Endowment (for gracerene) - Part 1/2
May. 19th, 2015 11:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dicta_contrionTitle: Endowment (Part 1/2)
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 11k
Warnings/Enticements:hung!Draco, bottoming-virgin!Harry, oral sex, anal sex, fingering, comeplay/post-sex fingering, super mild dubcon in that Draco talks Harry into something, dirty talk
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
disapparater for the beta-ing and britpickery!
Summary: Potter has got under my skin for far too long, in far too many ways. I fully intend to return the favour.
Dear, deargracerene,
Sharing a fandom with you is such a joy. Your comments, your recs, your fic, your posts on lj and tumblr, the very fabulous postcard from Tasmania that's decorating my refrigerator, your lovely brunch company. I'm so happy I've gotten to know you! So when the lovelynia_kantorka organized a birthday event to celebrate your awesomeness, I was fully on board. "I'll just hammer out some porn!" I thought. Ha. Best laid plans, right? Erised kicked into high gear, and then RL, and then dracotops, and, well, keeping things short has never really been my forte. A new plan was hatched: half-birthday porn! So today, on the occassion of your half birthday, I offer you birthday porn, with interest. I hope I've managed to hit some of the right spots, and that you enjoy. Most of all, thank you for being such a brilliant, kind, thoughtful, fantastic person. Here's to a wonderful, exciting half-year to come!! ♥♥
Below on LJ, posted in its entirety on AO3
Endowment - Part 1
Potter’s always been a bit of a tight-arse. What was true at 11 is no less true at 21.
It is, however, far more literal.
I had assumed, at first, a simple prudishness at the root of his reluctance to take a finger or two. His Muggle upbringing, perhaps, or an adolescence subsumed by war and without the benefit of weekends in the Slytherin common room.
That theory is long since disproven. He loved my hand slipped down the front of his pants at a Muggle club. Loved it even more in the loos at the fourth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Loved my lips wrapped around his cock in an alley behind the Leaky at one of their Friday night Auror drinks things. Loved me whispering filth to him when he finally dropped to his knees and reciprocated on the landing outside my flat.
I loved it too. All of it, but none so much as that first glint of curious fear in his eyes when he took my prick from my robes in the dim light of the hallway and properly saw it.
He’d felt it, of course. I play a long game, not an unselfish one. But whether due to adrenaline, Firewhisky, or both, his drunken fumbling had never captured the size of it. How could it? I’m longer than his fist, thicker than the circle of his fingers. Big enough to elicit that unmistakable, bug-eyed, open-mouthed moment of alarm.
Such a Gryffindor, Potter is. Until the very end. Until the skin at the juncture of his lips was straining, until I felt his throat convulse against my tip, until he gagged down the better part of a thick load and pulled back coughing with thin, white, spit-diluted strands sliding from the corner of his mouth.
Shortly thereafter, I found what eluded even the Dark Pillock: a limit to Potter’s reckless bravery.
He was pressed to the wall, pants around his thighs, prick heavy in my hand, my spunk still scenting his breath. I had a solid grip on his arse, all firm muscle, tense and shaking. He didn’t pull away. No, not until I slid a finger down the crevice of his arse and pressed against his hole.
I might’ve thought he was bucking into my fist, but Potter is not the first man to pull away from these advances. In their fits of locker room envy, no one considers the drawbacks to an endowment like mine. But I have become familiar with the shy dismissals, the conciliatory hand jobs, the “why don’t we instead”s. That I thought better of Potter would be a testament to my own stupidity, if he wasn’t going to follow through.
If.
But Potter has got under my skin for far too long, in far too many ways. I fully intend to return the favour.
We have rarely found ourselves in a bed. Our sort of arrangement doesn’t lend itself to that sort of thing. There was the impulsive rental of a room following another Friday night alley rendezvous, when Potter proved himself a decent, if nervous, top. The illicit usage of the Granger-Weasley’s marital bed, when Potter proved himself decent with a cleaning spell. Once, his own bed, when he Apparated us out of a Muggle club and claimed my arse again.
There may be an element of intrigue, then, in my invitation. I hope so, as I wait for him, Scotch in hand. Though whether this missive holds any particular interest for him depends almost entirely on whether he’s recognised the address. My address.
When he tumbles out of the Floo, his outfit suggests that he hasn’t. He’s dressed for a club, tight jeans and barely there tank and the hideously worn leather jacket he insists on wearing, which he claims is vintage and which is, to its credit, softer than silk against bare skin.
The fleeting look of surprise confirms it. The uneasy shift. The way he cards his hair as he takes in the room. The nervous laugh. “Nice club.”
He hasn’t expected this, then. Hasn’t ever thought to look up my address. My stomach twists. I’m all too happy to ascribe it to the Firewhisky.
“Very exclusive.” I lift my glass in salute and take a slow sip. I want to watch him assess the room. See if he figures it out.
It’s a pleasure he denies me. He has eyes for my trousers, my dress shirt, for the two buttons I’ve left undone and the skin between them. Perhaps I should be unsurprised that his attention doesn’t extend to impeccable interior decorating.
His attention turns to my glass. “Where’s the bartender?”
I smirk, spread my hands. “At your service.”
“Aren’t you supposed to ask what I want?”
“You assume I don’t already know.”
He smirks. I let him.
We lock eyes across the rug. I count to ten, then stand. “Ogden’s, 12 year, rocks?”
He looks up from my trousers to my face.
“Ogden’s, 12 year, rocks,” I repeat. “That’s what you want.”
“Right,” he answers. “Sure it is.”
I focus on the drink. The smell of the whisky, the cracking ice. Potter’s eyes flitting up from my arse when I turn around to hand it to him.
“Thanks.” He brushes his fingers over mine as he accepts the glass. “Didn’t know you were moonlighting.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
“As ever.” His gaze flickers to my trousers, just for an instant. Long enough for me to notice, briefly enough to guess that he didn’t mean for me to. “So, why the change of pace?”
“Some things are best accomplished in filthy Muggle back rooms. Others are not.”
“What, time for some wizard’s chess?”
“I’ve rather a different sort of game in mind.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Gobstones?”
“Hardly.” I cross my arms. “Pin the tail on the saviour.”
He laughs. “Brought me out for a secret kid’s party? Kinky.”
“Yes, obviously. It’s in the bedroom, if you’d like to see for yourself.”
He drains his glass and moves to set it next to the bottle. “Lead the way.”
At least he’s not feigning innocence.
I’ve prepared the bedroom in advance. My bedroom, rather than the guest room. I want to remember Potter’s arse laid open for me every time I lay my head down. He doesn’t need to know that, nor see the trinkets that would’ve given it away, now safely stashed in trunks and wardrobes. All he needs to see is the four poster and, perhaps, the chest at its foot.
I hold the door for him. He steps through. Takes it in. Turns to me with a maddening smirk and mock-surprise. “There aren’t any children here, Malfoy. Where’s the party?”
His wrist is thick and tenses instinctively when I wrap my fingers around it, guiding it to my flies. “Here.”
“Want me to pin your tail?”
“No.” I take a step forward, fingers tightening around him. “Exactly the opposite.”
He steps back. “Nice try.”
“Who said anything about trying?”
“That’s all you’re going to be doing.”
I press myself against him, free hand drawing him closer by the belt loops. His breath smells of whisky, his neck of fresh aftershave. “That so?”
“Ye—” the word starts decisively enough. My teeth set against his jaw slow it considerably. “Yeah,” he breathes.
Debating has never been his forte. More a man of action. It makes him terribly predictable. I bite down, then lick the toothprint I’ve left behind. Move down his neck. Repeat. Repeat. Slip his jacket off his shoulders. He tilts his head, exposing the pulsing vein at the base of his throat.
Releasing his wrist, I turn my fingers to better purposes. The thin cotton of his top hides nothing. His nipples have made themselves apparent and he presses his groin towards mine when I pinch one, giving it the slightest twist and waiting for the throaty moan that follows.
“Fuck, mmm, Malfoy.” His eyes are closed, his voice is low, his neck arched. I reach for the other nipple. He presses into the touch, gasps out, “Still not gonna fuck me.”
“Why’s that?” The question is directed to his clavicle, and goosebumps spring up where my breath leaves its mark.
“’Cause no,” he breathes, pushing my hand towards his waistband.
“Not an answer.”
“No,” he admits, his eyes still closed.
“Tell me.” I slip my hand into his waistband and slide it round the back, dipping down to cup his arse.
He jerks, eyes flaring open. “No,” he repeats.
“Why not?” It’s almost a pout, and I know it. Poor strategy; I know that too.
He jerks his wrist free and crosses his arms. I feel the space between us acutely. I hope he does too.
“That’s not what I do.”
“Not what you do?” Indignation may not be ideal either, strategically, but it’s certainly genuine.
“It’s, er,” he mumbles, looking down. “It’s gross.”
“It’s gross?” Strategy is barely hanging on. “It’s gross.” I take a step back. “You’ve no problem sticking your prick up other men’s arses, but it’s gross when yours is on the line?”
“I don’t—” he stops, turns away. “Whatever. No.”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t. Just don’t, okay?”
“You don’t fuck other men’s arses?”
He ignores me. The hot twist of anger in my belly coils, ready to strike. “Do you let them fuck yours? Is it gross when it’s their cocks? Their side-of-the-light, non-Death Eater pricks pounding into you?”
“No!”
I want to vomit. To leave him covered in it, the bastard.
He looks up at me and he’s wild-eyed, suddenly, gripping my shirt, grabbing my jaw and pulling my face in line with his. “No, No— that’s not. It’s not that, fuck, it’s not that.”
“Not what? Not that—” I can’t finish. I won’t give him this particular ammunition. Let him say the words himself.
“No, no, Malfoy. It’s not— I don’t care— no, it’s not that I don’t care, but I know you’re not, that it’s not that you’re.” He stops. Takes a deep breath, trying, I suspect, to tame the feral panic in his eyes. “Therearenoothermen.”
“What?” I don’t know if I need to hear it again. I don’t know if I’ve even heard it correctly the first time.
He grits his teeth. “There are no other men.”
“What do you mean, ‘There are no other men’?”
“There. Are. No. Other. Men.”
“Right now?” Surely, he’s plenty of suitors. I’ve seen him at the clubs, seen how they fall all over him.
He whispers so quietly I barely make him out. “Ever.”
“Women, then.” It’s not an idea I particularly enjoy, but it’s the only feasible answer. “You fuck women.”
He shakes his head.
“Women fuck you?”
He snorts, shakes his head again.
“Yes. Yes, there are women. There have been women.”
Again, he shakes his head, this time with his eyes cast to the floor.
Merlin. “There haven’t been women.”
Intent on his shoes, he barely manages a nod.
“Or men.”
The slightest bob to indicate his agreement.
“There hasn’t been anyone?”
A shake of his head, just barely.
“Except…” I can’t say it; can’t even entirely comprehend that fucking my arse is the only sort of fucking he’s done. “Ever?”
He looks up. I expect demure. He’s always confounded my expectations. As he’s doing now, with his blazing eyes, with his sudden fierceness. With his virgin, untouched, fucking arse. “No. Happy?”
I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off. I’m almost too shocked to find it rude.
“And there won’t be.”
I scramble for a response. Something to change his mind. If I wanted his arse before…well. The only thing that comes to mind – that makes it through this suffocating haze of lust – is an awful line. Overused. “How do you know you won’t like it, if you’ve never tried it?”
It would be predictable to anyone who’s ever tried to wrangle a bit of straight arse. But, I realise, that’s not Potter. Potter, who is, at least momentarily, visibly perplexed by the question. At last, he mumbles, “Just do.”
“And when you’re on the giving end?”
“I—” He frowns. “I don’t know.” A shrug. “Feels all right, I guess. You’re very clean.”
I swallow my outrage at that “all right.” If he’ll only say my arse is all right…well, it’s a good thing I’m a man on a mission. “You’re telling me you don’t want to be fucked because you lack proper hygiene?”
“No! That’s disgusting.”
“And, I suspect, untrue.”
“Definitely.”
“So then why?”
He pauses, looks away.
It hits me all at once. “You’re scared.”
“No!”
“Yes, you are.” Gloating is even more disastrous than pouting, but I simply can’t help it.
“No way!”
“Prove it.”
He freezes as though he’s been petrified.
“Prove it, Potter.”
“I don’t…”
“You don’t know. You have no idea.”
He shrugs. Not exactly a concession, but I’ll take it.
I step closer. “You’re not even curious?”
He shrugs.
“You’ve never wondered what it would be like?” I lean in, put on a throaty whisper. “Never wondered what it feels like when you’re pounding in to me?”
“No,” he says, and the syllable is broken in half when his breath catches.
“Never even, for a second, wondered why I come so hard with your cock up my arse?”
He swallows audibly, and remains stock still otherwise.
“Never wanted to know how it feels to be so full there’s no room left for anything but pleasure?”
His breathing is shallow.
“I think you have.”
His shrug is so tiny I almost miss it.
“I could show you, you know.”
He shrugs again.
“Could show you right now. Could open you up so sweetly you’ll forget your own name.”
He shivers.
“Fill you so slowly you’ll be begging for more.” I nip his earlobe. “If you get on the bed.”
His voice is scratchy, barely a whisper. “What?”
“Get on the bed.”
He looks to it, back to me. I do my best to look reassuring. He’s wary, but he’s not running.
And then—he doesn’t meet my eye, but he does it. Steps away, and perches on the edge of the mattress.
I come to stand between his spread knees and card a hand through his hair, bringing it to rest on his shoulder. He leans in to my touch. “Take your top off and lie back.”
He looks up, alarmed.
I crook a finger under his jaw and tilt his eyes up to face mine. “Trust me.”
He doesn’t look away, even as he slips the thin cotton over his head. As soon as it’s off, he’s holding my gaze and begins to lie back. He crosses his arms behind his head, aiming for some sort of a challenge. He succeeds, though I’m loath to admit it. He looks as accusatory as he does trusting.
Best not fuck this up, then.
I break eye contact first. Drop to my knees in front of him, hands on his thighs, and nudge his legs apart. He tenses under my palms. I run my hands over the muscle, stopping on his waistband.
He inhales when I reach for his flies, arching so his stomach drops away from my fingers. It only makes my work easier. The button pops open easily, the zipper follows, and he lifts his arse to let me bring his pants and jeans down his legs together.
He’s more than half hard, prick lying swollen across his thigh. With his clothes around his knees his arse is hidden by shadow and his cock is out of mouth’s reach. I grip his calves, massaging my way towards his ankles, then pulling off one shoe, the other, his jeans, his pants.
Suddenly, I’m faced with his knees. He’s staring up at the ceiling, away from me, with his legs closed to hide any hint of his hole.
Maddening. Maddening fucking tight-arse Potter.
I slide a hand over his kneecaps, attempting to tease them open. He tenses.
If I can’t get a fingertip between his knees, getting my cock into his arse seems Herculean.
But then, his prick isn’t between his knees. He jerks when I take it in hand, suffocating a moan into the thinnest of whimpers.
He’s heavy and warm against my palm, and he responds in spite of himself. His mouth falls open before his knees do. He breathes deeply, and the tension in his legs falls away. When I lean forward, he lets me in. First to nip at the inside of his knee, then to trail kisses up his thigh, until he’s spread open well enough for me to mouth at his bollocks. It’s something he loves, and something the circumstances of our encounters doesn’t often permit.
He’s torn between disappointment and desire when I take his cock in my mouth. It’s the perfect excuse to drop a hand to the base of his shaft, then lower, cupping his balls, rolling them in my palm as I suck him down.
Any pretence of restraint has disappeared. His hips buck into my mouth, the head of his cock butting against my throat as he descends into abandon.
The ideal, moment, then.
My hand drops lower still, and lower, until it’s the back on my knuckles rubbing against his bollocks, until I run my thumb over his cleft.
He freezes.
Fuck.
I relax my throat, try to take him down. Something that usually undoes him, and it has no effect.
I press my thumb against him again. He jerks off the bed. I pull away.
“Potter,” I start, trailing off into a sigh.
He’s covered his face with his hands and refuses to respond.
“Potter,” I shake his knee. “Come out of there.”
He shakes his head furiously.
“You’re making it rather difficult to proceed.”
The look he gives me is so withering as to kill the average house plant, but at least he’s looking.
“When I let you fuck me—why?”
“What?” Confusion supersedes his scathing stare.
“When I let you fuck me, did you think I was being magnanimous? Some sort of arse-first charity project?”
His confusion escalates to bewilderment. “I...um.”
“Because I assure you, Potter, Malfoys don’t do charity unless there’s something to be gained.”
“Then...why?”
“I’m trying to show you.”
“That…it really feels good?”
I fail to suppress an eye roll. “No, I was faking it. I’ve ridden your prick as simple courtesy because I’m such a giving, generous sort of a wizard.”
He frowns. “No need for sarcasm.”
“No,” I agree. “No need for any sort of talking at all, if you’d just turn over.”
“Turn...?”
“Over.”
He stares at me. Between us, his cock twitches. Interesting. “Over?”
“Yes.”
“Just…?”
“It’s not Arithmancy, Potter. On your stomach.”
He gives me a last, sceptical look, and turns, sliding up the bed so that only his toes hang off the edge.
Potter’s body is a thing of beauty. I’d always thought he’d be scrawny; perhaps the impressions of our youth don’t leave us as easily as we might like. But three years of Auror training – and, I suppose, a war – have done well by him. His arse is firm and high, his waist trim, back muscled, his legs toned. I’ve never had the opportunity to take him in like this.
“Malfoy?” He mumbles it over his shoulder, his voice tinged with barely concealed nerves.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Are you going to...you know?”
“You’ve got a magnificent arse.” I don’t mean to say it. It just...slips out.
“Um,” he mutters, and he tightens it without realising. Merlin help me, it’s got dimples when he does that. “I...yeah?”
“Mmm. Yes.” I slide a hand up his calf. “Lovely.”
“Um, thanks,” he replies, and buries his head in his elbow.
It takes a good deal of effort not to stare at him. The scrutiny clearly makes him nervous, but oh, it’s a delight. I feel myself, perhaps unwisely, beginning to hope that these proceedings will mean more opportunities to look. Many more.
He wiggles, settling himself into the duvet. It’s a useful reminder, intentional or not, to get down to it.
I slip a knee into the space between his calves. Rest my hands on the backs of his legs. Rake my nails up his thighs.
He shivers. He doesn’t pull away.
I take him in my hands now. Properly, in my hands. Not a quick squeeze in an alleyway. No turning away. His back tightens and I hear him hold his breath, but he doesn’t move. Lets me rest a palm on each side, squeeze his cheeks so I can feel the shape of them, feel his flesh and muscle under my palms.
Slowly, so as not to spook him, I begin to knead. His arse is so firm, so perfectly round. And as I work the muscle, I begin to pull his cheeks apart.
If he notices, he doesn’t protest. Doesn’t make a sound, though I feel some answering pressure as I work his arse.
This tiny indication of approval almost disappears when I pull him far enough apart for him to feel it. He jerks away from me.
“Potter,” I soothe - or try to. “I won’t hurt you.”
He nods, mumbles something mostly indiscernible into his elbow.
“That’s it,” I answer, rubbing the backs of his thighs. “Relax.”
He pokes his head up just far enough for his mouth – his flushed, plump mouth – to pull clear of his arm. “Just tell me, okay?”
“Tell –” I realise what he means and am rather glad he can’t see my smile. “Of course. I’ll tell you. Just relax.”
“No surprises.”
“No surprises,” I agree. “I’ll tell you. If you’ll relax.”
He takes a deep breath, nods, and turns back into his arms.
“And if you’ll do as I say.”
He freezes, then. The moment seems to last forever. And then, an even slighter nod.
“Good. I’m going to touch your arse, all right?”
He nods again.
‘Touch’ might’ve been an understatement. It’s a light slap and a firm grab, and I’m rather pleased to see him arch into it.
“Good,” I continue. “Very good. Open your legs for me.”
I’m on the verge of repeating my instruction when he obeys. It’s not much, but enough for me to slide my knee further between his thighs, to keep his legs open so I can see the swell of his bollocks, full and flushed, resting between them.
“Yes,” I breathe, “that’s good. Your arse, it’s...I want to see it.”
The muscles move beneath his skin as he tenses and forces himself to relax
“I’m going to open you, Potter. I want to see your hole.”
I swear I hear the faintest whine as I spread him open.
“Merlin.” I’m not sure if I want him to hear it. I’m not sure if I care. Seeing him, after so many months...it’s not as though it’s a masterpiece. It’s an arsehole, a pink ring surrounded by dark skin and darker hair. But it’s his arsehole, this place no one’s touched, or licked, or seen before.
I’m rock hard and newly grateful for my trousers. It’s hard enough not to slip into him as it is. So much as touching my cock would incendiary.
“Merlin,” I repeat. “I want to taste you.”
“What?” He jerks up at that. “What? You can’t, that’s—”
“Trust me,” I interrupt. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.”
“Never felt a Bludger to the bollocks either, doesn’t mean I’d like to.”
I bend over him, bracing an arm on each side of his chest, bringing my mouth to his ear. “You think this is going to be like a Bludger to the bollocks? Potter, I’ll lick your hole so well, you’ll be begging for more.”
His shoulders roll into my chest as he swallows.
“Have I ever hurt you?”
“No,” he concedes.
“Ever done anything that didn’t end with you coming so hard you saw stars?”
“‘Potter Stinks’ badges.”
“Oh, shut up, Potter. Spread your fucking legs and bring me your hole.”
Am I angry with him? No. But impatient might be an understatement.
Fortunately for us both, he obliges.
“We’ll start with something you like.” I breathe it into his ear, then move down, kissing and nipping down his back, sinking my teeth into his arse, biting down his thigh, and putting my mouth to his bollocks.
He moans, quietly at first, as I take one into my mouth and let it drop again, moving to lave the other, and back again. He bucks against me. I do my level best not to do the same to the mattress.
And then, I lift away. “Like that?”
“Mmm,” he breathes, nodding.
“Wait for this.” I slide my tongue up, pressing into the sensitive spot between his arse and balls, and he moans again. Spreads his legs for more. So much the better.
My tongue slides up another inch, and then another, and I can feel the coarseness of his thickening hair, then, at last, the smooth ring of muscle.
I don’t pause, don’t hesitate at all, just drag my tongue over his hole, running it almost the length of his crack. Then again, and again, moving a hand to grip his waist.
He’s holding his breath, I realise. I hum, and lift up. “That bad?”
“Wet,” he whispers.
“Wasn’t the question.” I lick again, slowly, from his bollocks to the fine hairs at the base of his spine. “Is it bad?“
“No,” he breathes.
I pull him towards my face. He’s startled enough to roll his hips, and I feel as much as hear his gasp when I go to work, licking, sucking, kissing his hole.
He gasps again when the tip of my tongue pushes against him, and again when I moan. The feel of him, tightening around my tongue, responding to it...I drop a hand to my tenting trousers and have to pull away at once. I’m so close.
Though if I intend to fuck him I’ll want to make it last, something I’m currently incapable of.
I moan into his hole once more. There it is again – the slightest pressure as he pushes into me.
“Do you like that?”
He doesn’t respond, except with the smallest cant of his hips.
“I do. Your arse is delicious.” I press a kiss to his thigh. “I could eat it all night.”
His breathing speeds.
“Do you know how hard it makes me? How hard I am from eating your arse?”
He yelps when I pull him towards the end of the bed and looks over his shoulder, indignant.
I catch his eye. “So hard, Potter.” I lean back and unbuckle my belt. “So hard I’m going to come. Come in my fist while I’m eating your hole.”
His pupils are dilating, edging out his irises. His mouth has dropped open and I’m tempted, so tempted, to crawl over him, to shove my cock in it.
But I have bigger plans.
He looks down when he hears my flies. My eyelids flutter shut when I touch myself; when I open them again he’s staring at my face, entranced.
A smile curls my lips. “Your arse, Potter. I want it.”
He swallows again.
Then he drops his knees over the side of the bed and bares himself.
I can’t suppress the groan. My cock twitches against my palm. I grab his waist, pull him back, and bury my face in him. His taste is so mild. He needn’t have worried. Sweat and skin, and I want more of it. More of him.
He rolls his hips against my face; I’m beginning to think he wants me to have more of him, too. And at this angle, I can. I lick him in time with my fist, both speeding as I detect the first hint of a proper moan. He’s opening under my tongue, loosening for me, letting that tight ring of muscle contract and release against the tip of my tongue, between my lips.
My thighs tense. My bollocks are painfully tight and I want it to last, want it to keep going.
Then he pushes back against my face, grinds into me with a desperate whine, and I’m coming, coming, spilling all over my hand, all over my trousers, moaning into him, and the vibrations only seem to urge him on.
I have to grip his hip with my free hand to steady him and oh, what a bittersweet turn of events that is. I give him a long, last lick as I pump myself dry, nip his arse before I pull back, resting a hand on his flank and catching my breath.
He tenses under my hand, and I realise he’s sat back on his calves and turned to look. I can’t quite discern his expression. “I—” he looks me, his faces inches away from mine. “That’s it?”
I let loose a smile, heart still pounding. “Should it be?”
He studies my face, won’t quite meet my eye. “No,” he replies. “No, I don’t think so.”
On to Part 2 or Read on AO3
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 11k
Warnings/Enticements:
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Thanks to
disapparater for the beta-ing and britpickery!Summary: Potter has got under my skin for far too long, in far too many ways. I fully intend to return the favour.
Dear, dear
gracerene,Sharing a fandom with you is such a joy. Your comments, your recs, your fic, your posts on lj and tumblr, the very fabulous postcard from Tasmania that's decorating my refrigerator, your lovely brunch company. I'm so happy I've gotten to know you! So when the lovely
nia_kantorka organized a birthday event to celebrate your awesomeness, I was fully on board. "I'll just hammer out some porn!" I thought. Ha. Best laid plans, right? Erised kicked into high gear, and then RL, and then dracotops, and, well, keeping things short has never really been my forte. A new plan was hatched: half-birthday porn! So today, on the occassion of your half birthday, I offer you birthday porn, with interest. I hope I've managed to hit some of the right spots, and that you enjoy. Most of all, thank you for being such a brilliant, kind, thoughtful, fantastic person. Here's to a wonderful, exciting half-year to come!! ♥♥Below on LJ, posted in its entirety on AO3
Endowment - Part 1
Potter’s always been a bit of a tight-arse. What was true at 11 is no less true at 21.
It is, however, far more literal.
I had assumed, at first, a simple prudishness at the root of his reluctance to take a finger or two. His Muggle upbringing, perhaps, or an adolescence subsumed by war and without the benefit of weekends in the Slytherin common room.
That theory is long since disproven. He loved my hand slipped down the front of his pants at a Muggle club. Loved it even more in the loos at the fourth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Loved my lips wrapped around his cock in an alley behind the Leaky at one of their Friday night Auror drinks things. Loved me whispering filth to him when he finally dropped to his knees and reciprocated on the landing outside my flat.
I loved it too. All of it, but none so much as that first glint of curious fear in his eyes when he took my prick from my robes in the dim light of the hallway and properly saw it.
He’d felt it, of course. I play a long game, not an unselfish one. But whether due to adrenaline, Firewhisky, or both, his drunken fumbling had never captured the size of it. How could it? I’m longer than his fist, thicker than the circle of his fingers. Big enough to elicit that unmistakable, bug-eyed, open-mouthed moment of alarm.
Such a Gryffindor, Potter is. Until the very end. Until the skin at the juncture of his lips was straining, until I felt his throat convulse against my tip, until he gagged down the better part of a thick load and pulled back coughing with thin, white, spit-diluted strands sliding from the corner of his mouth.
Shortly thereafter, I found what eluded even the Dark Pillock: a limit to Potter’s reckless bravery.
He was pressed to the wall, pants around his thighs, prick heavy in my hand, my spunk still scenting his breath. I had a solid grip on his arse, all firm muscle, tense and shaking. He didn’t pull away. No, not until I slid a finger down the crevice of his arse and pressed against his hole.
I might’ve thought he was bucking into my fist, but Potter is not the first man to pull away from these advances. In their fits of locker room envy, no one considers the drawbacks to an endowment like mine. But I have become familiar with the shy dismissals, the conciliatory hand jobs, the “why don’t we instead”s. That I thought better of Potter would be a testament to my own stupidity, if he wasn’t going to follow through.
If.
But Potter has got under my skin for far too long, in far too many ways. I fully intend to return the favour.
We have rarely found ourselves in a bed. Our sort of arrangement doesn’t lend itself to that sort of thing. There was the impulsive rental of a room following another Friday night alley rendezvous, when Potter proved himself a decent, if nervous, top. The illicit usage of the Granger-Weasley’s marital bed, when Potter proved himself decent with a cleaning spell. Once, his own bed, when he Apparated us out of a Muggle club and claimed my arse again.
There may be an element of intrigue, then, in my invitation. I hope so, as I wait for him, Scotch in hand. Though whether this missive holds any particular interest for him depends almost entirely on whether he’s recognised the address. My address.
When he tumbles out of the Floo, his outfit suggests that he hasn’t. He’s dressed for a club, tight jeans and barely there tank and the hideously worn leather jacket he insists on wearing, which he claims is vintage and which is, to its credit, softer than silk against bare skin.
The fleeting look of surprise confirms it. The uneasy shift. The way he cards his hair as he takes in the room. The nervous laugh. “Nice club.”
He hasn’t expected this, then. Hasn’t ever thought to look up my address. My stomach twists. I’m all too happy to ascribe it to the Firewhisky.
“Very exclusive.” I lift my glass in salute and take a slow sip. I want to watch him assess the room. See if he figures it out.
It’s a pleasure he denies me. He has eyes for my trousers, my dress shirt, for the two buttons I’ve left undone and the skin between them. Perhaps I should be unsurprised that his attention doesn’t extend to impeccable interior decorating.
His attention turns to my glass. “Where’s the bartender?”
I smirk, spread my hands. “At your service.”
“Aren’t you supposed to ask what I want?”
“You assume I don’t already know.”
He smirks. I let him.
We lock eyes across the rug. I count to ten, then stand. “Ogden’s, 12 year, rocks?”
He looks up from my trousers to my face.
“Ogden’s, 12 year, rocks,” I repeat. “That’s what you want.”
“Right,” he answers. “Sure it is.”
I focus on the drink. The smell of the whisky, the cracking ice. Potter’s eyes flitting up from my arse when I turn around to hand it to him.
“Thanks.” He brushes his fingers over mine as he accepts the glass. “Didn’t know you were moonlighting.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
“As ever.” His gaze flickers to my trousers, just for an instant. Long enough for me to notice, briefly enough to guess that he didn’t mean for me to. “So, why the change of pace?”
“Some things are best accomplished in filthy Muggle back rooms. Others are not.”
“What, time for some wizard’s chess?”
“I’ve rather a different sort of game in mind.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Gobstones?”
“Hardly.” I cross my arms. “Pin the tail on the saviour.”
He laughs. “Brought me out for a secret kid’s party? Kinky.”
“Yes, obviously. It’s in the bedroom, if you’d like to see for yourself.”
He drains his glass and moves to set it next to the bottle. “Lead the way.”
At least he’s not feigning innocence.
I’ve prepared the bedroom in advance. My bedroom, rather than the guest room. I want to remember Potter’s arse laid open for me every time I lay my head down. He doesn’t need to know that, nor see the trinkets that would’ve given it away, now safely stashed in trunks and wardrobes. All he needs to see is the four poster and, perhaps, the chest at its foot.
I hold the door for him. He steps through. Takes it in. Turns to me with a maddening smirk and mock-surprise. “There aren’t any children here, Malfoy. Where’s the party?”
His wrist is thick and tenses instinctively when I wrap my fingers around it, guiding it to my flies. “Here.”
“Want me to pin your tail?”
“No.” I take a step forward, fingers tightening around him. “Exactly the opposite.”
He steps back. “Nice try.”
“Who said anything about trying?”
“That’s all you’re going to be doing.”
I press myself against him, free hand drawing him closer by the belt loops. His breath smells of whisky, his neck of fresh aftershave. “That so?”
“Ye—” the word starts decisively enough. My teeth set against his jaw slow it considerably. “Yeah,” he breathes.
Debating has never been his forte. More a man of action. It makes him terribly predictable. I bite down, then lick the toothprint I’ve left behind. Move down his neck. Repeat. Repeat. Slip his jacket off his shoulders. He tilts his head, exposing the pulsing vein at the base of his throat.
Releasing his wrist, I turn my fingers to better purposes. The thin cotton of his top hides nothing. His nipples have made themselves apparent and he presses his groin towards mine when I pinch one, giving it the slightest twist and waiting for the throaty moan that follows.
“Fuck, mmm, Malfoy.” His eyes are closed, his voice is low, his neck arched. I reach for the other nipple. He presses into the touch, gasps out, “Still not gonna fuck me.”
“Why’s that?” The question is directed to his clavicle, and goosebumps spring up where my breath leaves its mark.
“’Cause no,” he breathes, pushing my hand towards his waistband.
“Not an answer.”
“No,” he admits, his eyes still closed.
“Tell me.” I slip my hand into his waistband and slide it round the back, dipping down to cup his arse.
He jerks, eyes flaring open. “No,” he repeats.
“Why not?” It’s almost a pout, and I know it. Poor strategy; I know that too.
He jerks his wrist free and crosses his arms. I feel the space between us acutely. I hope he does too.
“That’s not what I do.”
“Not what you do?” Indignation may not be ideal either, strategically, but it’s certainly genuine.
“It’s, er,” he mumbles, looking down. “It’s gross.”
“It’s gross?” Strategy is barely hanging on. “It’s gross.” I take a step back. “You’ve no problem sticking your prick up other men’s arses, but it’s gross when yours is on the line?”
“I don’t—” he stops, turns away. “Whatever. No.”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t. Just don’t, okay?”
“You don’t fuck other men’s arses?”
He ignores me. The hot twist of anger in my belly coils, ready to strike. “Do you let them fuck yours? Is it gross when it’s their cocks? Their side-of-the-light, non-Death Eater pricks pounding into you?”
“No!”
I want to vomit. To leave him covered in it, the bastard.
He looks up at me and he’s wild-eyed, suddenly, gripping my shirt, grabbing my jaw and pulling my face in line with his. “No, No— that’s not. It’s not that, fuck, it’s not that.”
“Not what? Not that—” I can’t finish. I won’t give him this particular ammunition. Let him say the words himself.
“No, no, Malfoy. It’s not— I don’t care— no, it’s not that I don’t care, but I know you’re not, that it’s not that you’re.” He stops. Takes a deep breath, trying, I suspect, to tame the feral panic in his eyes. “Therearenoothermen.”
“What?” I don’t know if I need to hear it again. I don’t know if I’ve even heard it correctly the first time.
He grits his teeth. “There are no other men.”
“What do you mean, ‘There are no other men’?”
“There. Are. No. Other. Men.”
“Right now?” Surely, he’s plenty of suitors. I’ve seen him at the clubs, seen how they fall all over him.
He whispers so quietly I barely make him out. “Ever.”
“Women, then.” It’s not an idea I particularly enjoy, but it’s the only feasible answer. “You fuck women.”
He shakes his head.
“Women fuck you?”
He snorts, shakes his head again.
“Yes. Yes, there are women. There have been women.”
Again, he shakes his head, this time with his eyes cast to the floor.
Merlin. “There haven’t been women.”
Intent on his shoes, he barely manages a nod.
“Or men.”
The slightest bob to indicate his agreement.
“There hasn’t been anyone?”
A shake of his head, just barely.
“Except…” I can’t say it; can’t even entirely comprehend that fucking my arse is the only sort of fucking he’s done. “Ever?”
He looks up. I expect demure. He’s always confounded my expectations. As he’s doing now, with his blazing eyes, with his sudden fierceness. With his virgin, untouched, fucking arse. “No. Happy?”
I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off. I’m almost too shocked to find it rude.
“And there won’t be.”
I scramble for a response. Something to change his mind. If I wanted his arse before…well. The only thing that comes to mind – that makes it through this suffocating haze of lust – is an awful line. Overused. “How do you know you won’t like it, if you’ve never tried it?”
It would be predictable to anyone who’s ever tried to wrangle a bit of straight arse. But, I realise, that’s not Potter. Potter, who is, at least momentarily, visibly perplexed by the question. At last, he mumbles, “Just do.”
“And when you’re on the giving end?”
“I—” He frowns. “I don’t know.” A shrug. “Feels all right, I guess. You’re very clean.”
I swallow my outrage at that “all right.” If he’ll only say my arse is all right…well, it’s a good thing I’m a man on a mission. “You’re telling me you don’t want to be fucked because you lack proper hygiene?”
“No! That’s disgusting.”
“And, I suspect, untrue.”
“Definitely.”
“So then why?”
He pauses, looks away.
It hits me all at once. “You’re scared.”
“No!”
“Yes, you are.” Gloating is even more disastrous than pouting, but I simply can’t help it.
“No way!”
“Prove it.”
He freezes as though he’s been petrified.
“Prove it, Potter.”
“I don’t…”
“You don’t know. You have no idea.”
He shrugs. Not exactly a concession, but I’ll take it.
I step closer. “You’re not even curious?”
He shrugs.
“You’ve never wondered what it would be like?” I lean in, put on a throaty whisper. “Never wondered what it feels like when you’re pounding in to me?”
“No,” he says, and the syllable is broken in half when his breath catches.
“Never even, for a second, wondered why I come so hard with your cock up my arse?”
He swallows audibly, and remains stock still otherwise.
“Never wanted to know how it feels to be so full there’s no room left for anything but pleasure?”
His breathing is shallow.
“I think you have.”
His shrug is so tiny I almost miss it.
“I could show you, you know.”
He shrugs again.
“Could show you right now. Could open you up so sweetly you’ll forget your own name.”
He shivers.
“Fill you so slowly you’ll be begging for more.” I nip his earlobe. “If you get on the bed.”
His voice is scratchy, barely a whisper. “What?”
“Get on the bed.”
He looks to it, back to me. I do my best to look reassuring. He’s wary, but he’s not running.
And then—he doesn’t meet my eye, but he does it. Steps away, and perches on the edge of the mattress.
I come to stand between his spread knees and card a hand through his hair, bringing it to rest on his shoulder. He leans in to my touch. “Take your top off and lie back.”
He looks up, alarmed.
I crook a finger under his jaw and tilt his eyes up to face mine. “Trust me.”
He doesn’t look away, even as he slips the thin cotton over his head. As soon as it’s off, he’s holding my gaze and begins to lie back. He crosses his arms behind his head, aiming for some sort of a challenge. He succeeds, though I’m loath to admit it. He looks as accusatory as he does trusting.
Best not fuck this up, then.
I break eye contact first. Drop to my knees in front of him, hands on his thighs, and nudge his legs apart. He tenses under my palms. I run my hands over the muscle, stopping on his waistband.
He inhales when I reach for his flies, arching so his stomach drops away from my fingers. It only makes my work easier. The button pops open easily, the zipper follows, and he lifts his arse to let me bring his pants and jeans down his legs together.
He’s more than half hard, prick lying swollen across his thigh. With his clothes around his knees his arse is hidden by shadow and his cock is out of mouth’s reach. I grip his calves, massaging my way towards his ankles, then pulling off one shoe, the other, his jeans, his pants.
Suddenly, I’m faced with his knees. He’s staring up at the ceiling, away from me, with his legs closed to hide any hint of his hole.
Maddening. Maddening fucking tight-arse Potter.
I slide a hand over his kneecaps, attempting to tease them open. He tenses.
If I can’t get a fingertip between his knees, getting my cock into his arse seems Herculean.
But then, his prick isn’t between his knees. He jerks when I take it in hand, suffocating a moan into the thinnest of whimpers.
He’s heavy and warm against my palm, and he responds in spite of himself. His mouth falls open before his knees do. He breathes deeply, and the tension in his legs falls away. When I lean forward, he lets me in. First to nip at the inside of his knee, then to trail kisses up his thigh, until he’s spread open well enough for me to mouth at his bollocks. It’s something he loves, and something the circumstances of our encounters doesn’t often permit.
He’s torn between disappointment and desire when I take his cock in my mouth. It’s the perfect excuse to drop a hand to the base of his shaft, then lower, cupping his balls, rolling them in my palm as I suck him down.
Any pretence of restraint has disappeared. His hips buck into my mouth, the head of his cock butting against my throat as he descends into abandon.
The ideal, moment, then.
My hand drops lower still, and lower, until it’s the back on my knuckles rubbing against his bollocks, until I run my thumb over his cleft.
He freezes.
Fuck.
I relax my throat, try to take him down. Something that usually undoes him, and it has no effect.
I press my thumb against him again. He jerks off the bed. I pull away.
“Potter,” I start, trailing off into a sigh.
He’s covered his face with his hands and refuses to respond.
“Potter,” I shake his knee. “Come out of there.”
He shakes his head furiously.
“You’re making it rather difficult to proceed.”
The look he gives me is so withering as to kill the average house plant, but at least he’s looking.
“When I let you fuck me—why?”
“What?” Confusion supersedes his scathing stare.
“When I let you fuck me, did you think I was being magnanimous? Some sort of arse-first charity project?”
His confusion escalates to bewilderment. “I...um.”
“Because I assure you, Potter, Malfoys don’t do charity unless there’s something to be gained.”
“Then...why?”
“I’m trying to show you.”
“That…it really feels good?”
I fail to suppress an eye roll. “No, I was faking it. I’ve ridden your prick as simple courtesy because I’m such a giving, generous sort of a wizard.”
He frowns. “No need for sarcasm.”
“No,” I agree. “No need for any sort of talking at all, if you’d just turn over.”
“Turn...?”
“Over.”
He stares at me. Between us, his cock twitches. Interesting. “Over?”
“Yes.”
“Just…?”
“It’s not Arithmancy, Potter. On your stomach.”
He gives me a last, sceptical look, and turns, sliding up the bed so that only his toes hang off the edge.
Potter’s body is a thing of beauty. I’d always thought he’d be scrawny; perhaps the impressions of our youth don’t leave us as easily as we might like. But three years of Auror training – and, I suppose, a war – have done well by him. His arse is firm and high, his waist trim, back muscled, his legs toned. I’ve never had the opportunity to take him in like this.
“Malfoy?” He mumbles it over his shoulder, his voice tinged with barely concealed nerves.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Are you going to...you know?”
“You’ve got a magnificent arse.” I don’t mean to say it. It just...slips out.
“Um,” he mutters, and he tightens it without realising. Merlin help me, it’s got dimples when he does that. “I...yeah?”
“Mmm. Yes.” I slide a hand up his calf. “Lovely.”
“Um, thanks,” he replies, and buries his head in his elbow.
It takes a good deal of effort not to stare at him. The scrutiny clearly makes him nervous, but oh, it’s a delight. I feel myself, perhaps unwisely, beginning to hope that these proceedings will mean more opportunities to look. Many more.
He wiggles, settling himself into the duvet. It’s a useful reminder, intentional or not, to get down to it.
I slip a knee into the space between his calves. Rest my hands on the backs of his legs. Rake my nails up his thighs.
He shivers. He doesn’t pull away.
I take him in my hands now. Properly, in my hands. Not a quick squeeze in an alleyway. No turning away. His back tightens and I hear him hold his breath, but he doesn’t move. Lets me rest a palm on each side, squeeze his cheeks so I can feel the shape of them, feel his flesh and muscle under my palms.
Slowly, so as not to spook him, I begin to knead. His arse is so firm, so perfectly round. And as I work the muscle, I begin to pull his cheeks apart.
If he notices, he doesn’t protest. Doesn’t make a sound, though I feel some answering pressure as I work his arse.
This tiny indication of approval almost disappears when I pull him far enough apart for him to feel it. He jerks away from me.
“Potter,” I soothe - or try to. “I won’t hurt you.”
He nods, mumbles something mostly indiscernible into his elbow.
“That’s it,” I answer, rubbing the backs of his thighs. “Relax.”
He pokes his head up just far enough for his mouth – his flushed, plump mouth – to pull clear of his arm. “Just tell me, okay?”
“Tell –” I realise what he means and am rather glad he can’t see my smile. “Of course. I’ll tell you. Just relax.”
“No surprises.”
“No surprises,” I agree. “I’ll tell you. If you’ll relax.”
He takes a deep breath, nods, and turns back into his arms.
“And if you’ll do as I say.”
He freezes, then. The moment seems to last forever. And then, an even slighter nod.
“Good. I’m going to touch your arse, all right?”
He nods again.
‘Touch’ might’ve been an understatement. It’s a light slap and a firm grab, and I’m rather pleased to see him arch into it.
“Good,” I continue. “Very good. Open your legs for me.”
I’m on the verge of repeating my instruction when he obeys. It’s not much, but enough for me to slide my knee further between his thighs, to keep his legs open so I can see the swell of his bollocks, full and flushed, resting between them.
“Yes,” I breathe, “that’s good. Your arse, it’s...I want to see it.”
The muscles move beneath his skin as he tenses and forces himself to relax
“I’m going to open you, Potter. I want to see your hole.”
I swear I hear the faintest whine as I spread him open.
“Merlin.” I’m not sure if I want him to hear it. I’m not sure if I care. Seeing him, after so many months...it’s not as though it’s a masterpiece. It’s an arsehole, a pink ring surrounded by dark skin and darker hair. But it’s his arsehole, this place no one’s touched, or licked, or seen before.
I’m rock hard and newly grateful for my trousers. It’s hard enough not to slip into him as it is. So much as touching my cock would incendiary.
“Merlin,” I repeat. “I want to taste you.”
“What?” He jerks up at that. “What? You can’t, that’s—”
“Trust me,” I interrupt. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.”
“Never felt a Bludger to the bollocks either, doesn’t mean I’d like to.”
I bend over him, bracing an arm on each side of his chest, bringing my mouth to his ear. “You think this is going to be like a Bludger to the bollocks? Potter, I’ll lick your hole so well, you’ll be begging for more.”
His shoulders roll into my chest as he swallows.
“Have I ever hurt you?”
“No,” he concedes.
“Ever done anything that didn’t end with you coming so hard you saw stars?”
“‘Potter Stinks’ badges.”
“Oh, shut up, Potter. Spread your fucking legs and bring me your hole.”
Am I angry with him? No. But impatient might be an understatement.
Fortunately for us both, he obliges.
“We’ll start with something you like.” I breathe it into his ear, then move down, kissing and nipping down his back, sinking my teeth into his arse, biting down his thigh, and putting my mouth to his bollocks.
He moans, quietly at first, as I take one into my mouth and let it drop again, moving to lave the other, and back again. He bucks against me. I do my level best not to do the same to the mattress.
And then, I lift away. “Like that?”
“Mmm,” he breathes, nodding.
“Wait for this.” I slide my tongue up, pressing into the sensitive spot between his arse and balls, and he moans again. Spreads his legs for more. So much the better.
My tongue slides up another inch, and then another, and I can feel the coarseness of his thickening hair, then, at last, the smooth ring of muscle.
I don’t pause, don’t hesitate at all, just drag my tongue over his hole, running it almost the length of his crack. Then again, and again, moving a hand to grip his waist.
He’s holding his breath, I realise. I hum, and lift up. “That bad?”
“Wet,” he whispers.
“Wasn’t the question.” I lick again, slowly, from his bollocks to the fine hairs at the base of his spine. “Is it bad?“
“No,” he breathes.
I pull him towards my face. He’s startled enough to roll his hips, and I feel as much as hear his gasp when I go to work, licking, sucking, kissing his hole.
He gasps again when the tip of my tongue pushes against him, and again when I moan. The feel of him, tightening around my tongue, responding to it...I drop a hand to my tenting trousers and have to pull away at once. I’m so close.
Though if I intend to fuck him I’ll want to make it last, something I’m currently incapable of.
I moan into his hole once more. There it is again – the slightest pressure as he pushes into me.
“Do you like that?”
He doesn’t respond, except with the smallest cant of his hips.
“I do. Your arse is delicious.” I press a kiss to his thigh. “I could eat it all night.”
His breathing speeds.
“Do you know how hard it makes me? How hard I am from eating your arse?”
He yelps when I pull him towards the end of the bed and looks over his shoulder, indignant.
I catch his eye. “So hard, Potter.” I lean back and unbuckle my belt. “So hard I’m going to come. Come in my fist while I’m eating your hole.”
His pupils are dilating, edging out his irises. His mouth has dropped open and I’m tempted, so tempted, to crawl over him, to shove my cock in it.
But I have bigger plans.
He looks down when he hears my flies. My eyelids flutter shut when I touch myself; when I open them again he’s staring at my face, entranced.
A smile curls my lips. “Your arse, Potter. I want it.”
He swallows again.
Then he drops his knees over the side of the bed and bares himself.
I can’t suppress the groan. My cock twitches against my palm. I grab his waist, pull him back, and bury my face in him. His taste is so mild. He needn’t have worried. Sweat and skin, and I want more of it. More of him.
He rolls his hips against my face; I’m beginning to think he wants me to have more of him, too. And at this angle, I can. I lick him in time with my fist, both speeding as I detect the first hint of a proper moan. He’s opening under my tongue, loosening for me, letting that tight ring of muscle contract and release against the tip of my tongue, between my lips.
My thighs tense. My bollocks are painfully tight and I want it to last, want it to keep going.
Then he pushes back against my face, grinds into me with a desperate whine, and I’m coming, coming, spilling all over my hand, all over my trousers, moaning into him, and the vibrations only seem to urge him on.
I have to grip his hip with my free hand to steady him and oh, what a bittersweet turn of events that is. I give him a long, last lick as I pump myself dry, nip his arse before I pull back, resting a hand on his flank and catching my breath.
He tenses under my hand, and I realise he’s sat back on his calves and turned to look. I can’t quite discern his expression. “I—” he looks me, his faces inches away from mine. “That’s it?”
I let loose a smile, heart still pounding. “Should it be?”
He studies my face, won’t quite meet my eye. “No,” he replies. “No, I don’t think so.”
On to Part 2 or Read on AO3
