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Christ, but Potter was loud.

Draco Malfoy rolled onto his back and kicked his blankets off with more force than was necessary. His arm shot out and fumbled about the bedside table until he found his phone. 2:45 PM. He scowled. It wasn’t even that late yet. Not that Draco had anything to do today, or any day for the remainder of his six-month sentence...without thinking, he rubbed his foot against the bulky monitor on his ankle, wishing he could rip the thing off and throw it out of the window of his high-rise condominium and watch it shatter in the middle of Broad Street.

Alas, he could do no such thing. If only he had managed to not be an absolute idiot that night back in the fall. But no, he had acted like a complete amateur at Pansy’s birthday party, balls drunk with the lion’s share of an eight ball powdering his nose and upper lip. He’d gotten into it with some git outside of the club who had said something disrespectful about his father, something that drunk, strung-out Draco just couldn’t abide, despite his friends’ frantic pleas.

He had made his bed, and now he had to lie in it. But not for much longer, apparently, seeing as the infuriating din of unintelligible noises continued to bore its way through Draco’s bedroom walls. Potter’s voice was the loudest and most prominent of them all, punctuated with what Draco recognized as the far-too-loud telly. The news, judging by the staccato bulletin music.

Eschewing any thoughts of returning to sleep, Draco sat up and rubbed his eyes. The accompanying wave of nausea and rush of blood to his head made him immediately regret this decision. He was also beginning to regret the previous evening’s decision to gorge himself on wine and cognac until he had vomited all over the living room’s Brazilian cherry hardwood floors.

Heat flooded his face at the hazy memory of Potter on his hands and knees, his nose and mouth tucked under the stretched-out collar of his faded band tee shirt, shaking his head as he cleaned up the rancid mess. Draco could kick himself for caring so much about hurling in front of Potter; in all the years that they had known each other, this was hardly the first time that Potter had seen Draco in a less than flattering state, and Christ knew that Draco had seen Potter in his cups and then some.

Even so, that definitely wasn’t how Draco had envisioned getting Potter on his knees.

To hell with embarrassment, he decided, heaving his hungover arse out of bed. He had an entire day of needling his former schoolmate, ex-military, guardian-watchdog to look forward to, a day just like any other day--his greatest thrill was getting Potter’s eyes to flash, revealing a glimpse of the dangerous beast that had followed Potter home from his time in the service and had been simmering within him ever since.

It frightened Draco, but he sought it out all the same--it was a rush to feel something as raw as fear. He wondered what it would be like to see Potter lose that carefully cultivated self-control and just snap. Perhaps he would snap tonight.

Draco was terribly curious and terribly nervous about how the night would go, the endless possibilities of catastrophe looping through his mind’s eye. Being a high-profile member of international society due to his father’s controversial corporate wealth and even more controversial public political leanings would not help him see Purge Night through unruffled, at the very least.

Then again, that’s what Potter was there for.

Draco shuffled into the spacious kitchen, grimacing at the sunlight that streamed in aggressively through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Harry Potter was pacing the length of the island, idly swirling a coffee mug and frowning as he held his phone to his ear. He raised an eyebrow at Draco. “Confirmed. If you and your team need anything more, let me know now. I’m making the final run.”

“Christ on the bleeding cross, Potter, would you keep it down?” Draco reached for the coffee carafe. It was far too light for his liking. “You made coffee, and then drank it all?”

“Great. If need be, we’ll touch base again this evening. That will be all.” Potter ended the call and slipped his phone into his back pocket. He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Good morning, sunshine.”

Draco frowned as a morbid headache pulsed in his temples. “It would be if the loud sod who’s been sleeping in my bloody guest room would actually make enough coffee for two fucking people.”

“Come off it. There should be a cup or two left in there.”

“Yeah, a cup for a child. Or perhaps two small kittens. Make more.”

Potter snatched the carafe out of Draco’s hands and knocked him out of the way with what was, in Draco’s opinion, an entirely too forceful bump of the hip. When met with Draco’s indignant expression, Potter said, “Oh, come on, Malfoy. If anyone has the right to be in a mood this morning, it’s me.”

“Fucking git,” Draco grumbled, wishing he had the energy to be furious. He had just been disrespectfully hip-checked by the man who was charged with his well-being. Well, temporarily charged with his well-being, at least.


Irritating, loud, disrespectful Potter, taking up all of the space in Draco’s condominium with his enormous, infuriating biceps, his toned, god-like thighs, his round, perfect arse, and his stupid, handsome face. Draco could still remember how short and scrawny Potter had been in school, with his knobbly knees and silly, taped glasses. Draco had seized every moment to make fun of the speccy little git, but learned quickly that Potter had given as well as he’d received.

He also remembered Potter’s growth spurt, and how fit he’d become on the varsity football team. Oddly enough, this particular stretch of memory coincided with Draco’s discovery of his sexuality and the development of his “Potter obsession,” as Pansy always referred to it (much to Draco’s chagrin).

Not that Draco would ever acknowledge that he had a “Potter obsession,” but oh, how he wished he had been braver back then. That he’d had the stones to say something to Potter back then when he was in his prime, young and fit and free of responsibilities.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, Draco had gone off to school and Potter had gone off to the military, and they had fallen out of touch.

Until the day that Potter had returned, discharged with honors (and bullet wounds to boot), looking more fit than Draco had known was possible, with a deep, haunted knowledge in his hardened green eyes that sent shivers up Draco’s spine and, maddeningly, blood rushing between his legs. Draco’s lust had not exactly been quelled when Lucius Malfoy had snapped Potter up immediately and made him head of his extensive security detail, meaning that Draco would be subjected to Potter at nearly every turn, regardless of whether he was at home or in the states.

Babysitting Draco had not initially been part of the job description, but here they were, in Draco’s stateside flat, bickering about coffee as an ankle monitor rubbed Draco’s leg raw and house-confinement slowly drove him towards the brink of insanity.

The cacophony of an urgent news bulletin had Draco nearly jumping out of his skin. A pretty, dark-haired woman wearing a garish magenta suit appeared on-screen. “Good evening, folks, I’m Jacqueline London, and this is the Countdown to the Purge special.

"As we are, by now, all aware, tonight marks the fourth annual Purge Night, the yearly tradition that legalizes all crime, including murder, for twelve consecutive hours starting at seven o’clock tonight and ending at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. Though all emergency and medical services will be unavailable until the Purge’s end, please take note of the following unofficial medical and triage units who will be volunteering throughout the night--”

Draco forcefully jabbed the mute button, the news anchor’s voice ringing in his ears. “Can’t believe I have to be present for this ghastly tradition,” he muttered, hoping he didn’t sound as shaken as he felt. He tapped his crumpled pack of cigarettes against the granite countertop. “Americans.”

“Don’t,” barked Potter. Draco froze briefly, hating how every last hair on the back of his neck stood at attention at the authoritative tone in his voice. Potter turned, gesturing to the wilted Parliament hanging from Draco’s lips. “I’m going out in a few minutes, can’t you just...can’t you just wait?”

“This is my bloody flat, Potter. Have you forgotten?” Draco glared directly into Potter’s infuriatingly green eyes as he sparked his lighter and lit the cigarette.

The vein in Potter’s thick neck pulsed dangerously before he rubbed his temples. “Fantastic. I don’t know what I expected from you. Certainly not a modicum of basic human decency.”

“That was a lot of big words for an oaf such as yourself, I hope you didn't hurt yourself.”

For a moment, Draco thought that Potter might march over and backhand him for his insolence. He’d knock the cigarette from between his lips before bending him over the counter and showing him just what happens to boys who can’t keep their prattish mouths shut...

The beeping of the coffee maker broke the charged silence between them. Draco let his eyes roam down Potter’s strong back as he poured two fresh mugs of coffee, his muscles rippling beneath his fitted white tee shirt. Breath catching, Draco’s eyes slipped lower, warmth flooding his gut as he took in Potter’s fine, fit arse, separated from him by just a few steps and a most loathsome, yet unfairly flattering, barrier of jeans.

Potter turned abruptly and handed Draco a steaming mug, causing Draco to nearly hack up a lungful of smoke in an attempt to avert his eyes. Potter regarded him, bemused. “Your filthy habit doesn’t seem to agree with you.”

Before Draco could stop coughing long enough to return a witty and devastating retort, Potter said, “Well, it’s getting worryingly late on a rather unpleasant day. I’m going out for a bit--do you...God help me for asking, do you need anything?”

“Hmm, yes I do.” Draco sniffed, having somewhat composed himself. He blew out an enormous puff of smoke in Potter’s direction and leaned on the table in such a way that his shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of his Pilates-taut abdomen. He swore he saw Potter’s eyes flit downwards for the briefest of moments, but he might have been imagining it. “I’m out of Astroglide.”

A comical gurgling sound issued from Potter’s throat as he choked on his hot coffee, which cascaded over the rim of the mug and splashed copiously onto that tight, white tee shirt. Swearing, he set his cup down and peeled the soiled shirt off, right there in the kitchen.

The snarky zinger that Draco had on deck died in his throat as he stared openly. Jesus fucking tap-dancing Christ, but Potter was perfect. Draco shamelessly devoured the tantalizing expanses of dark, toned flesh, smooth but for a myriad of fascinating scars. They varied in thickness and discoloration, ranging from light scuffs and burns to what Draco knew to be shallow stab wounds...and then there were the two puckered bullet wounds, one in his shoulder, the other in his abdomen, just left of his navel.

Not that Draco had memorized where Potter’s scars were, of course. Nor had he spent any time thinking about them in great detail, especially not about which ones he found the most interesting, and definitely not about how the mottled flesh would feel beneath his lips and tongue.

However...if he had spent time pondering such matters, Draco would say that the most interesting piece in Potter’s mural of dead skin was the wild scar on his forehead. Like many things, Potter had gone off to the service without it, but returned with a wicked slash from his hairline to just under his right eye. Draco rather thought it looked like a lightning bolt. Potter had, of course, become an ace at artfully evading Draco’s repeated questions about the origins of the scar, telling him one outrageous story after the other, changing it every time just to be insufferable.

Draco wondered if any of them were true.

Potter made a noise of displeasure, pulling Draco from his reverie. He ran a large hand over his damp chest slowly, inspecting himself as though he were the only one in the room. Draco swallowed thickly. Potter’s abs were straight out of adverts for those at-home gym sets that always came on the telly in the wee hours of the morning when Draco was stoned out of his gourd. He bit his lip, drinking in the way Potter’s muscles tightened as he dabbed at his chest with a clean dish towel.

Draco could do all the Pilates in the world, every day for the rest of his life, and his body would never look like that. He was in shape, of course, but he was lankier, more slender than Potter, who was Draco’s height, but built like a fucking brick shithouse--broad and large and intimidating even before he’d gotten superhero-jacked, but now his physical presence alone was huge enough to command the attention of packed rooms...and that was just his physical appearance. When one factored in his personality, disposition, and general aura, it was a wonder that people didn’t regularly fall to their knees in Potter’s presence, or leap out of the way when Potter barreled down the street.

He looked up and met Draco’s gaze, bright green eyes glittering, like he knew exactly the effect he was having on Draco.

The bastard.

“Are you going to spend the entire day stroking yourself like the narcissistic fuck you are, or are you going to hurry along and get your errands done before we’re both barricaded in here for the foreseeable fucking future?” Draco hopped up on the counter and crossed his legs imperiously, wincing as the cumbersome ankle monitor banged against the expensive wooden cabinet.

“Well, we’re always barricaded in here these days, aren’t we.” Potter sauntered past him with the confidence of a god, lifting an eyebrow and glancing at his ankle. “How much longer do you have? Four months? Five?”

He disappeared briefly into his room before reemerging in a tight, heather-grey tee shirt. That quite suited him as well, thought Draco has he squeezed his thighs together, willing his headache to fuck off so he could rub one out as soon as Potter left.

“All right then.” Potter poured more coffee into a stainless steel travel mug. “This is the last time I’ll be out before Purge Night, barring any emergency—” he shot Draco a quelling look “—any real emergency--so speak up if you need anything, or forever hold your peace. If you are even capable of such a thing.”

Draco leaned back on his hands purposefully, allowing his shirt to ride up again. This time, Potter definitely looked, but he turned to busy himself with his coffee. Draco smirked, triumphant, trying to ignore the throbbing between his legs. “I suppose you ought to pick up some more wine, too. A pinot noir, I think. None of that swill you buy, either. The stuff I like.”

Potter barked out a laugh and gestured meaningfully to the living room. “Why, so we can have a nice little repeat of last night?”

Draco struggled not to squirm as hot shame crept up his neck. “It was just the one time.”

“And who was it that had to clean up that ‘one time’ up, hmm?” Potter’s eyes danced as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. Christ, but Draco wanted to bite that shoulder.

That was a one-time thing, I’ll have you know. The cleaning. I only did it because I didn’t want my evening--or worse, my morning--to be perfumed by your vomit.”

Draco crossed his arms and looked away. Potter opened the front door. “I’ll be back. Please don’t be drunk when I get back. I will tell your father. Or worse...your mother.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Draco tossed a half-peeled orange at Potter’s horrible, gorgeous head, which he caught with inhuman reflexes and a shit-eating grin that made Draco want to kick his face in. Or perhaps kiss him senseless. “And get me something good to eat, will you? I’m bloody starving and there’s nothing in the cupboard. Something fresh, none of that processed shit.”

“Right, because your body is a temple now, is it?” Potter shook his head and reached for the doorknob.

“Don’t forget my Astroglide, Potter!” Draco yelled as the door closed behind him, hoping that the neighbors would hear, maybe even give Potter a disapproving look, or better yet, a dressing down in the hallway, but he was already gone.

Draco was likely too hungover for hair of the dog, but that didn’t stop him from pouring a shot of Bailey’s into his first proper cup of coffee of the day. The alcohol content was so low that it was practically cream, he reasoned. Besides, it’s not like he had anything to do today. Or anywhere to go.

He sipped his alcoholic coffee and disdainfully toasted some of the expensive, sprouted-grain bread that he had forced Potter to pick up late last week. He’d had to go to two supermarkets before he’d found it; apparently the stores always got picked over in the days leading up to Purge Night.

But Potter had done it anyway. He’d spared no complaint, telling Draco in grave, stony-faced detail what a prat he was for being such a picky, particular bastard, but he’d come back with bags and bags full of everything that Draco had asked him to get, no matter how absurd. The thought of it made his stomach clench; he literally had Potter wrapped around his little finger in nearly every way.

Except that way. But he’d get there.

He was sinking his teeth into his raspberry-preserve laden toast when his phone rang, piercing his poor, hungover ears with the irritating alarm that Potter had changed it to a few weeks back.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he grumbled, fishing the dreaded device from his pocket. He sighed deeply. “Hello, Mother.”

“Good morning, darling. It is morning there, right?” Narcissa Malfoy cleared her throat over the sound of rustling paper. She must be reading that dreadful rag, the Daily Prophet. “I haven’t even looked at the clock all day, I scarcely know what time it is here.”

“Yes, it’s morning, Mother. A bit after 3 PM. How are you?”

“Oh, you know.” She huffed loudly into the receiver. “We’re all packed up, but oh, how we’re going to miss you.”

Draco grit his teeth. “I know. I’m gutted that I can’t join you this year.”

“You know whose fault that is, darling.”

Draco rolled his eyes theatrically, though no one was there to see. "Oh, don’t worry. I know. There’s no need to remind me.”

“Oh, my sweet boy.” Narcissa’s voice dripped with a pity that Draco couldn’t fucking stand. “I can’t believe you’re stuck in the flat on Purge Night. Of all the times to land yourself on house arrest in the States.”

“Christ, Mother, I know. Don’t you think I feel bad enough about it already without more berating?” Draco’s headache flared. Why had she even called?


He inhaled deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ugh. Sorry, Mother.”

“That’s right.” The crinkling of paper ceased. “At least all of the security measures are in place. Your father had it inspected three times before we left. And that Potter boy will make sure everything stays in order, and keep you safe.”

Mother. We’ve been out of school for years now. He’s my bloody age. You can just say ‘Potter.’”

“Such a nice boy, always so polite.” Narcissa sighed almost nostalgically as she carried on blithely. “I like him.”

”Mother.” Draco’s stomach flipped. His mum would like him much less if she’d known how utterly indecent he’d been earlier, peeling off his shirt like a seasoned exotic dancer right in front of Draco, when he knew the effect that his naked, chiseled body had on him—

He shook the intrusive thought away. Narcissa hadn’t stopped talking.

“...still not happy about the circumstances, but I do feel much better knowing he’s with you throughout this ghastly ordeal. Especially over the Purge. My God, what an atrocious...tradition.” Draco could hear her grimace through the phone. “If your father’s stateside office weren’t so successful, I’d have had him sell the condominium and we would have all returned to Warwickshire at once, never to speak of that country or city again.”

Draco snorted. “Did you just say you wished Father wasn’t so successful?”

Narcissa breathed a laugh through her nose. “Darling, stop. Where is that Potter boy, anyway? Is he with you?” Narcissa muffled the phone slightly against her neck for a moment. “Darling, your father wants to speak with you now. Here he is.”

Draco closed his eyes and sipped his coffee. “Put him on.”

Some more muffled noises, then Lucius Malfoy’s aristocratic drawl. “Draco.”

“Hello, Father.”

Lucius cleared his throat. Phone calls with his father were always so...uncomfortable. “You are well?”

“As well as I can be, seeing as I’m confined in this miserable hellscape.” He cast a disdainful look around the spacious, luxury apartment, glaring at the beautiful sun-lit city skyline through the windows.

“Well. You know whose fault that is.”

Draco sighed audibly. He wished his mum hadn’t handed the phone off. “Yes, Father.”

Lucius cleared his throat again and launched into a sermon about the security measures installed in the condo, which Draco had heard no less than four entire times. He reminded Draco that he and Narcissa could always be reached, no matter what.

Draco was halfway through his second cup of Irish coffee before Lucius was finally winding down. “I trust you’re not...having visitors tonight?”

Draco scoffed. All of his friends were abroad with their families for Purge Night, just like he would be if it weren’t for his...unfortunate predicament. “Nope, just me and Potter.”

Like it had been every bloody day since he got this infernal thing strapped to his leg.

“Good.” Lucius inhaled sharply; Draco could tell that he had shifted. “And you are monitoring your...consumption of various substances?”

Draco poured more Bailey’s into his cooling coffee spitefully as he replied in a flat voice, “Of course, Father.”

It was true, if one interpreted “monitoring one’s consumption of various substances” as “limiting one’s substance selection to copious amounts of alcohol and occasionally the marijuana that Pansy brought him before leaving to meet her family in Italy last week.” Draco rarely touched other street drugs as it was, but he was known to make an exception on special occasions.

Best friend’s birthday parties, for example.

Lucius made an approving noise. “Good, because it won’t do to be out of sorts on a night like tonight.” A beat of silence. “Is Potter there?”

“He stepped out to do some shopping. Or something.”

”Ah. No bother. I’ll call him later. I can’t recall if I’ve told you this, but in case I haven’ an extra measure of security, I have Nott and Smith down at the front desk of the condominium tonight. So. Something to keep in mind. ” Draco heard his mother saying something in the background. “All right, Mummy wants to speak with you again. I’m off. well tonight, Draco.”

“Will do. Goodbye Father.”

“Goodbye, Draco.”

Narcissa kept him on the phone for another 45 minutes, taking about everything from the book she’d just read to sharing gossip about their good friends the Zabinis and the Parkinsons, Pansy’s parents. Apparently, they’d had to sell their Tuscan villa after Mr Parkinson’s last investment tanked, just like she’d known it would.

When he’d finally hung up with his mother, Draco flung himself across the sumptuous black leather sofa, staring up at the details in the hand-painted reproduction of Renoir’s “Luncheon of the Boating Party” that hung just above it in an ornate golden frame. His mind wandered back to Potter. Where had he gone? What was taking him so long? Didn’t he know how bloody bored Draco was in this hell-prison?

More importantly...what was tonight going to be like? How would it be for Potter to be surrounded by carnage and barbarous lawlessness, everywhere reminders of that which he would never discuss, that which caused him to twitch and whimper in his sleep, that which, when brought up, cast a faraway haze over usually expressive green eyes?

Draco, on the other hand...the Purge and America’s obsession with violent crimes had always fascinated him; several British politicians who agreed with America’s New Founding Fathers had broached adopting a similar tradition in their country, but the fervor and the need that could be physically felt for the Purge in America just didn’t exist in Europe.

Draco had always imagined he’d hang back for the ritual one year, ideally to partake in its unsavory traditions. His friend Blaise had taken time from his prestigious PhD programme to fly over for last year’s Purge Night, much to his family’s chagrin. The way his eyes lit up with new, forbidden knowledge as he’d regaled Draco and Pansy with sordid tales of that night, tales that Draco just knew were nowhere near the full story, had awakened a longing in Draco, a primal yearning he had never known before to possess such forbidden knowledge, to be part of the few who knew.

It terrified him.

Though Draco knew for a fact that Potter had never purged, he was 100% certain that he had killed before, that he possessed said forbidden knowledge.

Not that he’d ever admit it. On the numerous occasions that Potter had been drunk in front of Draco, Draco had prodded and needled and poked at him, trying to get him to budge, to divulge the secrets carefully folded away in the nebulous details of his honorable discharge and the barely latent beast lurking in his eyes.

“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy,” had been the slurred response. “You couldn’t even begin to imagine…to understand...”

This unsatisfying and unfinished admonition was always followed almost immediately by Potter lumbering out of the room to brood in private, or slumping forward and falling asleep atop the pillow of his forearms, a muscular, snoring heap of man, topped with an unruly nest of black hair like an intimidating dessert.

Draco huffed, furious at his own thoughts. Potter was the worst, strutting around with his messy hair and stupid green eyes behind even stupider glasses, and a physique that was, frankly, disruptive. What’s more, he remained utterly unaffected by Draco’s numerous advances, no matter how obvious. What could have been more obvious than Draco sauntering into the kitchen in naught but tight black boxer briefs and a silk dressing gown, undone to reveal, if Draco could say so himself, some of his more mouthwatering attributes? Just in case his intentions had been too nebulous for the great dolt to piece together, Draco had helped him even more by bending over right in front of him.

Potter had barely batted an eye before he cracked the single nightly beer he allowed himself and left the room. If only he’d allowed himself to look, to stay...then perhaps things would be different. Draco wouldn’t be as keyed up as he was now, practically mad with desire.

This ankle monitor had, naturally, brought his sex life to a grinding halt, considering that Draco couldn’t walk further than the lobby of the residences. On top of that, Potter’s near-constant presence wasn’t exactly seen as inviting to any prospective suitors. Draco had been so close to bedding Pansy’s older brother, Peter, a tall, lean bloke with a severe face and dark hair (Draco’s favorite of his traits), who came round once in a while. Just as Draco was grinding down on Parkinson’s lap in the living room, head swimming with wine and weed, Potter had darkened the doorway with his massive frame, looking like someone had just pissed in his porridge.

The night had been almost a bit more than Draco could handle. Potter had been so intense, almost possessive, chasing Parkinson out the door with little more than a raised eyebrow and a pointedly cleared throat. Draco had been more than half hoping that Potter would have pinned him to the sofa and ravished him the moment the door snicked shut behind his dejected visitor, laying claim to his lips as he split him open on what Draco was certain was a massive cock...

But he hadn't, and, needless to say, Draco had not seen Peter Parkinson since.

Draco exhaled and pressed the heel of his hand against his cock, suddenly so hard it hurt, undoubtedly due to these absurd thoughts of Potter. Tonight, Draco would lock himself in his room with the expensive wine that Potter would bring home (and if he forgot, he’d just open one from the wine fridge), blast his Deftones playlist (Potter’s favorite), and spend his evening riding his longest, thickest dildo, making himself come to thoughts of Potter and his beautiful, scarred flesh and the fire in his eyes until he couldn’t come anymore.

Yes, since he couldn’t go somewhere to get into any real trouble, and since the man he was lusting after was woefully disinterested (and on his father’s payroll), this seemed like a great way for Draco to spend his first Purge Night.


The air at the dinner table that night was fraught with tension. Both Draco and his surly guardian were trying to maintain an air of nonchalance, as though this were any other night, as though this was neither of their first times in the states for Purge Night. Having slept off his earlier liquor intake, Draco was on his second glass of top shelf French pinot noir, though he had barely touched his dinner.

The telly was on mute, the final minutes of the Countdown to the Purge special glaring garishly from the flat screen.

“I’m already bored,” said Draco loudly, turning up his lip in a shoddy attempt at bravado.

Potter hacked into his food like a wild animal, shoveling a far too large piece of broccoli between his full, pillowy lips. “Of course you are.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “And I suppose you’re content to just sit there, stuffing your face all bloody night?”

Potter dabbed his mouth with a napkin and leaned back in his chair. “Know what? I am. I checked in with the team at the warehouse, the team at the office, and the team downstairs. Everything is in order. Let’s hope the night just...passes, and that we remain bored.”

Draco rolled his eyes and glanced over at the copious grocery bags on the floor, smirking at the quantity of Astroglide that Potter had procured on his earlier run. “I knew you’d be mind-numbingly dull. Ah, well, at least this night won’t be a total waste.”

“Why, are you going to drink enough wine to vomit in a different room of the apartment?”

“No, I’m going to take all that fucking lube there and bring it into my room so I can sit on my dildo until we hear the morning sirens.” Draco slurped a thick udon noodle into his mouth with a sweet smile.

Potter’s cheeks pinkened magnificently, but just as he opened his mouth to reply, the telly unmuted, giving way to the emergency broadcast system. Both boys froze; Potter’s back went rigid.

“This is not a test.This is your emergency broadcast system announcing the commencement of the Annual Purge sanctioned by the U.S. Government. Weapons of class 4 and lower have been authorized for use during the Purge. All other weapons are restricted. Government officials of ranking 10 have been granted immunity from the Purge and shall not be harmed. Commencing at the siren, any and all crime, including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours. Police, fire, and emergency medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning at 7 AM, when The Purge concludes. Blessed be our New Founding Fathers and America, a nation reborn. May God be with you.”

A frisson of something that was equal parts excitement and fear danced up Draco’s spine as the screen went blank, the news outlets having gone dark for the tradition. His skin broke out into gooseflesh at the sirens, blaring once, twice, three times, signaling the beginning of the night.

He looked at Potter and smiled feebly. “Here we go, I guess.”

In a shocking turn of events, Potter returned a tight smile and covered Draco’s hand with his own. “Don’t be nervous.”

Draco nodded and sipped his wine, trying not to freak out about the fact that Potter’s hand was touching his hand. “I’m not nervous.”

Potter snorted and pulled his hand away.

The ensuing butterflies in Draco’s stomach had nothing to do with the sirens or the broadcast.

The first hour of the Purge felt like a liminal space--the passage of time seemed suspended, like a fly caught in molasses. Draco’s fingers clenched around the stem of his wine glass as he peered through the blinds, watching Broad Street come alive like he had never seen it before. He watched in grotesque curiosity as people flooded the streets, some fleeing, some stalking.

The vantage point in his apartment was shit, seeing as no one was bigger than an insect, but he could make out the glinting silver of knives and swords, and he saw fire--so much fire, fire in the streets, flames engulfing vehicles and properties alike, smoke rising in the distance from blazes set afar. Screaming and maniacal laughter and a host of other unsavory noises seeped through the walls, and Draco was stricken with the urge to run outside, into the thick of all of it, safety and ankle monitor be damned--he wanted to smell the smoke and the blood and hear the screams and the gunshots and see the injuries, the dead, see everything as he was ensconced the chaos of the night--

“Come away from the window,” said Potter sharply, breaking the spell of his morbid inclinations.

“No,” said Draco petulantly. A moment later, he heard what was undoubtedly a gunshot--an actual gunshot--and icy dread crept into his stomach and stayed there. Perhaps he really was better off up here, he decided, closing the blinds.

Potter was pacing by the front door, like he was waiting for someone to kick it down, his headset perched prickishly in his ear, nearly eclipsed by the black bird’s nest on his head. He was clearly deep in thought, and so high-strung he was practically vibrating.

Draco felt a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “So, do you want to?”

Potter’s head jerked up, resembling a deer in the headlights. “Want I want to what?”

“Purge, obviously.”

Something dark crossed Potter’s face and he resumed his pacing. “No.”

“Come on. I know that’s not true.”

Potter said nothing. Draco ventured, “What’s it like?”

Potter sighed audibly. “Malfoy, you know I’ve never been in the bloody States for the Purge, and the only reason I’m here now is because you’re a bloody idiot.”

“I mean, what’s it like to kill someone?”

Potter stiffened, his eyes darkening enough to almost make Draco regret what he'd said. Whatever was going on in Potter’s head was clearly beyond his reach, and he had pushed too much. Good.

Draco continued, dying to see if this was what it would take to unravel him, to release the beast inside the Golden Boy. “Come on, just tell me. I know you’ve done it, what with your time working on mysterious missions in the armed forces.”

“Not tonight, Malfoy,” warned Potter quietly, his hands balling into fists. Another gunshot in the distance; Potter stiffened visibly. “Just be quiet.”

Draco grinned, spurred on by the reaction he was getting from his usually composed companion. “It had to be brutal, right? I mean, come on--God only knows what you’ve seen, what you’ve done--”

Before Draco knew what was happening, Potter was crowding him up against the wall, jabbing a long finger in his face. “You shut the fuck up, Draco Malfoy. You shut the fuck up right now.”

Something exploded close by, triggering several car alarms; someone let out a blood-curdling scream. Draco’s spine tingled with fear. Steeling himself, he forced himself to meet Potter’s turbulent eyes. “Not until you tell me what it’s like to watch the life leave someone’s eyes, to exercise that ultimate power, to be god…”

Potter was livid. A huge hand closed around Draco’s neck, pressing just enough to induce panic that coiled like cold snakes in Draco’s gut. When Potter spoke, it was in a throaty whisper, trembling with barely suppressed wrath. “What if I told you instead that if your father weren’t paying me a small fucking fortune, I’d use this night to kill you?”

Draco gasped, blood rushing south as Potter applied more pressure to his neck, his tempestuous gaze unerring. “I could squeeze right now, just a little harder than I am, and your oxygen supply would be cut off.” Potter exhaled furiously through his nose, his breath hot on Draco’s cheek. “You’d flail, maybe kick out your legs desperately, maybe claw at my hands with those delicate, fine-boned fingers--which I could break with minimal effort, one by one, slowly, painfully. You’d keep clawing at me, swollen, useless fingers and excruciating pain be damned. It would be a last ditch effort on your part to save your own life, like a wounded animal caught in a trap, so desperate to cling to life that it would chew its own leg off.”

“Potter,” gasped Draco as Potter’s strong hand squeezed, manic eyes boring into his own. Draco was genuinely afraid, he had not anticipated his goading tactics to actually work, and with such results...but now that he was here, pressed against a wall by his neck while the city streets ran with blood, he didn’t know why he thought it would go any other way.

Potter pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, and Draco squirmed under his scrutiny, so fucking hard he could barely stand it. “Maybe I’ll fuck you before I kill you.’d like that, wouldn’t you? That’s what all this incessant questioning has been about, hasn’t it, you trying to get a rise? Oh yes, I’m onto you.”

“Oh, god,” gasped Draco, eyelids fluttering as his vision whited out with lust. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him, but god, Draco would just die if Potter didn’t whirl him around and pull his pants down, push his way inside Draco’s body, taking him hard and rough, turning a deaf ear to any half-hearted protests Draco would whine and whimper--

“Well, congratulations, Malfoy, you insufferable fuck. You got your bloody way.” Potter was so close that Draco could almost taste his breath. Moving ever closer, he slotted a thick, muscular thigh between Draco’s legs and pressed. Draco arched into the touch, trembling with want.

“Jesus fuck, look at you.” Potter’s mouth curled into a sadistic grin that Draco had never seen on his handsome face. “Rutting against my leg while I talk about fucking you and killing you. You are sick, you know that? You’re disgusting, a rich little arsehole who gets off thinking about giving himself over to the masses on Purge Night. They’d tear you apart, you know. But I...what they would do to you would be nothing compared to what I would do to you. What I will do to you.”

The desire that rushed through Draco at the degradation surprised him, but he was thirsty for more, more, more. This is what he had wanted, after all, but now that he’d found himself here, with Potter’s hand scorching against his throat, Draco could no longer remember the words to fire back at him, he could only rub his poor, aching cock against Potter’s thigh and pray that Potter would make him come, would let him come…

Suddenly, Potter loosened his grip on Draco’s neck and pulled back, hand flying to the headset in his ear as the heated expression disappeared from his face. “Nott? Is that you? Oh. What?”

He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen, leaving Draco a panting mess against the wall. He stayed like that for several hours, or maybe it was only a few minutes, wondering if he had just imagined the entire encounter. When Potter returned, his expression was serious, a little line forming between his eyebrows.

“What--what is it?” asked Draco, hoping he didn’t sound as broken as he felt.

“Nott is coming up for a moment. Things got a bit dodgy downstairs, and Smith lost his weapon. They got the matter under control, but…” Potter brandished a large black case. “Nothing to worry about.”

Draco gaped at him, his lust-addled brain slowly processing what Potter had said.

“Wow, nothing to say? I’d almost forgotten what peace and fucking quiet sounded like around here, what a lovely reminder.” Potter smirked, and walked back into the kitchen.

Draco’s face burned. Seething, he followed Potter. “Oh fuck off, can I help it that I got a bit overwhelmed by the fact that a bloke who’s built like bloody building almost tried to strangle me in my own home? The bloke who’s meant to be looking out for my well-being, nonetheless. Irresponsible and unprofessional as hell.”

That maddening smugness lingered on Potter’s face as he spun the combination on the case until it flew open. Draco stared at the arsenal; it wasn’t his first time seeing it, or something similar, but the sight of so many weapons, so much power, all in one setting always took his breath away.

The doorbell rang, and Potter’s face turned stony. “Stay here,” he said, drawing a knife from the stash of weapons. Draco’s heart pounded as he trailed Potter just enough to watch him stare through the peephole, then his whole body slightly relaxed as he opened the door.

“Quickly,” hissed Potter, sheathing the knife as he let in two blokes wearing all-black uniforms consisting of combat boots, cargo pants, and tight, fitted tee shirts. Both were laden with various harnesses and holsters, their eyes blazing with a trace of the same ferocity that Draco had seen in Potter’s face earlier.

Potter locked the door and led them into the kitchen. The bigger bloke, the one on the left, with a mean face and long brown hair, was just staring at Draco, his eyes icy and unerring. Every hair on the back of Draco’s neck stood at attention. Something didn’t feel right.

These men were on his father’s payroll; it was probably just the fact that it was this night, and everything and everyone was going mad.

Feeling absurd, and unsure of what he was meant to be doing or how he was meant to be acting, Draco poured himself another glass of wine and tried to will his heart rate to slow.

“Here they are,” said Potter, presenting the weapons. “Choose as many as you’d like. Don’t worry about inventory, I’ve already made sure everything is accounted for.”

“Thanks,” said the other bloke, the blonde. “You’re a lifesaver, Potter.”

Thoroughly disquieted by the continued scrutiny of the mean-faced fellow, Draco snapped, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

Potter’s head whipped around, eyes falling on the mean-faced bloke and narrowing. The bloke looking through the case turned too, but his demeanor was much more relaxed than Potter’s.

An ugly grin split the mean-faced bloke’s face. “Nothin’, nothin’ at all.”

Draco’s upper lip curled back. He wanted these men to fuck right off so he could continue...whatever it was that he was doing with Potter. “Well then stop fucking staring at me, you bug-eyed cretin.”

“Ooh, he’s got a mouth on him, don’t he?” The mean-faced man’s eyes darkened as Potter’s flashed.

“If I were you, I’d watch how you speak to Mr. Malfoy, Nott,” said Potter quietly. Though he’d never admit it, a thrill coursed through Draco's veins at Potter defending well as being called “Mr. Malfoy.”

“Oh, yeah?” The mean-faced man--Nott, apparently--turned to Potter, lips downturned. “Why, Potter? You attached to the little fag?”

His blonde colleague, who had just been leaning on the table and watching, now stood at attention, fingers resting on the holster on his hip.

Potter’s mouth was a tight line. Instead of handing the weapon over to the blonde guard--Smith, was it?--he placed it back in the case before shutting it and spinning the combination to lock it. “Walk away, Nott. Just walk away. You’ve got what you came up to get, you need to leave now.”

Nott bared his teeth. “And what if we don’t? What if we didn’t get what we came for yet?” His beady eyes flitted over to Draco, and panic bubbled inside him like witch’s brew.

“Potter,” he said, eyes going as round as saucers as he realized that Smith was also staring at him.

One, two beats of silence, tension thick enough to be cut with a knife.

Several things happened at once.

“Draco, run!!” bellowed Potter, clearing the counter in a single bound as he leapt towards Smith and Nott. Nott was closer to Draco and he lunged at him, malevolence rampant in his gaze as he tried to grab Draco in a tight hold. In a blind panic, he smashed his wine glass against Nott’s face and ducked under his arms as Nott howled in pain. Potter was fighting with Smith, who was desperately attempting to aim a loaded gun at Potter’s face. Potter had him gripped by the neck and the wrist, face contorted with the effort of slamming his hand down against the granite countertops, one, two, three times, and Smith’s fingers splayed open in pain and he released the gun.

Draco was running towards them before he knew what he was doing. All he could hear was his own blood rushing in his ear, the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat crashing against his skull like stormy ocean waves on jagged rocks. He shot his arm out to knock the gun out of Smith’s reach as Potter pulled Smith’s arm behind his back.

“Get the gun!” yelled Potter, but Draco was ahead of him. Great tremors shook him as he held the gun, feeling powerful just from having it in his hands. Smith was wrestling himself free just as Draco saw Nott lurching towards them, ready to attack Harry from behind.

No. No, no, no--this was not how this night was supposed to go.

Draco did the first thing he could think of.

“Potter, duck!” Draco screamed, then he closed his eyes and aimed the gun, pointing in Nott’s general direction before squeezing the trigger like it was going out of style, firing off three rounds in rapid succession.

His ears rang, the sound reverberating through his bones, vibrating in his sinuses. Draco had never used a gun in his life, and he hadn’t been prepared for just how deafening the gunshots were. His eyes flew open, and he saw that he had shot the mirror in the entryway, which was now shattered into a million pieces. A bullet was lodged in the wall behind Nott, who was clutching his ear with a blood-drenched hand and howling in pain. Potter had taken the opportunity to deck Smith, laying him out flat on his back before crawling on top of him, pinning his arms to the floor with his knees, hauling back, and punching him in the face.

For a moment, Draco froze, gun still raised, unable to do more than watch as Potter unleashed his fury on Smith’s face. The same cold fury that Draco had seen in Potter’s eyes earlier returned in spades, dark and terrible and dangerous and truly awe-inspiring to behold. The sound Potter’s fist made when it connected with Smith’s face was sickening and mesmerizing, thick thwacks that would not have been out of place in an old-school action flick. Bright blood splattered wetly across the finished wood of the kitchen island and the black and white tiled floor, flying from Smith’s nose like--

Draco gasped, pulled from the moment by a rough hand in his hair, yanking his head back. “You are going to regret shooting me, you little prick,” snarled Nott’s voice in his ear. “When I’m done with you, you’re going to wish you’d never been born.”

“Fuck you!” Draco cried, twisting in his hold, but Nott was broader and stronger than Draco was. Frantically, Draco tried to smash Nott’s face with the gun, but the struggle sent it clattering to the floor and skittering away. He brought his hands up to grab at Nott’s head and face, searching for a vulnerable spot, like an eye, or--his fingers poked at a soft, wet area on the side of Nott’s face, and a spasm wracked Nott’s body as he grunted in pain. Adrenaline surged through Draco as he smacked his hand against the wet spot, then dug his fingernails into it as Nott screamed in anguish in his ear, convulsing as he struggled to simultaneously keep Draco in his hold and bear the agony.

Finally, his grip relaxed enough for Draco to twist his way out. Heart pounding in his ears, Draco leaned forward and grabbed the biggest knife out of the block on the kitchen counter, and without thinking, without feeling, Draco turned and furiously stabbed Nott in the gut. The German steel went through him like he was made of butter, and Draco stared furiously into his eyes, breathing hard as he watched Nott’s shock melt into a pained grimace.

Draco realized what he had done when his eyes travelled downwards and landed on the place where the knife was buried in Nott’s body, his own pale fingers wrapped around the handle like a lifeline.

It took more effort than he had imagined to wrest the knife from Nott’s stomach, and when he did, copious vermilion streams rushed from the wound, seeping into the black fabric of Nott’s clothing and splashing onto the floor. Nott lurched forward, clutching at the wound, like he thought he could funnel his blood back inside, and Draco let out a wild shriek and stabbed him again, and once more, and one final time, slicing the flesh of his abdomen until Nott let out an unearthly groan and sank to his knees, helplessly clutching at himself. Draco stood over him, watching in abject horror and absolute power as his aggressor’s eyes rolled in their sockets, haunted by the knowledge that he was about to die. He would have stared at the sight before him for longer if not for Potter’s grunt of pain.


Draco’s bare feet slid in the pools of blood flowing from Nott’s body, and he clutched his knife desperately as he ran around the island to Potter. He and Smith were locked together on the floor, blood pouring from both of their noses, a small lump blossoming on Potter’s forehead. They both clutched at each other’s faces, vying to get closer to Potter’s wicked blade, which laid just out of reach from the both of them, no guns in sight.

“Who...fucking...paid you…” Potter groaned through gritted teeth, wheezing as Smith elbowed him in the side. “I don’t...want to kill you…”

“Fuck you!” wheezed Smith, gaining an advantage.

At the mercy of his own rage, Draco lunge forward and grabbed Potter’s knife, fitting his slender fingers into the brass knuckle grip before punching Smith in the face hard enough to make his head spin. He collapsed, his body falling across Potter’s, and Draco helped Potter to his feet before handing him his knife. The look Potter gave him nearly brought him to his knees.

Smith’s sweaty, bloody hand slapped against the hard floor as he tried to lift himself up to a seated position. Potter stepped on his fingers, and he groaned before flopping back to the floor.

“Who paid you off to kidnap Draco?” Potter asked, voice hoarse from fighting.

Smith let out a pained laugh and spat a globule of crimson saliva at Potter’s feet.

Enraged, Draco flung himself down and pressed his knife to Smith’s neck. “Who fucking paid you off? Who the fuck has more money than my father?”

Smith spat again. “Your fucking father. Fuck you, Malfoy. Fuck you and your fucking father and his dirty fucking money.”

Hot fury flared in Draco, and he backhanded Smith with his knife hand, an ugly slash appearing on his cheekbone. Smith moaned in pain.

“Since you’re being so uncooperative, let’s see what this has to say about it.” Potter crouched down next to him, snatching his headset and phone from his belt.

Smith made a noise of protest, and just as Potter was beginning to scroll through his phone, Smith seized his moment and made a move. In a final feat of desperate strength, Smith bucked Draco off of him and rolled over, grabbing the knife that fell from Draco’s hands and raising it high, aiming to bring it down on Draco’s face.

Draco screamed, white spots dancing in his vision as he pushed at Smith’s wrists, just barely keeping the knife at bay as he struggled frantically. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep him off when suddenly, a sickening crack harmonized with a dull, metallic clang, and Smith stilled over Draco, his arms dropping as his eyes crossed, a thin stream of blood dribbling from his nose before he swayed and collapsed on top of Draco. He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe.

Potter loomed over Draco and Smith, eyes burning, chest heaving. A tiny half-circlet of fresh blood glinted on the bottom of the saucepan that Potter still had raised high, like he was prepared to bring it down again.

Draco’s heart pounded like a war drum as he stared up at Potter, who returned the stare with an inscrutable look on his face.

“Are you alright?” asked Potter quietly, setting the pan back on the island. He leaned down and balled his hands in the blood-soaked material of Smith’s shirt before heaving the dead weight off of Draco with a grunt.

For a moment, Draco could only stare between Potter and the lifeless body next to him, still warm. He was in utter and total disbelief about what had just happened. Tonight...tonight he had purged.

He had purged with Potter. Someone had tried to kidnap him, to kill him tonight. He had...he had killed someone tonight, he had…

Rough hands on his shoulders startled him from his thoughts. “Are you alright?” Potter asked again, more urgently as his hands passed over Draco’s body. “Is any of this blood yours? Malfoy!”

“I’m...I’m fine,” said Draco in a daze, though he doubted that he would ever be fine again.

His breath caught in his throat as he met Potter’s gaze. His eyes were wild like a tempest, like they had been earlier in the hallway, and again when he was beating Smith with his fists. His hands were still on Draco, heavy weights scorching through his sweat-and-viscera-soaked tee shirt. For a moment, they stared at each other, energy crackling between them.

The mania in Potter’s eyes ebbed, giving way to a deep, dangerous darkness. Draco barely had time to think before Potter crawled over the cooling corpse separating their bodies and crushed their mouths together. Draco’s world view narrowed to just one point: Potter, only his body, his lips, the faint, coppery taste of blood, the heat of his mouth, the promise in his kiss.

Draco let out a moan as Potter pulled his soaked shirt off with ease, green eyes ablaze as he devoured Draco’s flesh with his gaze. With a forceful shove, Draco’s back hit the cold tile floor, a gasp on his lips. Fingers clawed at flesh and fumbled with buttons and zippers as Potter swept Draco up in the waves of his devout attention, as intense and unyielding as the sea.

Draco trembled with need as Potter raked his eyes over his naked body. His gaze fell below Potter’s waist; he couldn’t stifle his sharp inhale: Potter was fucking hung.

With a salacious lick of his lips, Potter lunged at him.

“Potter,” sighed Draco, his head thrown back as Potter latched his lips to his neck. He spread his legs invitingly, one hand tangled in Potter’s unruly dark hair as their hips slotted together, and Draco lit up from the inside as he felt just how huge and hard Potter was against him, desire pulsing thickly between them.

“Draco,” said Potter, so low it was nearly a growl. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

Draco let out a shameless moan as Potter punctuated this proclamation with an imperative bite to his jugular. “Yes, god, fuck me now.”

Potter’s eyes met Draco’s. He let out a shaky breath as he reached between his legs to give himself a long, indulgent tug, a look of relief flitting across his face. “Turn over.”

Christ, yes. Draco scrambled to turn over, knees sliding through a pool of congealing fluids as he propped himself up on all fours. He crawled forward for one of the abandoned grocery bags and pulled it towards him, thrusting a bottle of lube back at Potter. “Hurry.”

Potter draped his hot, hard body across Draco’s back, pressing every last defined muscle against him. Draco let out a whimper at the feeling of that enormous cock rubbing at the cleft of his arse, and again as Potter pulled his earlobe between his teeth. “Gonna eat your pretty little arse out,” he murmured, kneading Draco’s arse cheeks apart possessively. “Don’t come.”

Heat thrummed through Draco and he slammed his eyes shut, willing himself not to climax on the spot. “Oh, god.”

Potter’s lips, teeth, and tongue travelled the length of Draco’s spine, and he thought he might break apart with sheer need when Potter spread him wide. Hot breath ghosted over his exposed hole, then Potter pressed his face in and gave him a long, torturous lick, and the synapses in Draco’s brain exploded.

“Ah, yes!” he cried, shuddering and spreading his legs wider still, forehead lolling against the filthy floor as Potter licked and sucked and tongued at him, groaning and panting against Draco’s wet, clenching hole like he was loving it.

Draco tilted his lead, looking down through his legs so he could see Potter’s incredible body framed by his trembling thighs, so he could see own cock drooling strands of precome onto the blood-slick floor. Potter’s mouth was heaven, and he ate Draco with the intensity and concentration that he implemented in all of his endeavors.

Draco reached for his heavy erection when Potter pointed his talented tongue and thrust the muscle inside of him, but Potter slapped his hand away.

“No,” he growled, smacking his arse hard enough to sting wickedly. “You will not touch yourself.”

Draco let out a noise of protest which quickly gave way to a loud moan as Potter slid a slick finger inside of him, all the way in on the first go. Instinctively, Draco clenched, but Potter just exhaled and grabbed a handful of Draco’s plump arse cheek as he pumped his finger in and out, in and out.

“God, Potter,” gasped Draco, back arching, fingers scrabbling against the slippery floor as he tried to adjust to the intrusion.

“You can take it,” murmured Potter, wriggling his finger inside, searching until he found--

”Potter!” Draco convulsed violently and cried out, trying to close his knees as Potter crooked his finger again and rubbed that spot that made stars burst behind his eyes.

With a growl, Potter splayed his free hand between Draco’s shoulder blades and pushed down, forcing his face against the floor before pulling him up by the hips. He was vicious and demanding as he worked Draco open, and Draco ached with the bliss, the frustration of just taking what Potter gave him, his blood humming with wild adrenaline, the slide of his knees through tacky viscera on the floor mirroring the inexorable, slick slide of Potter’s fingers in and out of his body.

“So tight.” Potter extricated his fingers, and Draco vibrated insatiably as he listened to the filthy squelch of Potter lubing his prick. He strained his neck in desperation, trying to get a glimpse, because he wanted to see, he needed to see…

Like he knew what Draco was silently craving, Potter roughly gripped Draco’s sweat-damp thigh and turned him onto his back, spreading his legs wide.

The look on Potter’s face knocked the breath from Draco’s lungs.

His green eyes glowed with filthy intent, his focus on one thing and one thing only: Draco. He descended upon Draco, pressing pale shoulders to the floor. Draco let himself be arranged, staring openly at Potter’s spectacular body, gorgeous muscles rippling as he positioned Draco’s body to his liking. For a moment, Draco felt regret for not having taken the time to explore Potter’s body with his mouth, but that thought evaporated at the insistent press of Potter’s thick, hard cock at his sloppy, wet hole. Draco gasped through clenched teeth and grabbed Potter’s arm.

“So tight,” repeated Potter, voice strained as he pushed Draco’s thighs even wider. “So fucking tight for me, Malfoy. Fuck. Wanted you like this for so long.”

Draco’s eyes fluttered shut as he gave himself over to the thrill of Potter’s words, to the white-hot pleasure-pain of Potter stretching him. Oh, god, he was so big. Draco whimpered, doubting for a moment that he could take it all, wanting more at the same time.

Potter’s hips stilled, and calloused fingers roughly gripped Draco’s jaw so forcefully that he wondered fleetingly if it would bruise. “Open your eyes, Malfoy.”

Dazed, Draco obeyed, his body a live wire. Potter stared down at him, electrocuting him with his gaze. “That’s it, look at me,” he commanded, rolling his hips, pushing his length deeper.

Draco arched his back and moaned, his own neglected cock pulsing hot precome onto his quivering abdomen. “Christ,” he sighed brokenly, wrapping his aching thighs around Potter’s waist, urging him closer. “Potter, mmm, yes…”

“Feels good, huh,” growled Potter, his voice hoarse and deep. “Fucking hell, your slutty little arsehole was made for my cock.”

“Fuck.” Draco dug his fingernails into Potter’s bulging biceps, heat spiking in his belly at Potter’s filthy words. “Keep fucking talking, you beast.”

Potter’s eyes blazed like hellfire and, for a moment, Draco was surprised when he bared his teeth and closed a hand around Draco’s throat. “Shut the fuck up, Malfoy.”

God help him, Draco moaned at the order, his eyes rolling back in his head as Potter thrust in hard, so deep. He almost passed out as he felt every last, gorgeous, blood-hot inch of Potter throbbing inside his body, the pleasure only heightened by the rough squeeze of Potter’s hand on his throat.

“Knew you always wanted this,” Potter nearly cooed, driving Draco closer to a soul-crushing climax with every adept swivel of his hips. Someone screamed in the distance, followed by cheers. “Knew you needed to be put in your fucking place. But fucking hell, if I’d known all it would take to shut you up was a big fat cock up your arse, I would have held you down and had you ages ago.”

“God, that’s so good,” gasped Draco, eyes rolling back in his head as a slow-burning ecstasy simmered deliciously in his gut. “You, fuck so good.”

“Like that, do you? Now...tell me...” Potter’s breaths were coming in hard pants, palms hot and sweaty on Draco’s flesh. “What was it like?”

His wicked green eyes bored into Draco’s glassy, vulnerable grey ones. “Killing someone?”

Unwelcome shame and fear crept into Draco’s arousal, jarring him from the moment. Unable to take it, he broke their eye contact. “Christ, you’re so fucked up,” he gasped, heat prickling his face.

Crazed, Potter released his hold on Draco’s neck and gripped his jaw once more, forcing their eyes to meet as he set a brutal pace with his hips. “Tell me.”

Draco slid his hands up sweat-slick, muscled shoulders and tangled them in Potter’s thick, wild hair, as though tethering himself to reality. “God, oh god, Potter, it was….ah, it was...hmm, terrible.”

“Go on.”

Draco cried out, helpless to stop the words from bursting forth from within, like blood gushing from a jagged wound. “It was...scary, and wild. And...ah, it was terrifying. But p-powerful.”

Potter smashed their lips together in a bruising kiss. Draco whimpered into his mouth and clawed feverishly at his back, overwhelmed by Potter: the smell of his sweat, the weight of his body, the sound of his voice, and the mind-numbing sensation of his thick cock, steadily pumping in and out, plunging deep, so deep, striking Draco’s prostate, taking him apart from the inside, piece by piece and fuck, it was perfect, so perfect.

Potter repositioned himself seamlessly to grab Draco’s arms and hold them over his head, leaning all of his weight into Draco’s wrists, pinning them painfully to the floor. “Fuck, yes. Just like that. God, I want to see you come. Fuck, come, Draco.”

Draco let out a desperate sob, exquisite pain suffusing him as he hurtled towards what was surely either madness or ecstasy.

“You’re mine now, you know,” said Potter lowly. “I fucking own you. I hope this is what you want, because, oh god, now that I’ve had you…”

“I want it,” gasped Draco desperately, tipping his head back as Potter’s mouth ravaged his bruised neck. “I want you.”

“Good.” Potter’s hands tightened around Draco’s wrists. “Because I’m going to fuck you all night long, all over this bloody apartment, until you can’t look anywhere without remembering how I fucked you there.”

Lust ripped through Draco like wildfire as Potter panted against his ear, “Gonna fuck you all through Purge Night, until you’re gasping and crying and you’re convinced there’s no more come in that lovely little prick of yours, gonna keep fucking you while the sirens blare and the--”

“Oh Jesus fucking god, not gonna last, oh fucking hell,” babbled Draco, voice cracking and eyes squeezing shut.

“Look at me,” commanded Potter. “Look at me when you come.”

Draco bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he forced his unfocused eyes open, knowing he would no longer be able to hold back the aching tension that had been building within him if he were to look into Potter’s face, and he was right--their gazes met. Potter was otherworldly, like a demon coming for his soul, plush lips parted, a sheen of sweat on his scarred forehead, a look of open pleasure and violent delight on his face that sent Draco flying over the precipice.

“I’m coming,” gasped Draco, delirious, fingers twisting as his back bowed off the floor. “Oh--fucking hell, Potter, I’m coming.”

“That’s it, Draco, come on my cock.” Potter’s hips stuttered briefly before he plunged himself back inside Draco’s clenching arsehole, and when his hands abandoned Draco’s wrists to close tightly, too tightly around his neck, Draco let out a ragged scream as he came and came and came like he’d never come before, in gut-clenching, toe-curling waves, stars bursting behind his eyes as his untouched cock erupted, shooting thick, hot ropes of come all over his stomach and chest, all over Potter’s lovely abdomen, the pearly white fluid shining gorgeously on Potter’s dark skin.

Potter’s labored breathing sped up as he bore down, nearly crushing Draco’s windpipe with the force of his grip, watching him fall to pieces beneath him. He fucked into Draco so hard that tears pricked his eyes, driving impossibly deep to coax more come from his spent cock, the overstimulation so much, too much--Draco gagged and scratched at Potter’s forearms, but just as he thought he could take no more, Potter let out a low, feral grunt, stilled, and shook violently as he came deep inside of Draco.

Draco whimpered when Potter pulled out suddenly, too soon. He blushed furiously as Potter’s copious, hot release started to dribble wetly from his body. With a throaty groan, Potter pushed Draco’s trembling thighs apart and swept his fingers through the mess before pushing his come back inside Draco’s sore, abused hole.

Draco inhaled sharply at the burn, brow furrowing as he looked up at Potter. His face had softened considerably, but there was still a darkness there, something possessive, and if Draco hadn’t just spent himself entirely, he would have been keen to roll over and let Potter fuck him again right then and there, like an animal on the sticky, blood-spattered floor, next to the stiff bodies of their attackers.

Attackers they had purged. Together.

As the weight of all that had happened that night settled over Draco, his stomach flipped. He was both excited and horrified by how much had changed in the span of a few hours.

“Potter,” he said, swallowing thickly.

“Hmm,” Potter hummed, still kneeling between Draco’s legs, his fingers circling his hole absently, pushing the evidence of his pleasure back inside him whenever it tried to trickle out.

Realizing he had no idea what he wanted to say, or rather, where to start, Draco propped himself up on his elbows and regarded the man who had just owned him, inside and out, with curiosity. “I--”

“Don’t say anything,” interrupted Potter, ceasing the rub of his fingers. He stood with a groan, reaching down to help Draco to his feet before pulling their sticky bodies flush and staring into Draco’s eyes. “Come take a bath with me.”

“What about--”

“Don’t worry about them,” Potter said with a dismissive glance over his shoulder, the cold detachment in his voice sending shivers up Draco’s spine. “Let’s have a bath. Then let’s have a drink. Then I’ll fuck you again, right up against those windows, so you can watch the city burn while I make you come all over the glass.”

Draco shuddered as the weak beginnings of new desire sparked in his groin. “That’s a lot of promises, Potter...I do hope you can keep up.”

Potter slapped his arse and headed towards the bathroom. As he listened to the tub filling, Draco stared out of the window, the fiery destruction and chaos of the city below reflected in his grey eyes as he eagerly thought of Potter and his filthy promises. He bit his lip, shivering, craving.