(no subject)
A long time in coming. But better late than never. :D
Draco's birthday at _amortentia_, co-written with my ever lovely wife, justholdstill.
Porny goodness awaits. Definitely NC-17.
Nineteen. Draco never thought he’d actually live this long, not after everything that had happened. But here he was, nineteen years old and spending part of his leave time visiting his mother’s grave instead of shagging not his boyfriend, because that was a foul, juvenile word, but his Harry, because that’s what Harry really was, his Harry. And his Harry was standing a few meters away, giving him a moment of privacy, which Draco appreciated, really. Because standing in front of his mother’s stone, clutching a bouquet of pink roses from her garden in one hand and a tin of peppermint sticks in the other, he felt like crying. Silly urge, crying. He hadn’t cried at her funeral. And it wasn’t her birthday, it was his, and he should be happy.
“’Lo, Mum,” Draco whispered, kneeling in front of the stone and placing the flowers at the base. He traced his fingers over her name, then opened up the tin, pulling out a pair of peppermint sticks. “…Remember before first year, how you told me that it would be beneficial for me to be friends with Harry Potter?” he asked, glancing briefly over his shoulder to where Harry stood, watching him silently. He smiled, turning back to the stone before Harry could see the smile turn. “I think you were right. He’s kept me alive to see another birthday.” His breath hitched as he placed a peppermint stick beside the flowers and stuck the other into his mouth. The tears were falling almost as quickly and suddenly as the burst of mint appeared on his tongue.
*
Harry had never had a particular fondness for graveyards (and really, after what had happened at the end of fourth year, who could blame him?), and although the place he was currently in wasn’t a graveyard, exactly, seeing Draco hunched over his mother’s stone, pretending not to cry, only intensified the vague ache he felt in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of where his own parents were. He toed at a clump of dandelions that had gone to seed, watching as some of the umbrella-like tufts lifted on the wind and floated away, and others simply settled on his trainers. There were green things growing as far as the eye could see - topiary dragons, fountains of roses, a manmade pond filled with water lilies, endless beds of dancing poppies and pansies and daisies bordered with jasmine and ivy, plus hosts of other trees and flowers, some of them magical, that Harry could neither recognize or name - and even though the grounds could have used some tending, having fallen into disuse since Draco had been orphaned (and there was that ache again), they were beautiful and peaceful, and Harry could understand why it had been chosen as a resting place.
Draco hadn’t said much on the journey over, but one of the few times he’d come out of his own thoughts enough to talk he’d mentioned that the villa was called Maison de la Fleur Blanche, House of the White Flower, and that it had been built for Narcissa after his birth, as a gift from Lucius. That thought alone gave Harry pause; even though he was now dating Draco, it had long ago become habit to think of his former enemy’s parents in a less-than-flattering light, and when he heard a story like that he was forced to remember that they, after all, were only human, and had loves and passions just like James and Lily had. Loves and passions...Harry stole another glance at Draco, hoping that that he’d feel better after he’d had a bit of a cry, but Draco’s shoulders were visibly shaking now, and he’d made a noise that might have been a stifled sob - if anything, he was feeling worse rather than better. Carefully, Harry picked his way over to where Draco knelt, laying a steady hand on his shoulder, not pulling away even when the other boy tried to hide his face. Instead, Harry knelt beside him, putting his arms around Draco and pulling him against his body, gently tilting Draco’s head so he could kiss the tears from the corners of his eyes.
“Think you’ve got something in your eye,” Harry whispered, leaning in to place another kiss on the flushed cheek, feeling his heart almost burst with tenderness.
*
“Bit of dust,” Draco croaked in agreement, closing his eyes and leaning into Harry’s chest. He forced himself to lift a hand and placed it lightly at the side of Harry’s neck, keeping him close, within reach. He was glad, in a way, that he’d saved this first visit to his mother’s grave for a time where Harry join him, could be there to catch him when he fell, and catch him in a way where he didn’t even realize he’d fallen.
It took him a few minutes of just sitting there, letting Harry’s warmth soak into his skin, for Draco to calm himself enough to lift his head and brush a soft kiss over Harry’s lips. “…I think it’s gone now,” he whispered. “The dust. I’m alright. No…no permanent damage.” Though he might need a smoke later to get back to feeling normal again.
*
It was strange, but it made Harry feel useful in a way that few things could, sitting with his arms around Draco until he was calm again - technically speaking, he really wasn’t doing much, but Draco was so cool-headed most of the time that it was doubly unnerving to see him upset, and it made Harry proud to know how to soothe him.
They sat still for a few more long moments, Harry dropping a series of light kisses at the nape of Draco’s neck, Draco occasionally craning his head around to capture Harry’s lips, as if seeking an assurance that couldn’t be spoken aloud. At last Harry shifted (as dusk fell set the mosquitoes were beginning to come out, and besides, his feet were going numb), and reached down to take Draco’s hand, suggesting, “Why don’t we go in and I’ll make you something to eat? You can sit with your feet up and smoke and complain about anything and everything under the sun, and then I’ll take you to bed and ravage you. How does that sound?”
*
Draco gave Harry a smile as he laced their fingers together, a wobbly smile, but a smile none-the-less. “That sounds perfect,” he agreed quietly. Not just for the ravaging or the smoking or complaining, but for the horribly domestic notion of Harry cooking for him. That was something couples did, cooking for one another, and it gave Draco a pleasant squeezing feeling in his stomach. “I had the kitchen stocked before our arrival. You should be able to make almost anything.”
*
Harry helped Draco to his feet, and they walked in a companionable silence through the perfumed labyrinth that lead back to the imposing manor house. Though he’d spent almost half of his life at Hogwarts - a castle -, the dark medieval elegance of the school had nothing on the splendour of this French palais, every chandelier fairly dripping with crystal, every chair and cushion immaculately upholstered with pale silks and embroidered with gold thread, seemingly endless hallways lined with mirrors and marble floors, and doors upon doors leading to all sorts of rich surprises. Harry felt as though his eyes might bulge out of his head as Draco lead him to the kitchens - he couldn’t stop looking about him, trying to catch the intricate detail that had been put into every inch of this stately summer home. He began to feel very out of place in his scuffed trainers and worn jeans - Draco had of course been born into such luxury, and managed to look a prince in black trousers and a soft grey t-shirt - and was somewhat relieved when they finally reached the kitchen, which was larger and more beautiful than any kitchen he’d ever seen, but recognizable as a kitchen nonetheless. Upon glancing into the cupboards and the massive icebox, Harry quickly determined that there were ingredients aplenty for anything he might desire to make, from a full lobster dinner to a peanut-butter sandwich.
“So,” he said, glancing from the overstocked larder to Draco and back, “what do you want?”
*
“Anything you’d like to make.” Draco wasn’t a picky sort, not when someone else was doing the cooking. He took an extra moment inside the kitchen to turn his head and kiss Harry’s shoulder before taking a step away to take a saucer from the cupboard for an impromptu ash tray. “No one has ever…cooked for me,” he continued shyly, avoiding Harry’s questioning gaze and digging his ratty pack of fags from his pocket. He sunk into a chair at the small, casual dining table in the corner of the kitchen that he couldn’t remember ever being used by anyone, lighting the tip of his fag with his wand and taking a slow drag.
“…House elves don’t count. As someone cooking for you. That’s… It’s not the same.” There was nothing intimate about someone doing their job. That’s what they were for, cooking and cleaning and taking care of things. No, someone cooking for someone else was entirely different. It was romantic and sweet and a load of things that Draco had never considered himself to be.
*
“Now that I think about it,” Harry mused, taking out pots and bowls and spoons as he found them, “no-one’s ever really cooked for me, either. The whole time I was at school it was house-elves, and when I was at the Dursley’s Aunt Petunia always made me do the cooking.” Harry stopped and chuckled. “Sometimes I think the only reason they fed me at all is because they didn’t want to get rid of a body if I wasted away to nothing.” Seeing the horrified look on Draco’s face made him change the subject quickly; he’d long ago come to terms with the generally unpleasant nature of life with his aunt and uncle, and sometimes forgot that Draco hadn’t, and was shocked by his black humour. “Mrs. Weasley always did her best for me, you know, but she was always cooking for about twenty other people at the same time.” Crossing over to the other side of the room in his search for a sieve, Harry stopped just long enough to kiss the top of Draco’s head. “Maybe tomorrow,” he whispered, tipping his amused boyfriend a wink, “you can make me breakfast in bed.” He then stole a quick drag of the cigarette and wandered away again, trying to locate the knives.
Not many people would have thought it about the Boy Who Lived, but Harry could cook just about anything he wanted. Years spent in the Dursley’s kitchen had taught him how to make exquisite steaks and mouth-wateringly flavorful seafood, as well as decadent trifles and cakes, not to mention infinite varieties of biscuits to meet Dudley’s equally infinite appetite, and he could assemble fancy salads with his eyes closed; still, Harry’s favorite things to make were the simple ones - pancakes, hamburgers, eggs (he had once made Hermione an omelet that caused her, upon finishing it, to kiss him soundly, and Ron to give him the silent treatment for the rest of the day) - dishes that were easy to prepare but satisfied the soul. He was making grilled cheese and tomato soup for Draco - to Harry’s thinking, there were few flavours that could soothe old wounds like the delicate fusion of melting cheddar and sweet, creamy tomato.
As he chopped and sautéed and seasoned, Harry noticed that Draco’s eyes were following him, and he flushed under the intensity of the gaze. It was ridiculous, but he felt somehow sexy cooking for Draco, as if Draco was seeing him in a new light - a light that apparently rendered him unspeakably attractive. Harry chuckled to himself as he tasted the broth.
*
Draco had never really had the chance to come to terms with Harry’s dreadful family, as all he’d heard on the manner was rumours. Granted, most of them were ones Slytherins had made up, but he knew there was a grain of truth to at least some of them. Maybe someday he’d have to ask Harry about the Dursley’s. Someday when Harry wasn’t creating delicious smells and looking rather delicious himself doing it.
“Maybe,” he agreed idly, wondering if he even could make breakfast. Honestly, the only things he knew about cooking, he’d learned from watching Molly in the kitchen at the Burrow during the summer before they started training. He hadn’t been allowed in the kitchens as a child - he didn’t even know where they were, actually - and his mother and father certainly hadn’t been doing any of the cooking. They had no need, that’s what house-elves were for. But what Harry was doing was rather beautiful, in a way, and Draco figured it couldn’t be that far from Potions making. After all, it was throwing ingredients in a pot. He could surely manage that.
His eyes followed Harry’s movements intensely, locked on his fingers as he chopped and stirred and imagined those fingers curled around his prick later and had to press the heel of his palm against the front of his trousers to squash those thoughts immediately. Harry was doing a lovely thing, cooking him supper, and he wasn’t going to ruin it with any sort of interruption, even one as nice as that. But he couldn’t help himself. Harry had a confidence at the stove not unlike the confidence he had on the Quidditch Pitch or in training or in bed, and it was bloody hot. Draco took a final drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling, letting the fag rest on the edge of the saucer. He pushed himself up and crept up behind Harry to peer over his shoulder, hands resting lightly at his waist. “Thank you for cooking,” he murmured, dropping a light kiss to the place where Harry’s neck met his shoulder and nuzzling into the soft curls of hair behind his ear.
*
Harry stopped dicing tomatoes for a moment and leaned back into the embrace, closing his eyes. He idly thought about leaving dinner where it was and dragging Draco into one of the many, many adjacent rooms to satisfy the baser hunger that was rapidly making itself known, but quickly remembered that it was a rule of theirs never to shag on an empty stomach. Harry turned to give Draco a lingering kiss, whispering, “You’re welcome” before turning back to his cooking, trying to ignore the tingling sensation rushing up and down his spine. Food, then sex. Food, then sex.
In a quarter of an hour he had the soup simmering merrily away, and was meticulously slicing a finely-aged cheddar and a sourdough loaf for the sandwiches. Grilled cheese this might be, but it was certainly fancier than any grilled cheese Harry had ever had.
*
Draco didn’t move very far away during this time. Instead, he watched over Harry’s shoulder, amazed at the brilliance in front of him. So that was how meals were made. It really was just like Potions, dicing and stirring and measuring. And it was confusing as to why Harry had never done well in that class.
Once the knife was safely out of the way and there was no risk of slicing off any fingers in addition to the cheddar, Draco turned his head enough to peer at Harry. “Why in the world did you do so horribly in Potions?” he asked, genuinely curious. “It really isn’t that much different than what you’ve just done.”
*
“Snape,” said Harry ruefully. “I mean, I sort of understood why he was always going on about the subject like he was in love with it, because cooking is sort of the same -kind of an art, you know - but the fact is that he hated me and did whatever he could to make me miserable.” He tasted the soup, added a pinch of salt after a moment of thought, and continued, “I probably would have done a lot better if it had been anyone else, you know? I’m not saying he sabotaged me, or anything, but he made me so damn nervous I really couldn’t do my best.”
Harry buttered the bread and swiftly assembled the sandwiches in the frying pan. His mouth watered. The smells coming from the stove were delicious, and he couldn’t wait to dive into the meal. After a few moments of opening and closing the cupboards, Harry located plates and bowls, and dished out the soup and the sandwiches as soon as they were ready. Smiling broadly although suddenly feeling a little shy, he set the food in front of Draco and said, “Bon Appetit!”, watching carefully for his reaction.
*
Draco nodded thoughtfully, kissing the back of Harry's neck just about the time he was adding the salt, and slipping away to take his seat. Severus had been rather horrible to Harry, and though Draco himself had been no better, he supposed Severus could have been a bit less horrible during class hours. Nice would have been pushing it, because Severus was barely nice outside of class, let alone in his element, but he could have been a bit more fair.
But now was not a time to be thinking of his godfather. Now was a time to be thinking of the almost orgasmic smells coming from the stove and, soon after, the dishes in front of him. Draco took up his silverware immediately, blowing on a spoonful of the soup before sliding it into his mouth. He closed his eyes when the taste hit his tongue, toes curling inside of his shoes. Bloody heaven. Humming softly, he opened his eyes again to smile at Harry.
"You realise now that you'll have to cook for me for the rest of your life, don't you? No one else will be able to live up to this."
*
Secretly thrilled with his culinary success, Harry grinned, then replied, “Draco. You do realize that my time spent cooking for you would drastically cut into the time I could spend shagging you, don’t you?”
*
Well that wasn’t something he’d considered. Draco frowned for a moment in thought, then shook his head, taking a bite of his sandwich and moaning softly. Bloody fucking hell. “I think,” he started, pausing for a moment to chew and swallow, “that might be a sacrifice I’m willing to make. And, you know, there is no law stating that we can’t bring our food to bed with us. Or shag atop the table.”
*
“Like now?” asked Harry hopefully, chuckling when Draco grinned back and shook his head, taking another spoonful of the soup. “Well,” Harry amended, “I think I might be able to live with that - although I have to say that this is the first time I’ve ever seen you pick anything over sex - but if I’m going to cook for you, then you’re going to have to put up with me trying to teach you how. Deal?”
*
Spend more time without sex? But it was still spending time with Harry, and maybe some day Draco would be able to treat him to such an orgasmic meal, and they’d be even. And really, how hard could cooking be? It was just like Potions. “Deal,” Draco agreed, pushing himself up just enough to lean over and seal the agreement with a kiss. “Now eat,” he instructed, taking another spoonful of soup. “It’s my birthday, and I want you at least twice before we sleep.”
*
Harry couldn’t down his meal fast enough; he practically gulped his soup, forgetting how hot it was, and yelped when it scalded his throat. When he’d recovered enough to continue eating, he took large bites of his grilled cheese, watching as Draco made his way through his meal, unable to think of anything but his sudden erection and how much he wanted to be upstairs being shagged into oblivion.
When Draco had taken the last dainty bite of his sandwich, Harry pulled out his wand, banished all of the dishes to the sink, and leapt over the table in his haste to get to Draco. Pulling the blond against him, Harry leaned down to kiss him roughly (mmm, tomato), and fought to keep a straight face as he whispered, “how about now?” in the sexiest voice he could come up with.
*
Draco let out a very undignified squeak that he would later deny when Harry leapt over the table, curling his fingers into the other boy’s shirt when he was dragged quite suddenly into a kiss. He hummed when Harry pulled back, smile stretching across his face. If sexy was what Harry was going for he… well, he didn’t quite manage it, because it was more adorable than anything, but Draco nodded and pulled him into another kiss, softer this time. “Now is good,” he agreed. “My bedroom’s upstairs.”
*
“Lead the way,” said Harry, unable to keep the anticipation out of his voice. Draco took him by the hand and led him back through the corridor, up a mind-bogglingly steep spiral staircase, down another corridor, through a number of massive rooms, each more lavish than the last, until finally he was pushing open a pair of heavy, beautifully carved teak doors, and Harry was gazing upon the biggest, most richly decorated room of them all, and what was very likely the most enormous bed he’d ever seen. It was immense, there was no other word for it, probably twenty feet long and fifteen wide, done up in sumptuous midnight-blue bedding and an airy silver hangings, with four tall, spiraling posts as intricately carved as the doors. He thought about Draco as a child sleeping in this bed, and momentarily flashed on the cot he’d had under the stairs at the Dursley’s.
“Wow,” Harry said. When he turned to Draco and saw the tender, playful look on his face, he said “wow” again and kissed his lover gently.
*
“Am I to take it you approve?” Draco asked, amused by Harry’s reaction. Honestly, he’d remembered the bed seeming a bit smaller, though it could have easily been charmed to fit his size as he grew. This had been his favorite room in the entire house. The first time he’d come here with his parents, he’d been no more than two years old, and the room had been bare. Mother had let him sit with her while the decorators went about their business, and when they disappeared, she’d let him pick the colours he wanted. They had stayed that way ever since.
No one else had ever been in his bedroom here. Not even his father. Harry would be the first person other than Draco himself to ever sleep in that bed. Draco flicked his wand at the doors, closing them tightly, a thrill of excitement shooting through him. Even after that first night, there was nothing that he loved more than the feeling of Harry inside of him, over him, and tonight, they didn’t have to worry about strength training in the morning or early missions or anything, just them.
Draco tossed his wand onto the bedside table and pulled Harry into a kiss immediately, the fingers of one hand curling around the back of his neck to keep him close while the other hand struggled to both undo Harry’s trousers and rip his shirt off at the same time.
*
"Oh," said Harry, finding that his thoughts were scampering around his brain in no real order, running into each other and falling down like comedic characters in a silent film, now that his trousers were very suddenly around his knees, "y-yes, I approve." He managed to slap Draco's hands away from his buttons and undo them himself, which took all of two seconds and afforded him the pleasure of then undressing Draco, kissing him deeply and backing him against the bed at the same time, his thumb making slow circles on Draco's hip just under the elastic of his pants.
Then all at once Draco was naked, and scooting himself farther back on the bed, beckoning Harry to follow with a crooked finger and a decidedly wicked look. Harry wriggled out of the rest of his clothes as fast as he could and crawled up the bed, moving over his lover's body with what he hoped was a predatory attitude; it seemed to have worked, because Draco arched up underneath him, giving a low moan that exposed the length of his pale white throat, which Harry leaned down to nip and then kiss.
*
As Harry set to work on his neck, Draco let his hands trail down the other boy’s sides and over his ribs in aimless swirls, humming lowly when Harry’s teeth grazed his skin again. A possessive move that Draco wasn’t sure if Harry was conscious of, but it was just that arousing all the same. The feeling of being claimed in such a way went straight to his cock, making him arch up wantonly, his cock brushing against Harry’s. A bolt of pleasure shot straight through his bodies, and he curled his toes, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and whimpering around it.
“Harry,” Draco mumbled, brushing only the tips of his fingers down Harry’s stomach, through the coarse hair leading from his navel to brush just at the base of his cock. “Twice, remember?”
*
“Oh,” panted Harry, glad that he could form the words despite all the blood that was now directed away from his brain, “just twice?” The corner of Draco’s mouth turned up; as the smile became a full-grown smirk, he pulled Harry flush against him, causing them both to moan, and Harry’s eyes to roll back in his head. His fingers skated down Harry’s back to grab at his arse - Harry retaliated by rolling Draco over and straddling his hips, rocking leisurely against him until he was writhing and keening with desire. When his eyes were glazed and beginning to look desperate, Harry took pity on the other boy and leaned down to ask heatedly, “how do you want me?”
*
It took Draco a long moment of trying to breathe before he could form any sort of response, fingers kneading at Harry’s arse, trying to prompt him into moving again on their own accord. How did he want Harry? A very good question, and usually the answer involved his cock, Draco’s arse, and any combination thereof. But it was his birthday. A special occasion. “I want…” he tried, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. “Can I…?” Bugger this.
He wriggled out from under Harry, pressing him down onto the bed on his stomach when he protested and tried to turn around to follow. “I want to try something,” Draco informed him, finding it much easier to speak when Harry wasn’t sitting on his hips being so damned distracting. He sat behind Harry on the bed, moving him until he was in the right position, resting on his elbows, arse up in the air. Draco swallowed hard, running his fingers down Harry’s back and hoping he didn’t bollocks this all up. He pressed a kiss to the base of Harry’s spine and stroked his hands over the other boy’s arse, gently easing his cheeks apart. “…Alright?”
*
Harry really wasn’t as thick as people often gave him credit for, and by the time Draco had got him properly posed, he thought he had sussed out just what it was Draco wanted from him. The idea was at once titillating and overwhelming, and the mere thought if it happening now sent a dizzying rush of heat through Harry’s body. Fucking Draco was one thing, but being fucked - and effectively giving over his last vestige of innocence - was quite another. Harry buried his face in the blankets before him and tried to quiet his breathing, shuddering under the delicate patterns that Draco was tracing on his skin as he waited for an answer. Harry knew what he wanted, but he felt awkward saying so - he wondered if Draco felt this vulnerable every time, if he felt at Harry’s mercy the way Harry felt under Draco.
At last he lifted his head and twisted his head to coax a kiss from Draco that made him just brave enough to say, “Okay. Okay. I - I want that. Just…go slow. Please, Draco.”
*
“Yeah,” Draco breathed, kissing Harry’s lips once more before dropping another kiss at the crease of his arse. “Yeah, slow.” The words were mumbled against Harry’s skin as Draco closed his eyes and nuzzled a bit lower. He wondered for a moment if Harry really realised what was going to happen here. True, he was definitely the more innocent of the pair of them, but was there really any possible way for him to not know…this? It was only one of the most amazing sensations in the entire world besides actual sex. But hell, if Harry didn’t know, then it was Draco’s duty to teach him.
Moving his mouth lower still, Draco whispered a wandless cleansing charm and spread Harry’s cheeks even further. Without warning, he dropped his head and licked a stripe from the back of Harry’s balls up the crease of his arse, humming lowly as he dropped a kiss to the tiny dip below where his spine ended.
*
For one mad moment Harry wondered who had let the wounded cat into the bedroom; the next, when the ringing in his ears had subsided enough that he could think properly, he realized that the one making that embarrassingly needy yowling noise had been him. “Oh, shit,” he groaned, torn between staying as he was to have more of that strange pleasure visited upon him, and throwing Draco down in order to have his way with him, “please, more of that, please.” When Draco complied (smirking again, no doubt, but at present Harry didn’t particularly care what Draco’s facial expression was, as long as it involved that lovely tongue of his), Harry slammed his palms flat against the bed and arched back, letting out a stream of obscenities that would have done Sirius proud, all of them variants, more or less, on the theme of “fuck me.”
*
Draco chuckled roughly, spreading Harry wider and working his thumbs in beside his tongue as he teased and prodded. His jaw was starting to ache and his head was spinning and he thought he might go mad if he wasn’t inside Harry soon, but this was his first time, and it had to be special and good and he needed to be as relaxed as possible. When Harry’s cursing tapered off into gibberish and babbling, Draco pulled back enough to summon the lube and a condom from the beside table. He fumbled with the lube, coating practically his entire hand in his haste, and ran a single finger down the crease of Harry’s arse before slowly pressing it inside of him. “Remember to breathe,” Draco whispered, licking the small of his back.
*
“Ngh,” said Harry, dazedly thinking how utterly absurd and wonderful it was to have someone’s finger in his arse. It didn’t hurt, exactly, at least not until Draco tried a second finger, but it felt very odd, and Harry almost thought he might laugh until Draco angled his fingers just so and located his prostate, at which point Harry switched to thinking that he might enjoy being shagged through the mattress for the rest of his life. He dropped his head forward again and concentrated on the maddening rhythm that they were beginning to establish between them, Draco thrusting his fingers forward and Harry rocking back until neither could wait. Letting out a grunt of pain when Draco insinuated a third finger, but not breaking his stride, Harry let Draco tease him for a moment more before he ground out, “Christ, Draco, now.”
*
“You’re sure?” Draco whispered, not even waiting for Harry’s quick nod before withdrawing his fingers and scrambling to roll on the condom. He squeezed more lube over his prick (not that he really needed it with the mess he made earlier) and swallowed thickly. “Roll onto your back. And, um. And hook your legs over my shoulders..” A night for firsts, it seemed. They’d never done it like this before. Draco’d ridden Harry once, but that could hardly be counted as the same thing. This…this was intimate.
*
Oh my, thought Harry, my legs are going to ache in the morning, but he did as Draco asked, sparing a moment to giggle at the sheer improbability of the position - a giggle that he swallowed as soon as Draco began pressing against him. “Slow,” Harry said again, but he squeezed his eyes shut and bore down as Draco pushed in. It burned, more than the fingers had, but still it wasn’t as bad as Harry had expected, and after only a minute or so of Draco rocking his hips ever so gently, allowing Harry to adjust, Harry opened his eyes again. “You can move,” he whispered, feeling a bolt of pleasure rocket up his spine as Draco did. Just as Harry had wanted, it was slow at first, while they sought to find their rhythm once more, but soon instinct took over and the need for something rougher consumed them both.
*
“You,” Draco choked out, closing his eyes for a moment and nuzzling into Harry’s knee as it rested over his shoulder. “You are so…so fucking hot… Fucking hell, Harry.” So hot and tight and Merlin, he was never going to last at this rate. His heart pounded and his head spun and he wished this could go on forever. He wanted it to never stop and, more importantly, he wanted it to never stop with Harry. Christ, it was as if… “Oh God.” Draco’s hips moved faster, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning down to kiss Harry. If he didn’t occupy his mouth otherwise, he was sure to say something desperately stupid.
*
"Yeah," Harry breathed, somewhat amazed he was able to do so with Draco's tongue halfway down his throat, "but you can call me Harry." When Draco bit him, none too gently, Harry squawked, and then decided to stop talking, which was probably for the best because the dazzling electricity racing up and down his spine and out through his extremities had more or less shut down the portion of his brain that controlled language. It's all so simple, Harry thought dazedly, whimpering as Draco picked up speed, but it's more complicated than anyone knows. Complicated because he'd never been so vulnerable before, even when he'd had Voldemort's wand at his throat; It was different than anything he'd ever had done to him, and Harry was overwhelmed as much as he was aroused.
*
Draco slid one hand down from gripping Harry’s legs, sliding it between their bodies to curl around Harry’s cock, stroking him in smooth, quick strokes. It was too much, too difficult to keep himself from coming, but there was no way in hell he was coming first. Harry’s first time. All about Harry. Breathing was difficult, lips mashed together the way they were, and he pulled out of the kiss just enough that their lips were barely touching, brushing together with every thrust of his hips. In a sudden burst of self control, Draco forced his eyes open to gaze down at Harry, wanting to see his face when he came.
*
That was all it took for Harry - the hand on his cock he could handle. The steady rhythm with which he was being moved on Draco's cock, he could handle. But he felt pierced through by the intensity of Draco's gaze, and the surprise of seeing that look on his face sent a jolt from Harry's heart straight down to his groin. He shut his eyes tightly and came with a long, low groan, striping Draco's hand and his belly and both of their chests, until finally he collapsed back onto the pillows, dragging Draco, who was still rocking within him, but gentler now, down too.
*
Draco almost didn’t want to come now. Something was aching in his chest, and his thrusts had slowed to gentle strokes, and he realised quite suddenly that the something aching in his chest was his heart, demanding he spend the rest of his life with Harry. And it was the realisation that he wouldn’t mind that at all that sent Draco over the edge. He let out a choked noise and pressed his face into Harry’s neck as his cock pulsed and he came for what felt like forever. When his head stopped spinning, Draco brushed a soft kiss against Harry’s throat and lifted his head enough to gaze at him. “Alright?” he whispered, reluctant to pull away just yet.
*
Too exhausted to reply, Harry just nodded, and lifted his head only enough to meet Draco's lips. After a few increasingly lazy kisses, Draco pulled out carefully and then slid out of the bed only to disappear into one of the adjoining lavatories to dispose of the condom. When he came back, he waved his wand and muttered a couple of cleaning charms over them both before crawling back under the sheets and cuddling against Harry's back. They fit together like a pair of spoons; Draco's warm breath tickled the tender spot behind Harry's ear, and Harry had to wonder how he'd done without this his whole life.
*
Draco closed his eyes as he and Harry tangled their legs together and something ‘clicked’ in his mind. This…this was it. This was all he needed to be happy, this right here. “Harry,” he whispered, turning his head into Harry’s dark locks, breathing in the scent of him. “I…” His heart pounded in his chest so loudly he was sure all of France could hear it. “I…” he tried again, swallowing hard. “You…”
*
His eyes already closing despite his best efforts, Harry smiled to himself. Draco's hand was resting on his hip, and after a few moments of tense silence in which Harry began to worry that Draco might explode if he didn't get an answer soon, he craned his head back to catch Draco's lips.
"Yeah," said Harry, "me too."
*
Draco almost sighed in relief - almost - but settled instead for curling his fingers gently against Harry’s hip and taking another kiss. The nervousness that had started to consume his body was ebbing away, leaving him blissfully relaxed and closer to sleep than he’d realised. So much for twice before bed. One last kiss was enough, and Draco snuggled down against Harry’s back, nuzzling into his neck. “Best birthday ever,” he mumbled, smiling.
Draco's birthday at _amortentia_, co-written with my ever lovely wife, justholdstill.
Porny goodness awaits. Definitely NC-17.
Nineteen. Draco never thought he’d actually live this long, not after everything that had happened. But here he was, nineteen years old and spending part of his leave time visiting his mother’s grave instead of shagging not his boyfriend, because that was a foul, juvenile word, but his Harry, because that’s what Harry really was, his Harry. And his Harry was standing a few meters away, giving him a moment of privacy, which Draco appreciated, really. Because standing in front of his mother’s stone, clutching a bouquet of pink roses from her garden in one hand and a tin of peppermint sticks in the other, he felt like crying. Silly urge, crying. He hadn’t cried at her funeral. And it wasn’t her birthday, it was his, and he should be happy.
“’Lo, Mum,” Draco whispered, kneeling in front of the stone and placing the flowers at the base. He traced his fingers over her name, then opened up the tin, pulling out a pair of peppermint sticks. “…Remember before first year, how you told me that it would be beneficial for me to be friends with Harry Potter?” he asked, glancing briefly over his shoulder to where Harry stood, watching him silently. He smiled, turning back to the stone before Harry could see the smile turn. “I think you were right. He’s kept me alive to see another birthday.” His breath hitched as he placed a peppermint stick beside the flowers and stuck the other into his mouth. The tears were falling almost as quickly and suddenly as the burst of mint appeared on his tongue.
*
Harry had never had a particular fondness for graveyards (and really, after what had happened at the end of fourth year, who could blame him?), and although the place he was currently in wasn’t a graveyard, exactly, seeing Draco hunched over his mother’s stone, pretending not to cry, only intensified the vague ache he felt in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of where his own parents were. He toed at a clump of dandelions that had gone to seed, watching as some of the umbrella-like tufts lifted on the wind and floated away, and others simply settled on his trainers. There were green things growing as far as the eye could see - topiary dragons, fountains of roses, a manmade pond filled with water lilies, endless beds of dancing poppies and pansies and daisies bordered with jasmine and ivy, plus hosts of other trees and flowers, some of them magical, that Harry could neither recognize or name - and even though the grounds could have used some tending, having fallen into disuse since Draco had been orphaned (and there was that ache again), they were beautiful and peaceful, and Harry could understand why it had been chosen as a resting place.
Draco hadn’t said much on the journey over, but one of the few times he’d come out of his own thoughts enough to talk he’d mentioned that the villa was called Maison de la Fleur Blanche, House of the White Flower, and that it had been built for Narcissa after his birth, as a gift from Lucius. That thought alone gave Harry pause; even though he was now dating Draco, it had long ago become habit to think of his former enemy’s parents in a less-than-flattering light, and when he heard a story like that he was forced to remember that they, after all, were only human, and had loves and passions just like James and Lily had. Loves and passions...Harry stole another glance at Draco, hoping that that he’d feel better after he’d had a bit of a cry, but Draco’s shoulders were visibly shaking now, and he’d made a noise that might have been a stifled sob - if anything, he was feeling worse rather than better. Carefully, Harry picked his way over to where Draco knelt, laying a steady hand on his shoulder, not pulling away even when the other boy tried to hide his face. Instead, Harry knelt beside him, putting his arms around Draco and pulling him against his body, gently tilting Draco’s head so he could kiss the tears from the corners of his eyes.
“Think you’ve got something in your eye,” Harry whispered, leaning in to place another kiss on the flushed cheek, feeling his heart almost burst with tenderness.
*
“Bit of dust,” Draco croaked in agreement, closing his eyes and leaning into Harry’s chest. He forced himself to lift a hand and placed it lightly at the side of Harry’s neck, keeping him close, within reach. He was glad, in a way, that he’d saved this first visit to his mother’s grave for a time where Harry join him, could be there to catch him when he fell, and catch him in a way where he didn’t even realize he’d fallen.
It took him a few minutes of just sitting there, letting Harry’s warmth soak into his skin, for Draco to calm himself enough to lift his head and brush a soft kiss over Harry’s lips. “…I think it’s gone now,” he whispered. “The dust. I’m alright. No…no permanent damage.” Though he might need a smoke later to get back to feeling normal again.
*
It was strange, but it made Harry feel useful in a way that few things could, sitting with his arms around Draco until he was calm again - technically speaking, he really wasn’t doing much, but Draco was so cool-headed most of the time that it was doubly unnerving to see him upset, and it made Harry proud to know how to soothe him.
They sat still for a few more long moments, Harry dropping a series of light kisses at the nape of Draco’s neck, Draco occasionally craning his head around to capture Harry’s lips, as if seeking an assurance that couldn’t be spoken aloud. At last Harry shifted (as dusk fell set the mosquitoes were beginning to come out, and besides, his feet were going numb), and reached down to take Draco’s hand, suggesting, “Why don’t we go in and I’ll make you something to eat? You can sit with your feet up and smoke and complain about anything and everything under the sun, and then I’ll take you to bed and ravage you. How does that sound?”
*
Draco gave Harry a smile as he laced their fingers together, a wobbly smile, but a smile none-the-less. “That sounds perfect,” he agreed quietly. Not just for the ravaging or the smoking or complaining, but for the horribly domestic notion of Harry cooking for him. That was something couples did, cooking for one another, and it gave Draco a pleasant squeezing feeling in his stomach. “I had the kitchen stocked before our arrival. You should be able to make almost anything.”
*
Harry helped Draco to his feet, and they walked in a companionable silence through the perfumed labyrinth that lead back to the imposing manor house. Though he’d spent almost half of his life at Hogwarts - a castle -, the dark medieval elegance of the school had nothing on the splendour of this French palais, every chandelier fairly dripping with crystal, every chair and cushion immaculately upholstered with pale silks and embroidered with gold thread, seemingly endless hallways lined with mirrors and marble floors, and doors upon doors leading to all sorts of rich surprises. Harry felt as though his eyes might bulge out of his head as Draco lead him to the kitchens - he couldn’t stop looking about him, trying to catch the intricate detail that had been put into every inch of this stately summer home. He began to feel very out of place in his scuffed trainers and worn jeans - Draco had of course been born into such luxury, and managed to look a prince in black trousers and a soft grey t-shirt - and was somewhat relieved when they finally reached the kitchen, which was larger and more beautiful than any kitchen he’d ever seen, but recognizable as a kitchen nonetheless. Upon glancing into the cupboards and the massive icebox, Harry quickly determined that there were ingredients aplenty for anything he might desire to make, from a full lobster dinner to a peanut-butter sandwich.
“So,” he said, glancing from the overstocked larder to Draco and back, “what do you want?”
*
“Anything you’d like to make.” Draco wasn’t a picky sort, not when someone else was doing the cooking. He took an extra moment inside the kitchen to turn his head and kiss Harry’s shoulder before taking a step away to take a saucer from the cupboard for an impromptu ash tray. “No one has ever…cooked for me,” he continued shyly, avoiding Harry’s questioning gaze and digging his ratty pack of fags from his pocket. He sunk into a chair at the small, casual dining table in the corner of the kitchen that he couldn’t remember ever being used by anyone, lighting the tip of his fag with his wand and taking a slow drag.
“…House elves don’t count. As someone cooking for you. That’s… It’s not the same.” There was nothing intimate about someone doing their job. That’s what they were for, cooking and cleaning and taking care of things. No, someone cooking for someone else was entirely different. It was romantic and sweet and a load of things that Draco had never considered himself to be.
*
“Now that I think about it,” Harry mused, taking out pots and bowls and spoons as he found them, “no-one’s ever really cooked for me, either. The whole time I was at school it was house-elves, and when I was at the Dursley’s Aunt Petunia always made me do the cooking.” Harry stopped and chuckled. “Sometimes I think the only reason they fed me at all is because they didn’t want to get rid of a body if I wasted away to nothing.” Seeing the horrified look on Draco’s face made him change the subject quickly; he’d long ago come to terms with the generally unpleasant nature of life with his aunt and uncle, and sometimes forgot that Draco hadn’t, and was shocked by his black humour. “Mrs. Weasley always did her best for me, you know, but she was always cooking for about twenty other people at the same time.” Crossing over to the other side of the room in his search for a sieve, Harry stopped just long enough to kiss the top of Draco’s head. “Maybe tomorrow,” he whispered, tipping his amused boyfriend a wink, “you can make me breakfast in bed.” He then stole a quick drag of the cigarette and wandered away again, trying to locate the knives.
Not many people would have thought it about the Boy Who Lived, but Harry could cook just about anything he wanted. Years spent in the Dursley’s kitchen had taught him how to make exquisite steaks and mouth-wateringly flavorful seafood, as well as decadent trifles and cakes, not to mention infinite varieties of biscuits to meet Dudley’s equally infinite appetite, and he could assemble fancy salads with his eyes closed; still, Harry’s favorite things to make were the simple ones - pancakes, hamburgers, eggs (he had once made Hermione an omelet that caused her, upon finishing it, to kiss him soundly, and Ron to give him the silent treatment for the rest of the day) - dishes that were easy to prepare but satisfied the soul. He was making grilled cheese and tomato soup for Draco - to Harry’s thinking, there were few flavours that could soothe old wounds like the delicate fusion of melting cheddar and sweet, creamy tomato.
As he chopped and sautéed and seasoned, Harry noticed that Draco’s eyes were following him, and he flushed under the intensity of the gaze. It was ridiculous, but he felt somehow sexy cooking for Draco, as if Draco was seeing him in a new light - a light that apparently rendered him unspeakably attractive. Harry chuckled to himself as he tasted the broth.
*
Draco had never really had the chance to come to terms with Harry’s dreadful family, as all he’d heard on the manner was rumours. Granted, most of them were ones Slytherins had made up, but he knew there was a grain of truth to at least some of them. Maybe someday he’d have to ask Harry about the Dursley’s. Someday when Harry wasn’t creating delicious smells and looking rather delicious himself doing it.
“Maybe,” he agreed idly, wondering if he even could make breakfast. Honestly, the only things he knew about cooking, he’d learned from watching Molly in the kitchen at the Burrow during the summer before they started training. He hadn’t been allowed in the kitchens as a child - he didn’t even know where they were, actually - and his mother and father certainly hadn’t been doing any of the cooking. They had no need, that’s what house-elves were for. But what Harry was doing was rather beautiful, in a way, and Draco figured it couldn’t be that far from Potions making. After all, it was throwing ingredients in a pot. He could surely manage that.
His eyes followed Harry’s movements intensely, locked on his fingers as he chopped and stirred and imagined those fingers curled around his prick later and had to press the heel of his palm against the front of his trousers to squash those thoughts immediately. Harry was doing a lovely thing, cooking him supper, and he wasn’t going to ruin it with any sort of interruption, even one as nice as that. But he couldn’t help himself. Harry had a confidence at the stove not unlike the confidence he had on the Quidditch Pitch or in training or in bed, and it was bloody hot. Draco took a final drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling, letting the fag rest on the edge of the saucer. He pushed himself up and crept up behind Harry to peer over his shoulder, hands resting lightly at his waist. “Thank you for cooking,” he murmured, dropping a light kiss to the place where Harry’s neck met his shoulder and nuzzling into the soft curls of hair behind his ear.
*
Harry stopped dicing tomatoes for a moment and leaned back into the embrace, closing his eyes. He idly thought about leaving dinner where it was and dragging Draco into one of the many, many adjacent rooms to satisfy the baser hunger that was rapidly making itself known, but quickly remembered that it was a rule of theirs never to shag on an empty stomach. Harry turned to give Draco a lingering kiss, whispering, “You’re welcome” before turning back to his cooking, trying to ignore the tingling sensation rushing up and down his spine. Food, then sex. Food, then sex.
In a quarter of an hour he had the soup simmering merrily away, and was meticulously slicing a finely-aged cheddar and a sourdough loaf for the sandwiches. Grilled cheese this might be, but it was certainly fancier than any grilled cheese Harry had ever had.
*
Draco didn’t move very far away during this time. Instead, he watched over Harry’s shoulder, amazed at the brilliance in front of him. So that was how meals were made. It really was just like Potions, dicing and stirring and measuring. And it was confusing as to why Harry had never done well in that class.
Once the knife was safely out of the way and there was no risk of slicing off any fingers in addition to the cheddar, Draco turned his head enough to peer at Harry. “Why in the world did you do so horribly in Potions?” he asked, genuinely curious. “It really isn’t that much different than what you’ve just done.”
*
“Snape,” said Harry ruefully. “I mean, I sort of understood why he was always going on about the subject like he was in love with it, because cooking is sort of the same -kind of an art, you know - but the fact is that he hated me and did whatever he could to make me miserable.” He tasted the soup, added a pinch of salt after a moment of thought, and continued, “I probably would have done a lot better if it had been anyone else, you know? I’m not saying he sabotaged me, or anything, but he made me so damn nervous I really couldn’t do my best.”
Harry buttered the bread and swiftly assembled the sandwiches in the frying pan. His mouth watered. The smells coming from the stove were delicious, and he couldn’t wait to dive into the meal. After a few moments of opening and closing the cupboards, Harry located plates and bowls, and dished out the soup and the sandwiches as soon as they were ready. Smiling broadly although suddenly feeling a little shy, he set the food in front of Draco and said, “Bon Appetit!”, watching carefully for his reaction.
*
Draco nodded thoughtfully, kissing the back of Harry's neck just about the time he was adding the salt, and slipping away to take his seat. Severus had been rather horrible to Harry, and though Draco himself had been no better, he supposed Severus could have been a bit less horrible during class hours. Nice would have been pushing it, because Severus was barely nice outside of class, let alone in his element, but he could have been a bit more fair.
But now was not a time to be thinking of his godfather. Now was a time to be thinking of the almost orgasmic smells coming from the stove and, soon after, the dishes in front of him. Draco took up his silverware immediately, blowing on a spoonful of the soup before sliding it into his mouth. He closed his eyes when the taste hit his tongue, toes curling inside of his shoes. Bloody heaven. Humming softly, he opened his eyes again to smile at Harry.
"You realise now that you'll have to cook for me for the rest of your life, don't you? No one else will be able to live up to this."
*
Secretly thrilled with his culinary success, Harry grinned, then replied, “Draco. You do realize that my time spent cooking for you would drastically cut into the time I could spend shagging you, don’t you?”
*
Well that wasn’t something he’d considered. Draco frowned for a moment in thought, then shook his head, taking a bite of his sandwich and moaning softly. Bloody fucking hell. “I think,” he started, pausing for a moment to chew and swallow, “that might be a sacrifice I’m willing to make. And, you know, there is no law stating that we can’t bring our food to bed with us. Or shag atop the table.”
*
“Like now?” asked Harry hopefully, chuckling when Draco grinned back and shook his head, taking another spoonful of the soup. “Well,” Harry amended, “I think I might be able to live with that - although I have to say that this is the first time I’ve ever seen you pick anything over sex - but if I’m going to cook for you, then you’re going to have to put up with me trying to teach you how. Deal?”
*
Spend more time without sex? But it was still spending time with Harry, and maybe some day Draco would be able to treat him to such an orgasmic meal, and they’d be even. And really, how hard could cooking be? It was just like Potions. “Deal,” Draco agreed, pushing himself up just enough to lean over and seal the agreement with a kiss. “Now eat,” he instructed, taking another spoonful of soup. “It’s my birthday, and I want you at least twice before we sleep.”
*
Harry couldn’t down his meal fast enough; he practically gulped his soup, forgetting how hot it was, and yelped when it scalded his throat. When he’d recovered enough to continue eating, he took large bites of his grilled cheese, watching as Draco made his way through his meal, unable to think of anything but his sudden erection and how much he wanted to be upstairs being shagged into oblivion.
When Draco had taken the last dainty bite of his sandwich, Harry pulled out his wand, banished all of the dishes to the sink, and leapt over the table in his haste to get to Draco. Pulling the blond against him, Harry leaned down to kiss him roughly (mmm, tomato), and fought to keep a straight face as he whispered, “how about now?” in the sexiest voice he could come up with.
*
Draco let out a very undignified squeak that he would later deny when Harry leapt over the table, curling his fingers into the other boy’s shirt when he was dragged quite suddenly into a kiss. He hummed when Harry pulled back, smile stretching across his face. If sexy was what Harry was going for he… well, he didn’t quite manage it, because it was more adorable than anything, but Draco nodded and pulled him into another kiss, softer this time. “Now is good,” he agreed. “My bedroom’s upstairs.”
*
“Lead the way,” said Harry, unable to keep the anticipation out of his voice. Draco took him by the hand and led him back through the corridor, up a mind-bogglingly steep spiral staircase, down another corridor, through a number of massive rooms, each more lavish than the last, until finally he was pushing open a pair of heavy, beautifully carved teak doors, and Harry was gazing upon the biggest, most richly decorated room of them all, and what was very likely the most enormous bed he’d ever seen. It was immense, there was no other word for it, probably twenty feet long and fifteen wide, done up in sumptuous midnight-blue bedding and an airy silver hangings, with four tall, spiraling posts as intricately carved as the doors. He thought about Draco as a child sleeping in this bed, and momentarily flashed on the cot he’d had under the stairs at the Dursley’s.
“Wow,” Harry said. When he turned to Draco and saw the tender, playful look on his face, he said “wow” again and kissed his lover gently.
*
“Am I to take it you approve?” Draco asked, amused by Harry’s reaction. Honestly, he’d remembered the bed seeming a bit smaller, though it could have easily been charmed to fit his size as he grew. This had been his favorite room in the entire house. The first time he’d come here with his parents, he’d been no more than two years old, and the room had been bare. Mother had let him sit with her while the decorators went about their business, and when they disappeared, she’d let him pick the colours he wanted. They had stayed that way ever since.
No one else had ever been in his bedroom here. Not even his father. Harry would be the first person other than Draco himself to ever sleep in that bed. Draco flicked his wand at the doors, closing them tightly, a thrill of excitement shooting through him. Even after that first night, there was nothing that he loved more than the feeling of Harry inside of him, over him, and tonight, they didn’t have to worry about strength training in the morning or early missions or anything, just them.
Draco tossed his wand onto the bedside table and pulled Harry into a kiss immediately, the fingers of one hand curling around the back of his neck to keep him close while the other hand struggled to both undo Harry’s trousers and rip his shirt off at the same time.
*
"Oh," said Harry, finding that his thoughts were scampering around his brain in no real order, running into each other and falling down like comedic characters in a silent film, now that his trousers were very suddenly around his knees, "y-yes, I approve." He managed to slap Draco's hands away from his buttons and undo them himself, which took all of two seconds and afforded him the pleasure of then undressing Draco, kissing him deeply and backing him against the bed at the same time, his thumb making slow circles on Draco's hip just under the elastic of his pants.
Then all at once Draco was naked, and scooting himself farther back on the bed, beckoning Harry to follow with a crooked finger and a decidedly wicked look. Harry wriggled out of the rest of his clothes as fast as he could and crawled up the bed, moving over his lover's body with what he hoped was a predatory attitude; it seemed to have worked, because Draco arched up underneath him, giving a low moan that exposed the length of his pale white throat, which Harry leaned down to nip and then kiss.
*
As Harry set to work on his neck, Draco let his hands trail down the other boy’s sides and over his ribs in aimless swirls, humming lowly when Harry’s teeth grazed his skin again. A possessive move that Draco wasn’t sure if Harry was conscious of, but it was just that arousing all the same. The feeling of being claimed in such a way went straight to his cock, making him arch up wantonly, his cock brushing against Harry’s. A bolt of pleasure shot straight through his bodies, and he curled his toes, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and whimpering around it.
“Harry,” Draco mumbled, brushing only the tips of his fingers down Harry’s stomach, through the coarse hair leading from his navel to brush just at the base of his cock. “Twice, remember?”
*
“Oh,” panted Harry, glad that he could form the words despite all the blood that was now directed away from his brain, “just twice?” The corner of Draco’s mouth turned up; as the smile became a full-grown smirk, he pulled Harry flush against him, causing them both to moan, and Harry’s eyes to roll back in his head. His fingers skated down Harry’s back to grab at his arse - Harry retaliated by rolling Draco over and straddling his hips, rocking leisurely against him until he was writhing and keening with desire. When his eyes were glazed and beginning to look desperate, Harry took pity on the other boy and leaned down to ask heatedly, “how do you want me?”
*
It took Draco a long moment of trying to breathe before he could form any sort of response, fingers kneading at Harry’s arse, trying to prompt him into moving again on their own accord. How did he want Harry? A very good question, and usually the answer involved his cock, Draco’s arse, and any combination thereof. But it was his birthday. A special occasion. “I want…” he tried, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. “Can I…?” Bugger this.
He wriggled out from under Harry, pressing him down onto the bed on his stomach when he protested and tried to turn around to follow. “I want to try something,” Draco informed him, finding it much easier to speak when Harry wasn’t sitting on his hips being so damned distracting. He sat behind Harry on the bed, moving him until he was in the right position, resting on his elbows, arse up in the air. Draco swallowed hard, running his fingers down Harry’s back and hoping he didn’t bollocks this all up. He pressed a kiss to the base of Harry’s spine and stroked his hands over the other boy’s arse, gently easing his cheeks apart. “…Alright?”
*
Harry really wasn’t as thick as people often gave him credit for, and by the time Draco had got him properly posed, he thought he had sussed out just what it was Draco wanted from him. The idea was at once titillating and overwhelming, and the mere thought if it happening now sent a dizzying rush of heat through Harry’s body. Fucking Draco was one thing, but being fucked - and effectively giving over his last vestige of innocence - was quite another. Harry buried his face in the blankets before him and tried to quiet his breathing, shuddering under the delicate patterns that Draco was tracing on his skin as he waited for an answer. Harry knew what he wanted, but he felt awkward saying so - he wondered if Draco felt this vulnerable every time, if he felt at Harry’s mercy the way Harry felt under Draco.
At last he lifted his head and twisted his head to coax a kiss from Draco that made him just brave enough to say, “Okay. Okay. I - I want that. Just…go slow. Please, Draco.”
*
“Yeah,” Draco breathed, kissing Harry’s lips once more before dropping another kiss at the crease of his arse. “Yeah, slow.” The words were mumbled against Harry’s skin as Draco closed his eyes and nuzzled a bit lower. He wondered for a moment if Harry really realised what was going to happen here. True, he was definitely the more innocent of the pair of them, but was there really any possible way for him to not know…this? It was only one of the most amazing sensations in the entire world besides actual sex. But hell, if Harry didn’t know, then it was Draco’s duty to teach him.
Moving his mouth lower still, Draco whispered a wandless cleansing charm and spread Harry’s cheeks even further. Without warning, he dropped his head and licked a stripe from the back of Harry’s balls up the crease of his arse, humming lowly as he dropped a kiss to the tiny dip below where his spine ended.
*
For one mad moment Harry wondered who had let the wounded cat into the bedroom; the next, when the ringing in his ears had subsided enough that he could think properly, he realized that the one making that embarrassingly needy yowling noise had been him. “Oh, shit,” he groaned, torn between staying as he was to have more of that strange pleasure visited upon him, and throwing Draco down in order to have his way with him, “please, more of that, please.” When Draco complied (smirking again, no doubt, but at present Harry didn’t particularly care what Draco’s facial expression was, as long as it involved that lovely tongue of his), Harry slammed his palms flat against the bed and arched back, letting out a stream of obscenities that would have done Sirius proud, all of them variants, more or less, on the theme of “fuck me.”
*
Draco chuckled roughly, spreading Harry wider and working his thumbs in beside his tongue as he teased and prodded. His jaw was starting to ache and his head was spinning and he thought he might go mad if he wasn’t inside Harry soon, but this was his first time, and it had to be special and good and he needed to be as relaxed as possible. When Harry’s cursing tapered off into gibberish and babbling, Draco pulled back enough to summon the lube and a condom from the beside table. He fumbled with the lube, coating practically his entire hand in his haste, and ran a single finger down the crease of Harry’s arse before slowly pressing it inside of him. “Remember to breathe,” Draco whispered, licking the small of his back.
*
“Ngh,” said Harry, dazedly thinking how utterly absurd and wonderful it was to have someone’s finger in his arse. It didn’t hurt, exactly, at least not until Draco tried a second finger, but it felt very odd, and Harry almost thought he might laugh until Draco angled his fingers just so and located his prostate, at which point Harry switched to thinking that he might enjoy being shagged through the mattress for the rest of his life. He dropped his head forward again and concentrated on the maddening rhythm that they were beginning to establish between them, Draco thrusting his fingers forward and Harry rocking back until neither could wait. Letting out a grunt of pain when Draco insinuated a third finger, but not breaking his stride, Harry let Draco tease him for a moment more before he ground out, “Christ, Draco, now.”
*
“You’re sure?” Draco whispered, not even waiting for Harry’s quick nod before withdrawing his fingers and scrambling to roll on the condom. He squeezed more lube over his prick (not that he really needed it with the mess he made earlier) and swallowed thickly. “Roll onto your back. And, um. And hook your legs over my shoulders..” A night for firsts, it seemed. They’d never done it like this before. Draco’d ridden Harry once, but that could hardly be counted as the same thing. This…this was intimate.
*
Oh my, thought Harry, my legs are going to ache in the morning, but he did as Draco asked, sparing a moment to giggle at the sheer improbability of the position - a giggle that he swallowed as soon as Draco began pressing against him. “Slow,” Harry said again, but he squeezed his eyes shut and bore down as Draco pushed in. It burned, more than the fingers had, but still it wasn’t as bad as Harry had expected, and after only a minute or so of Draco rocking his hips ever so gently, allowing Harry to adjust, Harry opened his eyes again. “You can move,” he whispered, feeling a bolt of pleasure rocket up his spine as Draco did. Just as Harry had wanted, it was slow at first, while they sought to find their rhythm once more, but soon instinct took over and the need for something rougher consumed them both.
*
“You,” Draco choked out, closing his eyes for a moment and nuzzling into Harry’s knee as it rested over his shoulder. “You are so…so fucking hot… Fucking hell, Harry.” So hot and tight and Merlin, he was never going to last at this rate. His heart pounded and his head spun and he wished this could go on forever. He wanted it to never stop and, more importantly, he wanted it to never stop with Harry. Christ, it was as if… “Oh God.” Draco’s hips moved faster, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning down to kiss Harry. If he didn’t occupy his mouth otherwise, he was sure to say something desperately stupid.
*
"Yeah," Harry breathed, somewhat amazed he was able to do so with Draco's tongue halfway down his throat, "but you can call me Harry." When Draco bit him, none too gently, Harry squawked, and then decided to stop talking, which was probably for the best because the dazzling electricity racing up and down his spine and out through his extremities had more or less shut down the portion of his brain that controlled language. It's all so simple, Harry thought dazedly, whimpering as Draco picked up speed, but it's more complicated than anyone knows. Complicated because he'd never been so vulnerable before, even when he'd had Voldemort's wand at his throat; It was different than anything he'd ever had done to him, and Harry was overwhelmed as much as he was aroused.
*
Draco slid one hand down from gripping Harry’s legs, sliding it between their bodies to curl around Harry’s cock, stroking him in smooth, quick strokes. It was too much, too difficult to keep himself from coming, but there was no way in hell he was coming first. Harry’s first time. All about Harry. Breathing was difficult, lips mashed together the way they were, and he pulled out of the kiss just enough that their lips were barely touching, brushing together with every thrust of his hips. In a sudden burst of self control, Draco forced his eyes open to gaze down at Harry, wanting to see his face when he came.
*
That was all it took for Harry - the hand on his cock he could handle. The steady rhythm with which he was being moved on Draco's cock, he could handle. But he felt pierced through by the intensity of Draco's gaze, and the surprise of seeing that look on his face sent a jolt from Harry's heart straight down to his groin. He shut his eyes tightly and came with a long, low groan, striping Draco's hand and his belly and both of their chests, until finally he collapsed back onto the pillows, dragging Draco, who was still rocking within him, but gentler now, down too.
*
Draco almost didn’t want to come now. Something was aching in his chest, and his thrusts had slowed to gentle strokes, and he realised quite suddenly that the something aching in his chest was his heart, demanding he spend the rest of his life with Harry. And it was the realisation that he wouldn’t mind that at all that sent Draco over the edge. He let out a choked noise and pressed his face into Harry’s neck as his cock pulsed and he came for what felt like forever. When his head stopped spinning, Draco brushed a soft kiss against Harry’s throat and lifted his head enough to gaze at him. “Alright?” he whispered, reluctant to pull away just yet.
*
Too exhausted to reply, Harry just nodded, and lifted his head only enough to meet Draco's lips. After a few increasingly lazy kisses, Draco pulled out carefully and then slid out of the bed only to disappear into one of the adjoining lavatories to dispose of the condom. When he came back, he waved his wand and muttered a couple of cleaning charms over them both before crawling back under the sheets and cuddling against Harry's back. They fit together like a pair of spoons; Draco's warm breath tickled the tender spot behind Harry's ear, and Harry had to wonder how he'd done without this his whole life.
*
Draco closed his eyes as he and Harry tangled their legs together and something ‘clicked’ in his mind. This…this was it. This was all he needed to be happy, this right here. “Harry,” he whispered, turning his head into Harry’s dark locks, breathing in the scent of him. “I…” His heart pounded in his chest so loudly he was sure all of France could hear it. “I…” he tried again, swallowing hard. “You…”
*
His eyes already closing despite his best efforts, Harry smiled to himself. Draco's hand was resting on his hip, and after a few moments of tense silence in which Harry began to worry that Draco might explode if he didn't get an answer soon, he craned his head back to catch Draco's lips.
"Yeah," said Harry, "me too."
*
Draco almost sighed in relief - almost - but settled instead for curling his fingers gently against Harry’s hip and taking another kiss. The nervousness that had started to consume his body was ebbing away, leaving him blissfully relaxed and closer to sleep than he’d realised. So much for twice before bed. One last kiss was enough, and Draco snuggled down against Harry’s back, nuzzling into his neck. “Best birthday ever,” he mumbled, smiling.