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Potter sits on his heels in the middle of the stark white room, head bowed.
Draco allows himself a moment before closing the door and warding it, a single moment in which he catalogues the sandy tresses of Potter’s hair — apparently untamable even by a glamouring charm — and the burnished tan of his exposed neck. Potter’s relaxed, poised, the sinewy muscles of his bare back not flinching as Draco walks up behind him.
He has divots at the base of his spine. Of course he does.
Draco crouches down and touches him with one hand to apply gentle pressure to the hollow beneath the base of Potter’s skull. It’s a spot he massages for the nervous ones, the first timers, hopeful but fearful. Potter doesn’t fit either of those moulds, but he shudders under Draco’s fingers, muscles shifting pleasantly with a light, distinctive flex.
“Glamours,” Draco breathes in his ear, “are not allowed in this room. Or do you not know how to read? You can answer.”
Potter sucks in a breath. “I apologise. I thought to explain once we met why I need to—”
“You need that,” Draco tells him, softening the hard edges of his accent and keeping his voice low, “or you need this.” He runs his fingers through Potter’s hair — the bastard, it’s as soft as it’s always looked — to tug it sharply, then down the length of his spine to rest his pinky in the top of Potter’s cleft. His buttocks clench and Draco smiles. “I’ll give you a moment to decide.”
Moving away, Draco leans against the door, draping one foot over the other as he watches Potter’s internal battle between duel needs of desire and discretion. Haltingly, Potter reaches out and lifts the wand at his side, and Draco swallows a snort. There's perhaps one wand in the world as recognisable as Potter’s 11” length of holly, and that’s his own, old, hawthorn wand, which people pay gold to see at the War Museum.
And the fool thought he’d manage to go undetected.
Potter reverses his charm and Draco studies him as the nondescript colour of his hair is swallowed by its natural ebony. Scars appear on his back: a slash, a burn. The hue of his tan fades fractionally and his body narrows a bit. He sets his wand back down.
“This,” Potter says when Draco says nothing.
“Very good, Potter,” Draco says in his normal voice, flooded with glee over the instantaneous effect it has. Potter’s whole body tightens, from his curling toes to the scant glimpse Draco has of his cheek. His slender biceps turn hard and defined, and his hands curl into fists.
He doesn’t, however, get up. Doesn’t even turn around.
“Malfoy,” he says.
“Malfoy,” Draco agrees, pushing off the door to approach him again. He touches Potter on the shoulder and this time Potter jerks away. Draco digs his fingers in, painfully tight. After a beat of resistance, Potter stills and Draco rounds him so they’re face to face.
Well, face to crotch.
“Although I prefer ‘Sir,’” Draco continues at Potter’s murderous glare.
“No,” Potter says. “Not you.”
“Me.” Draco shrugs and Summons the low-slung white chaise against the wall. He drops onto it, lazily removing his shoes and socks before pulling up his feet and hooking his elbow over the back, as if Potter’s presence doesn’t matter a whit to him.
Really, it shouldn’t. But nobody’s perfect.
“I paid for—”
“Now that’s interesting,” Draco says, cutting off what promises to be a splendid rant — if he can judge by the fury gleaming in Potter’s green gaze. “I rather thought you’d start by telling me you were undercover or some such nonsense.”
Potter looks stymied and Draco takes the moment to study him from the front. The last time he saw Potter this close was at the trials, when he spoke in Draco's defence — just another heroic action in a long string of them Draco can’t forgive. He'd been skeletal then, even thinner than Draco; barely more than flesh stretched tight over bone, his cheeks and eyes hollow, his mouth a weary, pale slash. Draco had hated it, seeing him that way, so much of his natural animation gone just weeks after the final battle. And Potter, the sanctimonious shit, had refused to look at Draco from where he stood in the middle of the Wizengamot. Even as he made sure Draco wouldn't go to Azkaban.
Now, though...
Now, his rangy chest is topped by an assortment of oddly shaped scars. His lean, sculpted stomach muscles are decorated by a slender line of black hair that leads down from his navel to a thatch of dark curls around a cock that's wilting from its half-hard state — but beautifully proportioned nonetheless. His thighs, tense and trembling, are lovely. His face has filled out. He's healthy, strong. Energy crackles around him like a loose, sparking wire. And he has no problem meeting Draco's gaze, though he obviously knows he shouldn't.
“I have no interest in what you think of me,” Potter says with a triumphant tilt of his chin. “The confidentiality agreements protect me from your particular brand of snivelling bully. Go get me someone who didn’t get into this line of work because he’s desperate to know what power is.”
Draco laughs. He’d been so hoping Potter hadn't lost his edge. He waves the folder in his hand. “The confidentiality agreements which have a clause that says the owner can turn away a member at his discretion? The ones that give him leave to substitute as Dominant for any submissive not in a bound relationship?”
The flush slinks from Potter’s face down to his neck. Perhaps he’s not such a fool anymore, after all.
“Still,” Draco says, before Potter can get there, “I have as much of a reputation to uphold as you do.”
“What do you want.”
“Really? Not ‘how did you know it was me’?”
Stubbornly, Potter remains silent. His jaw could cut granite, it's gone so hard. Hard as Draco is getting. But it’s time to change tacks — he doesn’t actually want to drive Potter away. Not when he’s so ripe for the taking, and finally, truly at Draco's mercy.
No mad auntie whispering over his shoulder, no supercilious father settling heavy expectations upon him. This time, it's just between him and Potter — at long last.
Draco pulls his wand and flicks it so the glare of lights lowers into something resembling lamps at a bedside table. Far more welcoming. He opens the folder.
“I thought we might negotiate a little,” he murmurs, satisfied by the telltale twitch in Potter’s cock. Potter grinds his teeth and turns his face to the side. He’s just as striking in profile — full lips, ridiculously long lashes. The clenching of his jaw highlights his dimple, and Draco idly wonders what Potter would do if he licked it.
“Get me,” Potter grits out, “someone else, Malfoy, or I swear to fuck I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Draco demands, putting on his most aggressive sneer. It’s not entirely authentic but he’s curious as to what Potter will say — which bothers him enough to pull the expression off.
It's a bad habit, that. He’d been sure he’d got over curiosity about Potter years ago.
“I'll— I—” The low rumble of frustration issues from Potter's throat. He compresses his lips.
“You’ll shut up,” Draco says, softening his voice. Potter’s teeth click. “And come here.”
There’s a distrustful beat of silence before Potter pushes up from the floor. Rooms like these can do odd things to people’s minds, like looking into a mirror too long. They tend to project an image of oneself that blurs the lines of deception people shape themselves with for the outside world. Whatever Potter sees, it drives him to obey, despite his better judgement. Unselfconscious of his nudity, he walks over to the chaise lounge and sits at the foot of it without permission. Draco decides to let it go.
“Negotiations,” Draco continues. He turns onto his arse and sets his feet on Potter’s lap. Visibly shocked, Potter automatically reaches to hold them. His hands are warm, fingers long and strong and calloused.
“Rub them,” Draco says negligently, wiggling his toes.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.”
Draco's less inclined to overlook that one.
“True,” he says softly. “But you didn’t say either of your safe words, which I assume you still know.” Draco narrows his eyes and Potter rebelliously meets them again so he digs his heel into the soft flesh of Potter’s sac. Potter bites his lip, perhaps from the pain but more likely because the pain makes his cock jerk. It doesn’t matter either way, because Potter’s fingers start moving on the arches of Draco’s feet — pathetically, but enough. Draco eases the pressure. He can practically hear Potter’s inner monologue: You’ve never backed down from Malfoy before. You’ve always beat him. You can figure a way to do it now.
But he still doesn’t safeword out.
“You own this place?” Potter asks into the heavy silence.
“Yes,” Draco says. “How long have you been a sub?” He asks partly because they need to establish a new dynamic, but also because he genuinely wants to know.
“I’m n—”
Draco remains silent when Potter breaks off. He's unfamiliar enough with the formal scene, then, to still feel reticence about the label.
More carefully, Potter says, “I dated someone about eight years ago and we explored things. I felt it fitting. I’ve… dabbled, since.”
Draco consults his memory and remembers the articles about Potter he’d read around that time. After a couple of dodgy years post war, Potter had suddenly begun living up to his expectations as an Auror and walking with a bounce to his step again. It was a far cry from the near-hermit he’d become, defensively raising his wand to strangers trying to pass from behind on Diagon Alley when he ventured out to shop for Christmas. Mind Healers, the papers assumed.
The papers have always been bloody stupid, in Draco’s opinion.
“Ah,” he says. “Have you dommed?”
“It was… less fitting,” Potter says, blinking.
“We don’t generally accept ‘dabblers,’” Draco warns. “Our clientele takes its membership here seriously.”
“Which is why I joined,” Potter says tersely. He clears his throat. “Since you own this place, you must have experience with how to treat one. A, a sub, I mean,” he adds, deceptively light. Just two old rivals sitting down for tea.
Only there’s no tea in sight, and one of them is naked and rubbing Draco’s feet. He smiles.
“Yes. Why?”
“Because you’re shit at it. Not that I’m surprised.” Potter smirks at him, eyes glinting. “Sir.”
Draco removes his feet from Potter’s lap. He knows exactly what Potter is doing. It irritates him that he feels remotely insulted, because their history makes it too soon to expect from Potter the behaviour acceptable from a normal sub.
To say nothing of Draco’s motives, which Potter is right to question.
“Stand up,” he says softly. “Arms over your head, wrists crossed.”
But if Potter wants to test him, Draco's willing enough to be tested.
Potter swallows. “Why?”
“Do it.”
“Why.” Potter’s voice turns gruff, wary, face mutinous even as he stands and lifts his arms. Even as he crosses his wrists.
“Two lashes for the sarcasm,” Draco says. “Two more for the impertinent question.”
Draco swirls his wand and wraps silvery ropes around Potter’s wrists, linking the tail to a hook that appears in the ceiling. He swirls his wand again and Potter, breathing in shallow pants now, follows with his eyes as it unspools the rich leather tresses of a flogger from its tip. Potter goes rigid.
“You do remember your safe words?” Draco checks, standing. He gets a clipped nod and lets loose.
Of the many forms of dominance Draco has mastered, impact play is certainly one of his favorites. There's a measure of skill, of control, one must have to know just how hard to strike someone to mete out the optimum amount of pain, to dole out pleasure with it. One needs to know where to land the tool, the amount of force the arm requires, at what point to flick the wrist, so the submissive is not unnecessarily injured. That Draco wants to injure him isn't a deterrent at all — he's confident enough in his own capabilities to detach himself from the process.
He focuses on the underside of Potter's clenched buttocks for the first two lashes. The heavy thwacks that issue, the way Potter’s flesh ripples when the leather connects with skin, are so sweet Draco swallows a groan.
Potter's chest heaves as Draco circles him. His benched adrenaline is beginning to pump high. More, when he sees Potter’s cock fattening up.
“Like that, do you?”
“You’re an arsehole,” Potter mutters. His eyes close.
“I never claimed to be otherwise,” Draco says conversationally, dragging the grip of this wand over Potter's chest. He wonders if that’s the key to getting Potter to go boneless for him, the thing that hot wax, paddlings, or breath play are all tied into. There’s almost always something.
Maybe Potter has grown tired of adulation, of worshipful hands clinging to the tails of his robes. It would make a disturbing amount of sense if Potter was the sort of martyr who got off on punishing himself for the things he wasn’t able to do.
“Go ahead, Malfoy,” Potter says with a surly glare. “Bet you’ve wanted to do this for years.”
“You won’t hear me denying it.” He runs the blunt edge of his thumb down Potter’s cock, but steps away before Potter has time respond with anything other than a shocked inhalation.
This time, Draco aims higher. His arm swings in a wide arc and he pulls the snap of the flogger’s tails just a second before they could cause real pain when they land low on Potter’s stomach. One of the falls licks Potter's burgeoning erection and he does such a poor job of disguising his moan that Draco’s breath explodes out of his lungs.
He turns away to compose himself with a muttered curse. After a beat, he returns his wand to its form and flicks it over his shoulder to release Potter from his bonds. His voice is crisp again, unperturbed, when he says, “Sit the fuck down, Potter.”
There's a momentary pause and then he hears the shuffle of Potter lowering himself onto the chaise. When he turns back around, Potter’s face is red, but he's lost enough of the sneer on his face that Draco feels comfortable proceeding. He sits down, deliberately letting his fingers brush against Potter’s hip as he picks up the file from where he’d stowed it.
“Oh good,” he says, tilting Potter a grin, “you have impact play listed under your interests.”
“You didn't even read—?” Potter snaps his mouth shut.
“You can speak,” Draco says, snorting. “I'll tell you when you can't.”
Potter's hands are tight on his thighs. There's a shiny bead of moisture peeking from the slit of his swollen prick. Stiffly, he says, “How did you know it was me if you didn't even read my file? Are you stalking me or something?”
Draco allows his amusement to surface. “Now, that would be a role reversal, wouldn't it?”
Potter shoots him a glare but lowers his eyes before it draws out too long.
“No,” Draco says. Though he’s selective with the truth, there’s really no need to keep it secret. “We organise our client files by safe words rather than name to protect anonymity. Honestly, Potter, there's a reason why most people choose them at random, or stick with the basics. For anyone who’s familiar enough with you, you may as well have chosen “Dumbledore’s Disciple,’ or ‘Golden Boy,’ or ‘Chosen—’”
“Privet,” Potter blurts.
Draco backs off, schooling his features into impassivity.
“Alright,” he says evenly. At least Potter didn’t say ‘cupboard.’
Potter breathes quietly for a minute as he takes that in. Draco stays silent. This is also a skill that someone in Draco’s position must have, and it had taken him longer to learn than anything else — how to recognise when the sub needs to be pushed versus when they needed space. He’d never thought of himself as particularly patient or empathetic before beginning this line of work but once it became a habit to use those two qualities, they’ve been the ones he draws upon the most during a scene.
He doesn’t particularly fancy applying them to Potter,, but he hasn’t much choice. Not if he wants this to play out as he hopes.
He idly peruses Potter’s file and waits for his response. He’s just got to the part of Potter’s file that lists his (meagre) sexual history when Potter asks, “What do you want, Malfoy?”
“Let’s call it… droit de seigneur,” Draco says. He glances up at Potter’s sharply gusted breath. “You know the term then. Good. You’ll be mine, for the night.”
“Think of yourself as a feudal lord, do you?” Potter mutters. Draco slants him his most foxlike smile.
“If you like.” He dips his head. “I own this place. If you’d like to stay on my land, then I should be granted this small thing I want.”
“Why do you?” From his periphery, Draco can see Potter shake his head. His voice is rough. He’s still fighting it, still looking for a way out other than the door. It’s what he’s always done, Draco supposes, and fool or not, Potter has always been a worthy opponent. “Because we loathe each other and you want to set me in my place?”
“I think we both know where your place is, tonight, don’t we?” Draco manages, swallowing around the sudden knot of resentment in his throat. He scowls and refocuses his eyes on the blur of parchment.
“You’re just… admitting you want me? Admitting you want to fuck me? Just like that.”
Draco looks up. Smirks. Underneath all of Potter’s deliciously violated affront, he seems genuinely perplexed, so Draco tells him the truth.
“I’m saying I want to own you tonight,” he says, drawing the word out into a purr. “Are you surprised?”
Potter looks away. His voice drips with distaste. “Just at myself, for having unreasonably assumed you might have grown up in the last ten years.”
“Potter.”
Draco drums his fingers on the file. He can wait all night, can outlast Potter now in a variety of ways — and is determined to, if need be. But Potter eventually turns his head. His gaze is far more challenging than is tolerable and Draco frowns.
“The waitlist on this place is six months,” he says. “Its exclusivity is matched by none, which I'm sure you know.” He waits for a beat. “But you’re free to leave, if you like. If you don’t think yourself capable of handling it.”
Potter’s forearms tighten as his fingers curl.
“Submission, that is,” Draco clarifies. Then, just for fun: “To me.”
It’s a risk, he knows. He does quite want to hear Potter whine against him, wants to drag Potter to that breaking point. He can't deny having wondered what that would look like. First as a child with visions of Potter begging for his help, his friendship. Later, with visions of... other things. But if Potter does leave, that will benchmark a triumph of a different sort, a folding against Draco’s hard-earned will, and he’s always wanted to see that, too.
Really, he wins either way.
Clearing his throat, Potter flicks him an infuriatingly dismissive glance. His lips quirk up to the side as though he’s made a decision. “You think you know me, Malfoy. You’ve always thought you did. It’s a wonder you couldn’t tell me from a stranger at the Manor. Oh, wait.”
Draco ignores that.
“So…” Potter finds his gaze and hold it. He licks his lips, blinking slowly. “You'd like me to submit to you, strong wizard that you are. And you don't think I'm able to. Do I have that right?”
“Yes.” Draco doesn't bother reprimanding Potter for the ‘strong wizard’ bit. He'd been expecting something along those lines, though he'd assumed Potter would take the Death Eater angle. But Potter’s implicit accusation that Draco doesn’t really know him is just as true in reverse — which is to say, not very — and Draco doesn't like being predictable.
Almost conspiratorially, Potter leans closer and whispers, “Finally get to feel like you’ve beaten me by putting your cock up my arse, Malfoy?”
Draco doesn’t crack the smile he feels lurking. He sits back.
“That’s how you beat someone?” he asks. He contemplates him for a second. “Funny, you’d have thought there’d have been more conjecture about what really happened between you and the Dark Lord in the Forest.”
The smugness on Potter’s face grows tight, tension lines appearing at the corners of his eyes.
“Or do you think getting beaten is about something else?” Draco continues. “Of course, I use the term differently than we usually do here. But if I, perhaps, were to make you beg — ‘Please, Sir, put your cock in me’ — will you feel beaten by me?”
“You’ve got a better shot at Disarming me.”
“Would being Disarmed make you feel beaten? Just checking.”
Potter scowls.
“Why didn’t it work out with your last Dom?” Draco asks. He reads the dailies like anyone else, knows of Potter’s magnificently public breakup with the dashing, press-courting Cursebreaker from Italy about a year prior. He can only assume the man was that, to him — Potter doesn't have any other clubs listed in his file, after all. “Could he not beat you? Or was it that it was too easy and he lost interest?” Testing his theory, he says, “Did you not satisfy, once the lure of your famous name and scar had faded?”
“Fuck you.” Potter’s cock — a far better measure for what gets someone off than what they choose to write on their form, Draco’s found — rests calm and stiff over his balls. Not humiliation, then. Pity.
“Now, now.” Draco smiles and pats the yellow-white welts on Potter’s belly. The flat planes of it tense under Draco’s hand and Potter gives him a flinty, dangerous look. “Stop getting so offended.”
“I would, but your very existence makes that hard.”
“Mmm. So I see.” He lets Potter see it coming this time, flattening his hand on Potter’s stomach to rub over the dark feathering line leading down to his groin. He threads his fingers through Potter’s pubic hair, stroking down, down, and folds his fingers — one by one — around Potter’s cock.
Potter flinches, throat working silently, before letting out a long breath. He follows it with a slow, smouldering smile, something far more fitting directed at a bloke at a bar than a Dominant deigning to touch his sub. Draco’s heart lurches oddly.
As quickly as he can without betraying himself, Draco breaks their gaze to watch himself stroke Potter’s foreskin back. It’s tight but glides over Potter’s shaft beautifully to reveal a contrast of colours. Above the ridge of Potter’s cock, the head is deep red in clench of Draco's fist; below, it's a gorgeous rosy pink. He drags his hand back down and squeezes, milking a generous drop of precome from the slit. “Feel good?”
“You’re rubbing my dick.” Potter says, graciously enough omitting the ‘obviously’ his words hint at. But his shoulders are spiked near his ears and he can’t quite pull off the casual tone he seems to be trying for. “Yeah, it’s fine.”
“But you don’t like that it’s me making you feel that way,” Draco says, investigating the tantalising vein running up the length of Potter’s cock with one firm finger. Potter’s chest expands silently.
“Isn’t that the point?”
“Is that what you think?”
“There are other places I can go,” Potter says suddenly. He shifts a touch but mostly allows Draco’s exploration, though his vibrant gaze is now trained on the far wall and his voice has gone slightly hoarse. “Where I won’t be asked to prostitute myself to the owner for my membership. You know that as well as I do, Malfoy.”
Draco takes his hand away. Potter’s cock bobs, then settles against his thigh, heavy and thick. “You should go to one of them, then.”
“And let you win at whatever you're playing at?”
Perfect.
Giving Potter a flat stare and getting one right back, Draco drawls, “You seem obsessed with the idea that I’m doing this to prove something. Let’s pretend that’s true: Are you not equipped to withstand it?”
Potter hesitates. Shrugs. “It’s just fucking, Malfoy. Basically a one-off, right?”
“No one who comes here believes this is ‘just fucking,’” Draco says quietly. Potter swallows. “But yes, why not. If that’s what you need to tell yourself to get through it.”
Potter’s features tighten again, to the point Draco wonders how well he does on any undercover assignments he gets. He’s the most demonstrative person Draco has ever met; nearly every emotion, every thought he has, passes over his face when he has it.
“Fine, then,” he says. “Letting you own me for the night, whatever. Better?”
Draco smiles. “If you can actually start behaving like you do.”
“Have at me, then,” Potter raises a brow. “Shall I bend over for you?”
It’s said with a note of obstinance rather than the respect and gratitude Draco is accustomed to, but he can’t deny the thrill that tries to shiver through him. Ruthlessly, he suppresses it.
Draco stands. He says, “Lay on the chaise. Spread your legs and hold your cock.”
Potter looks at him like he’s daft, like he’s not already sitting naked and fully roused on the lounge with Draco’s welts risen across his stomach and arse. Aggressively reluctant, he scoots to do as instructed. Half propped by the back of the lounge, he sets the bottoms of his feet together and lets his knees fall open in a loose approximation of the only yoga pose Draco remembers from the class Pansy dragged him to. Potter skims a hand up his thigh, closing his eyes like he appreciates the sensation, then circles his prick with his pinky, ring finger, and thumb. His middle and index fingers rest against the side of his thick shaft and he sucks his lower lip, giving himself a light squeeze. When Draco pulls his gaze higher, he sees Potter’s opened his eyes to watch him through a tangle of dark lashes.
“For display,” Draco says, voice rougher than he’d like. “Don’t get any ideas about getting yourself off.”
“Sure thing,” Potter says lightly. “But please make sure to check my preferences under Edging.”
Draco does, for effect rather than necessity. Edging, Potter’s written — in admittedly improved handwriting from their Hogwarts days — is perfectly acceptable, as long as it doesn’t exceed an hour and never results in orgasm denial. Draco checks the time.
“Fine,” Draco says petulantly, as though part of his plan has been ruined, learning of this.
As though he’d had any plan, really, moments before astonishing the Dom scheduled to work with Potter by dismissing him and coming in his stead.
To his exasperation, Potter doesn’t seem to buy it — just continues watching him with that same, heavy lidded gaze that affords Draco only the tiniest glimpse of boisterous green.
“You favour impact play,” Draco says, drawing from the top of the list.
“Yes.” One corner of Potter’s mouth tilts up self deprecatingly. With a light jostle of his cock, he murmurs, “As you see.”
“But your file is rather paltry with details.” Draco says, locking eyes with him. “You don't even have a list of preferred toys.”
Draco has always liked toys, liked using a variety of them during a session. They can be incredibly revealing. A simple cockring might push someone past their limit, whereas a prostate-milking dildo might make them weep with relief. He’s seen the most hardened, jaded man safeword out at the prospect of being tied and seen the most vulnerable, trembling sort of beginner beg for tighter restraints, more pain, harder harder harder, until Draco had to end the scene for their own safety.
“I like anything hard enough to leave marks that last for up to a week and nothing that leaves me with permanent ones,” Potter says simply.
Draco draws nearer, until his knees are touching the side of the lounge. Potter’s Adam’s apple rises and falls, and his eyes rest on the obvious bulge in Draco’s trousers before sliding up. Though he knows it’s precarious territory, Draco says, “Don’t want any new scars to compete with the ones you’re known for?”
The tendons of Potter’s neck pull dangerously tight. “Because those were so fun to get, any new ones will feel like a disappointment,” he says in a level tone. When Draco snaps his eyes up, Potter holds them briefly, pointedly, before looking away. He clears his throat. “You don’t dress like a…”
“I find it unnecessary,” Draco says, allowing the shift in subject and mood. He looks down at his suit. “Trite. But, of course, I don’t make money judging what turns people on. Is that the look you prefer? Leather?”
“No,” Potter tells him, sounding displeased as his gaze travels over the length of Draco’s body. “I actually agree with you.”
“Will wonders never cease. Then we can begin.”
Potter stifles the laugh that starts to break free, looking surprised at the very inclination. He adjusts his seat, as if reminded of the lashes on his backside. “Begin?”
In answer, Draco shrugs out of his braces. He lets them dangle as he removes his tie and undoes the buttons of his shirt before moving his hand to his flies. Potter’s face suddenly goes immobile, flat with control. Draco flicks the button open and draws his zipper down, calmly pushing his trousers around his hips. Potter sucks in a breath as Draco pulls his prick out.
“Then you’re really—” Potter’s voice fades, like he’d thought Draco was having him on ‘til now. His breath comes faster as Draco swipes a leisurely fist over his own cock. Draco knows what he looks like when he’s hard, knows that his own generous dimensions are intimidating to some, knows how red his prick gets, how he always looks on the verge of coming. But Potter seems mesmerised by these facts, his pupils expanding as he stares, and though Draco doesn’t care what Potter thinks of him one way or another, he can’t help but feel oddly… pleased.
“I’ve done this for several years, Potter,” he says softly, curling his fingers lazy around the glans each time he manipulates his foreskin down over it. “Did you really think I would just come in here to play with you?” He snorts. “That is, to tease?”
Potter bristles, forcing his gaze away. The desire to object radiates from him, but he relaxes further into the cushions rather than doing so. Rather than walking out. His expression turns placid, almost bored. As though he expects to lie back and think of England, and — in doing so — win again. An orgasm, a few stripes on his skin that will fade from his body the way Draco did from his mind. Nothing to fret over.
But it’s been a long, long while since they’ve seen each other. And Draco’s been using his time wisely.
Draco leaves off his prick. It bobs out of his gaping trousers as he walks around the lounge to study Potter from every angle. He’s not ruffled by Potter’s affectations, but he wasn’t lying when he said his intent was to own him for the night. Except this part is harder; usually he has days or weeks to figure out a sub’s driving force, and he’s not a practiced enough Legilimens to slip into Potter’s mind and seek out his hidden desires without him noticing. He’s not at all comfortable operating on a suspicion, not with the one man who has always confounded him.
As Potter said, sex is just sex. But being truly seen is what people come here for — and, usually, Draco doesn't even have to try. A great many don't even need sexual contact as much as they require someone to whom they can cede control without fearing judgment regarding their predilection for taking orders, for pain. Fortunately that doesn't seem to be Potter’s kink — a mere glance at him quite clearly establishes the sexual slant to his desires even Draco had no file to study — but neither does Potter seem the sort who craves getting fucked by a father figure. Not that Draco will be surprised (or disappointed) if that turns out to be the case. He just needs to know which weak spot to aim for.
He just needs to engage the fragment of Potter the world overlooks.
He climbs onto the sofa, settling onto his knees. He lifts Potter’s pressed feet into his lap. His toes are a little bony and lightly scattered with hair, but his feet are long and oddly elegant with high arches, clean and pale. Draco pulls the outer ridges apart to create enough room. He presses his prick between them.
“Tell me,” he says, when Potter’s gaze flies to his, “is it the taboo? How... nasty it is for you, everyone’s hero, to let yourself be punished?” Potter’s arches flex around Draco’s cock — unintentionally, he thinks. But he can’t deny it feels good.
“Wha— Malfoy—”
Draco repositions Potter’s feet so the the balls of his toes and his heels come together, creating a tight little space for him to fuck. He does, slow and smooth, Potter’s shocked gaze flaring. “To be used like you’re nothing? Insignificant, for the first time in your life?”
“I’m not insignif—”
“Shut up.” He pumps steadily, working Potter’s arches over his shaft. As an Auror, it’s not shocking that Potter is limber. But the strain on Potter’s hips and ankles from the position — knees still splayed, feet twisted in Draco’s hands — must be unpleasant.
So unpleasant, in fact, that a wet smear glistens bright on Potter’s belly when his cock jerks in his grip.
“Or do you just need someone to punish you the way you can’t punish yourself?” he adds, a little breathless at the thought. It makes perfect sense, and aligns with Draco’s own perspective to such a degree he feels dizzy from it. He releases one of Potter’s feet to clench his fingers around the base of his own cock.
The slow, sweet rush of endorphins as he fucks the clasping curve of Potter’s feet is so distracting that he almost misses it. The tiny smirk that twitches at the corner of Potter’s mouth. The smirk that tells Draco each word out of his mouth is wrong.
He can’t remember the last time that happened, and it’s like being splashed with cold water. In a rare breach of restraint, he tosses Potter’s feet wide, one on either side of the lounge. He prowls over Potter, cock dragging over his taut belly, and plants his hands on either side of Potter’s head.
“Something you find amusing?”
Potter looks at him steadily, unmoving. “No,” he says, like a dare. “None of this particularly is.”
His breath is warm against Draco’s mouth as they stare at each other, locked in silent war that goes back almost two decades. Draco can see the satisfaction in Potter’s eyes, a furious sort of fuck you gleam, and he wants to backhand him for the sheer arrogance of it. He could, he knows. Potter wrote only “no broken bones” under face slapping. But no one respects a Dom who injures out of anger.
Not that Potter is the model of a submissive.
Draco weighs his options, mind filing away the countless details of Potter's body trapped beneath his. His cock feels harder, thicker, against Draco’s stomach, and Draco ruts absently against it, a damp spot spreading warm and intoxicating through the fabric of his trailing shirt. Draco can feel the quiver of repressed tension in Potter's thighs against the outside of his own, through his trousers.
Potter shudders out a slow breath and says, “Waiting for something, Malfoy?” in a low, husky tone, the way one might when throwing a gauntlet. As if they haven’t been hurtling toward a reckoning since the day they met.
“Just trying to decide whether you’d look prettier in chains and a ball gag or a simple harness as you dangle from the ceiling,” Draco says as smoothly as he can. A sharp gust of breath hits his face, a flood of pink resurfacing on Potter’s cheeks. Draco stills, their bodies wedged tight together, and takes in the swift dilation of Potter’s pupils, the quickening of his hitching chest. There are some things not so easy to hide, and realisation hits Draco with the force of a Bludger to the temple.
Potter wants to be wanted. He wants someone to desire him, for something more primal than what he's done.
“Why not both?” Potter says, gaze darting away. “I’ve scheduled you,” he adds, like Draco is working for him, “for tonight. Pretty me up as much as you’d like.”
“I want to.” Draco rotates his hips. Potter’s hand, still between them on his own cock, tenses. Quietly, experimentally, he says, “Not that you need help in that department.”
Potter’s lips tighten. “Shut up and do your worse, Malfoy.”
Draco takes Potter’s jaw in his fingers, applying pressure until Potter’s head turns and their eyes connect again. Draco isn’t the sort of Dom who kisses his subs, but the walls around Potter are too well-fortressed; they need a battering ram if Draco’s going to get inside.
The kiss he presses to Potter’s mouth is almost that — hard and vicious and unforgiving. He forces his tongue past Potter’s teeth and grinds his prick against Potter’s erection. Potter’s muscles go tight with surprise, tension leaking from where he’s trapped under Draco’s body, but it’s better than a lack of reaction and satisfying enough to soothe Draco’s frustration.
But then Potter does the least predictable thing he can, and… responds, in just the way Draco prefers. He opens his mouth wider; he slants his head. His tongue brushes tentatively against Draco’s until it becomes a tantalising slip of movement between them both rather than the lesson Draco wanted to inflict. That won’t do at all, but Draco finds himself strangely reluctant to move away. For all of Potter’s response, he’s — for the first time — appropriately acquiescent. Pliant. Draco’s breath catches and he pulls back, intentionally nipping too hard on Potter’s upper lip. The dab of scarlet there and Potter’s blown pupils serve to steady Draco further.
“Sir.”
“What?” Potter licks the blood from his lip.
“You’re to address me as Sir, for as long as you have leave to talk.”
Something starkly emotive passes over Potter’s face as it smooths out. Instead of repeating Draco, he says, “Of course, Malfoy.”
Draco chuckles. He tempers the persistent rush of euphoria trying to surface and gentles his fingers on Potter’s jaw. “I always liked when you did that.”
“Did— Did what?” Potter swallows, pressing his head to the chaise as though the added centimetre of distance will help.
Draco shrugs and rises away from Potter’s body.
“When you had a mouth on you,” Draco says casually. “It’s quite a lovely mouth, after all.”
“Yeah?” Potter curls his lip, his belligerence a poor disguise for his struggle to appear disconnected. It's often that way, when someone’s armour is in danger of getting peeled off. “You’re just saying that because you plan to fuck it and you’re hoping it won’t bite.”
“No.” Draco smiles. “Although I do.” He runs the flat of his palm down Potter’s side against smooth warm skin. Potter squirms away, gritting his teeth. “But you can’t hurt me, in here,” he adds, voice low, “anymore than I can hurt you — in any way you don’t want me to.”
Which is not entirely a lie. Potter’s contract and the room can prevent him from breaking Potter’s bones and leaving scars, anything Potter has identified as a hard limit. But it's not entirely the truth, either.
“Open up,” he says, thumbing the damage to Potter’s mouth. Potter gazes at him for a beat and parts his lips. Draco fingers the moist inside of his lower lip. “I bet you take a cock down your throat so well, don’t you, Potter?”
Potter’s head twitches in a near nod, his breath coming in unsteady pants. “Stop it.”
“Stop what? Is being good at something you enjoy something to be ashamed of?” Draco asks, drawing his brows together. The look of confusion on Potter’s face is priceless, a swoop of distrust and stifled hunger. His earlier misstep aside, Draco delights in this part, when everything comes together like the cylinders of a lock tumbling into place. He says, “Or did you think I came in here even though I’m not attracted to you? Are you that foolish?”
He stands and swiftly divests himself of his clothing, Potter watching his progress silently. After Draco levitates his clothes to drape across a hook by the door, he gestures to his swollen cock.
“That’s not why you came in here,” Potter says flatly.
“Of course it’s not,” Draco says with an easy chuckle. “Not only. I already gave you an explanation. It’s not my fault if you never bothered to question the reasons behind them.” He ignores Potter’s growl of frustration and Summons the small, empty table resting against the wall. He taps it with his wand and opens the black, lacquered case that appears. Potter’s eyes widen when Draco lifts out a handful of Galleons.
“Are those—”
“Mm. I thought we might play a game. We never did get to play as children, after all.” Draco smirks, which seems to ease some of Potter’s tension. He rattles the gold in his hand, their soft clinking loud in the room.
There are seven of them nestled in Draco’s palm. Potter inhales as Draco places them, one by one, over his chest and abdomen. He rests one each over Potters nipples and trails four more down the Potter’s stomach, like a line of stones one might hop across in a stream bed if they didn’t have their broom. The suspicion in Potter’s voice sharpens.
“Am I to play rentboy for you or something?” he asks, a frown set on his brow as though he can’t believe Draco is after roleplay.
“No.” Draco places the last Galleon on Potter’s groin, nestling it in his pubic hair at the base of his cock. His fingers linger there. Potter shifts uneasily and Draco says, “You brought it to my attention, and now I can’t look away. I'm going to fuck that beautiful throat, Harry,” he pauses long enough for Potter's given name to sink in, “and if you manage to keep these in place, I'll reward you.”
“Don’t call me—”
“That's enough,” Draco says sharply. Potter swallows and glares at the wall. “We started off on the wrong foot. My fault, of course. When I realised it was your file, I thought of how I used to,” hate you, “watch you in your Quidditch leathers,” Draco says, the lie toppling off his tongue with disconcerting ease. “I thought of how I used to touch myself, thinking of a scenario like this, before I even knew what this was — you and me, locked in the Room of Hidden Things, your pretty arse spread over my lap for a sound spanking…”
“Malfoy—”
“Sir,” Draco corrects softly. He touches his wand to the gold on Potter's nipples and Potter stifles a gasp as they turns freezing against his skin. Another touch begins a slow heating of the coins across Potter’s stomach. Draco glances at Potter's face; his jaw is locked like he's willing the appropriate form of address back. But neither does he say “Malfoy” again, so Draco moves on. “Do you understand?”
“What kind of reward?” Potter asks into the heavy silence.
“We got off on the wrong foot,” Draco says again. “And as the person in charge, I'm taking responsibility. But you haven't helped — and if you question me again, there will be repercussions that would dissatisfy us both. Now, Harry, tell me that you understand.”
This time the silence is prolonged. Potter doesn't even look at him, his gaze roving down his own body and around the spare room. Draco drags his wand down the stones on Potter’s stomach, spelling them burning for a bare second, and a muffled yelp escapes Potter's throat. He twitches his head in a nod.
Draco bends at the waist, brushing the shell of Potter's ear with his lips. “It’s lovely when you surrender.”
Ignoring Potter's full-body shudder and the thrill that spills through his own body, Draco straightens. He clears his throat. “Don't let the coins fall. Hands at your sides. Do not touch your cock, and do not come. Tap the back of my thigh if you can’t continue.”
Another nod, just as subtle but somehow more emphatic, follows Potter's first. Draco lets out a slow breath and, careful not to jostle him, climbs back onto the chaise to straddle Potter's shoulders.
Potter's breath is ragged and hot against Draco’s prick as he drags it over his cheek, and Draco murmurs approvingly something nonsensical about the softness of it, or Potter’s adeptness with shaving charms; some such rot. He can barely hear his own voice over the drum of his heart in his ears, Potter's warm mouth right there for his taking. He holds the base of his prick with two fingers and slaps Potter's lips with it, the glans skidding wetly off the moist, instinctive flick of Potter's tongue.
“Hold still,” he cautions once more. Potter's eyes slide up and, as Draco watches, he slowly, deliberately, opens his mouth. Draco reaches with his free hand to knot his fingers in Potter’s tumble of hair. He leans back and touches the Galleon on Potter’s groin with his wand, then shoves his prick between Potter's waiting lips.
Potter gasps, either from the forceful intrusion or the erratic, buzzing vibration coming from the base of his cock. His half-sitting posture jerks so hard that Draco hears one of the coins topple from his body, thudding against the floor with a heavy, ringing bounce. He moans and Draco almost does too, because Potter's mouth is hot, oh Merlin, and wet.
Draco pumps into it, dragging his prick out to the tip over and over before pressing it down Potter's throat, his cockhead encased so tight he feels lightheaded. But not once does Potter cough or gag, not once does he adjust the slant of his head. He simply relaxes his throat and takes it, every steady fuck of Draco's cock into him — and that makes Draco dizzy, too.
“Suck,” Draco orders, relieved when his voice comes out mostly firm. Potter instantly obeys and the slack grip of his mouth begins to undulate around Draco's swollen cock, cheeks and tongue and jaw moving in tandem to work Draco’s shaft in an appealingly single-minded manner, bereft of any tease. Draco’s knuckles whiten, his handful of Potter’s hair tufting out between them as he rocks forward, keeping in time with the quickening beat of his heart.
A gentle hand touches the crook behind his knee and Draco pauses. But it’s not a tap, and not in the directed spot. It’s a stroke, tentatively given and almost certainly unrealised. Draco glances down to see Potter's eyes rolled up, tears leaking from the outer corners. His gaze searches Draco’s face, his mouth stretched wide around Draco’s shaft. Shaken, Draco realises he hasn’t spoken in awhile.
“Your mouth, fucking hell. Stretched so pretty and wide for me,” he manages, too breathless now to be anything approaching firm. His bollocks are tingling and his thighs shaking. There’s something singularly compelling about Potter’s distinctive eyes — which grow at the praise — trained on him as Draco slides his prick fast and rough down his throat. At how willing he seems, how capable of doing just what Draco most enjoys with barely any instruction. “You’re being so good, sucking my cock so sweet. I always knew you could. Slow down, you’re, ah, you’re going to make me come soon.”
Potter does, softening the hard pulls of his mouth into gentle sips. Draco eases out to the head of his prick and murmurs, “If you like, I’ll Pensieve this so you can watch yourself later. So you can see how beautiful you are like this...” He holds his breath and allows Potter to lick over the slit of his cock with almost lazy swipes of his tongue before saying, as gently as he can, “I want to see your face striped with my come.”
He doesn’t wait for Potter to respond before disengaging. He pulls his hand from Potter’s hair and folds his fingers around his cock, fisting it with fast, utilitarian jerks until he feels the spiral of tension and pleasure in his groin loosen. His come splatters Potter’s cheeks and mouth with pearly streaks. It’s an overwhelming image and he falls forward with it, gripping the top of the lounge with his wand hand to keep himself steady, shoulders coming in. His breath bursts from his lungs in loud pants.
When it’s over, Draco blinks to gather his bearings. The world rights itself on its axis and he looks at Potter again. His chin shines with spit as he gasps in great lungfuls of air; his cheeks are messy with tears and Draco’s spunk. His wariness seems to have tripled, but underneath it is the beginning of a rapture that Draco recognises, something mercilessly reined in. It’s clear he doesn’t know what to expect, now.
Unwillingly, Draco’s respect for him grows. Just a little.
He peels himself up and surveys Potter’s body. One of his nipples is missing Galleon, but they’re both beaded delectably tight. The ones across his stomach have slid just enough for the bright red of their heat to signify their original placement. And his cock…
Draco laughs and slants a look at Potter, whose face shutters at the sound. He shakes his head and absently strokes Potter’s hair off his forehead. “You didn’t come.” Potter’s silent. Draco’s smile sharpens. “You can speak.”
“You told me not to,” he says tersely.
“I know. I’m very pleased.” Draco lifts the Galleons from Potter’s chest and torso, neutralising the charms on them, and places them back in their box. He lifts the one against his cock and takes his time running it along Potter’s shaft — which rests stiff against the angle of his hipbone, the head practically soaked with precome. At the vibration running around the glans, his slit drips another thick bead of moisture. Draco presses the edge of the coin stone against it. Potter’s hips twitch needily, hypnotically, and Draco feels a heavy surge of renewed interest in his cock.
“M—” Potter swallows.
Draco sighs. “What is it?”
“Have you made your point yet?” His voice his delectably hoarse.
“I don’t know, have I?” Draco knows his features are too sharp to be trustworthy but he softens the thin slant of his smile as much as he can. “Which point was I trying to make?” he asks, discarding the coin so he can pinch the fat head of Potter’s prick between his finger and thumb. “That I find you tantalising?” He rasps his fingers over the light burns on Potter’s abdomen.
“That—” Potter sputters, throat working. “You wanted to own me.”
“Yes, I do. But wouldn’t you like to be owned by someone who knows how?” Draco bends to retrieve the Galleon that fell and doesn’t condescend to meet Potter’s eyes. “This fell from you.”
“Malfoy,” Potter says flatly, “you can’t fault my surprise. You can’t just— just simply want—”
“Do not,” Draco says in a hard voice, “tell me what I can and cannot do, in here. You no longer have permission to speak, unless asked a direct question. If you’re asking if I’m done with you, the answer is no.” He holds up the coin. “Do you remember what I said?”
Potter stares at him for a beat. He reluctantly nods.
“I had planned to let you come,” Draco lies, “but now…” He sighs again, pulling a regretful face. He waves his wand in the air for a time check: Potter has been fully hard for seventeen minutes. “I think you’ll need to wait a little longer. Don’t move.”
He approaches again and conjures a damp flannel, sitting on the edge of the seat to clean Potter’s face.
“Not that you don’t look gorgeous like this,” he says softly, wiping a drying bit of spunk near the corner of Potter’s mouth. He keeps his touches light, unobtrusive. “In fact, I think I’ll have you in this position. You make quite the sight, Harry, all splayed out and needy, even if you won’t admit it. I don’t think you know how tempting you are for someone like me.”
Potter yanks his face away. “Why are you saying—”
“I told you not to speak.” Draco narrows his eyes and covers Potter’s mouth with one hand, forcibly holding him in place as he finishes cleaning him. His chest is hot, dissatisfaction saturating his stomach like acid. He removes his hand and swallows. Because nothing else has worked as well as kissing Potter did, he presses another light kiss to Potter’s tense, unresponsive mouth. “And you did so well, before.”
In a more businesslike fashion, he says, “Five more lashes, for that.”
He unravels the flogger from his wand with a flick, this time spelling the tresses sturdier, only slightly more flexible than the tongue of a crop. He trails them lazily over his palm and Potter’s pupils expand as he takes note.
“Do you need a ring to keep from coming?” Draco asks.
“I—” Potter takes a second. A tumult of emotion blazes from his eyes, from the strain of distrust in his vulnerable state. When whatever internal argument he’s having draws to its conclusion, he goes quiet. “Maybe.”
It’s grudging, but it’s an answer — and therefore, progress — so Draco rewards him with another sharp nip to the tendon pulling tight on the side of Potter’s neck. He conjures a loop of leather with a whisper and fits the simple ring around the base of Potter’s prick and balls, tightening it with his wand until Potter exhales and twitches his fingers in a thoughtless, ‘enough’ motion. Draco hums and strokes Potter’s chest.
“You see? All you have to do is make your needs known, Harry,” he says, low in Potter’s ear, “and I’ll take care of you. Won’t I?”
He doesn’t anticipate an answer and is unbothered when he gets none. But Potter’s heartbeat is wild under his hand, kicking sharp like a frightened thestral, and he keeps his eyes lowered. His face is still tight, still sullen, but there’s an… obedience to him, at least, that Draco can appreciate.
He realises he’s been motionless for too long when Potter’s stomach tenses. Draco clears his throat and smiles. He grasps Potter’s jaw, angling his head just so, and lowers another kiss to his mouth, warm and approving. He slides his hand back to cup Potter’s neck and tilt Potter’s head back; as though conditioned, Potter opens his mouth to the touch of Draco’s tongue. A small sound escapes Potter’s throat and when Draco finally releases him, his cheeks are keenly red. He looks embarrassed and turned on. It’s annoyingly fetching. Draco pulls away and stands, restless.
“Do you enjoy being kissed?”
“Who doesn’t?” Potter says after a beat.
Me, Draco thinks resentfully. At least it’s never been among his favourite activities, before. He says, “Some people. But you’re very responsive. You might consider adding it to your favoured list of rewards, in your file.”
Potter has an edge to his voice when he responds. “Perhaps I will. Thanks for the suggestion.”
“You’re welcome,” Draco says smoothly. “Slide off the lounge and drape yourself over it sideways.” Potter hesitates, and Draco studies him. “You have a question?”
“Would you prefer me on my knees on the floor, or my body completely across the lounge?”
Draco blinks, covering his surprise with a laugh. “Completely across, stomach and chest flat, arse at the edge, legs wide. If you do well, I’ll reward you.”
Still Potter doesn’t move, his wavering tension growing until it’s palpable between them, a thing Draco almost suspects he could reach out and grasp like the mad tangles of Potter’s hair. He sighs, his exasperation mounting. He already being much more accommodating than he's been in the past. “What is it now?”
“Are you going to fuck me like that?” Potter asks bluntly. He lifts his eyes, his gaze as candid. A muscle in his jaw jumps.
Draco inhales quietly through his nose. “And if I am? Penetration is listed under your preferred activities.”
“I just want to know how you’re going to do it.”
Draco closes his eyes and reaches for his rapidly dwindling patience. “How unfortunate for you.”
A low sound of discontent breaks free from Potter’s throat, but before Draco can take him to task for it, he swings his opposite leg over so they’re both on the same side of the lounge, then twists fluidly, rolling and lifting his hips to comfortably fit his bobbing prick flat between his body and the wide cushion, all of it almost one motion until he’s on his stomach in the ordered position. It’s so gracefully done, Draco’s treated to the unwelcome memory of Potter’s hand closing around the Snitch they were both reaching for. He whips the tresses of the flogger in the air with a satisfying SNAP. Potter goes rigid.
“I believe I told you to open your legs.”
Potter mutters something under his breath and drops his head forward to dangle it over the side, leaving only the edge of sable hair visible above his nape. He spreads his legs slowly, tremblingly, his balls plump and exposed between them, pressed tight to the cushion. His arse is lightly dusted in dark hair that runs down the backs of his thighs, but he at least has enough experience to have smoothed between his cheeks, whether by razor or charm, and Draco can make out a hint of his dusky pink furl. Potter adjusts to get more comfortable, the muscles of his back bunching and shifting under taut skin.
He could be anyone like this, with his face hidden, any other man with a beautiful body and a penchant for pain. He could be someone who wants to be here, who appreciates Draco’s services.
“Count them,” Draco says tersely. Then, with the force of his whole arm, brings down the falls of the flogger with a strapping thwack! across Potter’s arse.
Potter jolts forward with a hiss. His hands come up from where they’re dangling near his head. He makes an abortive gesture with them to cover his buttocks, then fists them and drops aside his hips. Draco waits.
“One,” Potter says, a shiver to his voice.
Thwack!
This time it’s not a hiss, but a quiet, broken moan. Potter’s hips move in a grind against the sofa, his arse already brilliant with multi-coloured stripes; white and yellow and pink and red, and a faint purpling blue over his upper thighs, from the lashes he took before. He mumbles, “Two,” and Draco wipes the sudden bead of sweat at his brow with his forearm.
“Do you ever wonder what it would have been like,” he asks conversationally, “if we’d met a different way? If we’d met in a club, perhaps?”
“This is a clu—”
Thwack!
“Three,” Potter groans. After the initial jerk forward, his arse inches up. Even through his crash of adrenaline, that rush of rage and lust which have always got tangled up together around Potter, Draco can acknowledge it’s one of the prettiest sights he’s ever beheld. Potter pants a couple of breaths. “No, I don’t wonder that.”
“Mmm. I do, now. I would have taken one look at you and thought,” Draco takes a step closer and lowers his voice for effect, “‘I can take care of that one.’ I would have thought, ‘I can make him love begging me.’ I would have thought, ‘That one wants to be possessed and I want to possess him,’ and I’d not have stopped in my pursuit of you until that happened.”
His words have their desired effect, or close enough to it that Draco’s well-pleased. Potter’s trembling ceases, as though every one of his molecules is trained on the sound of Draco’s voice, on his velvet lies, unplanned but instinctive, and the implicit promise within them.
Draco swallows, his throat suddenly dry. The air between them crackles with a new, uncomfortable tension. The whistle of the flogger through the air again breaks it, to his relief. Potter gasps, “Ah! Four!” at the crack against his smarting backside, his wrists twisting so he can dig his fingers into the material of the chaise, and Draco raises his arm and slashes down again before Potter can prepare himself for the last. He’s ready to move on to the next part.
“Five,” Potter groans. His hips move, greedy little swivels even as the flogger snaps against his balls, the skin of his sac stretched shiny and pink. Draco breathes hard, chest rising and falling uncontrollably as he watches the welts rise on Potter’s flesh, the bloom of fresh marks signifying that he is, indeed, Draco’s for the moment.
“Turn over,” Draco says, when he can speak. He winces at the rawness of his voice, but Potter shudders as though he likes it, so it’s perhaps not in vain.
Slowly, Potter brings up his hands to press them against the lounge and push himself up. He moves stiffly, carefully, but turns to sit on the edge, wary dark eyes gone half-glazed. There’s a wet spot where his cock had pressed, but it still rises heavy before him, the leather coil of the cock ring having done its job. He darts a glance up at Draco’s face before lowering his gaze expectantly.
“The way you were before,” Draco says. Potter rearranges himself, shifting and lowering his back against the chaise. He drops his legs on either side of it, toes grazing the ground. Draco reverts the flogger back into his wand and flicks it, issuing out two gleaming ropes to wind around Potter’s ankles and the bottom feet of the sofa. Draco says, “Hands,” and Potter’s wrists are likewise tied when they fall. Draco gives these ropes a bit more slack; he likes the idea of Potter being able to move just enough for his frustration to climb. Potter’s hands and feet pull, testing the strength of the ropes, before falling slack.
Draco stops. He knows he should say something but his mind is achingly blank at the vision of Potter displayed like this, willingly bound for his pleasure. Potter’s magical prowess is legendary — even Draco’s been witness to it on multiple occasions — and Draco knows he could unleash himself with a flick of his fingers. If he wanted.
“You have bondage under ‘soft limits.’”
Potter licks his lips. “Yes.”
“You didn’t mention that when I tied you the first time.”
“I thought you knew,” Potter says. “I decided not to.”
It’s standard practice, of course, to check before indulging in a sub’s soft limits, which is the only reason Draco says, “And now?”
“Quidditch,” Potter says, a tiny frown caught between his brows. His greenlight word. Draco inhales deeply and approaches. He brushes the damp hair off Potter’s forehead.
“You’re doing so well,” he says. “Letting me make you feel good. Letting me spread you out like this so I can see how much you want it.”
Potter’s silence feels vaguely willful, but he doesn’t pull away as Draco strokes down the side of his face and neck, fingers travelling light over his collarbone before he catches Potter’s left nipple to give it a rough tweak. Potter sucks into his mouth and says nothing.
“I’m going to have you soon,” Draco tells him softly. By now, Potter should be gone, a mess of relaxed, giddy acceptance, but all Draco gets is a slight nod. Still, he says, “I believe I promised you a reward.”
Draco moves to the foot of the sofa. He touches it with his wand and the cushion between Potter’s open thighs drops to perfect kneeling height. He lowers himself and takes Potter’s arse in his hands, sinking his fingers deliberately hard into the muscle of his cheeks and spreading them so wide Potter might have cause for objection. But he simply hisses and falls quiet, his eyes steady on the ceiling. Draco lowers his gaze to inspect Potter, the delicate pale pink of his crack, the darker crinkles of his pucker.
“Mmm.” Draco noses at it gently and gives it a wet nip. “You’re beautiful. How long has it been since you’ve taken a cock?”
“A— A year,” Potter says, sounding as though he’s forcing the words through his teeth. In fact, when Draco glances up, Potter’s teeth are gritted, his lips tight around them. Draco smiles.
“I bet you taste as good as you look,” he says. He blows softly against the glisten of his spit and Potter shivers, so Draco dips his head and licks a slow stripe up his crevice, all the way to his balls. He slips his tongue out over the tender, flogged flesh there before dragging it back to get down to business.
This isn’t a favour he’s often performed here. It’s far too personal, and he learned to hold part of himself away from such intimacies in a formal setting. In the past, he’s preferred his fingers, or a simple loosening charm when he wants to hurry things along. But he’s curious about how Potter will react, so he ruthlessly latches his lips around Potter’s hole, and sucks. The stubborn muscles flex against his mouth, against the insistent press of the firmed tip of his tongue. Potter’s clenches, wriggles, his breath stuttering out and arms and legs yanking against his restraints. Draco works his jaw resolutely until he can push his tongue in and Potter lets out a fractured whine at the intrusion of it. He's still holding himself too tensely, unready for it, and the grip of his arse is not best comfortable around Draco’s tongue but Draco shoves it in as deep as he can go, over and over, saliva sliding wet down toward Potter’s tailbone, slicking over Draco’s chin as he buries his face between Potter’s cheeks.
“P-p-” Potter’s breathy whisper makes him look up.
“What was that?” he asks. His own voice is thick, his own cock as hard as if he hadn’t already had a mind-blowing orgasm several minutes prior. Potter does taste as good as he looks: musky and male and clean. His cock lays flat against his stomach and Draco rubs the mound of his palm against it. It throbs at his touch. “Are you trying to say please?”
But for Potter’s broken wheezing, he's mute.
Draco sighs, squeezes Potter’s cock once, and releases it. He lowers his head to task again, Potter’s arsehole stretching soft and sweet around his tongue this time when Draco pushes inside him. He adds the tips of his thumbs, spreading Potter’s hole with soft twists so he can force his tongue deeper. He pauses at Potter’s quickly cut-off moan, the sound running through him like a lightning strike. A moan ripples from his own throat, his breath coming faster through his nose as he teases Potter’s body into readiness. Potter’s knee jerks against his ribs and he looks up, panting.
Potter’s watching him, eyes alight. But he seems to have withdrawn upon himself, that lush near-acceptance after his lashing having faded at the promise of sheer pleasure. Draco resists the temptation to glower at him.
“What is it?” he asks, pointedly gentle. “You’re being such a lovely thing, aren’t you,” he bites at softness of Potter’s inner thigh. “You may speak.”
“I— I'm ready,” Potter says tightly. “You can, now.”
Surprised, Draco’s fingers go lax on Potter’s buttocks. He examines Potter carefully; he’s wound up in a way far different than he should be. His eyes should be vague now, his words a babble of thoughtless pleas, his body loose and ready. Instead, he’s twitchy and tense, more guarded than before, his fingers knotting his hands into fists despite the telling curl of his toes.
“I can now,” Draco echoes flatly, inexplicably angry again. Potter jerks his head in a nod, and Draco’s voice lowers of its own accord, as if part of him knows that will keep the quiver of fury from it. “Is that what you want? My cock?”
“I just want—” Potter says, eyes seeking his.
Draco draws away, realisation dawning terrible in him: Apparently, no matter how silken the glove around Draco’s fist, Potter will never allow himself to fully submit to his mastery.
Not if Draco gives up nothing in return.
Draco wipes his mouth slowly, holding Potter’s gaze, and hopes the cost of what he's about to do is not written across his face.
“Yes, I think it’s time,” he says. He Summons the lacquered box. He lifts the lid and tips it, round, jewel-like stones spilling loose into his palm this time. He spells them linked by a smooth, slender braid; he coats them in conjured oil. Leaning in, he presses a last, open-mouthed kiss over Potter's pucker, which flutters against his lips before he lifts the stones by the tail of the braid and presses the first one in past Potter’s sphincter.
Potter's thighs tighten, ankles yanking briefly against their bindings. “I—”
“Shh.” Draco massages his rim with one finger before slipping it in to push the stone deeper. “I thought you would enjoy some additional decoration. Call it another reward, for pleasing me so.” He adds another stone and presses it in.
“Privet,” Potter breathes. Draco pauses but doesn’t look up.
“I have no intention of fitting myself in there along with them,” he says. The air between them seethes with unspoken questions, but Potter finally nods. Draco adds another bead.
One by one, Draco watches them slip into Potter, whose rim stretches and closes around them until they're all in — with the exception of a blue stone, which winks brightly against his hole. Draco lengthens the loop of braid at the the end and rises. Potter’s eyes are on him, heavy-lidded and assessing, obviously unable to figure out what Draco’s angle is.
The room feels too bright, still. Draco touches his wand and lowers the lights further to the glow of a candle, without the annoying flickering that usually accompanies. The wand in his hand feels like it might slide out because of the lube on his fingers, so Draco grips it reassuringly tight and takes a breath. He aims and murmurs a charm.
“Malfoy—” Potter’s head moves, startled, from side to side.
“Excuse me?” Draco raises his eyebrows in warning.
Potter’s gaze has gone wide and shocked. He shakes his head fully. His mouth works silently and maybe there’s the word, ‘cupboard’ in what he’s trying to say, but he doesn’t get it out as Draco accesses every not-inconsiderable mental shield at his disposal and straddles Potter’s hips. The nylon of the braid in his grasp is cool as he reaches to take hold of Potter’s cock, to hold it in place. It takes him a second, but then the round head of Potter’s cock is nudging against his hole and Draco lowers himself, gritting his teeth against the burn.
His charm has loosened and wetted him, but it’s been years since he’s bottomed, and the slide of Potter’s cock up his arse is uncomfortable to say the least. Still there’s the undeniable promise of pleasure in that half-remembered shock of sensation against his prostate, when he settles against Potter’s hips. He realises his thighs and hands are trembling. Something in his chest, perhaps, too.
He splays his hand over Potter’s heaving stomach. Quietly, he says, “You may watch me as I take my pleasure from you. You are not allowed to come until I do.”
Potter nods, sudden and emphatic. His gaze burns like the fullness of his prick in Draco, like the riot dancing in Draco’s stomach.
He’s heard of Doms who do this. It’s not even particularly uncommon, especially in bound relationships, but it’s never been something he’s tried — has never wanted to, really. But Potter is relaxing under him, his suspicion vanishing from his face like it was never there, and Draco understands now that somewhere inside he’d known, upon walking in, that he wouldn’t escape this fully unscathed.
Potter’s cock throbs lightly in him and Draco’s arse is so sensitive, he can feel it, that light ripple against his inner muscles. Carefully, he rises a touch, and lowers.
“Have you ever topped?” The strain in his voice is blessedly minimal.
“Yeah.” Potter licks his lips, his face suffused with colour. His hips jerk a little.
“No, don’t move,” Draco says, even though it feels good and the ropes around Potter’s ankles prevent him from doing much. “You don’t like it?”
“I— didn’t know it… could be allowed,” Potter says throatily. He looks strangely stricken, but that glaze of bliss is seeping back into his eyes. Draco wants to see more of it so he Summons something from his box. He sets his wand down and Potter’s cock drags out to the near tip — fucking hell — as he leans forward. He fits small gold clips to Potter’s nipples and tugs on fine webbing of chain between them before settling back. A groan, light but genuine, breaks free from his throat as Potter’s cock sinks deep into him again.
“Whatever I say is allowed, is,” Draco murmurs, panting now with the exertion of doing relatively nothing. “Doesn't it feel good?”
“Yes.”
Draco closes his eyes. In Potter’s voice, there’s the promise of obedience, the cracking of Potter’s walls. He feels so hard, the cockring pressing right up against Draco’s rim, and Draco’s own cock leaks heavily at the prospect of being so close to his goal. If being fucked by Potter is what it takes to fuck him, that’s what he’ll do.
“Ask me for more,” he says. He pulls lightly on the braid of beads in Potter’s arse, and Potter moans.
“More,” Potter manages. “Please.”
“Harry,” Draco says. He opens his eyes to find Potter’s gaze intense on him, but faraway. His cock jerks high, then thumps down onto Potter’s stomach.
He begins a slow and steady rise and fall, his arse clinging to Potter with each upward motion and softening with each downward slide. Soon the soreness fades and the ache transforms into a different sort, localising in his balls as they rub against the rasp of Potter’s pubic hair.
“You feel perfect,” he says, and Potter moans again. Draco steadies himself with a hand on his own thigh, gripping it tight at the sharpening of senses Potter’s voice brings that knocks him off-balance. He’s never had trouble maintaining focus on a sub, but it tunnels now in a way it never has before, Potter’s body and telltale reactions at the centre of it. He thinks he could guess the rate of Potter’s heartbeat if asked, and the temperature of his overheated skin, and he knows, somehow, exactly what to say. “Stay still now. Be a good boy for me.”
Potter gives him a stupified nod. It’s good, so good, that Draco works his hips a little faster.
He flicks the chain between Potter’s nipples and Potter starts but remembers in time not to move. His lips are swollen with arousal, practically begging to be kissed again, but Draco closes his eyes instead and rides him, picking up the pace and ignoring the shocks of electricity that zip through his cock as best he can as it ignores him in return to dribble out thick spurts of precome onto Potter’s skin. He pulls hard on the braid, feeling it give as one of the beads in Potter’s arse slips out.
Potter arches his neck. Whines. A lick of magic startles Draco, coating his skin in a fizzling sort of heat and bleeding into him from where they’re connected. It feels so good Draco looks down to reprimand him, but Potter is gone, mind sinking into the depths of subspace, his magic working on its own. His fingers are relaxed in loose fists, his body heavy and giving beneath Draco’s undulations.
“Tell me,” Draco manages through the almost painful surge of satisfaction tearing through him. He yanks out another bead, harder. “Tell me how good I feel. Thank me for it.”
“You feel so… Thank you,” Potter says with a slur.
The muscles of Potter’s thighs contract as Draco eases down once more, a quick-jerk against his ankle restraints. Draco pets the slender trail of hair on his stomach and, without thinking, says, “Ask me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”
There’s a sense of time falling away, of vertigo. Potter’s tongue darts out over his lips, his voice hoarse on his third attempt at getting words out. His eyes flick down. “Harder, please, harder,” and Draco only barely keeps his seat. Potter’s body is working on animalistic drive now; since his legs are stationary, the nudge of his hips is without force, but he can’t seem to stop it.
Draco groans, the broken quality of Potter’s voice just as erotic as the length of his prick sliding into him, meeting the rhythm of Draco’s shimmies. Draco slams his hips down, only the filthy sounds of the slap of his cock on Potter’s stomach and Potter’s low-pitched whines breaking the hollow silence. The ache Draco’s balls grows too tight and he knows he can’t hold much longer. He leans forward, pinching Potter’s nipple clamps tight between his fingers as he takes Potter’s prick with short, sharp ruts, just deep enough to press against his prostate.
“Tell me,” he says. Potter’s nipples have gone dark, the alligator teeth of the clips biting into them too hard. Draco pinches them harder. “Tell me I own you. Say you’re mine.”
“I...yes,” Potter says mindlessly. He blinks, eyes clearing for a single moment and in it, he says, “Yes,” again, breathy and so honest, the crescendo of Draco’s pleasure breaks. He comes, sitting on Potter’s cock with a fast grind as his own starts to pulse, ropes of spunk hitting Potter’s belly and chest. He fucks himself through it, his mind blotted of all thought as another spurt of magic flows into him, powerful and untempered and dizzying, as though some part of Potter’s brain wants to make him feel as good as humanly possible.
Draco’s out of breath when it’s over, his muscles loose and quivering, and he allows himself a precious few seconds to recover before rising to sit at Potter’s side.
Potter doesn’t move, not even to give him a distrustful glance. His cock rises, wet and gleaming the muted light as he slips out of Draco. He’s still fully hard and the cruellest part of Draco momentarily considers leaving now, bringing in another Dom to finish him off.
“Would you like to come?” he asks instead.
“Unnhh, yes,” Potter says. “Please.”
Draco takes Potter’s prick in hand. The heft of it, it’s stiffness, makes him shudder. He jerks it methodically as he pulls out the rest of Potter’s beads, teasing each of them at his rim. Potter’s cock is darkly flushed, his balls drawn as close to his body as the ring allows.
Draco says, “You’ve done so well,” softly, then mutters the charm to release the ring and Potter’s restraints all at once. “So you may.”
Potter cries out, his prick slipping hard through the tight circle of Draco’s fist as his body flies up. He fucks into Draco’s grip, both hands coming in to hold Draco’s forearm. Draco’s smile feels grim and he wonders fleetingly how Potter would react if he realised he had so many fingers digging into the unforgiving stain of his Mark as he spilled over Draco’s knuckles and hand, over his own thighs and groin. But the thought is elusive and vanishes like spider’s silk, a torrent of unchecked pleasure washing it from his mind at Potter’s release.
Draco wanks him through every greedy surge of Potter’s hips and shivering sigh from his parted lips. When Potter finally goes boneless against the chaise, he lets go, but rubs Potter’s softening cock with a warm, gentle murmur until its pulses cease. Potter twitches now and then from overstimulation, but makes no protestation.
Potter’s eyes are bright and and lust-blown, the pupils swallowing most of the iris, and his gaze rests on Draco’s face. The vague dreaminess of the tiny uptick at the corner of his mouth is unnerving, but not so unnerving as the fact that Draco’s mind has wandered too. Not so unnerving as the fact that he’s supposed to do something, but he can’t remember what. Potter’s cock, sticky-wet and quickly growing flaccid, still rests under his hand; his own come still covers Potter’s stomach and chest. Draco stares at it.
The loosening of Potter’s grip on his arm barrels him into the moment, into his duties of tending to Potter’s needs. He lifts his hand and rubs the thick, slick consistency of Potter’s come between his fingers and thumb, then raises it to his mouth and tastes it. Potter shivers again, lightly this time. His brain barely more than overloaded syntaxes and flooding chemicals, his body practically one large exposed nerve, but there’s a part of him that Draco sees process it — and respond to it.
“Lovely,” Draco says, licking Potter’s spunk off his fingers. And it is: bitter and faintly astringent, earthy and rich. Potter blinks once before his eyes drift shut. Draco forces himself to move.
With immense caution, he removes the clamps from Potter’s nipples one by one. They leave deep indentations, and Draco carefully rubs each of them to increase blood flow again. He clears the area of toys, sanitising the beads and clamps and returning them to his box, then tranfigures the lounge back to its original form; one of Potter’s legs dangles in the depressed centre between his knees and floats up with the cushion at the adjustment, languidly stretching out.
Draco conjures a small towel and cleans the remaining spunk off his hand, moving without thought, reflex taking over. But he pauses in the act of wiping the gleaming stripes from Potter’s stomach, the stamp of his own body claiming Potter’s in a more animal way, which eschews both toys and tools. He purses his lips rather than frowning when they disappear under the light sweep of damp cloth.
He checks Potter’s vitals to find everything normal — pulse slow and steady, magical levels so overfull Draco scans them again to be sure Potter won’t go into shock from them. He sends his supplies back to their table and Summons a blanket from it, which he drapes over Potter, and a small goblet, which he fills with cool water from his wand. His clothes fly into his hand and Draco looks at Potter for a beat before stepping into them.
Rather than the lushly romantic pieces he’s used in the past, Draco spells the third movement of Beethoven's Hammerklavier to play quietly around them, on a loop if necessary. The melancholy of the lingering notes, perversely, enables him to do what he must. He stretches out beside Potter, gathers him close. Potter curls into him like a heat-seeking child and noses along his neck with a deep inhale. His shoulders shake lightly under Draco’s coasting palms and Draco draws the blanket higher; he combs his fingers through Potter’s hair and shushes him, this man who neither of them had thought would ever agree to be his.
But somehow is, tonight.
And then, there’s nothing left to do but wait.
***
“Come in,” Draco says at the light knock on his door. He wearily removes his specs and rests them atop the files of applicants, relieved by the interruption. In his absence, tiny issues have cropped up and he’s hunting them down for a bloody week. It’s near six-thirty and even if his assistant is only here to point out a new one, it feels a good time to grab a cup of tea and perhaps a quick dinner before resuming work.
But those plans shimmer and flit out of reach when Potter walks in.
Draco stays composed. He’d not thought it would be this fast, nor this easy, but he’d rather expected to see him sooner or later. His chair creaks as he leans back, and Potter takes a seat across from his desk. He looks good, his dark hair messy but styled enough to seem intentional for once. The pleat in his black trousers is sharp, as though freshly charmed or possibly newly bought, and his blue button-down is open at the throat. But for all his surprisingly elegant attire and casual appearance, Draco can sense the turbulence of his magic sparking off his skin, lavish and potent.
“I’m fairly certain you’re not on my appointment roster,” Draco says.
“You may run a posh and incredibly exclusive club, Malfoy,” Potter says, “but surely you haven’t forgotten my name. I know you didn’t last month.”
That last is delivered quietly, completely lacking in malice. Draco smiles.
“Indeed. Well. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like an explanation,” Potter says, gaze burning a hole through him.
Draco blinks and gives a soft laugh. “Billing is not that complicated. You’ve already signed a Gringott’s form enabling us to take your membership fee from your vault every month, and—”
“Malfoy.”
“Or were you looking to cancel? Just as simple.” Draco shrugs. “My assistant can furnish you with the necessary paperwork right before I fire her for letting you in. If you’ll excuse me?”
His smile stays firmly in place and he waits for the satisfaction to wash over him, like it had that night upon delivering the final blow. And it had, an exhilarating rush as strong as the first time he’d held his own wand, something overwhelming he'd not even able to shake. The image of Potter’s face had followed him home, and into the shower, and into bed. It wrapped around him when he woke up, and clung to him as he sent an Owl to the club about missing work, and obsessed him as his last-minute Portkey to Bermuda activated.
So his recall should inspire... those feelings again, but all it does is fill him with a hollow sort of smugness, because of course Potter would want to have an uninspiring confrontation over the matter.
“I meant about what happened that night,” Potter says.
Draco shakes his head. “Are you under the impression I didn’t know? That was simply my polite way of telling you not to bother.”
“It’s not a bother.” Potter sits back as well, draping an ankle over his knee. His fingers dance lightly against the leather arm of the visitor’s chair. “I thought we should talk.”
“Are you here to accuse me of not taking care of you? While no one has ever needed the complaint forms we offer, we do have them available if you want to fill one out.” A thought occurs to Draco and his smirk slips away. “Whether about me, or your,” the falter in his voice pisses him off, and he clears his throat, “aftercare specialist.”
“He was fine.” Potter waves a hand, but his gaze has sharpened. “He stayed with me and made sure I ate, then made sure I got home alright.”
“And checked on you?”
“The following day,” Potter says with a watchful gleam in his eyes that Draco doesn’t like. He’d deliberately avoided following up upon his return from holiday and regrets the lack of preparation now.
“Ah. Then I fail to see the problem.”
“I would rather it had been you.”
Draco laughs outright at that. “I know. Why do you think I left?”
Potter is disturbingly unbothered. “Well, see, I've been thinking about that. You liked it, right?”
“Fucking you?” Draco asks after a beat, with the barest, dismissive flick of his fingers. “Of course.” Then, just to twist the knife a bit, he lowers his voice and looks intently at him. “You've got the potential for becoming a beautiful sub.”
Potter licks his lips and breaks their gaze, a blush flaring dark over his cheekbones. But his voice is calm when he says, “No one who uses those rooms believes it’s ‘just fucking.’”
Bastard.
“I quite enjoyed watching you fall apart, I’ll admit,” Draco says. His hands have drawn into fists against his thighs and he relaxes them. “For me. As you said, I do know who you are. It was a worthy scene, for that.”
“Because you got to own me?” Potter asks, a quirk to his mouth, and a sudden torrent of rage rises in Draco.
“Yes,” he says, his words on the verge of a hiss. His mouth twists and his hate for Potter tastes like plumes of burnt ash in a blazing room, like the whiskey sours Draco’d drunk that night a month ago before an ill-advised escape. This time, he doesn’t even try to hide it. That was the point, after all, for Potter to know — even if it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It was supposed to sink into Potter, uncertainty at first followed by fear, then the inescapable, enduring knowledge that he just wasn’t good enough.
But Draco has always been good at adapting.
Potter nods to himself for a moment, eyes wandering idly around Draco’s office. Draco’s got himself back under control by the time they land on the photo of Draco on his mother’s lap, a young boy still in short trousers. It’s the only photo Draco has kept of his life before; in it, they sit on a stone bench from the garden as his mother jostles him up and down on her knees. The dark red slash of her mouth softens with a laugh that Draco can still hear if he thinks about it. Draco, my love, you must not chase the peacocks.
And if he’d known Potter would look at it that way, he would have burned the image to a crisp years ago.
“I read your file,” Potter says, gaze still riveted on the photo.
“My file isn’t even—”
“Available?” Potter glances at him again. “It wasn’t. They were quite insistent until they confirmed that you took my appointment. They seemed to be under the impression you no longer worked with subs in the rooms. They said you hadn’t in years.”
Draco lets go a breath. He’s firing absolutely everyone after this.
“Yes, well.” He rolls his eyes. “You snoop through locked files and waltz into my office unannounced, I don’t know why you’d think I’d be immune to making the same concessions as others, given your fame,” he bites out, “and the amount you’re spending here.”
Insultingly, Potter chuckles. His expressive lips curl with irrepressible humour; his eyes twinkle. “Not exactly what I thought.”
“How funny; I really don’t care what you think,” Draco says flatly. “I do, however, care that you’re disrupting my work.” He shrugs and slips on his specs, glancing at Potter over the rims. Something claws at his chest — the memory of long-faded scars, perhaps. He says, “I’ve made you melt for me and heard you beg. I’ve had you and am done with you. You’re free to make an appointment for a session with the receptionist or spend some time in the public rooms. Hell, go fill out a complaint form. Just get out. I haven’t been this bored since waiting for you to come out of subspace.”
Small lines of tension appear at the corners of Potter’s eyes. They give Draco a much-needed sense of balance.
“You were there with me,” Potter says simply, unerringly locating the soft underbelly of that night, which Draco has successfully managed to disregard until now.
“I was your Dom,” he says through his teeth, jaw aching. “I did as I was supposed to.”
“I read your file,” Potter says again, completely ignoring that, “and I like your limits. You refuse to leave lasting scars and have rematched subs before who changed their preferences, rather than realigning yours. You like sensation and impact play; I do too.”
“This is supposed to matter to me, why?” Draco says, looking down the ridge of his nose at Potter’s earnest face. “I also really enjoy tying men up, and that’s a soft limit for you. I like edging someone over the span of several hours while I take my pleasure in them again and again, and that’s one of your hard limits. I’m also a possessive man who’s grown incredibly disdainful of the idea of sharing, which is why I stopped working in the rooms. So please, keep apprising me of my likes and dislikes.”
Rather than being put off, Potter tilts his head and seems to consider. “I didn’t mind being tied by you. I think I would be bothered if my hands were bound behind my back, but we can renegotiate that later. And I prefer exclusivity as well. Ultimately, it was why I came here — to find someone I might be able to, uh, see on a regular basis,” he says, and Draco narrowly suppresses the urge to gawk, flinching only once before Potter continues, “but I’m okay with negotiating that part later, too. And we could gradually increase the edging on occasion to see if it was something we both could enjoy.” He pauses. “I won’t be blindfolded, though, or in a room with no light.”
“You mean you’d expect me to look at you?” Draco drawls, recovering. “Then I’m afraid this little meeting — however you’d intended it — is over. Why on earth would I need to see you twice?” He shoos Potter away with a smirk and looks back down at his desk, heart thundering deplorably loud.
“I filled in my file more,” Potter says, voice low. Draco keeps his head down but flicks him a glance; Potter’s posture has grown tight, uncertainty writ across his brow. “I added kissing as one of my reward preferences, and— and praise.”
“Because you don’t get enough of it.” It’s unfair, and will hurt him — does, by the look of it — but at this point Draco’s defences are dwindling the way Potter’s had when Draco rode his cock.
The exchange of power between a Dominant and a submissive always, always rests on the shoulders of the latter. That Potter is so openly relinquishing his control now, to Draco, gives him the upper hand — and he must know it. There are not many things in life that Draco has wanted and not been able to obtain and he’s furious that Potter is one of them, and treating himself like a carrot on a stick.
He’s always been an exasperatingly forthright bugger, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.
“Not like that,” Potter says. It comes out a mumble, soft and embarrassed and excited all at once, and does regrettable things to the fit of Draco’s trousers in the crotch. Potter coughs into his fist. “This is my first time back since you left. My appointment’s tonight, actually. In thirty minutes.”
It takes Draco a few moments to respond; really, to get further than Potter’s admission that he hasn’t been with anyone else in the last month. When he speaks, it’s through suddenly dry lips. “Oh?”
“I wanted you to consider—” Here, Potter looks truly awkward for the first time since walking in, like it’s only occurring to him now that they have a history beyond their one night together.
Draco shakes his head, wanting this over. Trust Potter to suck the joy out of every single event in his life. “Is it a sudden Death Eater kink? You’d not be the first. D’you know you held onto the Mark while you came?”
Strangely, Potter’s discomfort vanishes. The dimple in his cheek appears, albeit briefly. He huffs a quiet laugh and scratches his nose. “Stuff it, Malfoy. We’re not kids anymore and I’m an Auror, not an idiot. I know all about you. But you can pull my pigtails more if you like, later. You can do anything you want.” He stands, flashing a crooked grin as he makes his way to the door. “If you want to show up, that is. Maybe read my file this time.”
“I read it last time, you fool,” Draco says scathingly. Someone’s application scroll has somehow got crumpled, clenched tight in his hand. “Did you really think I would go in not knowing everything I possibly could?”
Looking over his shoulder, Potter says, “Did you really think I would apply for membership here without knowing who the owner was?”
His voice is far too level for the way it blares in Draco’s ears as Potter turns and walks out, shutting the door with an apocalyptically quiet click.
***
“How long was I out?”
Potter’s creaky voice jarred Draco from his light doze. He rested in Draco’s arms, heavy and warm, remarkably at ease. To cover the panicked patter of his heart, Draco pulled his wand.
“Forty-two minutes.” He spelled the music off. “Thirsty?”
“Yes. And I need to piss.”
Draco slid the coil of his arms from around Potter and sat up. He passed the water over and Potter gulped it down greedily, shining tracks spilling from the corners of his mouth in his haste as Draco reversed the Disillusionment hiding the small door in the corner.
Wiping his chin with a shaky hand, Potter said, “Can I—?”
Draco’s heart knocked even harder, heavy and strange. “Of course.”
Potter’s muscles didn’t seem to want to cooperate, but after a few tries and Draco’s hand used as a prop to get up, he sluggishly made his way to the loo. Wisely, he left the door cracked open and Draco could see the weariness of his stance as he used the toilet. There was nothing peculiar or even noteworthy about it, Potter having a slash under Draco’s practiced eye — subs often needed to be watched, post sub-space. But this felt different. Intimate, in a way that had Draco’s mind drifting again as it had before he dozed, and he rubbed his sternum to loosen the pressure behind it. He knew better than most what kind of lies endorphins could convince someone of.
Potter washed his hands and dried them with the provided towels, looking marginally more alert when he stepped out. He slowed upon seeing Draco standing.
Draco gestured to the lounge. “Have a seat.”
Potter lowered himself down with a tender little wince. He drew the blanket over his lap as though suddenly afflicted with Adam’s modesty in the Eden of those old Muggle fables. A dull sort of amusement haunting the back of his mind, Draco wondered if that made him God.
“Are you hungry? Shaky?”
“A bit, yeah,” Potter admitted. He looked up at Draco, still obviously confused.
“It's the adrenaline drop,” Draco explained. Potter nodded.
“I know. I just…”
“Yes,” Draco said. This was the part he’d been waiting for, the one he should relish. Would, he was sure, very soon. “I am very good at what I do. Though I must admit, I expected your surrender to be more difficult. You, the beloved hero; me, the least acceptable person in the world to conquer you.”
Potter's mouth opened. Closed. He eyed Draco’s stance, wariness melting over the calm of satisfaction. He was unbalanced, worried, and it was perfect — perfect.
“It should have been,” he said. “You're a right bastard, you know. That wasn't a good scene, all things considered.”
Draco’s throat closed around the chuckle caught there, but his smile came readily enough when he attempted it. He tipped Potter’s head up with one finger under his chin. Potter moved for him with a trembling exhale, head guided easily by Draco's light touch.
“No,” Draco said. “And for the rest of your life, you'll remember how your instincts responded to me, just now. You'll remember how badly you wanted to please me, anyway.”
Barely caught on the tip of his tongue was, We both will.
Potter’s throat worked silently. He said, “Draco—”
Draco tutted. He stepped away and gave a formal half-bow. “We appreciate your patronage, Potter. Welcome to Les Plaisirs de la Chair. Your membership will not be contested.” He swept a hand at the space around them. “Might I suggest you spend some time in our communal rooms down in the dungeons? You'll find more pleasure in private sessions once you watch — and perhaps indulge in — the orgies that frequently take place. It can be very... educational for someone who has so much left to learn. I'm sure the rotating Doms will treat you well.”
“I'd like to talk,” Potter said, gritting his teeth.
“But I wouldn't.” Draco drew on every contemptuous expression learnt at his father’s knee and headed for the door. He could feel Potter’s eyes on him as he opened it and he didn't look back. His words, painstakingly chosen as Potter slept in his arms, were intended to leave the scars Potter didn’t want, and Draco regretted being unable to see the effect of their poisoned tips. He supposed he would have to be satisfied with the knowledge that they were sharp enough to cut the inside of his own throat upon delivery. “You're not that interesting.”
***
It’s five to seven when Draco makes the decision to leave. He can pull a late night tomorrow.
He heads out of his decimated office and pauses at Tori’s desk. She's been a good assistant for six years and he knows she's been learning the ropes down in the dungeon with hopes to be hired full time. He toys again with the idea of firing her, enjoying the fearful look she gives him, but her eyes slide down his body and back to his closed door, and he realises her apprehension is about something entirely different than job security.
“I did some reorganising,” he says smoothly, tightening the precariously loose knot in his tie. Her wide eyes dart to his hand and Draco looks down with some surprise to see the swollen, bloody state of his knuckles. He flexes them, then puts the sting out of his mind. “Have it fixed for me by tomorrow, and we’ll talk about your lapse in professionalism then.”
Tori gives him a mute nod.
“Use the Galleons in petty cash,” Draco says with an icy smile. “I'll be needing a new desk, too. This one… broke. I'm off.”
She nods once more and he's treated to her stifled gasp as he strides away and hears her open his office. It's her own damned fault, really, the mess. If she's managed to rectify it by morning, he’ll consider keeping her.
His strides are loose and fast down the maze of softly-lit hallways that lead to the private rooms. When he enters the the outer den, he's just in time to see Luc — dressed head-to-toe in leather, the over-reaching sod — take the assignment sheet from the clerk. With a flick of his wand, it flies into his hand.
“You won't be needed tonight,” Draco says.
Luc gives a restrained eyeroll. “Again, Draco? Why not sign with him privately and have done with it?”
Draco waves him off, scanning the parchment. Potter has reserved the deluxe suite this time. Draco smooths his decidedly rumpled clothing with his wand and heads in.
Potter sits on his heels in the middle of the sumptuous room, head bowed. His hair gleams dark in the shadows of firelight from the corner hearth. Unlike last time, his body vibrates an underlying restlessness, from the rigid line of his neck to his clenched buttocks.
Unlike last time, his body loosens when Draco speaks.
"If you’re expecting me to take your cock again, you're wildly mistaken. You may speak.”
“I’m not,” Potter says. “I prefer—”
“Yes, I know. As I said, I read your file.” Draco loosens his cuffs and folds them back. “And you, apparently, were aware I owned this place.” Potter remains silent. Draco gazes narrowly at him from the door and says, “You may speak.”
“I didn't expect to see you. Not so soon. Eventually, when I was better prepared.” He hesitates. “I was curious.”
“I will not stand for the insolence of last time,” Draco says once his forearms are bared to the elbows. He circles Potter, who doesn't look up but is already hard, a bead of precome glinting at the tip of his cock. “Tell me you understand.”
“I do.”
“Including,” Draco says pointedly, savouring the forceful nudge he gives Potter’s thigh with his polished wing-tip, “physical resistance, or ill-mannered eye contact. Tell me you understand.”
“I understand,” Potter breathes.
“Then look at me and explain why I should take your appointment.”
Potter’s head comes up slowly. Rather than the fierce disdain Draco half-expects, his gaze is somehow both keen and yielding. He licks his lips.
“I think we're well matched, you and I,” he says. “I think we always have been.”
“Oh? And how's that?”
“I’ve never wanted the responsibility,” Potter says, voice low. He looks like he wants to slide his gaze somewhere else, but obeys the directive and keeps it trained on Draco's face. “And you always have. And I think you've grown up enough to learn how to wield it properly now.”
It's so perceptive it might be insulting if delivered in any other tone. But Potter’s voice remains soft, respectful, and lingers between them with the vague air of enquiry as though asking for confirmation.
“Yes,” Draco says unnecessarily. “When I choose to. What made you seek me out again when I made it so clear I was done with you?”
“I’ve learnt to weigh people's actions against their words,” Potter says. For such a simple statement, there’s too much to unpack. Draco doesn’t want to — not now, at least — so he moves on.
“Disobey me again and I will dismiss you,” he says, hardening his voice. Potter opens his mouth, perhaps to object. He bites his lip instead and drops his eyes, though it looks like it costs him. “You may speak.”
“You didn't order me not to,” Potter says. “Last time. You didn’t say I couldn’t seek you out.”
“Fair enough.” Draco smirks. Onto the next, then. “I don't share.”
“I'm shared enough,” Potter says with a small moue of displeasure. “I don't like it.”
“And I prefer more distance from my job.”
“I have a flat here, and another in Paris if you'd also prefer more... discretion,” Potter says.
It's a tactful way of asking how public Draco is willing to be, and he finds himself surprised. If either of them have anything to lose by way of association, it's not him. Still, he considers.
“Fewer people would feel they had access to you if they knew you belonged to someone else,” he finally says. “And my flat is fine.”
Potter inhales sharply, lips parting a touch. Draco wants to push his cock between them again.
All in due time.
“And if I told you to kiss my Dark Mark?” Draco asks. He displays it, the faded grey coils still soaked deep into his skin and even deeper into his magic.
Neither Potter’s voice nor expression changes. He studies the Mark for a moment and says, mildly, “That's a hard limit.”
Draco exhales quietly. His heart thuds, a lazy, heavy quality to the feel of it. He lifts Potter’s chin with his wand.
“Then I believe we've come to an accord,” he murmurs. Potter’s eyes glow, as crackling hot as the fire leaping in the corner. His gaze slips to the straining material of Draco's trousers; Draco clears his throat.
“I'll want to see you at least three times a week for sessions and at least twice in public, with two unsexualised, private visits each week for the first month to talk before we sign anything,” he says. “We can work out the logistics of schedules tomorrow. Do you have any questions or additions?”
“I’m not looking for a twenty-four-hour Dom,” Potter says, almost sharp enough to earn himself a stripe.
“No,” Draco says. How tiring that would be, and how unsatisfactory to never be treated to Potter’s stubbornness or wit if he actually has the opportunity to enjoy it. He brushes back a lock of hair tumbling wild over Potter's forehead. Touches his scar with one fingertip. “And I'd not like to be one.”
He moves back, pushing away the swirling sense of unreality. He wonders if he still hates Potter and decides that he does. But he lets himself examine the rest of what he feels, now, in a way he’s only done once before, right after the trials and quite drunk off Goblin wine. He palpates all the soft, tender places, probing them curiously like one would a sore tooth — the rivalry, the fascination, the attraction. Hunger thrums hotly through his bloodstream; greed and desire and admiration, as well. They all settle heavy in his cock, which has gone stiff and damp against the fabric of his pants. His hands move to his belt.
“But you’ll be a very good boy for me, won't you, Harry?” Draco slips his belt from its loops, a smooth rasp of leather. “When it's time to be.”
Potter's breath grows ragged as he watches. He shifts at the metallic snick of Draco's belt prong against the buckle as it comes undone. His eyes grow dark and hazy.
“Yes,” he says, seeming to realise the question wasn't rhetorical. “Yes, I’ll be,” his cheeks are pleasantly flushed, “your...good boy.”
Draco has never felt less like frowning, but he gives Potter a gentle one, now. “You know I went easy on you last time.”
Potter's gaze flies to his. He promptly drops it at Draco's lifted brow. “No, I didn't.”
“Are you questioning me?”
“No.” Potter twitches and sits up straighter, his cock spitting out another dribble of precome.
“Good. Because I think you might benefit from some further discipline.” Draco grips the clasp of his belt in his palm, looping the leather once around his fist. “Don't you agree?”
“If you say,” Potter says, the corner of his mouth pulling up with the brief flicker of a smile. He keeps his eyes down.
“Then lay face down on the bed,” Draco tells him. “I think five more.”
Breath bursting out of him, Potter nods. His lips look swollen already, plumped from arousal the way his cock is, and Draco thinks with a dubious sort of elation that he'll kiss them later, if Potter does well. Potter comes up from his kneeling position with the balletic grace of a skilled dueller. He walks to the elaborate bed and drapes his stomach and chest over the foot of the mattress, feet on the floor, arse up for easy access. Draco follows and trails the tail of his belt down Potter’s spine, dipping it into his cleft. Potter wiggles at the sensation, his back rising and falling unevenly, his cheek turned to press against the satin duvet. The tension on his face is different than last time; anticipatory.
“Well, Harry? Should five be enough? Or do you need ten? You may speak.”
Potter wets his lips. “Ten, please,” he says, lashes fluttering. “Sir.”
It’s every long-buried fantasy made flesh, and Draco impetuously decides he can live with a draw between them, as long as he's won this.
He wants a cigarette from the look on Potter’s face, alone. He shudders out an exultant breath and pulls his belt back, firming his grip as he folds it to give it a snap.
“Count them out,” he says. He doesn't think he's ever really smiled before, during a scene.
“Yes, Sir.”
Draco raises his arm.