Fest Fic: Give me Sweet Oblivion (Harry/Draco)
Title: Give Me Sweet Oblivion
Author/Artist: tryslora
Prompt: #66 - From time to time Head Auror Potter needs to escape from all his responsibilities and submit to his desires. Afraid someone could find out his secret, he only ever visits clubs catering to his needs outside of (wizarding) Britain. One of the clubs he frequents, offers a special, where a sub is blindfolded (and bound), put into a room and has to wait for anyone to "take care" of them. Harry decides this is just what he wants. Enter a surprised Draco or Charlie, who just can't resist when he discovers who is kneeling there on the floor.
Prompt submitted by: ariannagray
Pairing(s):Harry/Draco
Word Count/Art Medium: ~4000 words
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s) (Highlight to view): *Fairly intense BDSM. Dub con. Sleepy/semi-conscious sex.*
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.
Notes: Thanks to C for stepping in to help with a beta for this when I begged nicely. Dear prompter, this was such a lovely prompt. I hope you enjoy the way it turned out!
Summary: Italy seems like a long way to go to keep a fetish secret. But the club is exclusive, and the far away location, and Muggle nature, promises anonymity from Wizarding Britain. The only problem is that sometimes, great minds think alike.
Harry kneels, the marble floor cold beneath him, knees spread enough that his balls would brush the floor if they weren’t drawn back towards his body to escape the chill. He leans forward slightly, wrists caught by leather cuffs, clasped together behind his back and chained to a hook in the ceiling. He knows that one tug on that chain would pull his arms back uncomfortably tight, maybe force him to stand.
He knows that he is trapped here. Waiting. Blindfolded and gagged.
He is vulnerable.
Anyone could walk through that door.
Anything could happen.
His prick aches, hard and weeping drops of pre-come.
Harry moans, and waits.
#
Draco walked down the hall of L’uomo Sconosciuto, fingertips trailing idly against the closed doors. Some were marked occupato and he skipped past those. If they drew him in, it was no matter: he would be denied entrance. There were those marked disponibile a tutti, and he passed those as well. He didn’t want to join in where others might already be in the middle of a scene. No, he wanted a submissive of his own. Someone who would be his for the night, to do whatever he wished.
His fingers tingled, and he lingered on the door, lightly touching the single word there: disponibile. Available. He didn’t wait to question why this room felt right, he simply twisted the handle and went in.
There was a keypad next to the door, where Draco entered the six digit code that uniquely identified himself as the client taking this room. It gave him a choice next, to occupy the room, or leave it open for others who might wish to join, and with a tight smile, he chose occupied. He heard the lock shift, and knew the sign outside now read occupato.
He turned slowly, breath catching as he took in the man who waited in the center of the room. Wrists were ringed in thick black leather, latched together. The man’s head was bowed, his breathing ragged, dark hair falling into his face, over the thick black blindfold. Draco walked around him, considering him from all angles. The chain attached to his wrists would be uncomfortable if tightened, yanking his arms back and up, dangling him in uncomfortable ways. But Draco could change that. The keys lay on a table nearby. He could reconfigure in any way he liked. The only part that was required was the anonymity. This man would never know who he was.
There was a low moan, a questioning sound. Muffled. Mumbled.
Draco glanced over as he started to strip, noting the ring gag. There could be no questions. “When you wear a gag like that, I know you want your mouth fucked,” Draco murmured in Italian. “You’re waiting for it, for me to shove my prick down your throat as far as you can take it. The question is, do I give you what you want? Or do I punish you for asking?” He tossed his clothes to one side, an idle spell stacking them neatly folded in the corner. There was no need to hide his magic, not when his unknown boy wouldn’t understand the words, or see the effect.
His prick, long and thin, was already achingly hard. He gripped the boy’s hair, yanking his head back, focused intently on those lips pressed wide by the gag. He slid the tip of his prick into the waiting mouth, feeling the tongue taste him. Tease him as he withdrew. Draco groaned, eyes closing as he simply gripped the head of this unknown man and started to thrust, hard. Taking him, as he knew he wanted to be taken, using him as he’d so obviously waited to be used. An unknown mouth in a place no one could ever recognize him. It was all he could expect, and it was good enough for now.
#
Harry chokes, opening his throat, trying to relax as his mouth is fucked. It feels good to let go, to forget who he is. He lets it all slide away: the cases sitting on his desk back in London, the Portkey that will take him back there the next morning. All there is for him is here and now. This place. This man, tasting of salt and sweat and need, talking to him in a language he doesn’t understand.
He hadn’t thought about that part, that the person who took him would be Italian. But it adds a level to the not knowing, a level of safety that means he can truly let go.
Harry breathes through his nose, using his tongue to please this man. He tastes bitter drops and moans, shifting, trying to get closer as a wash of fervent Italian spills over him. He takes it as praise and tries harder, almost impossible when he has no control, unable to close his mouth, unable to give suction because of the gag. He moans low in his throat, vibrating around the prick, choking when it suddenly comes and floods his mouth.
He swallows the bitter fluid, breath coming in soft shudders after. He aches, hard and wanting. But he can’t come, won’t come until he is told to. He belongs to this man right now, body given over. And if this man leaves, he belongs to he next that comes in, and the next. He is here to be used until dawn.
And this is bliss.
#
“Such a good boy,” Draco murmured, fingers loosening their grip slightly in his hair. “Let’s get a good look at you, then we’ll see what toys you chose.” The rules at the club were simple: when a man chose a room, he also chose the implements that he agreed were able to be used on his body. No questions needed to be asked; if an item was present, consent was implicit. Draco thought he had spotted a cat o’nine tails lying on the table next to a crop and a wooden paddle. A small knife, a tiny wheel. All items of strong sensation. This was someone who waned to lose himself, and was willing to give himself to Draco in order to do that.
Draco ignored the fact that this man hadn’t chosen him. That was a side point. Irrelevant. The man had picked this room, and this was where Draco’s light touch upon the doors had led him. It may not have been planned, but it was fated, Draco knew that.
He brushed the dark, damp fringe back from his forehead, fingertips stuttering as the movement revealed the scar. Breath caught.
Potter.
Potter.
Draco didn’t dare breathe, knowing the name might slip out, fall from his lips in a way that meant Potter would know who he was. No, he couldn’t dare do that. Couldn’t risk this changing. He was in control here, and Potter had allowed himself to be bound. To submit. Would Draco ever have this opportunity again?
He swallowed hard and let the fringe fall. He reached for the tie, undoing the gag and tossing it to one side. Draco crouched in front of Potter, fingers lightly massaging the muscles of his jaw, ones he knew must ache from being forced open. “I want to hear you scream,” he said quietly, still in Italian. “I want to know I made you scream.”
Draco stood quickly, moving behind Potter to unhook the wrist cuffs from the chain. He lifted him, twisting him around, redoing the cuffs in front of him before attaching them to the chain once more. He ratcheted the chain up, lifting Potter until he hung, toes just touching the floor enough to give him balance without stability.
“A ring. I would never have guessed.” Draco’s teeth caught the slender silver ring that threaded through Potter’s left nipple and tugged. His cry was a punch to the gut, an altogether pleasant one, coiling heat and want within him. Draco let his hand fall between them, gripping Potter’s prick, using the foreskin to wank it slowly. “I wonder how long you’ve been hard. You have no welts, no marks. No sign that anyone has been here yet, so your ass is waiting for me. But this… have you been waiting long? What else do you want?” Draco leaned back, smirking. “I don’t want to you to come too soon.” He spoke the last in English, his voice light and lilting, and attempt to disguise it. But he wanted Potter to know that, that coming without permission was not allowed.
Potter swallowed hard, nodding, his voice hoarse as he responded, “Yes, Sir. Not until you let me, Sir.”
Draco felt those words deep in his gut, lending heat even though he was recently sated. “Good boy.” His hand slid over Potter’s hair, and he pressed a kiss to his temple. “You’re such a good boy.” Again in English, again so Potter would have no doubts.
#
Harry relaxes, loving the sound of those words. Soft and almost affectionate. Proud. Something about the voice settles him, as if it is comfortable and known, even though the timbre is unfamiliar. He feels something slip over his cock, then tighten at the base, and he tries to thrust into the touch before it withdraws. His body wants, just wants, and he is helpless to deny himself now.
When the clip pinches his skin, he hisses, letting it out slowly at the next pinch, then the next, tiny pricks of pain across his skin as clips are set in a curving line over his chest. Words begin to flow again, in Italian, and Harry can only guess what is being said. He groans softly. “Thank you, Sir. Yes, Sir.” A soft sigh, then, “Anything here, Sir. You can use anything here on me. I’m yours. All yours. Use me.” Please just let him lose himself in the floating space that comes with being struck, that comes with pain, with being fucked, with giving himself over in all ways. He wants to beg, but he knows if he says too much, it will end. It always ends if he is too needy. If he wants too much.
When the first lash falls against his ass, a bright strip of pain across both cheeks, Harry screams. The world tilts with the second lash, bright sparks in the darkness behind his blindfold, and when the third falls against reddened skin, Harry falls into the blessed abyss.
#
This was a side of Draco he normally restrained. It harkened back to the part of his life he tried to forget. The part where his aunt knew he liked pain, liked to both give and receive, and tried to exploit it. Tried to turn him into one of them. But Draco hid from it, believing that this enjoyment made him like the Death Eaters he’d come to despise. It was years before he’d discovered that there were those who wanted pain, needed it in order to let go. And that if Draco gave them that pain, he found his own release as well.
He watched the welts rise on Harry’s skin, bright red against the pale, marking a path across his ass. Draco couldn’t resist touching with his free hand, feeling the heat of the marks, the gentle slope of the skin. He could trace them with his eyes closed, finding each new one after a strike as Harry swayed beneath him.
Harry. When had he stopped being Potter in his mind? Draco didn’t know, and didn’t care. All he knew was that Harry was beautiful in the way that he gave himself over. That when Draco raised the crop, Harry whimpered, silently begging for more, and arched into the touch. He swayed with every strike, crying out, prick red and aching from denial.
Draco ached as well, hot and hard again. But he wasn’t going to give in, not yet, not until he had driven Harry into whatever space he was seeking. Not until Harry was limp and done, ready to be fucked back from oblivion.
He sought lube from one of the tables, and a plug that was wide and thick, slightly curved. It would loosen Harry enough that Draco could drive into him hard, not worrying about damaging him. But it would take time to insert.
Draco coated three fingers liberally with the lube, spreading it between Harry’s cheeks, loving the hungry way he pressed his ass back against those questing fingers. He moved from one finger to two, to three easily, fucking him wider, murmuring in Italian the whole time about what a good boy Harry was, how perfectly responsive. Draco twisted his fingers, stroking Harry’s prostate, feeling him buck and cry out. “Not yet,” he whispered in English. “Not yet. Wait.”
Harry whimpered, but Draco kept on, pressing the dildo into him until it was seated. It stretched his ass wider than Draco had imagined, and as Draco stroked the sensitive perineum, Harry bucked again, begging for release.
Draco stood, gripping Harry’s thick hair, yanking his head back. “Do you want more?” he whispered, nipping Harry’s earlobe.
“Yes, Sir. Please, Sir. Anything you want of me. Use me, please. Anything.”
Anything.
Harry Potter was begging him. Begging Draco to dig out his darkest desires and use him brutally. He was tempted to yank the plug out and fuck him, then and there, he was so hard and wanting. But he could wait. He might never have a chance like this again.
#
Harry loses track from one moment to the next. He sways, awash in sensation, floating from one into another, wondering idly what it will be, and crying out from the sheer delight of finding something new each time. His body is stretched, aching and full, his prick bound and throbbing for release. When the cat o’nine tails licks at his skin, he is grateful for the fire. When the ice slips over his welts, he begs for more. When he feels teeth-ohfuckteeth-catch his skin, biting hard enough to leave marks, he slips further into that delicious headspace of being taken care of. Where he can let go.
He starts to babble, begging for something. Anything. Release. Ohfuckrelease, please, let him let go the rest of the way. He’s hovering on the edge, just barely aware of what is going on around him, and he needs more. It won’t take much, he knows, won’t take much at all.
When he feels the plug slipped from his ass, he starts saying thankyouthankyou over and over, hoping that this means he will be well-fucked.
#
Harry’s ass was so open, after the plug, that Draco was able to grip his hips and ram inside, driving deep and hard until Harry cried out, pushing back against him. “Hungry little whore,” Draco murmured, sticking to Italian now, not having enough of a mind to try to disguise his voice. “You want this. You want to be fucked so hard you black out, don’t you?” He didn’t hold back, setting a hard and fast pass, Harry swaying against the chains, only held in place by Draco’s fingers digging into his hips.
Harry babbled but Draco couldn’t understand a word of it. Begging, he thought, and Draco tilted his hips, stroking over Harry’s prostate, feeling the jump of his muscles when he did so. He could hear Harry’s heart pounding. Reaching down, he wrapped his hand around Harry’s prick, hot and slick with his own pre-come. Harry pushed back towards him erratically, trying for more sensation as Draco refused to hold on too tight.
Almost. Almost there.
Draco reached up, yanking at the cord that bound the clips together, ripping them away from Harry’s skin. Harry shuddered in his arms, screaming, hips jerking as if to orgasm. His ass clamped down tight around Draco, almost tight enough to pull him over the edge.
Yes. Now.
Draco released his prick, untying the ring from around the base, just as he drove deep into Harry. He pulled back and drove once more, teeth latching onto Harry’s shoulder, biting hard. Harry tensed beneath him, body rock hard, arched painfully, held in stasis for a long moment. He came with a shout, sound echoing off the walls as he shuddered, spurting onto the floor in thick ropes, more than Draco had thought possible.
#
Yes.
This.
Harry sighs and goes limp, falling through the abyss and letting darkness take him away.
#
Draco reached up, unhooking the chain and freeing Harry’s wrists. His hands fell, still bound together, in front of him. He was heavy, a limp weight in Draco’s arms as he lowered him to the floor.
Draco had never seen anything more beautiful than this man, sprawled on the floor before him, knees spread, ass still open and waiting. He swallowed hard and lifted Harry’s hands over his head, pressing them down against the floor as he lay over him.
He’d said anything.
Anything.
Draco budged his knees under Harry’s ass, lifting him, positioning himself to slide inside easily. Harry was loose now and Draco took it slow, stroking in and out, groaning with the sensation. He hooked one arm under Harry’s leg, lifting it, letting himself slide more deeply into him. “Fuck,” Draco groaned, head bowed.
His mouth slid over sweaty skin, tasting Harry, licking salt and leaving behind small nips and kisses. He felt his heart ease as he fucked him slowly, taking his time, making it sensual. Waiting for Harry to come back from wherever he’d slipped off to.
He found his mouth, kissing him by instinct when he knew he shouldn’t do that. Draco knew that kisses weren’t anonymous. There was an affection implied in a kiss, an intimacy. He kissed him to say thank you for allowing him to let go, for accepting and taking everything Draco had to give, and more. He kissed him, teasing at his mouth, drawing him back from the darkness. He kissed him awake with slow, gentle touch, gasping when Harry kissed him back.
#
Harry floats for so long. He is aware of what happens, aware that he is being fucked, gentle and slow, with soft touches that tickle the edges of his awareness. He is aware that he is still hard and aching, and that this gentle touch makes him shiver on the inside with need all over again. He is aware that someone kisses him, someone that tastes like a drug, until Harry reaches for more.
He comes back into the darkness of the blindfold, hands pressed down against the floor in a strong grip, another hand framing his face. It is a mix of possession and affection, and Harry moans, lifting his hips, wanting more from it. The hand shifts to hold him down, not letting him move, and he whimpers. “Let me please you.”
“You already do,” the stranger replies, fingers drifting over his skin. “Beyond words, you already do.”
Harry arches up into him, the words and tone awakening his body. He’d done well, he is being praised. He is being rewarded. He can want and no one us afraid of it. Instead this complete stranger has given him everything he has begged for and more. For the first time, Harry Potter can just be.
#
Draco hadn’t meant to say that, and worse yet, hadn’t meant to mean it. When Harry moved against him, he thrust back, keeping the slow pace but pushing as deep as he could, until Harry groaned and pushed back, wanting more. No matter how much Draco gave, Harry needed something else, pushing Draco further and further into the places that had scared him. But now, he reveled in it, loved the way those dark places let him give pleasure.
Breath caught, shuddering in Draco’s chest, burning with hunger. He was close, hips shifting, pressing in, needing to go faster. But he held back, feeling the rub of Harry’s cock between them, still hard. He reached down, stroking him, using Harry’s own spunk for lubricant. He matched stroke for stroke, rough at one moment, gentle another, until Harry started to squirm beneath him. This, yes, this. He wanted to make Harry Potter lose control. He wanted to make him scream, begging for him again. He wanted to know that he’d done this to the world’s saviour.
Draco lowered his head to Harry’s chest, catching the nipple ring and tugging, surging forward with the ache that Harry’s yell gave him. He moved to the skin over Harry’s heart, sucking it into his mouth as urgency overtook him. He was close, so close that he couldn’t hold back any more. His hand moved fast and furious over Harry’s prick, begging him to come again. He didn’t worry about whether it hurt any more, simply pounded into him, fast and hard and anxious. Teeth caught at Harry’s skin, leaving marks as Draco came with a growl, emptying himself deep inside of Harry.
He felt Harry come a moment later, cock pulsing in his hand, spilling over onto Harry’s chest.
Draco’s breath eased slowly as he collapsed on top of him, eyes closed. The room wavered around him.
Harry moaned, and Draco murmured nothing-words, kissing him softly until Harry quieted with a sigh.
#
He wants to float like this, just float, forever. No pressure, no need, no hunger, no recrimination. No paperwork, no shouting, no breaking up arguments between mates. Nothing but sweet, quiet bliss and the ache left behind on his ass, in his ass… knowing he has been filled past endurance. He wants more, another time, but how do you ask a complete stranger to fuck you senseless again? Would it change things? In the end, Harry sighs and burrows as close as he can with his arms still stretched and held over his head. This is good enough.
In fact, it’s bloody well brilliant.
#
There were two paths here, Draco knew. In one, he could remove the blindfold and face the dawning knowledge in Harry’s eyes of just who he had allowed to take him here. Once that might have appealed, to have Harry Potter know exactly who he had let control him. But Draco didn’t want to see the horror, see the rejection that would also come.
Draco didn’t want to break this perfect moment.
He withdrew slowly, pushing himself to his feet, finding a blanket. He helped Harry sit up, wrapping him in the blanket and murmuring in Italian once more, making sure he was warm. It only took a moment to free his wrists, and Draco massaged them, helping the blood flow once more. He felt the shivers start, knew Harry had started to come out of that place he had gone, and how difficult it was to return to the real world again.
So Draco held him, keeping the blanket tucked in close, stroking Harry’s hair and murmuring nonsense. But he left the blindfold on.
Neither of them spoke of it, he noted. He wondered if it were just as important for Harry not to see. It was obvious that he hadn’t wanted to be known, coming all the way to Italy, to this Muggle place, to find what he was looking for.
It was pure chance that had led Draco to this room, or perhaps fate.
Who was he to deny fate?
“Next week,” he said quietly, fingers latching into Harry’s hair for a brief tug as he spoke in English. “You will return. Same night, same time. And you will tell them to set your room to key only to me, and I will find you. And I will fuck you into oblivion again.”
He felt the sigh as Harry’s breath eased, body relaxed and curled against him. “Yes, Sir,” Harry whispered in return. “Yes.”
#
When he is again alone, Harry stands on shaky legs. He strips off the blindfold and tosses it on the table, then opens a trunk which contains his clothing. As he dresses, steel slips back into his demeanor, the Head Auror returning. He puts his personality on like a cloak, but it can’t destroy the pleasant lassitude in his bones. As he types in his own code on the keypad by the door, he smiles and adds instructions as he was told. He will be back in a week, and everything will be ready.
And once again, he’ll be able to let go.
Author/Artist: tryslora
Prompt: #66 - From time to time Head Auror Potter needs to escape from all his responsibilities and submit to his desires. Afraid someone could find out his secret, he only ever visits clubs catering to his needs outside of (wizarding) Britain. One of the clubs he frequents, offers a special, where a sub is blindfolded (and bound), put into a room and has to wait for anyone to "take care" of them. Harry decides this is just what he wants. Enter a surprised Draco or Charlie, who just can't resist when he discovers who is kneeling there on the floor.
Prompt submitted by: ariannagray
Pairing(s):Harry/Draco
Word Count/Art Medium: ~4000 words
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s) (Highlight to view): *Fairly intense BDSM. Dub con. Sleepy/semi-conscious sex.*
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.
Notes: Thanks to C for stepping in to help with a beta for this when I begged nicely. Dear prompter, this was such a lovely prompt. I hope you enjoy the way it turned out!
Summary: Italy seems like a long way to go to keep a fetish secret. But the club is exclusive, and the far away location, and Muggle nature, promises anonymity from Wizarding Britain. The only problem is that sometimes, great minds think alike.
Harry kneels, the marble floor cold beneath him, knees spread enough that his balls would brush the floor if they weren’t drawn back towards his body to escape the chill. He leans forward slightly, wrists caught by leather cuffs, clasped together behind his back and chained to a hook in the ceiling. He knows that one tug on that chain would pull his arms back uncomfortably tight, maybe force him to stand.
He knows that he is trapped here. Waiting. Blindfolded and gagged.
He is vulnerable.
Anyone could walk through that door.
Anything could happen.
His prick aches, hard and weeping drops of pre-come.
Harry moans, and waits.
#
Draco walked down the hall of L’uomo Sconosciuto, fingertips trailing idly against the closed doors. Some were marked occupato and he skipped past those. If they drew him in, it was no matter: he would be denied entrance. There were those marked disponibile a tutti, and he passed those as well. He didn’t want to join in where others might already be in the middle of a scene. No, he wanted a submissive of his own. Someone who would be his for the night, to do whatever he wished.
His fingers tingled, and he lingered on the door, lightly touching the single word there: disponibile. Available. He didn’t wait to question why this room felt right, he simply twisted the handle and went in.
There was a keypad next to the door, where Draco entered the six digit code that uniquely identified himself as the client taking this room. It gave him a choice next, to occupy the room, or leave it open for others who might wish to join, and with a tight smile, he chose occupied. He heard the lock shift, and knew the sign outside now read occupato.
He turned slowly, breath catching as he took in the man who waited in the center of the room. Wrists were ringed in thick black leather, latched together. The man’s head was bowed, his breathing ragged, dark hair falling into his face, over the thick black blindfold. Draco walked around him, considering him from all angles. The chain attached to his wrists would be uncomfortable if tightened, yanking his arms back and up, dangling him in uncomfortable ways. But Draco could change that. The keys lay on a table nearby. He could reconfigure in any way he liked. The only part that was required was the anonymity. This man would never know who he was.
There was a low moan, a questioning sound. Muffled. Mumbled.
Draco glanced over as he started to strip, noting the ring gag. There could be no questions. “When you wear a gag like that, I know you want your mouth fucked,” Draco murmured in Italian. “You’re waiting for it, for me to shove my prick down your throat as far as you can take it. The question is, do I give you what you want? Or do I punish you for asking?” He tossed his clothes to one side, an idle spell stacking them neatly folded in the corner. There was no need to hide his magic, not when his unknown boy wouldn’t understand the words, or see the effect.
His prick, long and thin, was already achingly hard. He gripped the boy’s hair, yanking his head back, focused intently on those lips pressed wide by the gag. He slid the tip of his prick into the waiting mouth, feeling the tongue taste him. Tease him as he withdrew. Draco groaned, eyes closing as he simply gripped the head of this unknown man and started to thrust, hard. Taking him, as he knew he wanted to be taken, using him as he’d so obviously waited to be used. An unknown mouth in a place no one could ever recognize him. It was all he could expect, and it was good enough for now.
#
Harry chokes, opening his throat, trying to relax as his mouth is fucked. It feels good to let go, to forget who he is. He lets it all slide away: the cases sitting on his desk back in London, the Portkey that will take him back there the next morning. All there is for him is here and now. This place. This man, tasting of salt and sweat and need, talking to him in a language he doesn’t understand.
He hadn’t thought about that part, that the person who took him would be Italian. But it adds a level to the not knowing, a level of safety that means he can truly let go.
Harry breathes through his nose, using his tongue to please this man. He tastes bitter drops and moans, shifting, trying to get closer as a wash of fervent Italian spills over him. He takes it as praise and tries harder, almost impossible when he has no control, unable to close his mouth, unable to give suction because of the gag. He moans low in his throat, vibrating around the prick, choking when it suddenly comes and floods his mouth.
He swallows the bitter fluid, breath coming in soft shudders after. He aches, hard and wanting. But he can’t come, won’t come until he is told to. He belongs to this man right now, body given over. And if this man leaves, he belongs to he next that comes in, and the next. He is here to be used until dawn.
And this is bliss.
#
“Such a good boy,” Draco murmured, fingers loosening their grip slightly in his hair. “Let’s get a good look at you, then we’ll see what toys you chose.” The rules at the club were simple: when a man chose a room, he also chose the implements that he agreed were able to be used on his body. No questions needed to be asked; if an item was present, consent was implicit. Draco thought he had spotted a cat o’nine tails lying on the table next to a crop and a wooden paddle. A small knife, a tiny wheel. All items of strong sensation. This was someone who waned to lose himself, and was willing to give himself to Draco in order to do that.
Draco ignored the fact that this man hadn’t chosen him. That was a side point. Irrelevant. The man had picked this room, and this was where Draco’s light touch upon the doors had led him. It may not have been planned, but it was fated, Draco knew that.
He brushed the dark, damp fringe back from his forehead, fingertips stuttering as the movement revealed the scar. Breath caught.
Potter.
Potter.
Draco didn’t dare breathe, knowing the name might slip out, fall from his lips in a way that meant Potter would know who he was. No, he couldn’t dare do that. Couldn’t risk this changing. He was in control here, and Potter had allowed himself to be bound. To submit. Would Draco ever have this opportunity again?
He swallowed hard and let the fringe fall. He reached for the tie, undoing the gag and tossing it to one side. Draco crouched in front of Potter, fingers lightly massaging the muscles of his jaw, ones he knew must ache from being forced open. “I want to hear you scream,” he said quietly, still in Italian. “I want to know I made you scream.”
Draco stood quickly, moving behind Potter to unhook the wrist cuffs from the chain. He lifted him, twisting him around, redoing the cuffs in front of him before attaching them to the chain once more. He ratcheted the chain up, lifting Potter until he hung, toes just touching the floor enough to give him balance without stability.
“A ring. I would never have guessed.” Draco’s teeth caught the slender silver ring that threaded through Potter’s left nipple and tugged. His cry was a punch to the gut, an altogether pleasant one, coiling heat and want within him. Draco let his hand fall between them, gripping Potter’s prick, using the foreskin to wank it slowly. “I wonder how long you’ve been hard. You have no welts, no marks. No sign that anyone has been here yet, so your ass is waiting for me. But this… have you been waiting long? What else do you want?” Draco leaned back, smirking. “I don’t want to you to come too soon.” He spoke the last in English, his voice light and lilting, and attempt to disguise it. But he wanted Potter to know that, that coming without permission was not allowed.
Potter swallowed hard, nodding, his voice hoarse as he responded, “Yes, Sir. Not until you let me, Sir.”
Draco felt those words deep in his gut, lending heat even though he was recently sated. “Good boy.” His hand slid over Potter’s hair, and he pressed a kiss to his temple. “You’re such a good boy.” Again in English, again so Potter would have no doubts.
#
Harry relaxes, loving the sound of those words. Soft and almost affectionate. Proud. Something about the voice settles him, as if it is comfortable and known, even though the timbre is unfamiliar. He feels something slip over his cock, then tighten at the base, and he tries to thrust into the touch before it withdraws. His body wants, just wants, and he is helpless to deny himself now.
When the clip pinches his skin, he hisses, letting it out slowly at the next pinch, then the next, tiny pricks of pain across his skin as clips are set in a curving line over his chest. Words begin to flow again, in Italian, and Harry can only guess what is being said. He groans softly. “Thank you, Sir. Yes, Sir.” A soft sigh, then, “Anything here, Sir. You can use anything here on me. I’m yours. All yours. Use me.” Please just let him lose himself in the floating space that comes with being struck, that comes with pain, with being fucked, with giving himself over in all ways. He wants to beg, but he knows if he says too much, it will end. It always ends if he is too needy. If he wants too much.
When the first lash falls against his ass, a bright strip of pain across both cheeks, Harry screams. The world tilts with the second lash, bright sparks in the darkness behind his blindfold, and when the third falls against reddened skin, Harry falls into the blessed abyss.
#
This was a side of Draco he normally restrained. It harkened back to the part of his life he tried to forget. The part where his aunt knew he liked pain, liked to both give and receive, and tried to exploit it. Tried to turn him into one of them. But Draco hid from it, believing that this enjoyment made him like the Death Eaters he’d come to despise. It was years before he’d discovered that there were those who wanted pain, needed it in order to let go. And that if Draco gave them that pain, he found his own release as well.
He watched the welts rise on Harry’s skin, bright red against the pale, marking a path across his ass. Draco couldn’t resist touching with his free hand, feeling the heat of the marks, the gentle slope of the skin. He could trace them with his eyes closed, finding each new one after a strike as Harry swayed beneath him.
Harry. When had he stopped being Potter in his mind? Draco didn’t know, and didn’t care. All he knew was that Harry was beautiful in the way that he gave himself over. That when Draco raised the crop, Harry whimpered, silently begging for more, and arched into the touch. He swayed with every strike, crying out, prick red and aching from denial.
Draco ached as well, hot and hard again. But he wasn’t going to give in, not yet, not until he had driven Harry into whatever space he was seeking. Not until Harry was limp and done, ready to be fucked back from oblivion.
He sought lube from one of the tables, and a plug that was wide and thick, slightly curved. It would loosen Harry enough that Draco could drive into him hard, not worrying about damaging him. But it would take time to insert.
Draco coated three fingers liberally with the lube, spreading it between Harry’s cheeks, loving the hungry way he pressed his ass back against those questing fingers. He moved from one finger to two, to three easily, fucking him wider, murmuring in Italian the whole time about what a good boy Harry was, how perfectly responsive. Draco twisted his fingers, stroking Harry’s prostate, feeling him buck and cry out. “Not yet,” he whispered in English. “Not yet. Wait.”
Harry whimpered, but Draco kept on, pressing the dildo into him until it was seated. It stretched his ass wider than Draco had imagined, and as Draco stroked the sensitive perineum, Harry bucked again, begging for release.
Draco stood, gripping Harry’s thick hair, yanking his head back. “Do you want more?” he whispered, nipping Harry’s earlobe.
“Yes, Sir. Please, Sir. Anything you want of me. Use me, please. Anything.”
Anything.
Harry Potter was begging him. Begging Draco to dig out his darkest desires and use him brutally. He was tempted to yank the plug out and fuck him, then and there, he was so hard and wanting. But he could wait. He might never have a chance like this again.
#
Harry loses track from one moment to the next. He sways, awash in sensation, floating from one into another, wondering idly what it will be, and crying out from the sheer delight of finding something new each time. His body is stretched, aching and full, his prick bound and throbbing for release. When the cat o’nine tails licks at his skin, he is grateful for the fire. When the ice slips over his welts, he begs for more. When he feels teeth-ohfuckteeth-catch his skin, biting hard enough to leave marks, he slips further into that delicious headspace of being taken care of. Where he can let go.
He starts to babble, begging for something. Anything. Release. Ohfuckrelease, please, let him let go the rest of the way. He’s hovering on the edge, just barely aware of what is going on around him, and he needs more. It won’t take much, he knows, won’t take much at all.
When he feels the plug slipped from his ass, he starts saying thankyouthankyou over and over, hoping that this means he will be well-fucked.
#
Harry’s ass was so open, after the plug, that Draco was able to grip his hips and ram inside, driving deep and hard until Harry cried out, pushing back against him. “Hungry little whore,” Draco murmured, sticking to Italian now, not having enough of a mind to try to disguise his voice. “You want this. You want to be fucked so hard you black out, don’t you?” He didn’t hold back, setting a hard and fast pass, Harry swaying against the chains, only held in place by Draco’s fingers digging into his hips.
Harry babbled but Draco couldn’t understand a word of it. Begging, he thought, and Draco tilted his hips, stroking over Harry’s prostate, feeling the jump of his muscles when he did so. He could hear Harry’s heart pounding. Reaching down, he wrapped his hand around Harry’s prick, hot and slick with his own pre-come. Harry pushed back towards him erratically, trying for more sensation as Draco refused to hold on too tight.
Almost. Almost there.
Draco reached up, yanking at the cord that bound the clips together, ripping them away from Harry’s skin. Harry shuddered in his arms, screaming, hips jerking as if to orgasm. His ass clamped down tight around Draco, almost tight enough to pull him over the edge.
Yes. Now.
Draco released his prick, untying the ring from around the base, just as he drove deep into Harry. He pulled back and drove once more, teeth latching onto Harry’s shoulder, biting hard. Harry tensed beneath him, body rock hard, arched painfully, held in stasis for a long moment. He came with a shout, sound echoing off the walls as he shuddered, spurting onto the floor in thick ropes, more than Draco had thought possible.
#
Yes.
This.
Harry sighs and goes limp, falling through the abyss and letting darkness take him away.
#
Draco reached up, unhooking the chain and freeing Harry’s wrists. His hands fell, still bound together, in front of him. He was heavy, a limp weight in Draco’s arms as he lowered him to the floor.
Draco had never seen anything more beautiful than this man, sprawled on the floor before him, knees spread, ass still open and waiting. He swallowed hard and lifted Harry’s hands over his head, pressing them down against the floor as he lay over him.
He’d said anything.
Anything.
Draco budged his knees under Harry’s ass, lifting him, positioning himself to slide inside easily. Harry was loose now and Draco took it slow, stroking in and out, groaning with the sensation. He hooked one arm under Harry’s leg, lifting it, letting himself slide more deeply into him. “Fuck,” Draco groaned, head bowed.
His mouth slid over sweaty skin, tasting Harry, licking salt and leaving behind small nips and kisses. He felt his heart ease as he fucked him slowly, taking his time, making it sensual. Waiting for Harry to come back from wherever he’d slipped off to.
He found his mouth, kissing him by instinct when he knew he shouldn’t do that. Draco knew that kisses weren’t anonymous. There was an affection implied in a kiss, an intimacy. He kissed him to say thank you for allowing him to let go, for accepting and taking everything Draco had to give, and more. He kissed him, teasing at his mouth, drawing him back from the darkness. He kissed him awake with slow, gentle touch, gasping when Harry kissed him back.
#
Harry floats for so long. He is aware of what happens, aware that he is being fucked, gentle and slow, with soft touches that tickle the edges of his awareness. He is aware that he is still hard and aching, and that this gentle touch makes him shiver on the inside with need all over again. He is aware that someone kisses him, someone that tastes like a drug, until Harry reaches for more.
He comes back into the darkness of the blindfold, hands pressed down against the floor in a strong grip, another hand framing his face. It is a mix of possession and affection, and Harry moans, lifting his hips, wanting more from it. The hand shifts to hold him down, not letting him move, and he whimpers. “Let me please you.”
“You already do,” the stranger replies, fingers drifting over his skin. “Beyond words, you already do.”
Harry arches up into him, the words and tone awakening his body. He’d done well, he is being praised. He is being rewarded. He can want and no one us afraid of it. Instead this complete stranger has given him everything he has begged for and more. For the first time, Harry Potter can just be.
#
Draco hadn’t meant to say that, and worse yet, hadn’t meant to mean it. When Harry moved against him, he thrust back, keeping the slow pace but pushing as deep as he could, until Harry groaned and pushed back, wanting more. No matter how much Draco gave, Harry needed something else, pushing Draco further and further into the places that had scared him. But now, he reveled in it, loved the way those dark places let him give pleasure.
Breath caught, shuddering in Draco’s chest, burning with hunger. He was close, hips shifting, pressing in, needing to go faster. But he held back, feeling the rub of Harry’s cock between them, still hard. He reached down, stroking him, using Harry’s own spunk for lubricant. He matched stroke for stroke, rough at one moment, gentle another, until Harry started to squirm beneath him. This, yes, this. He wanted to make Harry Potter lose control. He wanted to make him scream, begging for him again. He wanted to know that he’d done this to the world’s saviour.
Draco lowered his head to Harry’s chest, catching the nipple ring and tugging, surging forward with the ache that Harry’s yell gave him. He moved to the skin over Harry’s heart, sucking it into his mouth as urgency overtook him. He was close, so close that he couldn’t hold back any more. His hand moved fast and furious over Harry’s prick, begging him to come again. He didn’t worry about whether it hurt any more, simply pounded into him, fast and hard and anxious. Teeth caught at Harry’s skin, leaving marks as Draco came with a growl, emptying himself deep inside of Harry.
He felt Harry come a moment later, cock pulsing in his hand, spilling over onto Harry’s chest.
Draco’s breath eased slowly as he collapsed on top of him, eyes closed. The room wavered around him.
Harry moaned, and Draco murmured nothing-words, kissing him softly until Harry quieted with a sigh.
#
He wants to float like this, just float, forever. No pressure, no need, no hunger, no recrimination. No paperwork, no shouting, no breaking up arguments between mates. Nothing but sweet, quiet bliss and the ache left behind on his ass, in his ass… knowing he has been filled past endurance. He wants more, another time, but how do you ask a complete stranger to fuck you senseless again? Would it change things? In the end, Harry sighs and burrows as close as he can with his arms still stretched and held over his head. This is good enough.
In fact, it’s bloody well brilliant.
#
There were two paths here, Draco knew. In one, he could remove the blindfold and face the dawning knowledge in Harry’s eyes of just who he had allowed to take him here. Once that might have appealed, to have Harry Potter know exactly who he had let control him. But Draco didn’t want to see the horror, see the rejection that would also come.
Draco didn’t want to break this perfect moment.
He withdrew slowly, pushing himself to his feet, finding a blanket. He helped Harry sit up, wrapping him in the blanket and murmuring in Italian once more, making sure he was warm. It only took a moment to free his wrists, and Draco massaged them, helping the blood flow once more. He felt the shivers start, knew Harry had started to come out of that place he had gone, and how difficult it was to return to the real world again.
So Draco held him, keeping the blanket tucked in close, stroking Harry’s hair and murmuring nonsense. But he left the blindfold on.
Neither of them spoke of it, he noted. He wondered if it were just as important for Harry not to see. It was obvious that he hadn’t wanted to be known, coming all the way to Italy, to this Muggle place, to find what he was looking for.
It was pure chance that had led Draco to this room, or perhaps fate.
Who was he to deny fate?
“Next week,” he said quietly, fingers latching into Harry’s hair for a brief tug as he spoke in English. “You will return. Same night, same time. And you will tell them to set your room to key only to me, and I will find you. And I will fuck you into oblivion again.”
He felt the sigh as Harry’s breath eased, body relaxed and curled against him. “Yes, Sir,” Harry whispered in return. “Yes.”
#
When he is again alone, Harry stands on shaky legs. He strips off the blindfold and tosses it on the table, then opens a trunk which contains his clothing. As he dresses, steel slips back into his demeanor, the Head Auror returning. He puts his personality on like a cloak, but it can’t destroy the pleasant lassitude in his bones. As he types in his own code on the keypad by the door, he smiles and adds instructions as he was told. He will be back in a week, and everything will be ready.
And once again, he’ll be able to let go.