Work Text:
The problem was that Harry loved to be fucked; to be filled. Held down by strong hands, stretched by a thick cock and repeatedly rammed into any available surface…
Harry was mulling over this fact when something hit the side of his head. Glancing down at his desk revealed the offending item to be a bound file of papers. Glancing back up revealed the likely culprit to be the smirking man he could see sitting at the desk in the adjacent office. Stupid interconnecting door; Harry should close it. But he made no move to do so.
“Wake up, Potter. Fill out these forms.”
“I think that’s your job,” Harry grumbled, nudging the file away from him as he tried to resist the urge to hurl it back where it came from. He should’ve misused his reluctant authority to relocate Malfoy far from his office by now. Preferably to another country.
“Then, do your job. Or has staring blankly at the wall been added to your many important responsibilities?”
Harry hadn’t been staring at anything. Well, not for long. Probably. He grumbled an inarticulate reply, lowered his head over his pretence of work and thought back to the real issue at hand: he didn’t want to be in charge. Not in the bedroom, anyway. Or on the floor, on a couch, over a table… there were so many lovely places where he could be not in control, but it really wasn’t working out for him.
People had a very clear idea about the proper persona of a Saviour. Even though Harry didn’t want to be a Saviour, he’d unfortunately secured that title when he’d killed Voldemort. If Harry had predicted that a reputation caused by saving the world was going to forever convince everyone of his supposedly dominant status and effectively ruin his sex life, he might not have bothered. Except, of course he would’ve. Harry always did what was expected of him. And as a reward, Harry was now twenty-eight years old and thoroughly unsatisfied.
“You’re not fooling anyone, you know,” came the next call through the door to his right.
“I’m not trying to. I’m working.”
“Liar,” muttered Malfoy, but thankfully shut back up.
Harry picked up a quill, dipped it in ink and attempted to write something relevant to his task. Fat chance, really. The subject that so often overwhelmed his thoughts had only been exacerbated by the events of the previous evening.
His latest attempt at honesty had gone especially badly. Harry wasn’t sure why he’d thought it might be different. He’d frequently tried to shift positions of sex more in his favour, but men were either oblivious to his hints or obstinately ignoring them, Harry wasn’t sure which. They wanted to be under their Saviour, surrounded by his strength. Held in Harry’s care or moulded to his will. The few times that Harry had abandoned the concept of hinting and explained what he’d enjoy, the looks of sheer disappointment on his partners’ faces had soon prompted him to just fuck them and be done with it.
Harry was a ruddy people pleaser. That was the real problem.
There were clubs, Harry knew. Places he could visit to find sexually compatible men. But the thought of anonymous sex left him cold. He didn't want to have sex with people he didn't know. Harry was looking for more of a connection, even if it was on a casual basis. What he needed was -
“Potter. An ink blot does not constitute legible writing.”
Looking down, Harry saw a widening splotch of black ink slowly spreading out from where the tip of his quill rested motionless against the paper. Sighing, he put the quill on the desk and gave up pretending to be productive.
Malfoy tilted his head, peering at Harry with slitted eyes. “What’s wrong with you? You’re being even more useless than usual.”
“I’m… tired. Shut up.” He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples with weary fingers as he tried to block out the world. Harry would dearly love it if he could skip today all together. And possibly the rest of the week.
“Didn’t you get much sleep last night? I’ve always thought that Wood might be a roaring tiger in bed.” Malfoy's voice sounded gleeful.
Harry was willing to bet that Malfoy knew how to roar. But that was not a thought for sane people to consider. As he opened his mouth to respond, he inhaled the scent of a familiar cologne. Oh. No…
A chipper greeting came about a second later. “Hey, Harry. Your roaring tiger is here.” He was going to kill Malfoy.
Harry wondered if he could momentarily go back to his childhood and pretend that he didn’t exist. Deciding that plan had a very limited chance of success, he slowly raised his head, grudgingly opening his eyes to regard the man standing in the other doorway that connected to the corridor. Most definitely not a roaring animal of any description. And the last person Harry wanted to speak to.
But a reply would be expected. “Hi, Oliver.”
The smile on Oliver’s face was causing a heavy, sinking feeling to settle in Harry’s stomach. Publicly known as Harry’s latest attempt at a boyfriend, Harry imagined that Oliver had been welcomed through security with open arms. The people must ensure that their Saviour was happily paired off, after all, even after only three weeks. Harry didn’t want a fourth. And he was certain that he’d informed Oliver of that last night.
Oliver was not looking deterred by Harry’s rejection. He was a pleasant bloke, but that was the trouble. Unwilling to sound overly hospitable, Harry waited for Oliver to explain the reason for infiltrating his space.
He didn’t need to wait long. “I have two tickets for the match at the weekend.”
“That’s nice for you,” Harry replied, inwardly cringing at the sarcasm in his reply. He’d been working with Malfoy for too long if he was starting to adopt the bastard’s tone.
The sarcasm didn’t dissuade Oliver. “I thought you’d like to come with me.”
Harry breathed out slowly, aware of their audience and keen to minimise the damage. In his peripheral vision, he could see Malfoy sitting very still, eagerly watching the exchange. He considered again the benefits of closing the connecting door, but that would leave him alone with Oliver. That was unappealing.
He took a deep breath in. “Thanks, but no.”
Oliver’s smile wavered, but held as he walked towards Harry. “We could get out and do something fun. And we’d have a chance to talk after,” he whispered, leaning too close.
As if whispers weren’t going to be overheard by Malfoy. But Harry played along and whispered back, trying to evoke some resolve in his lowered tone, “Oliver. We’ve already talked about this.”
“But we could talk about it more. Work something out.”
It would’ve helped Harry’s resolve if the man didn’t look like a wounded puppy. Bloody hell, they hadn’t been dating for long. And Harry’s skin was beginning to crawl being near him again. Harry remembered echoing fragments from the previous night, words that had been replaying in his mind ever since. What you’re asking for seems wrong, Harry. That’s not what you’re supposed to be. It’s not normal for you to want that kind of thing. It’s so wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. Harry had felt like utter crap; dirty and ashamed of his desires and he could barely look at Oliver afterwards. But Harry hadn’t admitted how much the words had hurt. He’d masked it with indifference towards the relationship instead. And he still wouldn’t tell him, especially not with an audience.
Best to be direct. “No, Oliver. I don’t want to date you anymore. I told you that. I’m sorry.”
“We can make it better. You just need to -”
“No.”
“But we could -”
“No.”
“If you try to be more -”
Was the man deaf? Fuck the useless pretence of whispering, Harry had to stop this conversation before Malfoy had enough taunting fodder to last him for years.
“Oliver! No! I don’t want to.”
“Harry. You’re conf -”
“Potter, we need to go.” Harry jumped a little as the scrape of a chair against floor accompanied Malfoy’s sudden rising from his seat.
Harry swung around towards Malfoy. “What?”
“We’re leaving, Potter. Now.”
A tiny tremor shivered down Harry’s spine at the tone. Malfoy’s expression denied any argument. Or at least, Harry realised that he shouldn’t argue when he had been given an easy way out.
“Yes,” Harry nodded, rising and grabbing his robe from the hook behind him. Malfoy had donned his own, strode into Harry’s office and was waiting expectantly outside in the corridor, having given Oliver a shunt out of the way in the process. Harry had always admired how fast the git could move. “Gotta go.”
Oliver looked a bit panicked by Harry’s imminent departure. “But -”
“Goodbye, Oliver. Do not keep that ticket for me. I won’t be there,” Harry snapped as he reached the exit. Malfoy grabbed his left wrist and tugged him out of the office. The slam as the door swung shut was a satisfying sound.
As they rapidly left the building, all Harry’s attempts to speak to Malfoy or reclaim his wrist were ignored. Not that Harry was putting much effort into it. They were treated to a couple of incredulous looks as Malfoy dragged him through the corridors, but this wasn’t the strangest thing people had witnessed from Malfoy.
Soon standing outside, he panted slightly. Malfoy’s grip felt strong, and Harry liked his wrist exactly where it was.
But nothing can last forever. Malfoy’s fingers relaxed and returned to Malfoy’s side and Harry’s arm dropped down to his. After that odd incident, Harry wasn’t sure what to do. The smirk on Malfoy’s face looked uncharacteristically uncertain as well. Harry wondered if he should thank the man for rescuing him. Probably best not to invite scorn.
As usual, Malfoy already had scorn to offer. “Yet another new romance fizzled out, Potter? Shame. Was Wood not meeting your high sexual standards? I imagine you can be quite a lot of work.”
“Exactly how much do you imagine it?”
Thrown out on impulse, Harry immediately regretted his reply. He needed to learn to think before he opened his mouth.
An interesting tinge of pink bloomed on Malfoy’s cheekbones during the long seconds before he next spoke.
“Are you all right though?”
“What?”
“I don’t know… you’ve seemed, weird this morning. And then that thing with Wood. Weird, again. The man can’t take a hint to shove off.”
“Careful, Malfoy. I might think you give a shit.”
Malfoy did appear almost concerned. “We should go have a drink.”
Random suggestions were one of Malfoy’s specialities, but drinking at half eleven on a Monday morning was possibly pushing it.
“It’s not even noon.”
Malfoy’s assurance was visibly returning as his cheeks regained their customary paleness.
“And? You’ve experienced a traumatic stalking incident by an ex and are in need of the comforting haze of alcohol.”
“It was hardly stalking!” Harry laughed. “And we have work to do. We can’t skive off whenever we want to.”
“Aren’t you the boss?”
That was an excellent point. “Well… yeah. But I have meetings today.” There were always meetings. It was never-ending.
“I cancelled them.”
“What?” Harry spluttered. “When?”
“About three seconds before I rescued you.” Harry could feel his own cheeks heating at the thought that he’d required rescuing. “I’m an excellent Personal Assistant, Potter. I anticipated your needs.”
“But, I need to atte -”
“Do you really want to debate whether it’s legal to use cauldrons as domestic kettles today?” No, he really didn’t. Surely his presence wasn’t required for that. “If the country was naïve enough to insist on pushing someone under the age of thirty into an important government role, then they should expect a bit of youthful skiving from time to time. And don’t you think that Wood will be leaving the building shortly? I’m sure he’d love to continue your chat.” Malfoy gestured to the open door beside them.
Another excellent point. “Right. Let’s go. Where to?”
“Your house.”
Harry liked it when Malfoy smiled. The relaxed curve of that mouth almost distracted him from the proposed destination. Almost. Malfoy had never been to Harry’s home. Harry had been very careful not to invite him.
“Erm, I was thinking maybe a pub…”
“I’m thinking that I can see Wood coming down the corridor.”
“But -”
“Getting closer, Potter.” Harry also liked Malfoy’s sneer. Harry suspected that there might be more than one thing wrong with him.
“Oh, fine. My house.”
Malfoy’s fingers were around Harry’s wrist again. Closing his eyes, feeling steadier, Harry Apparated.
Seconds later, they appeared together in Harry’s lounge. The fingers released Harry’s wrist as Malfoy turned to examine his surroundings.
“Hmm. Could’ve been worse,” was the verdict.
“Well, fuck you too.”
Malfoy’s laugh was even better than his smile. Again, Harry reviewed how screwed up he was.
“This will be my seat,” Malfoy announced as he removed his robe, arranged it neatly over the back of the couch and settled onto the left side in Harry’s favourite spot. “For future visits, you know.”
Harry removed his own robe and threw it at a nearby chair. It landed half on the floor. “That’s very optimistic of you.”
“I’m a very optimistic person.”
The fuck he was. Malfoy was a condescending, overcritical blight on Harry’s life. Harry often had to remind himself that he’d chosen Malfoy to work with, but Harry’s choices were not always wise. As Malfoy liked to remind him. The sneers, the smirks, the typical looking down his perfectly pointed nose at everything Harry did. It was all too appealing sometimes.
“Drink, Potter.”
Oh. Right. Harry moved into his kitchen, hoping he had something to offer that would meet Malfoy’s discerning standards. He had no idea what Malfoy would approve of.
“Whisky,” Malfoy called from the lounge, solving the dilemma. Whisky, Harry could do. He selected a bottle of the required beverage and two glasses and walked back to the lounge. This felt a peculiar way to be spending a Monday, but it was a shit Monday, so Harry wouldn’t protest.
Returning to the lounge presented a debate of where to sit. He eyed up the couch, but that would be a bit near to Malfoy. Maybe the chair, although Harry didn’t usually prefer that. He could…
“Sit on the bloody couch.”
Malfoy was far too presumptuous, ordering Harry around in his own house. So, Harry sat.
Drinks were quickly poured and slowly sipped, and Malfoy seemed content. Until of course, the inevitable questioning began.
“What was the problem in your latest blossoming relationship?” asked Malfoy, direct as always.
Harry would rather quietly imbibe his whisky than deal with an inquisition.
“Does it matter?”
“I’m nosy. I’ve witnessed the aftermath from many of your break ups, and you don’t usually seem that bothered. But you seem bothered today.”
Harry was bothered. Most of Harry’s short relationships had simply fizzled out with stifled disappointment, but Oliver had been extremely vocal about his opinion. Wrong. There was something wrong with Harry. Somehow, Harry had never viewed his desires in that light before.
But he couldn’t tell Malfoy that. Malfoy had a low enough opinion of him.
“It doesn’t matter. Let’s just drink. Not going back to the office today.” He’d had enough. Enough work, enough expectations, enough judgment.
“Okay. I’ll wait ‘til I’ve got you drunk. Then you’ll tell me.”
What was the point? Harry knew he was a talkative drunk; he’d spill it all with sufficient libation. His choices seemed clear: he could sit here and drink with Malfoy until he told him; he could chuck Malfoy out and wallow alone in either alcohol or sobriety; he could go back to work where Malfoy would follow him for more badgering; or Harry could just tell the truth and let Malfoy deride him for his perverted wrongness. Inevitability loomed, and Harry suddenly didn’t want to fight it.
Clenching the glass on his lap with both hands, Harry steeled himself and spoke. “The same problem I’ve had with all my relationships. Since… then.”
Harry was grateful that Malfoy was one of the few people who understood when ‘then’ was, without any explanation. The instant of Voldemort’s demise had been as notable an event for Malfoy as it was for Harry.
Malfoy looked intrigued between sips. “And what’s been wrong since then?”
Harry sighed. He was doing a lot of that today. “I dunno… attitudes, the way people expect me to be. What they expect me to do. What they think I should want.”
“And what’s that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Harry denied, losing his nerve.
“Clearly, it does,” tutted Malfoy as he set his glass in front of him on Harry’s coffee table. “Or you’d be off with Wood to a Quidditch match at the weekend as the happy couple. I know you like him, so something else is wrong.”
Wrong. Yes, definitely. Harry couldn’t shake the word out of his head.
“I do like him. He’s fun. But… we’re not,” Harry’s voice reduced to a mumble as he continued, “compatible.”
“Why? Is his schlong the size of a nut?”
“No,” Harry chuckled. “He has a very nice sized schlong.”
“Thank god for that. I was worried that a boyhood fantasy was about to be ruined. Am I going to have to drag this out of you? I’ve got plenty of time. The boss has given me the day off as a reward for my noble actions.”
Harry couldn’t look directly at Malfoy’s expectant smile. Inspecting the glass in his grasp was safer. “I… it’s… I…” He trailed off into silence. Sighed. Sighed, again.
“Still waiting, Potter.”
“I don’t like to be…” Back into silence.
“I’ll need an end to that sentence.”
“…on top,” Harry muttered. Feeling his cheeks heat again, he risked a glance at Malfoy to view the damage so far.
Malfoy was looking at him with a discouragingly blank expression.
“Then don’t be on top.” Trust Malfoy to come out with an oversimplified suggestion.
“It’s not that easy.”
“For fuck’s sake. Of course, it is.”
Harry fidgeted with his glass. “No-one wants me to be… they think it’s…” wrong, his mind supplied. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Malfoy chuckled. It didn’t help Harry’s esteem. “You’re kidding, right? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You’re obviously a bottom.”
“I’m glad you think my life is ridiculous.” It stung more because it was true.
It was Malfoy’s turn to sigh.
“So, let me see if I understand this correctly… you’re a bottom who can’t find a top? Are you telling me that the world is populated with stupid people who have such an inflated and inaccurate impression of your notoriety and power and general godliness that they can’t envision you taking a good, hard fucking?”
Yup, that was pretty much it. All Harry could manage was a nod. He focussed his gaze back to his glass. Beside him, Malfoy lapsed into silence. Harry’s lungs felt constricted as he waited to see what Malfoy would do. What he would say to stamp Harry’s self-worth into the ground. It might never recover.
The silence continued, unfortunately allowing Harry too much time to replay Malfoy’s last words… taking a good, hard fucking. Harry’s cock made use of the lengthy interim to slowly thicken within the confines of his trousers. This is why Harry needed to relocate Malfoy to another country, not invite him home. It wasn’t the first time that his penis had experienced an inappropriate reaction to the words that spouted from Malfoy’s mouth. Humiliation and arousal were steadily combining to become perfectly complimentary for Harry, but that was a nightmare within the context of this terrible conversation. He wanted to crawl into a corner and hide. He wanted to cry. He wanted to wank himself raw while Malfoy berated his pathetic existence. Harry had admitted his frustration to the worse possible audience and given Malfoy ammunition to make his life a living hell. He expected the contempt to begin shortly. And the twisted side of him actually wanted it.
“And you never thought to ask me, Potter?”
The shock of the question raised Harry’s gaze. Malfoy seemed to be examining every part of him with interest, eyes shifting over Harry’s body from head to toe.
Of course, Harry had thought it. Malfoy was the only man who didn’t care that Harry was in charge. Didn’t care about his power or his fame. Didn’t have a high opinion of him at all. An astute part of his mind had often flagged that up as a potentially attractive fact, but he’d ignored it. Wanting a decent sex life was one thing; Malfoy was another. It wasn’t an obvious solution. It was not.
“That’s… not a solution,” Harry blurted out, wondering if he could discreetly manoeuvre a cushion over his crotch. But Malfoy wasn’t blind; there was no possibility that he hadn’t already noticed the tenting of Harry’s trousers during his examination.
“It could be.”
Harry desperately needed to regain some level of equilibrium. “Going to take pity on me, Malfoy?”
“I don’t do anything out of pity.”
“You’ve never been interested in me like that before. You’re just taking the piss,” Harry scoffed, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
“I most certainly have been interested. You decorate the office very well. I’m merely subtle about my appreciations,” preened Malfoy. “Your ego doesn’t need any help from me. Or, I hadn’t thought so.”
That was too absurd for Harry to believe, but his cock gave an enthusiastic jerk. “No, you haven’t.”
“I could offer you Pensieve memories of all my covert ogling. But I think that might be a bit creepy.”
Considering the ridiculousness of both his life and this conversation, Harry decided to take Malfoy’s word for it.
But it still wasn’t as simple as that. “Fine. But… and… how? How am I obviously a bottom, if no-one else thinks so?”
“I’m not sure,” Malfoy shrugged. “I’ve always thought that you were. Are. Or maybe I’ve just always imagined you like that.”
There was Malfoy imagining him again. Harry wondered how often that happened.
Well, Harry’s day, his life, had gone to shit. He may as well be reckless. “How’ve you imagined me?”
Malfoy sneered. “Under me. On your knees. Over my lap. Many ways. A malleable little sub, longing to be used.”
Harry’s cock attempted to batter out through his zip.
Oh, fuck. It was such an accurate description that Harry couldn’t think of a reply. That was exactly what he wanted. What he’d enjoyed, before then. Before people had decided he should always be in control. He hadn’t had much time to explore it properly, but enough to understand that it felt right. But Oliver had said wrong, and Harry was having extreme difficulty getting past it.
“Am I right?” Malfoy asked. “Do you want more than simple bottoming?”
Harry speculated what his admittance might gain him. He wanted to find out.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“How much more?”
“I don’t know.”
Malfoy reached out, his hand tantalisingly close to Harry’s groin as he plucked the glass from Harry’s hold and set it on the table. Harry hadn't been drinking from it, anyway.
“Yes, you do. Or you at least suspect.” Malfoy turned slightly towards Harry, very deliberately resting his knee against Harry’s thigh. “Do you want to give up control to someone else? To submit?”
That was the crux of it. “Yes.”
“Degradation?” The casualness with which Malfoy threw out the word caused Harry to inhale a gasp. His cock needed out. Now.
“That’s a yes,” Malfoy’s smirk looked oddly supportive.
But all of Harry’s insecurities weren’t going to vanish. “It’s… not right. Oliver said… others haven’t liked -”
“People know how powerful you are. You’re so powerful that it’s fucking absurd. They might not understand how much strength it takes to submit, but I do. I’ve wanted to dominate you because you’re so powerful. If you relinquish control to someone, you’d be giving that person a gift. Bloody idiots, if they don’t see that.”
That was a lot to absorb. Harry searched for a response. Thankfully, Malfoy seemed to have developed a patient side.
Some of Malfoy’s previous words might be cause for alarm. “But… would you want me for some kind of payback for all our history? You said that you’d always imagined me like that.”
“Did you hear what else I said? A gift. I’m not twelve anymore. People grow up.”
Harry’s thoughts short circuited on twelve for a second, but recovered quickly.
“If you want to try with me, I’ll take care of you. No commitment necessary, just to see what you really like.” Malfoy’s hand rested on Harry’s thigh, stroking briefly before it moved away to pick up his glass. “But think about it, there’s no rush. You know where to find me.”
Malfoy settled back against the couch, shifting his leg away from Harry’s as he leisurely sipped his drink. Offer made, Malfoy seemed determined not to push. Harry wanted to agree. He needed this, but it would require a massive leap of faith. There was so much past animosity that could turn it into something awful. But Harry reminded himself that people may be misguided about many aspects of him, but they weren’t wrong about one: Harry was powerful. He didn’t need a wand anymore. Or a voice. There was nothing Malfoy could do to him that Harry couldn’t prevent or stop. And Malfoy knew that.
In a flash of epiphany, Harry understood; that’s why Malfoy had described it as a gift. Because Harry couldn’t be forced. Any amount of submission from him would need to be given completely willingly.
Choosing Malfoy as a sexual partner could be a disaster, but Harry had tried sex with people he liked, it wasn’t working out. Maybe it was time for a different approach. And he’d known for a while that he liked Malfoy at least a little. A teeny bit. His erection was not wilting in the slightest and it seemed a shame to ignore it when everything he wanted might be here.
“I want you to use me,” Harry whispered. Scared to voice it louder, lest the potential be somehow shattered. “Please.”
The response from Malfoy was a nod, followed by the replacing of his glass on the table as he regarded Harry.
“Pick a safe word.”
Harry’s heart stuttered, worried about how far Malfoy might take this. How far Harry might want him to take it.
“Just in case. I’m not planning leather restraints on a first try, but I won’t do this without one. I’ll need to know if you want me to stop." Then Malfoy grinned, which seemed out of place in that serious moment until he added, “I’ve read about that.”
Ah. Slightly reassured that Malfoy might not be much more experienced than him in these things if he was only reading about it, Harry panted with excitement and nerves. But he did have a word, although he’d never used it. Harry recalled it now.
“Spider.”
An eyebrow was raised, either due to curiosity about the reasons behind Harry's choice or the speed with which Harry had provided it, but Malfoy didn’t comment. Instead, Malfoy was peering at him as if he might be having an internal debate. Harry opted to sit in silence and see what would happen.
He wasn’t disappointed when Malfoy spoke with authority. “Stand up. In front of me.”
Rising on shaking legs, Harry realised that the coffee table didn’t leave him enough room. Wordlessly, he willed it to move back a few feet and stood directly in front of where Malfoy was seated, cautious not to get too close without permission.
Malfoy’s smile indicated approval. “Take off your shirt. Give it to me.”
Harry complied, surprised when Malfoy carefully folded the shirt and set it on the couch beside him.
“Do you think someone as worthless as you could be a decent whore for me, Potter?”
Harry nodded.
“I want to hear your answer,” prompted Malfoy.
Harry hadn’t been sure if he should speak. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
An authoritative form of address could be expected or a repetition of Malfoy’s words. Unsure what he should call Malfoy in this situation, Harry took a chance.
“Yes, I can be a good whore for you.”
“We'll see.” That was apparently the correct choice. Harry was relieved. “How hard are you?”
“Really hard,” Harry whispered.
“Show me.”
Nervous, Harry searched Malfoy’s expression for any hint of mocking, but found none. With shaking hands, he unbuckled his belt and undid the fastenings of his trousers, sighing with relief as the pressure eased. Malfoy’s gaze was fixed on Harry’s groin as Harry adjusted his clothing to expose his cock and balls at Malfoy’s eye level.
“Very nice, Potter. Touch your cock. Lightly. You are not allowed to come.”
Harry gingerly held his erection in his right hand, allowing himself only the barest of touch to the shaft. Even that caused him to shudder.
Malfoy smiled.
“Hmm. I want to inspect what else I’m working with. Undress.”
It took an unsteady Harry longer than it should have to remove all his clothes, but Malfoy didn’t seem to be in any rush. Malfoy watched in silence, holding out his hand for each item of clothing, folding them with as much care as he’d bestowed on the shirt and adding to the growing pile beside him.
Only with Harry’s briefs did Malfoy linger, holding that last garment in both hands as he brought the cloth to his face and sniffed.
Harry nearly came. It took immense willpower to hold it back. Never had Harry imagined anyone doing that, and he would never have predicted such a strong reaction.
Malfoy chuckled knowingly as he added the briefs to the pile. Sadistic bastard. Harry loved it.
“On your knees. Eyes down.” Malfoy pointed to the section of carpet between his knees.
Harry obediently lowered himself to the directed spot. He felt exposed and awkward and incredibly aroused. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he rested them on his thighs, palms down, stared at the carpet and waited.
And waited.
He could feel Malfoy watching him as he knelt for an indeterminable period. It could’ve been a minute, could’ve been ten. High on the rush of obedience, finally, Harry lost track of time.
Eventually, Malfoy spoke again. “Look at me.”
Harry complied.
“Do you like being on your knees?”
“Yes, I love being on my knees,” admitted Harry.
“Would you stay there for as long as I wanted?”
“Yes. I’ll stay here for as long as you want me to.” And it was true; Harry couldn’t think of anywhere better to be.
“Then make yourself useful when you’re down there. Unfasten my trousers. Take my cock out.”
Harry’s fingers started to tremble again as he obeyed, the tremors continuing when he had Malfoy’s cock in his hand, feeling gratified that Malfoy was as hard as he was. Task completed, he relinquished the heated flesh and returned his hands to his thighs. Harry wanted to do only as directed and hoped that his restraint would be appreciated.
It seemed to be. “Well done. How deep can you take a cock in your mouth?”
Harry felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment yet again.
He had seemingly paused too long. “Speak, Minister,” Malfoy snapped.
Harry’s cock gave a violent twitch. Only Malfoy could utter his title with that enticing distaste.
“I… fairly deep.”
“Can you swallow a cock?”
“I… yes, I can swallow a cock. It’s been… a while, though.”
“Then you may do that for me. And whenever I permit you to do something, I expect to hear appropriate gratitude. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand. Thank you,” Harry replied softly.
“Suck me. Make it good, Potter. Your usual standards of incompetence will not be tolerated.”
Harry added another, “Thank you,” before he bent forward to direct Malfoy’s penis into his mouth. Other men didn’t even feel comfortable letting Harry do this. Holding the shaft near the base, he took it slowly, giving the slit and crown proper attention before he gradually lowered his head, careful of teeth and eager with tongue. When the tip hit the back of his throat, he forced himself to calm, muscle memory reminding him that he knew how to take it all. Relax, open his throat and swallow. Allow it to happen. And somehow not come all over his lap in the process.
The moans from above him sounded encouraging and with the thrill of pleasing Malfoy, Harry struggled more to hold onto his composure. He was not allowed to come. He would not disappoint Malfoy. He would obey and revel in the freedom from making decisions. Nothing else mattered other than pleasing the man in his mouth, and nothing was more pleasing to Harry.
Down, suck, swallow, up, and change the angle slightly to breathe. It was wonderful. Made more so when Harry felt fingers slide into his hair, grip tight and begin to direct his movements. Harry allowed his neck to go lax, letting Malfoy move him however he wished. The fingers soon gripped even tighter and yanked him straight down until Harry’s face was mashed into pubic hair and he was restrained there with Malfoy’s cock down his throat. But Malfoy didn’t come; he simply held Harry in place.
When Harry was roughly pulled up and off and he could gasp in air, he was belatedly amazed at how calm he’d been; it hadn’t occurred to him that he might be held for too long. He had trusted that Malfoy wouldn’t.
Sitting back on his heels, Harry revelled in the moment.
Malfoy permitted him a little while of basking quiet before he asked, “Did you enjoy pleasing me?”
“Yes, I loved pleasing you,” Harry whispered through his abused throat. “Thank you for letting me.”
“You should be grateful. I don’t allow just any whore to suck my cock. Turn around. Face the table.”
Harry shuffled around clumsily on his knees, his erection bobbing with the movement.
“I’m trying to decide whether to fuck you, Potter,” Malfoy said from behind him. “Whether you’re worth my cock. Do you think you’ve earned the right to be fucked?”
That could be a trick question. Harry answered carefully. “I… don’t have any rights.”
“That’s correct. You have only what I’m willing to give you.” His back to Malfoy, Harry knelt motionless as Malfoy reached around him to move the bottle, glasses and Harry’s other possessions from the table. That seemed fairly promising.
He felt Malfoy settle on the carpet behind him. Near enough to feel body heat, but not touching.
“Lean over the table.”
Harry did as he was directed. As he flattened himself against the cool wood, he congratulated himself on a wise choice of furniture: the ideal height to bend over easily, with a wide square surface upon which to rest his torso and head. He was curling his fingers around the opposite edge when Malfoy next spoke.
“No. Hands behind your back. Clasp your fingers together. Spread your legs. Wider.”
Having achieved the demanded position, Harry once again found himself waiting, his panting breaths loud in the otherwise silent room.
In his own time, Malfoy spoke. “Do you think that whores deserve preparation and lubricant?”
That was definitely a trick question. “It’s… not up to me.”
“Neither it is. Would you let me bugger you dry if I want to?”
“Yes.” Giving up control meant exactly that.
“Hmm, there might be hope for you. Have you been fucked dry before?”
“No.” Harry had experienced rough anal sex, but never completely dry.
“But you’ll let me?”
“Yes.”
“Expand, Potter. Attempt to engage your brain.”
Harry tried express his consent very plainly. “Yes, I’ll let you fuck me dry.”
“Does your pitiful intellect understand how painful that will be?”
“Yes. It’ll hurt a lot.” Harry wasn’t opposed to pain within the right context.
“And yet you’d consent for my enjoyment,” Malfoy said as Harry felt hands part his arse cheeks and fingers dig into his crack. “So considerate. For another time, maybe. If you merit another session. Today, I’ll let you have lubrication, but not preparation. You’ll take my cock, because I’ll make it fit.”
“Thank you.” Harry wasn’t sure whether he was grateful for the lube, or the pain that would still be sure to follow when Malfoy forced his cock into Harry’s unstretched anus, but he knew that his shivering was born of anticipation.
Feeling emboldened and spurred on by the needs of his neglected cock, Harry tried to move events along. “Please. I need you to fuck me.”
“And is what you need any of my concern?”
“No,” Harry exhaled, worried that he might’ve overstepped in his enthusiasm. “I’m not any of your concern.”
“That’s right. Your only purpose is to please me. To give me a body to use. And now you’ll wait a bit longer for your cheek. Disrespectful whore.”
Shit.
“Stay in position,” growled Malfoy as Harry felt him move away.
The creaks and rustles of fabric from behind Harry indicated that Malfoy had settled again on the couch. And the faint slosh of liquid suggested that he’d poured himself a drink.
Harry inwardly berated himself. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. Maybe then he’d be happily impaled at this point, rather than frustrated and abandoned. Speaking or moving without permission would only worsen his situation, so he stayed mute where he was, letting the coffee table take the weight of his upper body and ensuring that his hands were still firmly clasped together. He rested his cheek against the wood, concentrating on easing his panting and not rutting his cock against the underside of the table, all the while aware that Malfoy’s seated position would be providing him with a direct view up Harry's arse.
That thought did not help to calm him.
His knees and thighs were beginning to ache by the time he heard Malfoy again. A soft, unintelligible whisper preceded the distinct sound of a hand moving over a lubricated cock; it was unmistakable.
Harry allowed his hopes to rise. He would be obedient, obliging and humble and in return he would get what he needed.
He did not cheer when he heard Malfoy kneel back into position behind him, did not whoop with joy when the hands again spread his arse cheeks, did not beg when he felt the wet tip of Malfoy’s cock nudging at his entrance.
Harry deserved another Order of Merlin for his patience and restraint. It had been so long.
“I’m going to split you in two with my cock and pound you into this table.”
Harry severely hoped so.
“Thank you,” he gasped as Malfoy began to push inside.
It was delicious. The insistent inward shove stretched him to the perfect edge of painful. Harry was aware that despite his words, Malfoy was being careful not to damage him. At least during that first inward slide. Malfoy shoved in gradually but ceaselessly until Harry felt the tickle of pubic hair against his arse and basked in the glory of being filled.
Malfoy pulled out to the tip before slamming back in; a classic move that Harry expressed his great appreciation for with a moan of delight. After that controlled start, Malfoy abandoned all caution in favour of a rapid pummelling that curled Harry’s toes with its intensity. Malfoy didn’t pause for effect or finesse; he was clearly aiming for sheer force. Exactly what Harry wanted. The pace Malfoy set was brutal. Wood creaked and shuddered as he fucked Harry into the table, just as he’d said he would. And all Harry could do was keep his hands clasped behind him, close his eyes and hang on for dear life.
Harry felt owned. Used. And he needed to come.
He bit his lower lip hard in an effort to curtail his looming orgasm. Couldn’t come. Was not allowed to.
The room was filled with Malfoy’s grunts and growls, and a rising, whining noise that Harry thought was coming from him.
Malfoy had to be well aware of Harry’s struggle when he asked, “Do you deserve to come?”
It seemed disrespectful to say yes, so Harry chose pleading. “Please. Please. I…”
“I don't think so.”
Harry’s whine broke into a needy sob. The centre of his thoughts was becoming a mix of wanting to be fucked forever, wanting to come, and wanting to not disobey. Malfoy’s weight pinned him to the table, fingernails bit into his hips and the relentless cock battered his arse; a combination that made Harry feel safer and more desired than he had in years. This wasn’t wrong. Submission allowed Harry to exist within a position much more to his liking and was so bloody fucking right that Harry couldn’t begin to properly describe it.
Somehow, Harry hung on. He didn’t come, even when Malfoy ground his pelvis into Harry’s arse and came with a long, loud roar that Harry adored. Tiger, fuck, yes.
Malfoy puffed breaths of exertion above Harry for what seemed like long minutes before he moved away. Despite the denial of an orgasm, Harry was surprised at how satisfied he was. Once again, he waited, lids fluttering in contentment as he smiled and breathed deeply in the aftermath.
“Kneel over here, facing me. Keep your hands where they are,” Malfoy shortly ordered. Harry moved to comply, turning his head to see where he was being directed to. “Faster, Potter.”
It wasn’t far; Malfoy was seated again on the couch and was pointing to the same spot between his legs that Harry had knelt in earlier. Gingerly, with aching limbs, Harry shuffled over as quickly as he could and bowed his head. Looking down, he regarded his reddened cock and wondered if he would be happier if he was allowed orgasm today or denied it.
“Thank you so much,” Harry offered to the man seated above him, relishing in the squish of come in his tender arse and wondering when he had last felt so grateful.
“It was entirely my pleasure, Potter. Look at me.” As Harry raised his head, he saw Malfoy gesturing in an upward motion. “Kneel up higher.”
Harry lifted himself, bringing his head almost level with Malfoy’s, shifting his knees further apart for better balance. He watched as Malfoy extended his right hand and curled his fingers loosely around Harry’s erection. The contact could be barely felt, but Harry shuddered with joy that Malfoy had finally touched him there.
“You will not move. You will come from this alone.”
Bowing his head again, mouth hanging open as he panted, Harry had the perfect view of Malfoy’s almost-grip, but he wasn’t sure that it would be enough. He didn’t want to let Malfoy down though.
“It’s all you’re getting. Better make the most of it. I won’t wait for long.”
Harry shuffled a little in frustration. He needed more.
“I’ll be very disappointed if you move again.” The tone in Malfoy’s voice warned of more than mere disappointment.
The position and the subtle control were exciting, he was so close, but Harry yearned for more contact. One stroke would probably send him over the edge. But Malfoy had told him he couldn’t have that. Harry didn’t get to decide. Harry didn’t want to decide.
“You’ve been such a good whore for me, Potter,” Malfoy whispered, and Harry’s whole body involuntarily jerked as he came, spurting out his release onto Malfoy's shirt seconds before Malfoy’s fingers curled into a strong grip around his shaft.
Feeling boneless with relief, gasping, and with only the hand on his cock holding him up, Harry swayed. Malfoy’s other hand moved quickly up to Harry’s shoulder, balancing him. Malfoy eased Harry towards him, relinquishing Harry’s shaft in favour of wrapping him in a secure embrace. Harry let his upper body lean heavily on Malfoy, gulping as he fought back tears.
“It’s okay,” Malfoy whispered. “You did well.” Harry buried his face into Malfoy’s chest. “You really needed that, didn’t you?”
Harry nodded.
Malfoy’s arms hugged him tighter. “Stupid people. And stupid you, for not asking me ages ago. Surely, out of all the people in the world, I could be relied upon to properly disparage you. I’ve put years of effort into it.”
That prompted Harry to regain his voice. “And that’s why I would never have asked you.”
“Why not? I can be fantastically dominant.”
“Yes, you can,” Harry quietly agreed.
“See?” Malfoy chuckled. “Do you want to sit on the couch?”
That would be more comfortable. Harry nodded again.
“Up you come then,” said Malfoy nudging Harry to stand. It was a shaky venture, but Harry was soon mostly stable. And very aware that he was naked while Malfoy was fully dressed.
His discomfort must have shown on his face.
“Clothes?” Malfoy asked, gesturing to the neat pile of Harry’s garments.
Harry reached for his trousers, but Malfoy paused him with a light touch to his wrist.
“Perhaps a cleaning charm first,” Malfoy suggested. “For both of us,” he added, examining the mess on his shirt.
Harry was surprised that he wasn’t in trouble for dirtying Malfoy’s immaculate clothes. Uncertain how to behave now that they seemed to be reclaiming their usual roles, he aimed for light humour. “What are you, my keeper?” Harry laughed softly, but he allowed Malfoy to cast.
Malfoy watched as Harry put on his trousers, then waved him down beside him on the couch. Harry liked the weight of Malfoy’s arm around his shoulders as he was tugged close. He felt calm and protected, so he nuzzled into Malfoy’s chest again, slowly relaxing against the warmth and imagining that he could still smell his come on the cleaned shirt.
“One day, if you like,” Malfoy said, turning Harry’s quip into something more serious. “But I think that might be more than you need just now. And I haven’t done that. I'm not sure how to go about it, to be honest. Could be an interesting experiment though.”
Malfoy being honest. The world had tilted.
“Yeah, maybe,” Harry answered. “Like you said, one day I might be looking for… someone like that. But you’d never put up with me for that long, Malfoy. I annoy you too much.”
“Oh, yes. I regard you very, very poorly, Potter. That’s why I’m cuddling you on your couch. Blatant contempt, really.”
“Piss off,” Harry chortled.
“No, I think I’ll rest here for a while. You can show me where your bedroom is later. I’m sure I can think of something fun to do in there.”
The thought of a bed extracted a yawn from Harry. “Like sleep. I’m knackered.”
“Me too. You can certainly take a hefty pounding. I might’ve got a bit carried away and worn myself out. I blame your tight arse and compliant nature. Can we have tomorrow off as well? I’ll make it worth your while.”
Harry thought it wasn’t the worst plan. He should do what he wanted for a change. But he couldn’t.
“I can’t,” he sighed. “Too much work to do.”
Malfoy’s arm tightened briefly around Harry. “I don’t think you like your job very much.”
Harry didn’t deny it, hiding further into Malfoy's shirt instead. Malfoy was there every day after all, and he saw everything. “That’s beside the point,” he mumbled into the fabric.
“I think it’s a very important point. If you don’t want to run the world, then don’t.”
Another of Malfoy’s oversimplified solutions. “It’s hardly the world.” Just Britain, and that was bad enough.
“Do you want to run it?” Harry didn’t answer. “Fine, don’t admit it. But if you don’t want the position, quit.”
Put that simply, it was tempting. But there wasn’t just Harry to worry about. There was obligation, expectation. And Malfoy’s employment. Harry doubted that the next Minister for Magic would choose him as willingly as Harry had.
“Mine isn’t the only position to consider anymore.”
Malfoy went silent for a long moment before realisation appeared to dawn.
“You don’t mean me?” Embarrassed by his sentimental concern, Harry stayed silent. “Bloody hell, you do. Don’t worry about me, Potter. I don’t need to work. I’m only there at all because I like the decoration within your office. And I thought at least someone should have your back.” Harry raised his head in shock. That couldn’t be true; it was preposterous. Malfoy continued regardless of Harry’s gaping mouth. “So, where are we on taking tomorrow off?”
“Well…” Harry tried to nudge his thoughts back on track as he lowered his cheek to the warmth again. “Maybe. I am in charge.” There had to be some advantages to that.
He wasn’t looking at Malfoy, but Harry could hear the smirk. “Only sometimes, Potter.”
Harry had important things to think about. But that would do for now.