry had never seen before, a few inches below Draco’s navel.
It was small. Dark. Almost a dot, except not quite. It had edges. Sort of a weird shape, actually.
Harry squinted, trying to get a better look at it.
Then Draco turned away to join the others, and the mark was gone.
Well. Whatever it was, it had to be new. Harry would have noticed it before, because Harry knew Draco’s torso. Not biblically (unfortunately), but visually. He could sketch it from memory, maybe even with his eyes closed. The slope of Draco’s shoulders, the long line of his spine, the gold hair on his arms, the sharpness of his hips, the way his stomach tightened when he laughed.
Must be a new mole, Harry decided.
He wondered if Draco had got it checked out yet. Hermione always said to treat new moles with suspicion.
Harry saw it again a month later at BEACH, one of the events run through Draco’s charity, MUGGLE: Magical Understanding, Guidance, Growth, Learning & Education.
Naturally, BEACH stood for something too.
“Basic Education About Culture and Heritage?” Harry had said when Draco passed the leaflet around at dinner one night.
“Yes,” Draco said. “It’s for Muggleborn children starting Hogwarts in September. They ought to learn about owls, wizarding money, basic customs, sweets that shouldn’t be trusted merely because they’re sold at Honeydukes. You know. That sort of thing.”
“That’s actually lovely,” Hermione said, tucking the leaflet in her purse. “I’ll pass this around at the Ministry.”
“Thanks, darling,” Draco said.
“D’you need volunteers?” Dean asked. “I can help with whatever.”
There was a general murmur from the table as others offered to help too. Draco looked around at them, pleased.
“That would be brilliant,” he said. “There’s a sign-up bit on the back.”
Harry turned the leaflet over. “But BEACH?”
“The name or the location?”
“Both. You’re actually calling it BEACH, and we’re going to an actual beach?”
“Yes.”
Harry raised a brow. “Bit on the nose, isn’t it?”
“Well, it is summer,” Dean said.
“Exactly,” Draco said. “Would you rather I put children in a Ministry conference room? They’d be bored to death!”
“Fair point.”
Draco grinned. “Besides. Easy to remember, isn’t it? BEACH at the beach?”
And so that was where they were: on a beach in Cornwall, where Draco was insisting the location had been chosen for accessibility, fresh air, and the emotional well-being of incoming Muggleborn first-years. Harry, who had known Draco too long now, suspected the location had also been chosen because it allowed Draco to lie on a towel at a respectable distance while other people did the upright portions of charity.
Harry approved of the event, really. He wished he had something like it before he went to Hogwarts, instead of being dropped into wizarding society with a letter, a vault key, and the very odd business of everyone knowing his name before he knew theirs.
These kids, at least, would know what they were walking into. Of course, they’d also have the advantage of not being famous for something they couldn’t remember.
Harry also approved of Draco at a beach, because Beach Draco was one of Draco’s more dangerous seasonal forms. Beach Draco had a bit more colour on him, his chest and cheeks lightly dusted with freckles, his skin glowing faintly beneath several layers of sun cream.
Harry had counted a dozen when he’d watched Draco apply an assortment of creams to his skin. This had seemed excessive until Draco asked Harry to help him with his back, at which point Harry became a strong supporter of dermatological caution.
And worst of all (or best of all, depending on whether Harry was asking his brain or his cock): Draco wore the tightest, brightest swim shorts known to man. Neon green today. They did spectacular things to his arse, which Harry was currently ogling without shame.
Thank Merlin he’d picked up the darkest sunglasses he could find on his way there.
He spread his towel out next to Draco’s, intending to admire the view at closer range, but Draco chose that moment to roll over and sit up.
“Hey, Potter,” Draco said, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. “Thank you for helping set up the stations, by the way.”
“Yeah, ‘course.” Harry dropped down beside him. “Someone had to do the work while you were busy taking naps.”
“I funded the thing and hired competent people. My work is complete.”
“Nice job, then. Very strenuous.”
“Yes, coordinating is utterly exhausting,” Draco sighed. “Thank you for noticing. And you know I’m not one for manual labour. You, however, have got all these muscles and appear to use them for nothing more taxing than looming.”
Harry scoffed. “I use them.”
“Do you? I thought they were decorative, considering you tattoo for a living.”
“I spent all morning hauling tables for you.”
“And you looked very well doing it.”
“And I play Beater.”
“So you use them for furniture and recreational violence. How versatile.”
“They’re for entertainment, too,” Harry said.
“What?”
Harry pointed at his chest. “Watch.”
He flexed one pec, then the other. His magical stag tattoo, which had been resting nobly across one pec, sprang to life and bounded over his sternum like it had just heard hunting horns. He flexed again, and the stag trotted back to his original spot.
Draco gasped. “Why have you never shown me this before?”
Harry shrugged. “Dunno. Suppose it’s never come up.”
“Do it again,” Draco said, so Harry did, annoying the stag but delighting Draco.
Then Draco asked if the stag could dance, which it couldn’t, exactly, but it could gallop faster across Harry’s chest if Harry flexed to music. So Harry Summoned the little Muggle music player from his bag, and Draco chose some saccharine pop song from Harry’s gym playlist, and Harry flexed to the beat.
The stag tore across his chest in frantic, antlered confusion, hopped from one pec to the other, circled twice, then threw itself down among the lilies inked up Harry’s ribs as though requesting sanctuary.
Draco laughed through the whole thing, as if it were an actual performance and not just Harry making a tit of himself. (Literally, in this case.)
Harry laughed too, because Draco was laughing, and that was one of the worst things about being friends with Draco now. His laugh made Harry feel rewarded for being an idiot.
When the laughter died, and the song changed into something slower, Draco sighed happily and stretched, arms reaching high over his head, body going long and taut in the sun.
Harry looked, naturally. Draco was right in front of him; it would have been impossible not to. Or rude. Or both.
His gaze travelled greedily over Draco’s torso, starting at his shoulders, then his chest, then down the lean line of his stomach—
And stopped.
Because there it was again. That mole.
Except up close, Harry could see it wasn’t a mole at all. It was a mark. An x.
“What’s that?” Harry asked, poking at it before he could stop himself.
Draco lowered his arms and looked down, smoothing a hand over his stomach. “Oh. This? It’s a tattoo.”
Harry frowned.
Draco didn’t like tattoos. Or claimed he didn’t, anyway. He’d once told Harry that marking oneself permanently was “attention-seeking,” then given Harry’s bare arms a slow, pointed look and said, smirking, “Though I suppose you’ve never been shy about begging to be stared at.”
Harry had laughed, told him to piss off, because Draco saying that was a bit rich. Draco walked into rooms like he expected a spotlight to find him.
They’d gone on bickering about it for a while, until both of them had forgotten the original point, which was that Draco allegedly did not like tattoos.
And now he had one.
“You got a tattoo?” Harry said. “And you didn’t get it from me?”
Draco looked amused. “Do you have a monopoly on tattooing?”
“No.”
“Then I fail to see the scandal.”
“I told you I’d tattoo you if you ever wanted one.”
“Yes, well, this was a drunken dare in Berlin with Pansy and Blaise at four in the morning. I could hardly ask you to take an emergency Portkey for a minor act of poor judgment.”
Harry didn’t appreciate the assumption that he wouldn’t have. Because he would’ve gone.
Probably.
Actually, definitely. Draco calling him at four in the morning, speech slurred and nonsensical, would have set off every alarm in Harry’s head.
“I’d have come,” Harry said.
Draco’s eyebrows raised, and Harry immediately regretted the way that sounded.
“I mean, for the tattoo.”
“Yes, I gathered.”
“At four in the morning if you’d asked,” Harry said. Then, because apparently the hole wasn’t deep enough and he’d brought a shovel: “Or whenever. If you called.”
Draco’s smile widened. “How reassuring. An emergency Harry Potter service.”
“Yeah, well. Friends, aren’t we?”
For half a second, Draco’s smile did something strange; not quite falling, not quite staying where it was. Then he slipped his sunglasses back on and lay down.
“Yes,” he said. “Friends. Very useful in the event of drunken idiocy.”
“You should let me cover it,” Harry said, lying back too. “I’ll help with the design. Give you a proper one.”
“Hm. I might. It’s vulgar.”
“What’s vulgar about it? It’s just a little x.”
Draco glanced at him over the top of his sunglasses. “Are you this curious about all your friends’ tattoos?”
“Only when they get one from some random bloke in Berlin.”
“It was a woman, actually.”
Harry’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. “Fine. A random Berlin woman. Whatever. What’s it mean?”
Draco sighed. “Since you really want to know, don’t complain when you decide it’s too much information.”
Harry would never complain about learning more about Draco. The problem was that he wanted to know everything, and always had. Once, he’d called it rivalry. Then suspicion. Then habit. Now they were friends, and the wanting had not gone away; it had merely changed clothes and started standing too close.
It was a crush now, probably. Or something worse, because crushes were supposed to be light and silly and fleeting, and Harry’s interest in Draco had never been any of those things a day in its life.
“I won’t,” Harry said.
“Alright,” Draco said. Then: “It’s a target. For men who make ambitious promises and then disappoint me.”
Harry’s head turned so fast his neck nearly clicked. That couldn’t mean—
“It’s how deep I want them to fuck me,” Draco went on, pleasantly. “No one’s managed it, though.”
“Oh,” Harry said, because every other word had evacuated his brain.
Draco looked over, grinning. “Have I rendered you speechless?”
“No,” Harry said quickly. “I just, er. Didn’t know you…”
“Liked being fucked?” Draco supplied. “Yes, I do. Rather a lot.”
Harry stared at him.
“Are you a prude? It’s just sex, Potter. You have sex, presumably. If those articles in Queerditch Monthly are anything to go by.”
“Don’t read that rag,” Harry said automatically. “And don’t believe anything they print.”
“So you haven’t shagged your way through Britain’s entire eligible gay wizarding population?”
“Definitely not.” I haven’t shagged you, Harry didn’t say. “And I’m not a prude. I just didn’t think that’s what you were going to say.”
“What, the truth?” Draco asked. “How inconsiderate of me.”
Harry snorted.
Draco, apparently satisfied that he’d unsettled Harry enough for one afternoon, got up on an elbow and nodded toward the stations. “Anyway, are you going to help with the Galleon Grab later, or do your tits have another engagement?”
Harry barked out a laugh. “No, my tits are free. What d’you need me to do?”
“Perfect.” Draco grabbed a slim leather folio from his bag and set it between them, close enough that their shoulders touched when Harry leaned in to read it.
He talked Harry through the game: the setup, the rules, the prizes, the order of the children’s groups, the very real possibility that Ron’s crup would try to eat the fake Sickles.
Harry followed along. It was easy enough. A children’s game wasn’t all that complicated.
But every so often Draco shifted, and Harry’s attention caught on the little x below his navel.
A target, Draco had said.
Harry tried not to think about that.
Naturally, this meant he thought about nothing else.
For the next two weeks, Harry lived as normal.
He went to work. He tattooed clients, even took on more appointments than usual. He went to the gym. He went to lunches and dinners and pub nights with his friends. He listened to Ron, Seamus, and Greg argue about the terrible transfer decisions their Quidditch teams had made, while Dean tried to explain that English football was worse, actually, which led to a lengthy and spirited lesson on relegation, billionaire owners, and why Muggles apparently chose to suffer without even the consolation of Bludgers.
Less normal, of course, was the fact that Harry also thought about Draco’s x tattoo roughly every four minutes.
It wasn’t as if he didn’t try not to think about it. He did. With genuine effort. The problem was that reminders were everywhere.
The world was full of x’s, for one. They appeared on paperwork, shop signs, appointment forms, crossword puzzles, product labels, and an innocent tin of X-tra Crunch Biscuits that he’d nearly lobbed at his receptionist’s head because the lettering had dragged his mind straight back to Draco’s stomach.
Then there were tattoos. People mentioned tattoos to Harry constantly, because that’s what he did for a living, and thinking about Draco was apparently his second one. It was a wonder he finished his appointments without accidentally giving some poor bloke a back full of tiny x’s. Or, Merlin forbid, a portrait of Draco instead of the lion he’d asked for.
And then there was Draco himself.
He was around all the time. Sure, he’d always come to pub nights and dinners and lunches and whatever nonsense one of their friends decided to drag the rest of them to. It was, however, ridiculous how much Draco’s mere presence did Harry in, because Draco wasn’t exactly parading the thing in front of him. Harry hadn’t even seen him shirtless since BEACH. Every time he’d seen Draco since, they’d been in establishments where shirts were required.
Which was a whole other problem, really. Just the Draco of it all; the fact that Harry wanted him, and had wanted him for long enough now that it had stopped being only about getting into his trousers.
He wanted Draco at breakfast. And lunch. And afternoon tea, because Draco would absolutely insist on afternoon tea and Harry would absolutely pretend to mind. And dinner. And midnight snacks. And late-night kebabs after the club, standing on a pavement while Draco complained about the sauce and ate half of Harry’s chips. And lazy Sunday mornings with a full English between them. And sharing popcorn at the theatre over a bad film. And shared shirts. Shared toothpaste. Shared bookshelves. Shared keys. Shared—
Anyway.
Harry wanted him. Badly.
At least Draco was gay.
This, Harry had known for years, because Draco had made that clear not long after they’d become friends, when he’d arrived at pub night with a man and kissed him against the bar.
It was shocking, obviously, but not because Draco was gay. Harry was too. Ginny was, in her words, a “raging bisexual.” Pansy, who Ginny had started dating in the past year, was a lesbian. Seamus and Dean were gay. There were plenty of queer people in their friend group.
No, Harry had been shocked because Draco being gay made immediate, blinding sense, and Harry hated finding out he had missed something obvious.
His gaydar had been bad then, but at least it was better now.
Unfortunately, Harry’s ability to tell whether a man wanted to be fucked was unreliable at best.
This was annoying because Harry was forever being misread himself. Some men saw the arse—which, fair enough, was excellent and the result of honest gym labour—and they decided they’d found someone who wanted to be pinned down and split open.
Harry had no objection to other people enjoying that. He simply preferred to be on the other side of the equation.
Unfortunately, saying, “Hello, you’re fit, do you bottom?” was considered socially abrupt, even in pubs where half the place was already snogging and several people had unexplained glitter on their necks and lower backs.
So Harry sought out advisers.
Seamus and Dean were useless. They laughed too much. Ginny and Pansy were worse; they could smell embarrassment like sharks smelling blood in expensive shoes.
Ron and Hermione, somehow, were the helpful ones. They were straight, which ought to have made them wildly underqualified for the work, but they were practical and less likely to shout “ask him if he likes getting railed” across a crowded pub. Or perhaps they were just good at guessing, which Harry found extremely convenient and chose not to examine.
Harry had discovered this one night when all he wanted to know was whether the tall blond across the room looked like he’d bottom, and most of his friends had decided this was less a question than a public entertainment. So Harry ignored the lot of them and turned to Ron and Hermione.
“Well, he looks a bit like Malfoy, doesn’t he?” Ron said, squinting at the bloke.
“Not at all,” Harry said. “He’s just tall and blonde.”
“And pointy.”
“He’s not pointy.”
“He’s a bit pointy. And he’s posh-looking.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “He does not look like Draco.”
Ron lifted both hands. “Fine. Not Malfoy. Random blond bloke with no suspicious similarities to your lifelong obsession.”
“Can we go back to my actual question?” Harry said. “Do we think he bottoms?”
“I reckon so.”
Harry looked back across the pub. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Ron said. “Same as Malfoy.”
Harry’s head snapped round. “Same as—what?”
“I mean, I don’t know for sure,” Ron said. “But Malfoy probably does.” He nudged Hermione. “Don’t you think, sweetheart?”
Hermione took a sip of her drink. “I wouldn’t put it in writing, but yes.”
“What?” Harry said.
“It’s always the mouthy ones,” Hermione said, shrugging.
Harry had gone over after that, because he didn’t want to hear about Draco anymore, and then it turned out Ron and Hermione had been right. After Harry bought him a couple drinks, endured a long explanation about the correct height for wall sconces (the sort of nonsense Draco would’ve prattled on about, which did not help the allegations that Harry had found a Draco with a different nose).
Eventually Harry got them back to his flat, where he discovered the bloke did, in fact, bottom.
The shag was fine. Fun, even. Perhaps more so when, halfway through, Harry looked down at the blond hair spread across his pillow and, for several insane seconds, imagined it was Draco.
Which, really, had been the start of the whole problem with Draco.
Or the restart of it.
And now the damned x tattoo had made everything worse.
The tattoo was no longer a tattoo. It was a challenge. A tiny, obscene job posting inked below Draco’s navel. Wanted: one man capable of fucking Draco Malfoy deeply enough to satisfy his impossible standards. Previous applicants need not reapply.
Harry wanted the job. He could meet the requirements. Exceed them, really, considering he had both the relevant experience and the necessary equipment.
He just didn’t know how to go about convincing Draco.
And then, somehow, he managed it at pub night, about three weeks after BEACH.
Harry was ordering another round when Draco appeared beside him and folded himself dramatically against the bar with a groan.
“I loathe this place,” Draco said. “I don’t know why we keep coming here.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Harry asked, passing the barman his Vault Mark.
“The men are all dreadful!” Draco whined. “And I haven’t been properly fucked in weeks. Weeks!”
Harry’s eyebrow lifted. “A dry spell? You?”
Draco pouted at him, and Harry wanted to bite it. “Yes. Me. Try to keep up. It’s humiliating.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Harry said. “Can’t imagine you having trouble pulling anyone.”
“I don’t,” Draco said. “I have trouble being interested.”
The barman handed Harry’s Vault Mark back, along with the drinks. Harry took his firewhisky and passed Draco his elderflower gin and tonic just as Pansy appeared from nowhere, kissed Draco’s cheek, kissed Harry’s, said, “Hello, darlings,” and swept the rest of the tray away.
“You’re welcome, Pans,” Harry said.
“Sorry!” Pansy called over her shoulder. “Table’s thirsty!”
Harry sipped his drink and looked back at Draco. “So what d’you mean, you have trouble being interested?”
“Well, I’m a bottom, as you know. And I don’t top.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
“Right,” Harry said, though really he wanted to say, This is fantastic news.
“And half the men who come onto me want me to,” Draco said, wrinkling his nose. “Which is tedious. I cannot be arsed. Then the other half are dull, desperate, or wearing shoes that make me lose confidence in society.”
Harry laughed. “You judge men by their shoes?”
“I judge everyone by their shoes.”
Harry lifted one foot slightly. “How are mine today?”
Draco glanced down. “Are those the brogues I gave you for your birthday last year?”
“The very ones.”
“Then you’re doing considerably better than every man in here.” Draco paused. “Apart from me, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Harry said.
He took another pull of firewhisky, longer than he meant to. It burned down his throat and settled hot in his chest, and a moment later several sensible thoughts in his brain appeared to die under suspicious circumstances.
“So why don’t you try me, then?” Harry said.
Draco blinked. “Pardon?”
Harry held his gaze and lifted his glass to his mouth, mostly to give himself something to do that wasn’t immediately regretting everything. “I top. Exclusively.”
For a moment, Draco said nothing.
Then Draco looked him over, slow and deliberate: shoes, legs, hips, chest, shoulders, mouth. By the time Draco’s eyes met his again, Harry felt as if he’d been stripped down in the middle of the pub and touched everywhere Draco had only looked.
Draco’s mouth curled. “Do you, now?”
“Yeah.”
“And when you said earlier that you couldn’t imagine me having trouble pulling…” Draco leaned in closer. “Does that mean you think I’m fit?”
Harry downed the rest of his firewhisky, which was probably a bad idea. But he was already in it now, wasn’t he? Only way out was further in.
Draco watched him do it, eyes fixed on Harry’s mouth, then dragged his tongue over his own lower lip like he knew exactly what he was doing to him.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “You’re fit. Really fit.”
Draco’s smirk deepened. “Interesting.”
“And I’ve been thinking about that little tattoo of yours,” Harry said. “Ever since you told me what it meant.”
“Oh?”
“I reckon I can get farther than that mark, actually.”
Draco stared at him for one long second.
Then he picked up his gin and tonic and drank. Not a sip—more than that. Half the glass, gone in a few controlled swallows, as though Harry had said something that required fortification.
When Draco set it down, he was closer.
His thigh brushed the inside of Harry’s. Almost accidental, except nothing about Draco had ever seemed accidental in his life. His fingers trailed over Harry’s forearm, skimmed his bicep, then came to rest against his chest.
Harry’s pulse went haywire.
“That’s a very ambitious promise,” Draco said.
“Not really.”
“No?”
“No.”
Draco’s fingers teased the bit of Harry’s chest peeking through the vee of his shirt. He dipped his chin and looked at Harry from beneath his lashes. “And if I let you try, are you going to disappoint me?”
Harry’s hand went to Draco’s waist before he could think better of it—though, to be fair, thinking worse of it had gone fairly well so far—and he pulled Draco in, close enough that Draco could feel him, half-hard already, against his hip.
Draco’s breath stuttered.
Harry heard it. Or felt it, maybe, in the tiny shift of Draco’s body against his. Either way, it went straight to his head.
He dipped his mouth to Draco’s ear. “When’ve I ever disappointed anyone?”
“Frequently, in conversation.”
Harry huffed a laugh against his skin.
Draco’s fingers slid up to his shoulder and squeezed. “But perhaps not in all areas.”
“Come back to mine and find out.”
Draco glanced at his unfinished drink. “Are you going to let me finish that first?”
“I’ll make you another.”
“At your flat?”
“Yeah. Where else?”
Draco smiled. “How hospitable.”
That sounded like a yes. So Harry steered Draco toward the door with a hand tucked into Draco’s back pocket, moving quickly enough that no one could reasonably ask questions and Draco wouldn’t have time to change his mind.
Behind them, Hermione let out a sharp gasp.
Harry ignored it.
Ron said, “Fucking finally! Everyone pay up!”
Harry ignored that too.
The second they landed in Harry’s flat, Harry got his mouth on Draco.
Draco made a startled sound into the kiss, then took both of his hands on Harry’s jaw, tilting Harry’s face exactly where he wanted it and kissing him harder.
Harry groaned and pulled him closer. Draco’s lips parted under his, soft and yielding, and the first slide of Draco’s tongue against his knocked whatever was left of Harry’s good sense straight out of its chair—
And then there was only Draco.
Draco’s mouth, soft and slick and addictive. He tasted like the drink Harry had only let him finish half of, and Harry chased it, licking deeper into his mouth. His body was warm and solid in Harry’s hands as Harry dragged them beneath Draco’s shirt, palms finding hot skin, then the narrow dip of his waist, then sliding lower to grab his arse properly.
Fuck, it was spectacular.
“I can’t wait to get inside you,” Harry said, kissing along Draco’s jaw, then down his neck.
Draco tipped his head back, giving him more skin. “Then do it. What’re we standing around for?”
Harry chuckled. It was a good point.
“Hold on,” Harry said, and lifted him.
Draco yelped, legs wrapping around Harry’s waist, arms winding around his shoulders. “Harry! You could warn me.”
“You like it,” Harry said, nipping at his ear.
Draco shivered in his arms. “I might like it more if you got on with it and got me naked on your bed.”
“I’m trying,” Harry said.
“You're currently talking.”
“Being criticised does slow a man down.”
Draco grabbed Harry’s face and kissed him, presumably to stop him from saying anything else, which worked extremely well and also created a new problem: Harry could no longer see where he was going.
The bedroom had been the plan, but the wall got there first.
Harry hit it with Draco’s back, not gently, and Draco moaned into his mouth, hips rolling down against Harry’s cock as if this had been the preferred destination all along.
Fine by him.
He pulled back just far enough to peel his shirt off with one hand, keeping Draco pinned with the other. Draco followed suit, tossing his own shirt aside, and Harry’s mouth went dry at the sight of him again. His chest rose and fell, flushed from kissing, warm under Harry’s mouth as Harry kissed down over his collarbone, then lower. He paused at one nipple, licking it, sucking it, then bit it lightly.
“Harry,” Draco hissed, warning and wanting all at once.
“Hm?” Harry mouthed his way to the other nipple.
“Can’t we do this naked?”
“Okay,” Harry said, then he pulled his wand from his pocket and spelled the rest of their clothes away.
Draco’s eyes flashed. “You had better not have vanished that.”
“Relax,” Harry said. “They’re folded on the chair by the bed.”
“And my shoes?”
“Also by the chair.”
Harry sank to his knees, guiding Draco down with him until Draco’s back was braced against the wall and his legs were hooked over Harry’s shoulders. And there it was: Draco’s cock, hard and pink and gorgeous and so close that Harry’s mouth watered.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’ve got a pretty cock.”
Draco’s hand slid over the back of Harry’s head, fingers threading into his hair, nails scraping lightly at his scalp. “I know I do. And are you going to do anything with it, or merely admire it all evening?”
Harry snorted.
Then he put his hands beneath Draco’s thighs and hitched him higher against the wall.
It wasn’t effortless. Draco was all long limbs and Seeker’s muscle, lithe rather than light. Harry worked out, and thank fuck he did, because he’d just discovered a new reason to keep doing it: getting Draco Malfoy spread open against his wall while Draco tried to look unimpressed.
He was failing.
Harry could tell because Draco’s breathing had gone ragged, and he was looking down at him with dark, half-lidded eyes.
“Comfortable?” Harry asked.
“No.”
“Then you better come quick.”
“What are you—”
Whatever Draco had been about to say turned into a moan as Harry licked him from underneath, starting at the sensitive skin behind his balls and taking his time about it. Draco’s head hit the wall with a soft thud, both hands in Harry’s hair now, gripping tight.
Harry smiled against him, sucked one ball into his mouth until Draco swore, then dragged his tongue up the full length of his cock, slow and wet, before taking him in deep.
“Oh, shit,” Draco said. “Harry, your mouth—”
Harry wanted to say, Yeah? Good? ‘S’it the best you’ve had?
He wanted to say, Your cock’s the perfect size to suck on.
He wanted to say a lot of things, actually, but his mouth was busy and Draco would be unbearable about it if Harry stopped to talk.
So he showed him instead.
He kept the suction tight and pressed the flat of his tongue along the underside of Draco’s cock, taking him in, pulling back, then sinking down again until his nose pressed against Draco’s pelvis. He moaned when Draco tugged at his hair, because he liked the sting, and he moaned again when Draco’s hips jerked up into his mouth in shallow, helpless little thrusts.
That was encouraging.
Harry sucked him down again, greedy for it, as if Draco were something sweet he could keep in his mouth forever. The thought flashed through him, stupid and filthy: next time, if there was a next time, he was going to get some treacle tart-flavoured lube and find out exactly how long Draco could stand it.
But first, this.
Harry squeezed Draco’s arse with one hand, then let the pad of one finger brush against his rim.
Draco’s breath broke. “Fuck, Harry, yes.”
Harry knew he was good at this, and Draco might as well learn that now too, so Harry cast a wordless, wandless lubrication spell and eased one slick finger inside.
“Harry—”
He pressed in deeper, slowly, crooking his finger, searching. When he found the right spot, Draco’s whole body jolted, and the noise he made went straight down Harry’s spine.
So he doubled down, working his mouth faster over Draco’s cock while his finger worked steadily inside him. He found a rhythm: suck down, pull back, press, rub. Again, and again, and again, and again—keeping his mouth wet, filthy wet, until spit slicked his chin and Draco’s grip in his hair went painful, and Draco’s hips lost any rhythm of their own.
“Harry,” Draco gasped. “Harry, yes. Like that, yes, make me come, fuck—”
Harry groaned around him and gave him exactly that.
Draco came hard, thighs clamping around Harry’s head, and Harry kept him down his throat through it. His nose pressed into the soft hair at the base of Draco’s cock as he swallowed every hot pulse.
Fuck, he tasted good.
Harry had expected he would, because Draco was infuriatingly meticulous about everything he put in or on his body. Of course even this was unfairly considered. Of course Harry was already thinking about tasting him again.
Draco shook as the last of it had shuddered through him.
Harry pulled off slowly, though he couldn’t resist pressing one last wet kiss to the head of Draco’s cock before letting him go. Then he kissed the inside of Draco’s thigh, his hip, the sharp jut of bone there, and guided him down to the floor with hands gentler than the rest of him felt.
Draco was sprawled beneath him, flushed and gorgeous and utterly wrecked, and Harry wanted to do it again. See how many times he could get Draco to come with just his mouth and fingers.
But he could do that later.
He crawled over him and kissed him.
Draco kissed back, still half gone, lazy and open, limbs winding loosely around Harry as Harry licked into his mouth and let him taste himself. It was filthy, but Draco seemed to like it because his arms tightened around Harry and his hips rolled up, seeking.
Harry answered by grinding down against him, until his cock dragged hot and hard along Draco’s hip.
Suddenly, Draco pulled him back by the hair. “What the fuck, Potter.”
Harry blinked down at him. “What?”
“Is that really...” Draco’s eyes flicked down between them, then back up. “You really weren’t lying?”
“What, earlier?” Harry said. “You couldn’t feel it through my trousers?”
“Yes, but this feels like more.”
Harry grinned. “I’m a grower, I’m afraid.”
He sat back on his haunches and wrapped a hand around the base of his cock. It stood at attention; throbbing, flushed dark, wet at the tip, looking quite angry about not being inside of Draco already.
Draco stared at it like Harry had presented him with a present and a threat in the same hand.
Harry stroked himself once, slow.
Draco’s mouth fell open. “That’s going to hit me in the throat."
“But you can take it, can’t you?” Harry said. “Because you’re a good boy for me.”
“Yes,” Draco breathed, nodding. “So hurry up and take me to bed already.”
“Bossy,” Harry said.
“I’m merely repeating what I was saying before you accosted me against the fucking wall—”
“I’m sorry I made you come so hard you were shaking,” Harry said, scooping him up and standing.
Draco snorted, one hand batting uselessly at Harry’s arm. “Potter, I can walk.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
“Really didn’t look like it a minute ago.”
“You are getting entirely too smug after just one orgasm. Don’t become insufferable.”
“Too late,” Harry said, carrying him toward the bedroom. “And I’m just getting you used to this, because you won’t be walking right after tonight and you’ll need to be carried everywhere.”
Draco tutted, but his arms tightened around Harry’s shoulders. “Promises, promises.”
Harry dropped him onto the bed, rougher than he would have on the floor, because it was a bed and Draco made a very satisfying little sound when he bounced. Before Draco could say anything clever about it, Harry flipped him onto his stomach.
“Fuck, Draco, your arse,” Harry said, getting both hands on it. “You’ve no idea how much I’ve been wanting this—”
“So put that massive cock inside me already.”
Harry laughed. “You’re very demanding for someone face down on my bed.”
“I’m demanding in every position.”
“Yeah, I’m noticing.”
He pulled Draco’s cheeks apart, stared for a second because he had earned it, then let go and watched it jiggle back into place. Fuck. He grabbed him again, squeezed, and bent to kiss the softest part of one cheek before biting it.
Draco made a muffled sound into the sheets.
Harry spread him open again, whispered the cleaning charm, then licked him from behind his balls up to his hole.
“Harry,” Draco said, legs shifting restlessly. “Please. Can you just... I want you inside me.”
“Not yet.”
Harry put his mouth back on him and took his time, licking him open until Draco was trying to fuck himself on Harry’s tongue, hips pushing back in short, needy little movements. Harry let him have it for a while. Let him get shameless with it. Let him make those furious little sounds into the sheets like he hated how much he wanted it.
Then Harry’s cock started twitching impatiently against the mattress and he decided it was probably time to move things along. So he pulled away, cast the lubrication spell, and replaced his tongue with two slick fingers.
“You saw how big I am,” Harry said, fucking them in slowly before adding a third. “I’m making sure you can take me.”
“I can take you. I’m not some fragile little thing.”
“No,” Harry said, working him open. “But I’m not hurting you just because you’re impatient.”
Draco shot him a glare over his shoulder.
Harry ignored that and leaned over him and kissed up his spine, pausing to suck a mark into the back of Draco’s neck before taking his jaw and turning his head for a kiss. He rubbed against his prostate again, just to hear what would happen.
“Potter!” Draco snapped, though the effect was somewhat dampened by the way he was arching into Harry’s hand.
Harry kissed him once more, then pulled his fingers free and hauled Draco’s hips up until he was on his knees, chest pressed to the bed, arse lifted high and waiting.
He looked at him for one indulgent second. Then he said, “Alright, princess. I think you’re ready.”
“Don’t call me that,” Draco said.
Harry conjured more lube, slicked himself, and tapped the head of his cock against Draco’s entrance. “What would you have me call you, then?”
“Not princess.”
“Kitten?”
“That’s even worse.”
“Sweetheart?” Harry said, dragging his cock slowly through Draco’s cleft, holding his hips in place. “Baby?”
Draco hesitated.
“Ah. Sweetheart, then. But that’s too wordy for bed.”
“Isn’t it too early for pet names?”
Harry lined himself up and pressed in slowly. “Don’t think so. I think you like it. Don’t you, baby?”
Draco made a sound that was not an answer and also absolutely was.
Harry looked down to watch himself disappear inside Draco, which was a bad idea. Draco was stretched so obscenely wide around Harry’s cock that Harry had to grit his teeth and remember to breathe, to hold himself back, because Draco was so tight, so hot, so perfect around him that Harry was about three bad thoughts away from coming like a fucking idiot.
It felt like ages to get all the way in.
Harry shut his eyes. “Fuck. You alright?”
“Yeah, just—” Draco wiggled his arse and somehow Harry’s cock nudged deeper. “Oh, Merlin. You’re so big. I can literally feel you in my throat.”
“You asked for it.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
Harry laughed and drew back just enough to push in again. Shallow and careful, giving Draco time to get used to the stretch, to the length, to the slow drag of Harry’s cock inside him.
He really was trying to be good about it, which was difficult because Draco felt so good and Harry was not, by nature, a particularly patient man when presented with exactly what he wanted.
Still. He managed.
For a bit.
Then Draco’s moans turned needy, his hands twisting in the sheets, and his hips rocked back like Harry’s patience had become offensive.
“Yeah?” Harry said, voice rough. “Ready for more?”
Draco only moaned again.
Good enough.
Harry got both hands on his arse, thumbs grazing the skin where they were connected, and started to move properly. Faster, harder, pulling out of him and fucking back in until Draco’s next sound was Harry’s broken name.
“Fuck, baby,” Harry grunted. “Look at you. You’re taking me so well. This hole was made for me, wasn’t it?”
Draco responded by moaning louder, and Harry responded by leaning over him, bracing a hand near Draco’s head, and closing the other around the back of Draco’s neck, holding him in place while Harry changed the angle and hammered into him.
“Oh, shit,” Draco said. “Right there! Don’t stop—fuck, you’re so deep—no one’s ever—”
Harry didn’t need telling twice. He kept fucking him there, sweat slicking his chest and shoulders, and gathering at the base of his spine. He kept at it until Draco’s voice pitched higher and his legs began to shake.
“Harry,” Draco said. “Harry, I’m close.”
“Touch yourself then, baby,” Harry said. “Be a good boy and come for me. Let me feel it.”
Draco’s hand slid under himself, and Harry watched his arm move quickly, his hips swivelling between his hand and Harry’s cock.
Harry’s hand crept up and got into Draco’s hair and he pulled.
Draco shouted, coming all over the sheets, body going taut, his hole clenching around Harry so hard Harry’s vision sparked.
“Good boy, Draco,” Harry groaned. “Fuck, baby, there you go. You're so gorgeous. That’s it.”
He let go of Draco’s hair and gripped him by the waist, pulling him back onto his cock as he started chasing his own release. He was rougher now, the sound of his hips smacking against Draco’s arse was loud in the room, and Draco whined because he was still sensitive, but Harry was right there—
“Take it,” Harry said. “Take it, take it, take it. God, Draco, you’re so fucking good for me.”
Draco made a sound into the mattress that Harry felt everywhere.
Harry came with a roar, slamming in deep and holding there, hips shuddering as it rolled through him. It went on long enough that Harry was briefly worried he might die like this, which would be embarrassing. Also inconvenient, because he’d only just got Draco into his bed and he had no intention of being finished with him. Tonight, and possibly forever, if Harry had anything to do with it.
When Harry finally came to, he pulled out carefully (because he wasn’t a complete animal, whatever the evidence suggested), and turned Draco over and kissed him. His stomach first, then his chest, then his face, then his mouth, slower and softer and sweeter than everything they’d just done.
Draco kissed back, and Harry could have stayed like that for ages. Unfortunately, ages required oxygen.
So he pulled back, kissed Draco once more, and brushed Draco’s hair off his forehead.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Peachy,” Draco said. “You’re—that was… wow.”
Harry smirked. “Did I fuck the ability to speak out of you?”
Draco smacked his chest. “Shut up, Potter. Take the compliment.”
“There was a compliment in there?”
“Yes.” Draco glared, though its menace was difficult to take seriously while he was still naked and stroking idly with the hairs at Harry’s nape. “But you know, I didn’t see if you actually hit the mark.”
Harry laughed. “Feeling it wasn’t enough?”
“Well, I thought that was the whole point of this,” Draco said, gesturing. “For you to prove the Chosen Cock could reach deeper than my mark.”
“I thought the point was that you hadn’t been shagged properly and I offered to help.”
“How charitable of you.”
“Not charity,” Harry said. “I like you.”
Draco blinked.
Harry blinked back. Apparently that had escaped. Bold little bastard of a sentence. No taking that back now, though.
“Oh,” Draco said.
“You heard our friends when we were leaving,” Harry said. “They were taking bets on us.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “I thought that was because I’ve fancied you for ages.”
Harry’s chest went warm. “Yeah?”
“Yes. They think I’ve been quite pathetic about it.”
“Not as pathetic as me, though.”
“Is this a competition?”
“One that I’m winning.”
Draco laughed. “Fine, you win. You’re the most pathetic one out of both of us. Perhaps out of the entire country. Congratulations.”
Harry’s mouth quirked, and he couldn’t help leaning in to kiss him again. Just once, slow and filthy, sliding his tongue against Draco’s until Draco tried to chase it.
“So you want to date, then?” Harry asked, pulling back. “You’ll be my boyfriend?”
Draco paused, humming as if this required serious thought. Then he reached down and touched the tattoo below his navel. “I don’t know. I’d rather date someone who can at least reach my mark. Did you even reach it?” He sighed dramatically. “Perhaps I’ll never know…”
Harry settled between Draco’s legs again and grabbed a pillow, shoving it under Draco’s hips. “If you wanted another go, you only had to ask. You don’t need to manipulate me into it.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about. I’m not trying to manipulate you. I’m merely saying—”
“That you want to fuck again,” Harry finished, wrapping a hand around his cock, which had taken the possibility of being inside Draco again with embarrassing enthusiasm. “Got that, sweetheart. You’re going to get it, don’t worry.”
He didn’t waste time getting back inside Draco. They both groaned the second the head of Harry’s cock pressed in, and watched as Harry sank deeper.
And deeper.
And deeper.
And deeper still—
Then Harry lifted Draco’s hips a little, drove in to the hilt, and there it was: Draco’s stomach rising right where Harry’s cock was buried deepest, right by his navel and well above that x.
“Oh,” Draco breathed.
“Told you,” Harry said, then pulled out and fucked back in again.
Draco moaned, then somehow managed, “Well done, boyfriend. Suppose we’re dating now. You win.”
That did something stupid to Harry’s chest. His cock had a related, less sentimental reaction, swelling impossibly thicker inside Draco.
He dropped over Draco and kissed him, one hand behind his head, holding him carefully while his hips did something much less careful. Draco wrapped his legs around Harry’s waist and dragged him in close, heels digging into his arse as Harry fucked him in short, rutting thrusts while Draco kissed him open-mouthed and messy.
Then Draco shoved him back.
“What—”
“Fuck me properly, Harry,” Draco said, grabbing behind his knees and spreading himself wide. “Darling. Please. I need it. Stuff me with that massive cock.”
Harry stared at him. At the blown pupils, the flushed mouth, the outrageous confidence of Draco lying there spread open and still giving orders.
Well. Who was Harry to deny him anyway?
He got his hands on the backs of Draco’s thighs and pressed down, thrusting in hard enough to make Draco’s mouth fall open.
“Yes—just like that—oh!”
They moved together desperately, sweat making their skin slick where they pressed together. Draco’s cock was trapped between them, rubbing against the hair low on Harry’s stomach, and every time Harry slammed in, Draco made another ruined sound against his mouth.
Harry kept changing the angle, chasing that spot inside him, until Draco suddenly arched up against him.
“Oh, shit!” Draco keened. “There, Harry, yes, right there—!”
Harry drove into it.
Draco cried out, and his mouth seemed to lose all interest in dignity. It all came spilling out of him between moans: Merlin, yes, Harry, you fuck me so good, right there, don’t stop, I love your cock, fuck, you’re so big, please, more, harder, yes.
Every filthy word went straight to Harry’s cock, and whatever was left of his mind went with it. That was fine. He didn’t need thoughts for this. He had Draco under him, Draco around him, Draco begging for more like Harry wasn’t already trying to fuck him through the mattress.
Harry matched him with whatever words he had left, rough and useless against Draco’s mouth: how good he felt. How gorgeous. How hot. How perfect. How Harry could fuck him forever and still want more.
And when Harry lifted up to watch his cock move in and out of Draco, he saw it again—that slight bulge in Draco’s stomach, just above the little x, appearing and vanishing with every thrust, and he got an idea.
He held out a hand and Summoned his inking stylus from the other room.
Draco looked at it curiously when it flew into Harry’s palm. “What are—ah—what’re you doing with that?”
“I’m going to change your tattoo into a lightning bolt later,” Harry said, drawing over the little mark. The shape was dark against Draco’s skin and came out clear, but imperfect, because Harry didn’t bother pausing his thrusts to do it. “What d’you think, baby?”
“Possessive,” Draco said, his smile wickedly pleased. “I like it.”
Harry grinned, bending down to give Draco a kiss. Then he sat back up and fucked him harder, watching the lightning bolt bend and distort every time he thrust in, every time Draco’s stomach rose around his cock.
Which gave Harry another idea.
He took up the stylus again and started marking him: a tiny heart where Draco gasped, a lightning bolt where his breath hitched, another heart where Draco’s moan went higher and his nails dug into Harry’s arms.
Draco watched him do it, flushed and panting, eyes dark with interest. “What’re you doing now?”
“I’m marking all the spots that make you feel good,” Harry said, drawing another little bolt when Draco clenched around him. “I could tattoo them later, too. Then I’ll know where to aim every time I fuck you.”
“Oh,” Draco said. “Fuck, why is that so hot?”
“Because you like being attended to,” Harry said, angling for one of the bolts and proving himself immediately right. “Don’t you, baby? You like when I make you feel really good?”
“Fuck, yes—you make me feel so good—”
Harry looked down at the hearts and lightning bolts scattered over Draco’s skin, twisting with every breath, every thrust, every place Harry had found and marked. He didn’t want to lose them.
So he ran a hand over Draco’s stomach, whispering a quick charm to hold the ink where it was.
Draco’s eyes flicked down. “What was that?”
“Keeping my notes,” Harry said. “Don’t want you sweating them away.”
Draco’s laugh was soft and breathless, breaking into a moan halfway through, and he grabbed Harry by the back of the neck and pulled him down.
The kiss started sweet, and Harry even meant to keep it that way. Then Draco bit his lower lip and rolled his hips up, and that was the end of that.
Draco barely had time to breathe before Harry got his hands on him properly, their kiss turning rough as he pushed one of Draco’s thighs back until his leg was over Harry’s shoulders. Draco made a wrecked sound at the new angle, his eyes going bright and wet at the corners, his body jolting beneath Harry and giving him away every time Harry pounded into that spot.
With a quick spell, Harry slicked his hand and reached between them for Draco’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts.
“Come for me, Draco,” Harry said, driving in deep and grinding against Draco’s prostate as he jerked his hand faster on Draco’s cock. “Come on.”
Draco came with a broken cry, his come painting his chest, his stomach, Harry’s hand. His head fell back, his back arching so high off the bed that Harry slid impossibly deeper, and the feel of Draco tightening around him nearly finished Harry on the spot.
Harry stayed buried in him, hips moving in short rolls, his hand still working Draco through the last of it, until Draco was boneless and twitching beneath him.
Then Harry brought his hand to his mouth and licked Draco’s come from his fingers.
“Mm,” he said. “You taste so good, baby. How do you taste so good?”
Draco watched him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Because my diet includes colours other than beige.”
“I’ll just have to get my nutrients from you, then,” Harry said as he started moving again. “Eat your come with every meal.”
“You’re a degenerate,” Draco said, scandalised for roughly half a second before Harry’s thrusts turned punishing. “Fuck, I just came—can you wait—oh, shit, that feels good—”
“Is it too soon for you to come again?” Harry said. “You seem to like this spot.” He pounded into it, watching one of the hearts shift with the force of it. “Can I make you come from just this?”
Draco made a thin, wrecked sound. “No, I—”
“Give me another,” Harry said against Draco’s mouth. “You can come for me again, can’t you?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“You can, baby. You’re so hard already. I can feel you on my stomach. Come all over us, then I’ll come deep inside you.” He kissed him again, sucking on his tongue. “You want that, don’t you? For me to fill you up?”
“Yes, yes—” Draco said, nodding mindlessly. “Fill me up—Harry, you feel so good, I can’t—I—”
Harry doubled down, fucking into him with everything Draco had asked for.
The bed immediately began making noises of protest, and the headboard joined in by slamming against the wall hard enough that Harry realised, belatedly, he’d forgotten to cast a Silencing Charm for his poor neighbours.
Oh, well. Sorry to them.
He couldn’t make himself care—not when Draco was trembling beneath him like this, eyes fluttering as he tried to keep them open, mouth parted around broken little breaths.
“That’s it,” Harry murmured. “There you are, baby, come on.”
Then Draco went taut, his mouth falling open on a silent cry, and then he was coming again, spilling between them while Harry fucked him through it.
Fuck. Harry had done it. Made Draco come with nothing but his cock and an irresponsible amount of determination.
It sent Harry straight to the edge.
“Almost there, baby,” Harry said, grunting. “Just hold on. Fuck—feels so good, your fucking hole is so good—could stay inside you forever—”
Draco took Harry’s face in both hands, forcing Harry’s gaze back to his. “Look at me when you come, darling. Look at me when you fill me up again.”
Harry stared down at him, panting, sweat slipping from his hairline, down the bridge of his nose, and onto Draco’s chest, while Draco lay spent beneath him, eyes fixed on Harry.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “Going to fill you up with so much come. Want to watch it drip out of you later.”
Draco moaned, loud and shameless, and squeezed around Harry’s cock. Deliberately. The little slut.
“Yes, I want that,” Draco said. “I want it. Come on, darling. Give it to me.”
So Harry did.
He came harder than he had the first time, violently enough that his vision went white and his body forgot it had ever had any other purpose. His hips jerked helplessly, cock pulsing deep inside Draco, and he kept pumping into him until pleasure turned molten and stupid and endless.
“Oh, fuck, Draco,” Harry groaned. “Baby. Fuck.”
He collapsed on top of Draco without thinking, but Draco didn’t seem to mind. He wound his limbs around Harry again, hands sliding up and down Harry’s back, mouth pressing soft kisses along Harry’s neck and shoulders.
Eventually, Harry found enough presence of mind to roll off him. Draco made a small unhappy sound when Harry slipped out, and Harry immediately dropped down beside him, caught his hand, and kissed his knuckles.
“Are you alright?” Harry asked.
“Am I alright?” Draco gave him a look. “I’ve just been mauled and fucked within an inch of my life.”
Harry grimaced. “Oh, I’m sor—”
“Stop.” Draco covered Harry’s mouth with his hand. “Don’t apologise. That was amazing. I’m better than alright. No one’s ever made me come that many times so close together.”
Harry kissed his palm and licked between his fingers. “And the night is still young.”
“Are you seriously still horny?” Draco said, yanking his hand back and wiping it on Harry’s chest hair. “I would hit you with a pillow, but you’ve made me entirely useless.”
“So don’t. Kiss me more.”
Draco huffed, but kissed him anyway. Harry hauled him closer, one hand skimming down Draco’s back, his waist, then his stomach.
“Wait,” Draco said, breaking the kiss. “Your little drawings.” He looked down and baulked. “Merlin! There are so many. Why are there so many?”
Harry glanced down too. He had maybe got a little carried away.
“It’s all your spots,” he reasoned. “The ones that make you feel good. S’not my fault you’ve got loads of them, sweetheart.”
Draco inhaled sharply through his nose. Then he held out his hand, and his wand snapped into it.
“This is absurd.” He pointed it at his stomach. “Scourgify.”
Nothing happened.
He tried again. “Scourgify.”
Nothing continued to happen.
“What?” Draco said.
He tried a third time—
Still nothing.
Slowly, Draco looked at Harry.
Harry had been watching with no concern at all, still stupid in the afterglow. Unfortunately, his brain began returning to work, one silly little light at a time, and one started flashing red.
He sat up and reached for the stylus from where he’d tossed it near the pillows.
One look at the nib was enough.
“Er,” Harry said.
“Er?” Draco repeated.
Harry checked again, because delusion was worth a try.
It wasn’t.
“Right. Don’t be mad at me.”
Draco frowned. “Potter, what did you do?”
Harry held up the stylus. “This isn’t the washable one.”
“Is this not one of those Muggle pens? What do you mean, it isn’t washable?”
“Er, it’s not a Muggle pen,” Harry said, wincing and hoping Draco wouldn’t hex him before he finished explaining. “It’s my inking stylus. The actual one. Not the practice one. It’s the, er, the one for tattoos.”
“Harry—”
“—so I may have actually tattooed these on you—”
“You what?”
“I didn’t know I Summoned the wrong stylus, so it was an accident—”
“You accidentally tattooed hearts and lightning bolts all over my stomach?”
“And hips,” Harry said, then immediately wished he hadn’t.
Draco’s eyes flashed. “Remove them. Immediately.”
“I can,” Harry said quickly. “I can remove them.”
“Excellent. Do that.”
But as Harry brushed his fingers over the shapes, he found himself getting fond of them. They were small and ridiculous and proof of all the places that had wrung pleasure from Draco: every gasp, every shiver, every helpless little sound Harry planned to remember with embarrassing dedication.
“Are you sure, sweetheart?” Harry asked. “These are useful. They show me how to fuck you better. They’re like a little map. Remember how good I fucked you?”
“You fucked me well enough that first round without them!” Draco said. “You did not need visual aids. I look like a Weasley spawn doodled all over me! Get these off me now!”
“I will,” Harry said. “If you really want.”
“Yes, I really want!”
Harry paused. “Or,” he said slowly, “I could show you why I shouldn’t remove them.”
Draco glared at him. “No.”
Harry shut his mouth.
Draco glared harder.
Then: “What exactly would you be showing me?” Draco cleared his throat. “I am asking for clarity, just so you know.”
“It might be better to show you.”
“How convenient for you.”
“And for you.”
Draco’s mouth thinned.
Harry waited with what he considered impressive patience.
“Fine,” Draco sighed. “Show me, then.”
Harry grinned.
“Don’t look pleased with yourself.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Harry pulled Draco back against his chest, lifting one of Draco’s legs over his thigh, and he rutted against Draco’s arse.
“Let me fuck you like this,” Harry said, catching Draco’s lobe between his teeth. “You can watch your stomach. See how good it feels when I hit all these marks. And we could keep all your favourite ones.”
“You just came,” Draco said. “How are you hard already?”
“Dunno,” Harry said, gripping himself and teasing at Draco’s rim. He was still loose and wet, and Harry nearly lost his sentence when the head caught on it. “Reckon I’ve wanted you for years and my cock’s making up for lost time.”
“You were right. You are the most pathetic man in England.”
“You wanna do it anyway,” Harry said. “You’re pushing back on me.”
“I am not.”
Draco chose exactly the wrong moment to prove this by pushing back just as Harry pressed in. The head eased past the rim, then more, and then suddenly Harry was halfway inside him.
“Fuck, look how sloppy I’ve made you,” Harry muttered, thrusting shallowly. “You’re so easy to fuck now.”
Draco moaned, head falling back against Harry’s shoulder.
Harry lifted Draco’s leg higher, opening him wider, and nosed at Draco’s cheek until Draco turned for him. Harry caught his mouth, kissing him as he started moving again, slow at first, then faster, until Draco’s breathing hitched and frayed.
“Watch,” Harry said.
He took Draco’s hand and set it on one of the bolts.
Then he aimed for it.
Draco cried out, his cock jumping against his stomach from the force of Harry’s thrust. “Oh, fuck—yes, there, that’s so good—”
Harry smiled against Draco’s cheek. “See, baby?”
Draco groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, and hit the same spot again.
In the end, Draco let Harry keep one lightning bolt and one heart, nestled close together just above the place Harry had learned to aim for. The one that, when properly hit, had Draco keep coming untouched as the night went on.