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"You taste," Malfoy said, distractedly, "like burnt toast."
Oh. That shouldn't have made Harry harder, except that it did, because hearing Malfoy describe what Harry tasted like was disturbingly hot. Maybe more hot than disturbing. Maybe even all of the hot and none of the disturbing.
Malfoy's mouth brushed his. "Ash," said Malfoy. "Butter."
Harry swallowed. "Sorry. I -- Hermione was on about the house elves again, and she convinced some of them to go on strike, so breakfast was a little -- "
"I know." Malfoy's lips were parting again, unbearably slow, against Harry's own. "I know."
And they were kissing again.
Malfoy's hands did a smooth sliding thing up and down Harry's arms, and when he reached Harry's shoulders, he simply pushed Harry's robes off. Harry didn't even notice if they hit the floor; he only knew that there was less fabric between Malfoy's fingers and his skin, more warmth and more pressure when Malfoy's hands tightened. They hadn't gone this far the last time, when they'd only shared a few furtive kisses with Filch stomping down the hallway, and Malfoy had been testy and panicked and had left in a rush, with Harry abandoned to the night and to his own devices.
Now, however... Now they had all the time in the world, in this abandoned Charms classroom on a Sunday afternoon. They were both skipping lunch. Ron and Hermione were in Diagon Alley, pretending not to be on a date, and Malfoy's minions were conveniently dispatched on various errands. There was still a faint trace of anxiety in the air, but anxiety was easy to forget with Malfoy's lush, hungry kisses drawing Harry's breath out of him, leaving him giddy and drugged and aroused.
Harry had heard, one evening on the TV in the Dursley living room, that there was such a thing as collective psychosis. When apparently whole groups of people claimed to have seen UFOs, or floating archangels, or little green men with strange sexual proclivities. (Harry'd always wondered about the leprechauns at the Quidditch World Cup, and about how they'd flirted with the banshees.)
Anyway, the point was that sometimes people went crazy together, and obviously Malfoy and Harry were in a similar state of mutually assured insanity, because Harry couldn't get his hands off of Malfoy and Malfoy kept making these quiet, startled sounds, and every time he made one of those sounds it was like a starburst inside Harry's brain, or possibly inside Harry's groin, although it was difficult to tell, since Harry's brain seemed to have taken up residence in Harry's gonads.
God, even the run-on sentences in Harry's head were breathless, as if the kisses weren't breathless enough.
"Wait," Harry gasped, "wait -- " And then he wanted to kick himself, because what the hell was he saying? He was getting snogged -- was possibly even going to get laid -- and he wanted to wait?
But then Harry's hands were working Malfoy's shirt over his head, and it appeared that Malfoy's robes had ended up on the ground already, although Harry couldn't remember that happening. He must've been too focused on Malfoy's mouth. Harry took a moment to appreciate, with a sort of dizzy disbelief, Malfoy's flawlessly pale and too-scrawny chest -- and maybe Harry's brain, from its operational centre in Harry's balls, had had a good idea with the waiting thing.
Although waiting any longer would be a bad idea. A very bad idea.
Malfoy stumbled as he threw the shirt back over his shoulder. Harry only spared a minute for yanking his own shirt off, the static making his hair stand on end, before pouncing on Malfoy again.
"Wha...! But Potter -- "
Not good. Malfoy had recovered verbal coherency. Harry would have to get him non-verbal again, so that Malfoy could make more of those soft, animal sounds.
"Pott -- "
"Quiet," said Harry, and also, "wet," which would've been a non-sequitur if Malfoy's mouth actually wasn't the wettest thing Harry had ever felt. Wetter even than the Great Lake, wetter than the Prefect's Bath, and hotter, and wetter, and Harry just wanted to climb into Malfoy's mouth and stay there, get a full-body soak in it like he would in the Prefect's Bath, except that Malfoy's mouth wasn't as bubbly or multi-coloured as the Prefect's Bath, but it was better, because mouths were better than baths, mouths were better than anything, because they had tongues and teeth and tastes, and Malfoy was -- Malfoy was --
Malfoy was unbuckling Harry's belt.
Harry's internal monologue stopped. Very abruptly.
And then, when Malfoy's touch grazed his stomach, started up again.
There appeared to be sparks going off behind Harry's eyes, even though they were open, and as a result Malfoy's face was momentarily this flushed, panting, sparkly thing, with stars dancing around it. Harry blinked. Somehow, his glasses were missing. He couldn't be bothered looking for them. They didn't matter, actually, because even if Harry was to remain short-sighted for the rest of his life, his myopia wouldn't stop him from seeing Malfoy's face so close to his, Malfoy's throat gulping and the small muscles moving in Malfoy's shoulder when he pulled Harry's belt out with a slither like Parseltongue, and dropped the belt onto the floor.
"Let me," Malfoy said, and his voice was hoarse. "Let me."
And really, Harry wouldn't be needing his glasses in the future, anyway. Because Harry was going to go blind with lust.
"God," said Harry, when he'd meant to say Malfoy. Although God and Malfoy were obviously the same being, miraculously disposed to granting Harry's wishes, and Harry didn't care who he was praying to, anymore. "Please."
"Yeah." Malfoy didn't sound so posh right now, or so stuck up. He only looked like a randy bloke who really, really needed to get Harry naked, and Harry was liking this more and more. Honesty from a Slytherin was very refreshing. Very refreshing, indeed. Even if buttons and zips were hideous things designed to torment teenagers, and Malfoy's usually graceful fingers were fumbling an awful lot.
"I'm not doing anything," Harry said, inanely, because his hands were clamped on Malfoy's waist and he couldn't get them to move. It was difficult enough just keeping himself together, just keeping himself from sublimating or spontaneously combusting or turning into so much sex-scented Potter-smoke. Harry couldn't possibly reciprocate. He'd never gone beyond kissing before, and it felt like he'd fall off the edge of a cliff if he let go of Malfoy even for a second, if he even dared to move his hands.
"S'all right." Malfoy was looking down at Harry's crotch with an expression of almost fanatical concentration on his face. His blond hair swung as he lowered his head, and the soft fringe of it brushed Harry's nose. "Don't move."
"Can't," Harry croaked, but apparently he was wrong, because the second Malfoy had his jeans undone Harry's hips bucked, mindlessly, and the jeans slipped off his legs.
"Oh." A small noise of amazement, too close to an actual word to be one of Malfoy's sexclamations, but very hot anyhow. Malfoy was staring at Harry's underwear, at the erection straining against it, and he seemed momentarily overwhelmed. Wow. It was flattering, except Harry knew he wasn't that big. It had been made painfully clear to him over the last few years of communal showering that both Ron Weasley and Seamus Finnigan were bigger than he was, although not by much, and that it wasn't Neville Longbottom's bottom that was long. Malfoy's reaction was pleasant, but odd. Unless...
Maybe Malfoy hadn't gone beyond kissing, either. The thought was vaguely comforting. Comforting because Harry might not be the only one new to this feeling of sheer lust-addled terror, and also because Harry wouldn't have to hunt down the blokes who'd shagged Malfoy and castrate them, one by one. He'd just been saved from Azkaban. Heavens be praised.
"Potter," Malfoy murmured, and he sounded hushed all of a sudden, like he was sharing a secret. So naturally Harry had to lean closer, until his lips were against Malfoy's ear, and Malfoy shuddered. "You," Malfoy said, then paused, his fingers reaching out to touch Harry's erection. "You're so hard."
That did it. Something in Harry's head exploded -- and suddenly he didn't have any trouble moving at all, swiftly shifting his hands to Malfoy's unfortunately still-clad hips, and shoving Malfoy down onto the ground.
It was fortunate that Malfoy landed on their discarded robes. A concussed Malfoy would've spoiled the proceedings.
Malfoy glared up at him, shocked, hair tousled and eyes indignant. He got up on his elbows. "Ow, Potter. What -- "
"Shut up," Harry said, and fell on top of him. "Shut up." Malfoy was too good at this talking thing. He was even better at not-talking, though, if his stifled sighs and his wet kisses were anything to go by. Because they were kissing yet again, and god, this was even better than kissing standing up, because now they were horizontal. Gravity assured that every part of Harry's was pressing into every part of Malfoy's, and Harry's hips were starting to thrust, slightly, in a way that made Malfoy groan.
Clearly, gravity was man's best friend. Harry didn't understand why Dudley complained about his Physics homework.
Harry's mouth was open, and Malfoy's mouth was open, and they were open against each other, mashed open and clumsy and messy and hot.
There were more sex sounds, more Malfoy sounds. Harry wanted to hear them all. He wanted to collect them like birds in a cage and lock them up inside his head, safe and close, so that he could remember them later and have embarrassing and inappropriate erections during Potions, when Malfoy would be doing something disgusting with his pretty fingers, like dissecting frog's eyes, instead of what Malfoy was doing with those fingers now, which was -- oh --
"S-stop," Harry stuttered, partly because Malfoy's grip on his arse was destroying Harry's ability to hold back sex sounds of his own, but mostly because he was afraid that he would just abruptly come. "Stop."
"No." Malfoy, the bastard, managed to smirk even now, even though he was shaking a little and it was obvious that it wasn't because he was cold. "No way, Potter. Now you shut up."
Harry snarled, and thrust, and Malfoy bit Harry's jaw.
Bit. His. Jaw.
Harry was coming. He was going to come. He was going to come in his underwear, like an ickle thirteen-year-old child, and he was never going to forgive himself for this.
"Stop," he was begging, "oh, god, stop," but amazingly Harry's hadn't come, Harry didn't come, even though his erection spit pre-come and his balls tightened painfully. Harry raised himself on trembling arms, lifting his body off of Malfoy's. He let his head hang. His forehead, fever-warm, rested against the other boy's. Their desperate breaths mingled between them.
"Fuck," Malfoy was saying stupidly, "fuck," like that wasn't exactly what they'd been doing. Well. 'Frotting' might have been more accurate. Or maybe 'uncontrolled humping'.
It was imperative that Harry get his underwear off. And Malfoy's. Or this might end too soon, for the both of them, with neither of them actually getting to feel the other's -- c-cock. Say it, Harry, he scolded himself, sternly. If you're going to touch it, you can say it. Cock. Prick. Dick. Popsicle.
"Potter." Malfoy had evidently collected himself enough to direct a questioning glance at Harry. "You're grinning."
"Really?" Harry couldn't feel his face. Actually, he couldn't feel much of anything at all, right now, except for his -- cock. His very determined cock. Which was hovering in its cloth prison mere inches above Malfoy's own erection, and Malfoy was still wearing trousers, how much of a crime was that? "Am I still grinning?"
"No." Malfoy looked as though he was starting to doubt Harry's sanity. "Not anymore."
"Good." Because tasteful smiling was okay, sex-wise. Maniacal grinning? Not so much. "Get your trousers off."
Unaccountably, Malfoy blushed. What, he was blushing now? "Haven't got anything on underneath," he muttered, and Harry's ears went up in smoke. At least, they were burning so fiercely that they might as well have gone up in smoke.
"Malfoy." Harry wasn't too fond of the way his voice was quavering, but he had to get this out. "Do you mean to say. That all day. At class. You're naked? Under your trousers?"
"I'm hardly naked if I'm wearing my trousers, am I?" Malfoy snapped. "And it's supposed to be... healthy. To let it breathe."
"It?" Harry could feel his face again. And also his palms, where they were sweating against their fallen robes. Thank god. His sensory input wasn't limited to his dick anymore, which meant that he'd staved off orgasm. For now.
"It." Malfoy raised his chin defiantly, which didn't make much of an impression since he was currently pinned underneath Harry. "My equipment."
Maybe going commando was some kind of Pureblood custom. Did Ron go commando? Wait, Harry didn't want to know.
"Okay," Harry said slowly, processing. Trying not to think about Malfoy rubbing himself off against unsuspecting desks, or Potions workbenches, or anything else. The weave and shift of worn fabric against Malfoy's cock... Fuck. "Take them off."
Malfoy closed his eyes. He was red-faced, possibly terrified, and also obviously turned on. "Don't stare."
Harry watched Malfoy's hands creep towards his waistband, and lied right to Malfoy's face. "I won't."
It was almost innocent, the way Malfoy kept his eyes closed while undoing his button and dragging down the zip. He'd unbuckled his belt easily, but he hadn't pulled it out -- it hung open, and the Harry found himself suddenly unable to breathe at the sight of pale, exquisitely wild pubic hair. He wanted to bury his face in it. He wanted to lick it. And lick it again, and again, until it lay flat.
But he also wanted to watch Malfoy finish this torturous strip tease, because god, it was a tease, and it was impossible to believe that Malfoy hadn't done this before. He was playing Harry like a bloody harp. Harry could practically hear his nerves twanging.
There was a rustle as Malfoy arched his hips, not sinuous at all but awkward, awkwardly beautiful, and Malfoy was working his trousers down. He kicked them off and away across the floor.
Harry was staring. He was staring, and he couldn't help it, because he'd seen dicks before, sure, but he hadn't... He hadn't watched...
Malfoy's cock was sturdier than Harry would've thought -- shorter and thicker, almost stubborn, and yeah, maybe it was like Malfoy after all. Harry found himself smiling. And then gasping, the smile vanishing from his face, as Malfoy's hips did a slow writhe.
"You're staring." Malfoy's eyes were still closed, when Harry glanced up to check, but his face was even redder than before. "You're staring, aren't you?"
"Yeah." Harry's voice was... different now. Not shaky, not trembly, just low, really low, and it felt like Harry was talking from somewhere deep inside of himself. Somewhere rough and tangled and tight. "I am."
A slight shiver ran up Malfoy's body. He didn't say anything silly, like You promised not to stare or Stop ogling, Potter. Instead he lay still, lips parted and breath escaping in urgent puffs, his chest rising and falling with increasing frequency. There was pre-come at the tip of his cock, welling up right before Harry's eyes, and those skinny Malfoy hips were starting another writhe. "Oh," said Malfoy, for the second time today, although it was less amazed this time and more... helpless. Almost like a question, and Harry tried to think through the haze in his mind to answer it, to say something, when he realized that what Malfoy wanted wasn't words.
Harry gulped.
And reached down with one hand to push his own underwear off. It was humiliatingly damp, soaked with pre-come and gummy, and it snapped around Harry's ankles when he toed it off. The relief of it, of no longer being held back, made Harry moan -- and Malfoy moaned in response, his eyes fluttering open.
They were dark grey, those eyes, the pupils large and impossibly black.
"I'm going to touch you," Harry said, and Malfoy's hands came up to grasp Harry's shoulders.
"Do it." Malfoy was panting loudly, and when he looked down to see Harry's erection so close to his, he ended up moaning again. "Oh, god. Do it."
Balancing on one arm was tough enough, let alone using the other to touch Malfoy -- but Harry was going to do it anyway because he had to do it, had to know what that stubborn Malfoy cock felt like.
"Going to touch you," Harry said again, and then his right hand was down there, brushing skin and moisture and hardness and heat, and Malfoy made a sharp, loud, broken sound.
"Fuck!" Malfoy's hips jerked upwards, and his hands scrabbled on Harry's shoulders. "Potter!"
"Hush." Harry was watching with a sort of incredulous hunger as his own palm wrapped around Malfoy's cock, tugging gently. "Relax."
It was fucking hypocritical, telling Malfoy to relax, when Harry himself was wound up so tight that his entire body felt like one giant, pulsing knot. He wasn't even going to need Malfoy to touch him, at this rate. Just watching himself touch Malfoy was going to set him off.
Malfoy sobbed -- a stifled, cut-off noise -- and then Malfoy went lax, from elbows to hands to knees, melting beneath Harry and taking a deep breath. His grip on Harry's shoulders eased off, and Harry could feel Malfoy's fingers trembling.
"All right," said Malfoy, voice jagged and quiet and lost. "Don't stop."
Like I could.
Sweat gathered on Harry's skin. He could hear himself breathing, loud and unsteady, echoing Malfoy's hitched inhalations and muffled gasps. Touching Malfoy was both like and unlike touching himself -- a new curve along Harry's palm, a vein where there wasn't one before, a shifting of foreskin and the brush of pubic hair. Malfoy had settled down, no longer rutting blindly but meeting Harry's strokes with gentle, rocking movements that were obviously reigned in, obviously controlled. Malfoy's head was tipped back and his eyes were closed again, his throat bobbing, his ears red.
He's trying not to lose it, Harry thought, and stroked faster. He's trying not to, but he will.
"Potter." Malfoy moved his head so that his lips met Harry's. "More."
"Look at me." Harry began lowering himself, because the arm he was supporting himself on was going to break, and also because he wanted pressure against his own dick, pressure and movement like he was giving to Malfoy, the selfish bastard, who didn't even realize that Harry needed to come. "Damn it, Malfoy, look at me -- "
"Yeah." Malfoy opened his eyes, which were even blacker than before, and slid a hand up Harry's nape. "Potter -- "
Whatever Malfoy was going to say was aborted the moment Harry's chest touched Malfoy's, damp and smooth and hot. Malfoy's hissed curse exploded in a huff of breath against Harry's mouth, and yeah, Malfoy was losing it, just like he was meant to, just like Harry wanted him to, his fingers tangling in Harry's hair.
"Feel that?" Harry whispered, unwrapping his hand from around Malfoy's erection so that his own cock could brush against it, heat against heat. "That's me," he gasped, and bucked. Whatever was left of Harry's mind was spiraling into darkness, taking the last of Harry's restraint with it. Just the feel of it, Malfoy's dick rubbing against his, off-target and imperfect and hard -- "That's me," he said, "and I'm going to come on you, Malfoy, I'm going to come all over you -- "
Later, Harry would remember this and blush, because it sounded insane and weird and like nothing Harry would usually say -- but right now Malfoy seemed to be agreeing with him, his hands slipping down to grab Harry's arse again, pulling Harry forward and thrusting up to meet him. Harry had to be crushing him, his weight supported not by his arms anymore but by Malfoy's body, but Malfoy wasn't complaining, wasn't saying anything at all, instead making a series of desperate sounds that wavered somewhere between cries and groans.
Harry knew that if Malfoy kept making those sounds, Harry would come before Malfoy did -- and Harry couldn't remember why that was bad, except that it was, because Malfoy had to come first, had to. So Harry tilted his head and opened his mouth and kissed Malfoy until Malfoy shut up, until Harry's lips were sore with friction and slick with spit, and the last bit of air burning in Harry's lungs made him ache and thrust and thrust again, fucking Malfoy into the classroom floor.
It was uncoordinated and vicious and nothing like Harry had imagined -- it didn't make sense, it wasn't organised and didn't follow step after step like the neat animated diagrams in Young Wizards and Sex. Instead it was messy and furious and ridiculously wet, Malfoy's palms gathering sweat as they moved from Harry's buttocks to his upper thighs and back again -- wet here against Malfoy's mouth and down there between their cocks, which were leaking and spitting and skidding against each other hard enough for it to almost hurt.
At last Harry tore his lips away from Malfoy's, because he was going to die if he didn't breathe soon.
"Malfoy," he rasped, and felt his balls draw up. No, damn it, not yet -- "Malfoy, you're going to come, aren't you?"
Malfoy didn't answer, just grabbed Harry's arse even harder and arched. His voice seemed to have dried up, and his eyes had gone unfocused and hazy and blind.
Damn him. Looking like that, moving like that, and Harry bet Malfoy thought he was going to win, but Harry wouldn't let him, not like this, not like --
Another thrust. Malfoy's breath filled Harry's ear, moist and unbelievably loud.
Harry broke, feeling his own hips begin that inevitable roll, the one that always preceded Harry's orgasms when he was alone, but this was bigger than anything he'd ever felt before, wider and deeper and almost harrowing, and Harry was going to shake himself apart with the force of it. His mouth was still open against Malfoy's jaw, and he was saying something, demanding something --
"Fuck you, Malfoy, come, come, come -- "
-- and Malfoy was finally replying, saying yes and yes and yes. Malfoy's cock was spurting between them, spilling hot and sudden and swift, and Harry was so relieved that his head dropped down onto Malfoy's shoulder and his eyes fell closed. He could smell Malfoy, heavy and bitter in the air trapped between them, and that was when Harry's own cock jerked, giving up at last, his come surging out of him in deep, wracking pulses that had Harry clawing Malfoy's waist and gasping for breath.
"Malfoy," Harry was saying, "Malfoy," again and again, like the name itself could describe what Harry was feeling, could make sense of it, could contain it and put it back inside Harry, where it belonged.
He rolled off of Malfoy as soon as he could, as soon as he'd stopped coming, and threw his forearm across his mouth. He didn't want to say anything stupid. He wasn't exactly sure what qualified as stupid, in this situation, but he had no doubt that he was going to say it as soon as he let himself speak at all.
Malfoy didn't say anything, either. They lay there, side by side, panting and slowly calming down. Harry's skin was tingling all over, and his blood was throbbing in his temples with a kind of loud, mindless exuberance. In fact, Harry seemed to be filled with exuberance, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, although it was a strangely brittle exuberance, like there was something going on beneath the surface that could make it all fall apart. Harry pressed his arm harder against his mouth. Not speaking. Not.
The left side of Harry's back was incredibly cold, and it took Harry a minute to realize that this was because he'd landed half off the edge of Malfoy's robes. Huh. So apparently Hogwarts-issue robes weren't big enough for two people to lie down on. He'd have to remember that, for next time. If there was a next time. There would have to be a next time, right? Malfoy had made it pretty obvious, over the last few times they'd met up and exchanged kisses, that he wanted this. He hadn't wanted to talk to Harry much, but Harry supposed that this was basically about the sex, and who wanted to talk to one's rival, anyway?
Rival. Right. Even though, Harry's ego pointed out smugly, Malfoy hardly ever beats me at Quidditch.
Was Malfoy's body tingling, too?
Harry risked a glace, sideways, at Malfoy's face. Malfoy wasn't looking back at him. Instead, Malfoy was looking at the ceiling, and his expression was blank and almost stunned. Malfoy raised a hand to brush his damp hair away from his forehead, and then reached down to touch his stomach. It must have felt sticky and gross, because Malfoy grimaced.
Harry lifted his arm off his mouth. He was going to suggest a cleaning charm, but what he ended up saying was: "You came first." In the same tone one would usually use to say, I won.
Malfoy turned to gape at him.
Oh. Crap. Harry had said something stupid. He thought about clamping his arm over his mouth again, but that would look even stupider, so he just looked back at Malfoy, gulped, and hoped against hope that Malfoy would have sex with him again.
Malfoy's lips did an odd twitching thing, like they couldn't decide between twisting into a sneer or lifting into a smile. Harry hadn't seen Malfoy smile too often -- only a few times, across the Great Hall, when Malfoy was joking around with the Slytherins and probably making nefarious plans. Malfoy had never smiled at him.
He still didn't. Malfoy only sat up, slowly, and crossed his arms over his knees. Harry couldn't see his expression now -- he could only see the back of Malfoy's head -- but he did hear Malfoy laugh, once, soft and incredulous. It wasn't like one of Malfoy's usual laughs. It was warmer. Lighter.
Getting laughed at after a shag was probably not a good sign, but Harry had liked the sound of that laugh, had liked it a lot. Maybe saying stupid things wasn't so bad.
"Potter," Malfoy said, and Harry tried not to feel disappointed that Malfoy's voice sounded familiar again, with that edge of malice in it. "You're such a -- "
"Sex god? Adonis? Monstrously endowed centaur?"
Who had taken control of Harry's tongue and why couldn't he just shut up? Obviously, Harry had been possessed by some demon of sexual humiliation, and he'd have to see Trelawney afterwards to get her to exorcise him. If he didn't, he'd just keep making a fool of himself, and Malfoy would never touch him again.
"Idiot," Malfoy said after a while. "You're such an idiot, Potter." He sounded oddly strangled, and Harry sat up as well, because he had to see Malfoy's face, had to know what it looked like right now.
Those thin lips were twitching again, and as soon as Malfoy realized that Harry was looking at him, he covered his mouth. Maybe Malfoy was afraid he'd say something stupid, too. Maybe Harry wasn't alone.
Their shoulders brushed, and Malfoy shivered. His gaze dropped to Harry's lips, and Harry wondered if it was normal to get an erection so soon after sex, just because your sex partner looked at your mouth. Blow jobs, Harry found himself thinking, suddenly. We haven't done that yet.
Yet. Because it would definitely happen soon. Had to.
Malfoy's hand fell away from his mouth, and Harry was sure that Malfoy was going to kiss him, but then Malfoy was glancing away and standing up.
"Wand," he said, and made a vague gesture that Harry couldn't quite follow, because he was busy staring at Malfoy's crotch. "Where's my wand, Potter?"
Right here, Harry thought, because his eyes were at a level with Malfoy's cock, and if he inched forward a little, he'd be able to take it into his mouth. Blow jobs. Yes. Now.
Malfoy must have caught onto Harry's train of thought, because he stumbled back a few steps. And cursed.
"Fuck, Potter, can't you -- " He was blushing again, and beneath the sticky mess on his stomach his cock was starting to stir. "-- control yourself," Malfoy growled, and it wasn't clear whether he was talking to Harry or to himself. "We have to -- we have to go, Potter. We can't just -- stay in a goddamned classroom and shag all day -- "
"Can't we?" Harry was getting up, too, and he was walking towards Malfoy as if drawn towards a lodestone. A sleek, sexy lodestone. "Sounds like a great idea to me."
"We have appearances to maintain." Malfoy was retreating, somewhat unsteadily, his eyes darting between the floor -- still looking for his wand -- and Harry's face. "Minions to rule. Plots to hatch."
"You have minions. I have friends." A few more steps, and he'd have Malfoy cornered. "You have plots. I have. Plans." Plans that involved excessive debauchery and Draco Malfoy's arse.
Harry must've been letting his thoughts show a little too clearly, because Malfoy's eyes widened.
"No," Malfoy said, in a suddenly soothing tone, the tone Hagrid often used on wild Hippogriffs. "No, Potter, you have homework. Remember? We are at school. Where they have things like detentions and rules and codes of conduct. Which do not include frolicking in abandoned classrooms at all hours of the day."
"We've already frolicked in an abandoned classroom," Harry pointed out.
Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked really weird, doing that when he was naked. More hot than weird, though. "Yes, and if we frolick any longer, Filch will find us and string us up by our thumbs. Or hand us over to the Headmaster, which would be worse."
"One more round." Harry turned beseeching. "Just one more round, Malfoy."
"Potter." Malfoy stopped backing away. The look in his eyes, however, was forbidding enough to give Harry pause. "Do you want a lecture on safe sex from Albus Dumbledore?"
"A lecture from..." Dumbledore. Wow. Now that was an erection killer. Sort of like a weed killer, but deadlier. "No."
"Thought so." Malfoy relaxed, and bent to retrieve his wand from the ground. Harry stared, wistfully, at Malfoy's arse. "I knew you'd see sense, Potter. Eventually. Even if you're usually a lunatic -- and, apparently, also a sex fiend."
"We're teenagers." Harry shrugged. "It'd be unnatural if we weren't sex fiends."
Malfoy glowered. He was glowering at Harry's shoulder, though, which indicated that he didn't trust himself to look at Harry's face -- which contained Harry's mouth -- or at the rest of Harry's body, which contained Harry's cock. Harry smirked; Malfoy wasn't as immune to temptation as he liked to pretend.
"Evanesco," Malfoy barked, stabbing his wand in the direction of Harry's stomach, and then he cast a cleaning charm on himself.
He hadn't hexed Harry, however, which counted for something. Perhaps now that they were having sex, they could stop hexing each other. Most of the time. Some of the time. Occasionally.
Harry's skin wasn't tingling anymore, and he was starting to feel cold as his sweat dried. Malfoy was busy climbing into his trousers, and Harry exhaled in disappointment. Time to start looking for his own clothes. He was half-hard, but he was going to ignore it, at least until he got back up to Gryffindor -- then he'd climb into his bed and wank off again, because all of a sudden Harry had actual memories to wank off to, not just fantasies or magazines. Forget bloody homework -- Harry was going to spend every minute of the day masturbating. He thought about Malfoy masturbating, down in the Slytherin dorms, and felt his skin heat up.
Malfoy was fully dressed now. He was making a face at his dusty, wrinkled robes and was casting another cleaning spell on them. "Potter," he said, "Are you -- " Then he saw the look in Harry's eyes. "Never mind," he muttered. "You're obviously a lunatic sex fiend incapable of normal conversation."
Harry snapped out of it. And stepped forward -- one step, two steps, three -- until he was standing in front of Malfoy.
"What?" asked Malfoy, irritably. "Put a shirt on, Potter. And, while you're at it -- "
Malfoy fell silent. Harry wondered why, and then he saw that his hand was wrapped around Malfoy's wrist. When had that happened?
They both stared at the hand. Malfoy parted his lips, ostensibly to say something, probably to call Harry a lunatic and an idiot and a sex fiend, so Harry kissed him.
Well. It had worked before.
It worked again. Malfoy shut up, lifted his chin, and kissed back.
Harry marveled at the taste of Malfoy's mouth, which was familiar now, but somehow no less arousing. Harry's mouth must have tasted pretty good, too, if the slick buzz of Malfoy's moan against Harry's tongue was anything to go by. Malfoy pressed up against Harry, his hand pulling out of Harry's grasp only to curl around the back of Harry's neck. The kiss flared up and slowed down at the same time, which Harry wouldn't have thought possible, except that it obviously was.
"All right," said Malfoy when he pulled back, licking his lips. He was flushed and breathless, and possibly the most delicious thing Harry had ever seen. "All right. I get it."
Get what? Harry couldn't remember wanting to make a point, but whatever that point was, it had made Malfoy lick his lips, so that was all right. Harry would devote several hours a day to thinking up points that had to be made. Because point-making was wonderful, but lip-licking was better. Much better.
Malfoy straightened his shirt. Took a breath. He must be trying to compose himself -- and Harry decided that there was nothing hotter than a turned-on Malfoy trying to compose himself. Maybe another kiss...
A hand braced itself on Harry's chest, pushing him back, and Harry realized that he'd leaned forward. Malfoy's index finger was awfully close to Harry's right nipple, and Malfoy pulled his hand back as soon as he noticed.
Damn it.
"Put a shirt on," Malfoy said again, but now his voice was strangely soft. "I have to... I have to go."
"When -- " Harry cleared his throat. How could he say this? Hey, Malfoy, that was fun. Care to do it again? "I mean, are we -- when are we -- "
"Next Sunday." Malfoy picked up his robes, shrugging them on.
"Next Sunday?" Harry was appalled. "That's a whole week from now!"
"Yes, Potter, I noticed." Malfoy rolled his eyes. "We can't meet during the week, because it'd be too suspicious -- "
"But we have to," Harry interrupted, and yeah, he sounded pathetic and hopeless, but he couldn't help it. "We just have to."
Malfoy stared at him. For a moment, Harry thought he'd said something stupid again, but then a strange expression stole across Malfoy's face, and it obviously wasn't contempt. Harry wasn't sure what it was, but it made Malfoy look real, or somehow -- somehow here -- in a way that made Harry want to kiss him again. That post-orgasm exuberance he'd felt was back, but it was stronger now, and not as brittle.
"Okay." Malfoy looked like he was going to regret saying this. "Just -- just once during the week. Wednesday, maybe. I'll owl you."
"Yeah. Owl. Okay." Wednesday. If Harry masturbated a few thousand times before then, he might be able to stop himself from going mad.
There was some more staring from Malfoy, and Harry remembered that he was still completely naked. "Erk," he said, and hurried over to his underwear, which was a sad, soggy little tangle on the classroom floor. He still hadn't recovered his wand from wherever it was, so he glanced back at Malfoy. "Um. Could you...?"
"Evanesco," Malfoy murmured again, and watched as Harry tried to get into his now-dry briefs without tripping and splitting his head open on the ground.
To distract himself from Malfoy's suddenly palpable gaze, he said, "So. Slytherin against Ravenclaw next Saturday, eh? Good luck."
Malfoy's eyes narrowed.
Oh, shit, Harry thought, and realized that the demon of stupidity had once again possessed his tongue. Quidditch. Must not talk to Malfoy about Quidditch.
"Potter," Malfoy said, very quietly. "I suppose I should warn you. If you ever wish me luck for a Quidditch match, I will hex you. Painfully."
"Y-yes." Harry nodded. He noticed that Malfoy still had his wand in his hands, and that he was stroking it, idly, which should have alarmed Harry, but instead just made his cock twitch. And that was downright bizarre, but it wasn't his fault. It was Malfoy's fault for going around stroking inanimate objects. Stroking -- fondling --
"Painfully," Malfoy repeated, and Harry nodded even more vigorously.
"You're right. Absolutely. I'd deserve it. Excuse me." He tore his eyes away from the wand, and instead used his poor visual acuity to locate the rest of his clothing. Maybe Malfoy wouldn't owl him on Wednesday. Maybe Harry should just gag himself. Maybe...
The door creaked, and Harry looked up to see Malfoy stepping out of the classroom.
"Wait," he called, and Malfoy looked back, pale eyebrow raised.
"Yes?"
Apparently a composed Malfoy was as hot as a turned-on Malfoy. Who knew?
"Wednesday," Harry said, when he recalled what he was going to say. "Um. I'll be -- I'll be waiting for your owl." And masturbating, Harry thought, but amazingly, he had enough sense not to say that.
"I have a pair of owls, one of which is a spare. No one else should be familiar with it. I'll send it to you during breakfast, on Wednesday morning."
Harry spared a moment to be awed at Malfoy's capacity for rational thought. And planning. Because all Harry could think about was -- was --
"Yeah," Harry managed to utter, and Malfoy closed the door behind him.
Wednesday. The word rang like a gong in Harry's skull. Wednesday.The holiest of days. The Day of Sex. The day, hopefully, of sodomy. Or maybe blow jobs. Or even just of mutual masturbation. Hell, the day of anything, as long as Malfoy got naked again, and let Harry touch him.
Touching Malfoy. Malfoy-touching. It was Harry's newest hobby. Right up there with Quidditch, and Harry had never thought he'd find something he loved doing as much, but apparently, he just had. A crazy elation filled him at the thought that he'd already touched Malfoy, and at the memory of Malfoy's expression when Harry had touched him. If he could get Malfoy to look like that again, he wouldn't even mind it if Malfoy didn't touch him back. Well. He wouldn't mind much.
Sex. He'd had sex. He'd finally had sex. He'd had sex with Malfoy, and okay, they still didn't call each other by their first names, but that would probably never happen, anyway. The main thing was -- sex. They'd had it. They'd be having more of it. On Wednesday. And then on Sunday. And again on Wednesday. And again on...
Finally, Harry was dressed again -- which was a near thing, because every time he remembered the fact that he and Malfoy had had sex, he wanted to strip down and start wanking off. Control yourself, he told himself, but then he remembered Malfoy saying that, and very nearly couldn't.
Calm down, Potter. Calm. The hell. Down.
Breathe in. Hold. Release.
Huh. So Trelawney's meditation classes had been good for something, after all.
His glasses had been tossed into a dusty corner of the classroom, and Harry rescued them gingerly, wiping them clean on his shirt. No scratches or cracks, thankfully. There was a bit of dust smudging the corner of his thumb, so Harry licked it -- and ended up losing it again, because his thumb tasted like Malfoy's come.
His mouth still tasted like Malfoy's kisses.
Harry realized, suddenly, that Malfoy had ruined his entire life. Malfoy had ruined every touch, every taste, every smell Harry would experience from this point on, because Harry would hear Malfoy's soft, asking gasps in the slightest breeze, would taste Malfoy's mouth whenever he had breakfast, and would remember the scent of Malfoy's sweat, faint and rising like mist, whenever it rained.
Oh, well. Hopefully Wednesday would hurry up and get here already, and then Malfoy could ruin Harry some more. A lot more. Perhaps eventually, Malfoy might be able to ruin him on Mondays as well, and Thursdays, and Tuesdays, and Fridays -- not on Saturdays, because Saturdays were for Quidditch -- but. Every other day. All day. Until Malfoy was ruined, too, and thought about Harry whenever they weren't fucking, which would be never. Except for Saturdays.
I am so going to lose our next Quidditch match, Harry thought, because Malfoy was kind of pale and glittery too, and surely no one would mind if instead of catching the Snitch, Harry caught Malfoy instead?
The door creaked once more as it shut behind Harry, and Harry sighed. He'd checked the classroom for any incriminating evidence, like stray buttons or drops of semen, and had found none. The only incriminating evidence was in Harry's head, and in Harry's pants, where Harry was still slightly excited. Which was embarrassing, but Harry had to face facts and acknowledge that he'd be perpetually excited as long as there was more Malfoy-touching on the horizon.
On Wednesday, specifically. Harry's favourite day.
He paused outside the classroom to adjust his robes and run a hand through his hair -- which was a futile endeavour, but one Harry felt obliged to indulge in, nonetheless. He couldn't go out there looking like he'd just had the shag of his life. Okay, the only shag of his life, but. He was sure that no matter how many shags he had in the future, this would rank in at least the top five. For its newness, for its firstness, and for Malfoy. Definitely for Malfoy.
The sign above the door read Advanced Charms. Harry blinked at it, recalling what had happened inside, and felt a slow grin spread across his face. Charms was going to be his favourite subject from now on. Defense was fun, of course, but Charms definitely had its... charms. Very sexy charms. Arrogant charms. Malfoy-shaped charms.
A new favourite subject, a new favourite hobby and a new favourite day. This was turning out to be quite the weekend.
Finis.