Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.
– Henry David Thoreau
The first time we tried it, I gave him too much. I thought he'd need it – a big strapping Auror like that, not to mention the way he throws off Imperio as if it were a child's lisped Jinx. But no, he drank it down, then babbled like a baby, the individual words hardly distinguishable amongst the unceasing flow of truthtruthtruth. His eyes were alarmingly glassy, then he started to shake, and I took him home and stuck him on the sofa under a Warming Charm until the stream of nonsense slowed, then stuttered to a halt. I suppose ten drops were a little excessive when the recommendation is three.
The second time, I got the dosage right, but I was frustratingly unprepared for how it would affect me. Harry had only been talking for a couple of minutes before I had to drag him outside, Apparate us both home and have him, right there against the wall of my hallway, his sounds and my grunts mingling together and echoing off the parquet floor.
It was the way they looked at him, those Muggles. I knew exactly what they were thinking, their sleazy thoughts plastered all over their piggish faces. They thought they were going to get to touch him, to do the things I do to him. And how they stared... as if they'd never heard such things before. Well, they probably hadn't. Harry gave them an earful all right, his words hot and rousing even as his cheeks flushed with that delicious mix of shame and desire.
I had to get him away – I had had no idea how I would feel, the hot flares of fury in my chest warring with the sick clench of my throat as he spoke, his eyes shiny from the Veritaserum, his smile shy and wanton at the same time. I wasn't ready. It was too much. I took him home and fucked him till I couldn't fuck him any longer, till he was boneless, just a limp shape, not able to do much more than whimper. Then I tied him to my bed and left him there, come dripping from his arse, while I sat in my armchair and soothed my shaken nerves, taking long, slow sips from a tumbler of whisky, and watching over him.
This is the third time, and this time I have it all planned out. Everything is going to be perfect.
“Wear that green shirt.”
“You know it's too tight.”
I run my fingers along his shoulder, down over his jutting bicep. I watch in the mirror as a shiver travels along his skin, raising goosebumps as it goes. “Wear it anyway.”
He frowns at me, but slips the dark green fabric over his skin and begins to pull the buttons closed across his chest.
Of course it's too tight. That's the point of it.
“Are you wearing that?” He nods at my reflection, the grey shirt with silver embroidery along the cuffs and collar.
“Nah, you can get away with it. Do I need to shave?” he asks.
“No, no.” I lean in to let my lips skate across his jaw dark with stubble, savouring the scratch of it.
His fingers fumble the final button closed and then he gives himself a quick once over in the mirror.
“Nervous?” I ask.
His eyes dart to mine. “No.”
My fingers brush across the hair that curls at the nape of his neck. I speak close to his ear, the smell of his skin almost making me dizzy. “I think you are.”
“I think you are.”
I wet my lips. “Watch it.”
“It wasn't me who chickened out last time.”
“I did not chicken out. I was... unprepared for the situation.”
His eyes are amused, glittering with that spark of impudence that is usually lurking somewhere.
I give a quick tug at the lock of hair, watching as his face twists briefly. “I'm ready this time.” My hands move to his front, to undo the button he'd fumbled over. I tweak the collar apart to expose his throat and consider the effect in the mirror, then slip another button free. His collarbone is revealed as he turns his head, and a fuzz of black hair peeks above the fabric of the shirt. Sublime.
“This time, you can tell them everything,” I say.
His throat bobs again, but his eyes are steady as they meet mine.
“Look at you.” My hands come to rest, heavy, on his shoulders. “Showing off your body like this.” His chest swells with a breath and the buttons strain. “You're so bad, Harry.” I can feel his body trembling, can sense without looking that he's getting hard inside his jeans. I let the words drip into his ear. “So bad. You want everyone to know just how bad you are, don't you?”
He shivers as my lips brush his skin. “Oh, god.”
“You do want this.” It's not really a question.
He nods, and a small noise escapes from his throat, like a rising note of panic.
“Then let's go.” But I'm the one stalling, now. My fingers slip into his open shirt, trace that glorious line of his collarbone and then move up until his throat rests in the V of my thumb and forefinger. I leave my hand there, just below where the sharp stubble begins. Just lightly pressing against his Adam's apple. I watch his face. The defiance of it, the challenge that lies there, and the way his pupils are dilated and sweat is prickling across his top lip. Fear, or arousal? Or both. He told me once that he seldom truly felt one without the other.
His throat moves against my fingers. Mine, says the sweet throb of my pulse. Mine, mine, mine.
His lips part and his eyes flutter closed for a moment, and before they're open again, I've Apparated us away to the street behind the club.
“Those ones, there?” Harry asks, as I turn him around so he's facing their table, with me moving behind him on the dance floor, our bodies fitting together like a hand and a glove.
“Yes.” I don't know why I picked them. Well, I do. Because I saw the surge of interest in the dark-haired one's eyes as soon as Harry came in, walking as he does with insolent grace. It was only me who could feel Harry wound like a spring as I brushed my fingers across the back of his hand. I chose this man because I saw his eyes flick to me, then back to Harry, as if to say, How did he manage to pull that? Because I want to teach him a lesson.
As if he could have Harry. Him, with his thin lips and his stupid floppy hair. His smug chest pushing out the ugly V-necked sweater. As if Harry would ever look at him, unless I told him to. Which I do, now, speaking low into his ear and grinding against his arse. “Smile at them.” Sparks shoot down my thighs as I let him feel my cock pushing up against his perfect backside, encased in denim. “That big ugly one. He likes you.”
I pull Harry's arms back and roll my hips so that my cock slides across the cleft of his arse. He moans a little and lets his head fall back against my shoulder. He smells like heaven, fresh and warm and spicy.
“Smile,” I tell him.
“I am,” he says, his voice thick, the bass travelling through the soles of my boots and up my spine, and Harry's smiling the lop-sided smile that makes my stomach tighten, slow and sexy, right at that Muggle wanker, and I'm this close to yanking him around to face me and Apparating us both the fuck out of here again.
Harry murmurs, “I can't believe you're going to make me go through with this again. Merlin. You're such a bastard.” But the way he says it – the wonder in his voice. Like it's all he's ever dreamed of. And so I lead him to the table, still smiling, and the Muggles both seem quite delighted when I ask if we can join them, and order us all a round of drinks. I slip Harry the Veritaserum then and there, right under their noses, and he drinks it down like a lamb.
Harry's knee is bouncing up and down, jittering between my thigh and the table, making our drinks wobble. I can't imagine why he's wound so tightly. I only fed him five drops this time, and I've hardly touched on anything interesting at all so far in the conversation with these boring pricks. They're giving us their whole attention, though. We've certainly caught their eye, what with the dancing, and the way Harry looks as though he's fizzing with feverish anticipation.
“So what are you guys into, then?” asks the dark one. He's called something bloody awful – Tristan, I think it was. He looks from Harry to me, then back again. “Did you come here looking for something... special?”
He's done my work for me. Harry's eyes are wide and bright with nerves.
“Yes. Something a little bit special.” I can feel it's going to be OK this time – there's a thrum of excitement building in the base of my spine. It's going to be so good. “Harry... he likes to share.”
Tristan's eyes flash and he leans forward. “Oh, he does, does he?”
I nod. “Yes. He loves it. And I... I like to watch him.” I tilt my head to one side. I fancy I can see the cogs turning in Tristan's mind.
He glances to his companion, a smirk creeping along his mouth. “Oh, we like the sound of that, don't we, Simon?”
Simon wipes his hands on his jeans. He's younger than the other one – skinnier, and sandy-haired. He looks as if he's in way over his head, but he nods.
Of course they do. This whole club is full of perverts. Everyone trying to hook up with everyone else, swapping partners as if they were animals, and pawing at one another where everyone can see. We had to come here, though. It couldn't be some wizarding place. Not with Harry being who he is.
I can feel Harry's knee bouncing against mine. Twitch, twitch. His knuckles are pale where he's digging his fingers into his leg.
“And what specifically does Harry like to do?” Tristan thinks he's so clever, with one eyebrow arched. “Does he talk, by the way?”
I can't help but snort. “Oh, yes, he talks. That's one of the best things about him.”
I can see the tendons of Harry's neck standing out with the strain of not talking, not blurting out every thought that comes into his head. His jaw looks hard and dangerous, tense and heavy with stubble, but there's such a tempting softness to his lips, a vulnerability, that part of me wants to sweep him up and tuck him away somewhere safe.
Part of me. The rest of me wants this.
“Why don't you tell these gentlemen what it is you like to do, Harry?”
His face twitches into a grimace. He can still resist it, then. At least a little. I think I like it best when he's still trying to fight it. I make a mental note about the dose for next time.
I can already tell there's going to be a next time.
“Come on, Harry; don't be shy.” An intoxicating mixture of feelings is rushing around my chest, making my heart thump. I feel gloating. Eager. Hungry for it.
Harry shoots me a look at that makes me glad he never quite mastered the wandless Unforgivable. That shirt really is fabulously tight, especially when his muscles are rigid like that. I can see his nipples, clamouring for attention as they push against the fabric. He's so close to losing the control that he's straining to keep hold of. He only needs a tiny push to fall over the edge.
If Tristan leant any further forward he would practically be sitting in my lap. He tried to arrange things when we sat down so that he was next to Harry, but I put a stop to that. Simon licks his lips nervously.
“Harry.” My voice has an edge to it, now. “What do you like? Tell them the truth.” As if he could do anything else with that hellish stuff rampaging around his veins. “Tell them what we did last night.”
A twisted sound rises from Harry's throat.
“What did we do, Harry?”
His voice sounds rough, as if it had to force its way over barbed wire. “I went to Ron and Hermione's.” His teeth clamp together again. Oh, he thinks he's so artful.
“Not then. Later.”
His eyes flick up to mine. He doesn't need to speak. You bastard. I can hear it, clear as a bell.
“What did we do when you got back to mine, Harry?”
“Nngh. We. We had a drink.”
“Yes. We had a little drink. And then. What did I do?”
“You― you told me. Told me to undress.”
Simon is looking very unsure, but Tristan drinks it all in.
“Why did I do that?”
“Because― oh god. Because you like to look at me.”
I nod, a smile spreading across my face. “Yes, Harry, I do. I like it very much. Tell your new friends what happened then.”
“I― you made me turn around.”
“Mmm.” My hand reaches for his knee, pats it. “Why?”
“So you could― oh, hell, Draco.” His chest is rising and falling, and I fear for the buttons on that shirt. “You told me to― show myself to you.”
“Which part of yourself?”
“All― all of myself. Everything.”
It's hot in here. Harry's fringe is sticking to his forehead. Simon looks like he feels slightly ill, but then again, he's not going anywhere. Tristan's face is a revolting leer.
Harry looks at me. At my mouth. My throat. His eyes are slightly unfocused. I guess that he's trying to pretend it's just me and him here. I didn't think this basic stuff would give him so much trouble, I must say. Doesn't he realise we've barely got started?
His lips are dry. “My arsehole, OK?”
Tristan lets out a shocked laugh.
I frown. “Do you think this is funny?”
Tristan sucks in one cheek. “Well, not funny, exactly, but it is rather—”
“We can leave.”
“No. Stay.” He frowns. “Sorry.”
I turn away from the idiot, back to Harry. “What did I say to you then? When you showed me.”
There's a deep flush rising up from his chest. Another stifled noise at the back of his throat. “Hmmfff.”
“You said, Beautiful.”
I don't know why that's making him squirm. It did last night, too, his little pucker twitching as he held his arse-cheeks open for me to see, rosy and delightful.
Simon crosses his legs. I don't know if he thinks that's going to hide the fact that he's got a hard on the size of the Astronomy Tower. He clears his throat. “Christ. I need another drink.”
I expect we all do. I signal for the waiter. “The same again.”
I smile with satisfaction. I feel like a beneficent host who's about to treat his guests to something really special. “Tell us some more. After that. Where did we go?”
“We went upstairs.” He thinks he's safe with that one.
“How did we go upstairs?”
“I― oh, fuck. You― you made me crawl.”
My smile stretches wide. I think even a tosser such as Tristan will appreciate this. “Go on.”
“On my hands and knees. I crawled upstairs― naked.” He wets his lips and with each word it feels like a little bit of resistance is being washed away. “You walked behind me.” He shuts his eyes. “Watching.”
It was so delicious. The rhythm of his shoulderblades, tensing and relaxing as he climbed the stairs. The curves of his arse, high and round, dimpling and flexing, just for me. Except now these Muggles can see it, too, in their minds' eye, I'll bet.
Tristan just sits there, the arrogant sod. “That must have been a fine sight.” He winks at me.
I sip my drink. It's terrible Muggle stuff – vodka, I think it's called, but it's cold, and whatever it's mixed with is tangy and tart on my tongue. “Oh, it was. I expect you would have liked to have seen it.”
I wonder if he thinks it looks attractive when he winks like that. He does it again. “Perhaps I'll be lucky enough, later.”
Simon looks at Tristan, then Harry. Like he can't decide whether this is the best or the worst thing that's ever happened to him. Do they really think I would allow them to—
But I mustn't get distracted. I want to keep things moving, get Harry's words flowing fast and free until we're all breathless with it.
“And did you like it?” I ask. “Crawling like that? Knowing I was looking? Knowing I could see everything?”
Harry closes his eyes again for a moment. His lashes are so black. “Yes.”
“Did you like being treated like that?”
“Yes.” His voice is quiet, and he stares at his knees.
“Did it make you hard?”
His eyes flick to mine. There's a defiant boldness there beneath the discomfort. “Yes.”
I pause. He's so gorgeous like this. I can never get enough of him. “Did you love it?”
“Yes, Draco.” His cheeks are burning, but his eyes are dark and full of heat. “I fucking loved it.”
Simon is shifting in his seat. Tristan's quiet for once. Good. He should have some fucking respect when Harry is talking. I doubt they'll ever be lucky enough to hear sincerity like this again, blazing through the dingy air of the club, pure and fierce. I let the silence hang there, relishing the charge that I can feel crackling around the table.
The grubby smile is creeping across Tristan's face again and he takes a deep draught of his drink. “Tell us some more, why don't you, Harry? What else does... Draco, is it? Peculiar name. What else do you two get up to?”
Harry looks at me, not sure whether I'll want him to answer or not, but the bloody potion has his tongue in its grip all right. “He gets me to suck him off under my desk at work,” he blurts.
Tristan and I both laugh at that one, and even Simon cracks a nervous smile.
“Oh, does he, now?” Tristan raises both eyebrows. “You're a lucky boy, Draco. And what do you do for work, then, Harry?”
Harry looks at me anxiously, but he can no sooner stop himself answering than Simon can stop his dick tenting his trousers. “I'm an Auror.”
“An Auror, I'm a—”
I interrupt hastily. “An A.U.R.A. It stands for something terribly dull to do with accountancy.”
Harry frowns. “No, that's not it, I—”
Bloody hell, the Veritaserum certainly does demand the truth and nothing but the truth. I lean over and cover Harry's mouth with mine abruptly. I can feel his lips and tongue still pushing out the words as I kiss him. I swallow them all and carry on, longer than I probably need to, my chest filling with hunger and a wild sort of pride, until I feel the tension dropping away from Harry's body, his mouth softening beneath mine, little sounds building in his throat. I kiss him until my own cock is pressing painfully hard against the seams of my trousers.
“Fuck.” Tristan's braying voice interrupts. “You two are incredibly hot. What do you say we finish these drinks and take this somewhere else?”
I pull back from Harry. His pupils are so wide. I can see myself reflected in them, the angles of my face softened and hazy. I answer without turning away from him.
“No,” I say quietly, my breath puffing against Harry's cheek. “I'll decide when we're done here. And Harry wants to talk some more.”
Tristan seems to think he has some say in all of this. That we give a shit what he thinks. I turn to see him curling his lip. “Harry wants to?”
I give a modest little shrug. “Very well, then: I want him to. And Harry wants what I want.”
A flicker of amusement flares in Harry's eyes, but he doesn't demur.
Simon suddenly finds his voice after all. And a thin little thing it is too, though he tries to sound blasé. “Tell us about... the desk. You know. At work.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but his mouth is already forming the words, stumbling over itself in its haste to tell. “He turns up when I'm at work. He never gives me any notice. Sometimes it's two days in a row. Sometimes not for weeks. He always wears his robes, buttoned right up to the neck, and he sits in my chair and I—” He stops to gulp air for a moment, but the words keep flooding out. “I get onto the floor and kneel down and then he unbuttons his robes, very slowly, while I wait under my own fucking desk, and I want him so fucking much I'm shivering with it. I take him into my mouth and he just sits there, like a bloody prince, while I suck him until he comes, and then he does up all his poncy bastard buttons again and leaves.”
I'm getting jolts of pleasure running up my spine just from listening. I'm so proud of him. He's so very beautiful when he's telling people that he's mine. I can practically feel his mouth on me, picture the way he spreads my legs to get greater access.
Tristan sniggers. “You don't even get to come? The selfish bugger.”
Harry takes a quick breath. There's sweat beading on his top lip and I long to lean in and lick it off. “I usually bring myself off afterwards. It doesn't take long, put it that way. Sometimes he times it so there's only a couple of minutes before I've got a meeting.“
“Why, though? Why do you do what he says?” Simon's dull, narrow face is creased with confusion.
Harry waves a hand as if it's too obvious even to explain, and I adore him for it. But the Veritaserum will have its wicked way. “Because I love it, of course. You heard me before. It's like – never knowing what he'll think of next. To be thrown off balance – the adrenaline. I find it arousing. And besides, it's hot, kneeling for him. He knows what I like. He knows— “ He stutters over it for a minute, but it must and will come out. “He knows I'm bad. Bad inside. I want― ugh.” His face twists. “Filthy things. He knows.” He ducks his head down, as if that will prevent the words from pouring out for us to hear. “I can lose myself with him. He gives me what I need.”
A hot glow is lapping at my chest, making me feel as flushed as Harry looks. I want him so badly. I want to take him, right here, on this table, its surface sticky from spilled drinks, with these Muggles watching and gawping. I want them to see how he lights up when I'm fucking him, how all of that latent power comes to life and nearly dazzles me. How he lets me do anything. How he craves it. I want them to know that he is mine, inside and out.
“Filthy things?” Tristran is smirking again. “Such as...?”
I hardly need to be involved in this, it seems, now I've set the cauldron bubbling. I can sit back and watch, as Harry exposes himself so obligingly for them. For me. The hint of reluctance makes his enticing verbal striptease all the more compelling. The Muggles are on the edge of their seat waiting to hear what will come next. I lean back and let my legs fall open, wondering if anyone would actually care if I just reached down and palmed my cock as I'm longing to do. Let's be honest here – as we're all probably longing to do.
His voice is low but still quite clear. Nobody noticed me casting a charm to keep the sound of the music to a minimum at our table. It's as if it's just us four in the room, and the only thing that matters is Harry and his forcibly liberated mouth, the words spilling out, seductive as honey.
“I like it when he makes me crawl. When he ties me up and takes whatever he wants. When he has me come into his study and kneel with his cock in my mouth, just holding it there, not moving, the taste and the smell of him filling my nose and mouth, while he sits there and writes letter after letter. I sit there till I'm aching and my jaw is stiff, till my mouth fills with saliva from the wanting and the waiting. But I love it.” The open-necked shirt shows off the mottled pink of his chest and neck, and he grabs at his drink to take a long swallow, as though his throat is burning with the debauchery of it.
“Yes. More,” I say.
“He likes to watch me wank. To get me to finger myself. To use—” His breath is painfully uneven. “A― A dildo. To fuck myself. To get me right to the edge and― and make me stop. Again and again. Until I start to lose it. Until I beg. And then he just laughs and tells me he might let me come if I― oh, shit. If I kiss his Dark Mark.”
Tristan looks amused. “His what?”
“Ignore that bit, if you want to hear any more.” I say. “And do you, Harry? Do you kiss it?”
His mouth looks perfect, so soft and open, poised ready to answer. He can't resist giving me what I want. He never can. His eyes flash at me, deep green with just a hint of steel. “You know I do.”
I wish I could live in this moment forever. They've no idea what this even means, these ignorant Muggles, but I know. I know what it means for him to kneel and kiss the twisted shape on my arm, when he's trembling with the need to come, his cock engorged an angry red and dripping onto the floor. I know what it means for him to run his tongue along the snake's cruel curves and then put his own warm lips to the cold, lifeless mouth of the death's head. And he told them, just like that, gave it to them like a gift, let them hear exactly how far I can push him, if I have a mind to.
Harry's talking without even being prompted now, the momentum of it carrying him on. “Sometimes I think he could make me do anything he wants. He even got me to pinch the Veritaserum from work, so that we could—”
I kiss him again, tasting the alcohol on his tongue and stealing his breath before he can stomp on the Statute of Secrecy any more and leave it in little broken bits on the floor. I have a feeling he's going to be fairly pissed off when the high from this escapade wears off. Senior Aurors are not supposed to sit around in Muggle clubs, half-flying on potions and cheap drink, blurting out secrets. But I don't care. He's so divine when he's furious, anyway. He kisses me back, fierce and needy and I can feel how wound up he is by all of this, quivering with it. He's going to require such a lot of attention when we get home. But that's fine. I can give him whatever he needs. I can hardly wait to get started.
“One more thing, then, Harry, before it's time to go.”
Tristan's eyes light up at that, the fool.
“Back to last night.” I watch as Harry's face shifts into a lovely picture of embarrassment again. “What else did we do? After you'd been so obliging and crawled upstairs sweetly for me?”
“Oh, hell.” He laughs. “I should have known you'd come back to last night.”
“It's nothing worse than all of the other delightful things you've shared with us.”
His eyes flick to me and away. “Maybe not.”
“The thing is, Harry. I know you want to tell us.”
“You― bloody hell. You made me kiss your boots. And lick them. The leather was wet and shiny – I could see the shape of my body reflected as I bent to do it.” His words are like flames, licking against my skin. “And it felt so good. I was so fucking turned on. I was― I was moaning. I got hard again this morning at work just thinking about it.” One hand goes up to cover his eyes briefly, then he forces it to his lap again, and meets my gaze.
“Fuck, Draco. I know I'm blushing. I can't help it.” He stares at Tristan, then at Simon. “But I'm not―” He comes up short as if his throat has suddenly sealed up. “Hell. I want to say: I'm not ashamed. But the stuff won't let me. I'm not― I'm not― all right, I bloody am ashamed. Shit. At least a bit.” He spits the words out as if they taste bad. “But I don't want to be. I don't think I should be. This is who I am.”
I want to kiss him again. To stand up and shout. But I just nod, with wild curls of glee dancing in my belly. “Yes. This is who you are.”
“Afterwards― you bent me over. Spanked my arse with your hand until it stung. Told me I was― filthy.” His throat sounds sore but there's a smile pulling at his mouth, as if the memory pleases him.
“You are filthy.” I pat his leg, just above the knee where the muscle swells. The heat is radiating off him, through the denim of his jeans.
He's looking right at me now, searing me with the intensity of his attention. “You put your fingers in me. You hardly got me wet at all. Just enough to push your cock inside.”
“I could feel every single inch. Every single little movement.”
“I was on the bed. On all fours for you. You fucked me like... I don't know what. I can still feel it.” His eyes are full of promise and desire. I don't know what Tristan and Simon are doing. Sitting there with their tongues hanging out and their hands in their pants, probably, but I don't take my eyes from Harry's for one moment.
“You fucked me until I couldn't remember who I was. Till I felt like nobody.”
“You are nobody,” I say, and I stroke along his jaw with my thumb.
“I came at some point. Possibly more than once. I'm not even sure.” His face is so serious now. Reverent. “Then you pulled out and turned me over. Laid me on my back. And came all over me.”
I smile. “Yes.”
“It― Jesus, it went everywhere.” He shakes his head. “It kind of splattered. On my chest. My stomach. In my hair. On my cheek. Some went in my eye.”
I give a little pout. “That was a shame.”
He laughs. “You dick. It stung like hell.” He smiles that Harry-smile. Slow and sultry, like an irresistible pull to the groin. I think we're very nearly done here. I'm just reaching my hand around, to cup his arse, slide my fingers between the denim and the leather of the seat, when that fucker Tristan leans right over me, puts his hand on Harry's thigh, and squeezes.
“How about the four of us moving on, yes?”
My wand is in my hand before I'm even aware of it and I can feel a spell start to crackle on the tip of my tongue when Harry's hand curls around my wrist, strong and steady. “Don't.”
I speak lightly, as if I couldn't care less. “How about you get your fucking hands off Harry?” I imagine my wand digging in to the soft flesh of Tristan's over-fed throat, twisting the point of it until I see tears pricking at his eyes. I imagine him screaming in pain as his flesh starts to melt off the bone.
Tristan makes a sour little face, but he lifts his hand pretty sharpish all the same. “I rather thought that was the point of this.”
“You thought wrong. Did you seriously think I'd let you touch him? He's shared far more with you tonight than either of you deserve.” I can't quite keep my voice as steady as I would like. “You haven't the slightest idea what a privilege it is to hear the things you heard, have you? You disgusting Mu—”
Harry's fingers tighten on my wrist. “Enough.”
Tristan is scowling. “Where do you two get off, playing this game?”
Harry lets a cheeky smile sneak across his face. “Well, not here, clearly.” He turns to me. “Do you think this needs an Obliviate?”
I shake my head, even though I'd dearly like to watch him cast, to see that compelling look of focus on his face, and Tristan's face slipping into insensibility. “They're not worth your time.”
Harry's shrugging on his jacket, smiling first at the Muggles in half-hearted apology, and then at me, something a little more rousing. Merlin, I want him. Now.
“Well, thank you so much, gentlemen.” I loop my fingers into Harry's belt, drawing him close. “It was such a pleasant evening.”
Apparition seems too slow. I want to be there in an instant, not endure these endless lurching seconds of darkness and pressure. We tumble onto the rug in front of the fireplace in my bedroom and I wish I had a dozen hands, a dozen mouths, to capture Harry and possess him.
“Why the fuck did you Apparate right in front of them?”
I pin his arms above his head and cover him with my body, needing to own every inch of him again. “Obviously, I couldn't wait.”
“You're such a wanker. What are they going to think?” He's squirming beneath me, but I can feel the swell of his erection pushing against his jeans.
“They'll think they were drunk.” My hands can't work fast enough on his buttons. “And I don't fucking care what they think, anyway.”
He makes a sound like a growl, but I'm too busy pulling at his clothes, mouthing and biting at his skin, pinning him against the rough pile of the wool rug. I suck in breaths between greedy kisses which have nothing to do with tenderness. I ache as if I've been hard for a week. His shirt is half off and he's working at the buckle of his belt himself, and that will have to do. I straddle his chest and fumble with my own trousers, pulling my cock out with a groan.
“Christ, Draco, yes.” Harry's face is tense with longing. “Now, please, please, now, oh, god, yes, now—”
The Veritaserum is still loosening his tongue. I can fix that problem for him. I let out a low hiss as I slide into the slippery-soft heat of his mouth. He grips my arse with his hands as I thrust in, a little jerky at first, my legs shaking with the intensity of it. He steadies me, wrapping one hand around my thigh and then I'm – oh, fuck – deep in Harry's mouth and moving with a slow, addictive rhythm, watching as his eyes close blissfully.
I let my hands drop to his hair and take handfuls of it, messy and soft. It's so quiet in my room after the endless pounding bass and noisy chatter of the club, and I can hear the sound of Harry unzipping his jeans behind me. I turn my head to see him take out his thick cock, flushed deep pink, and as I watch, he begins to stroke, one fist firmly wrapped around the length. He moans around my erection and I open my legs wider and arch my back, giving every inch to him until I'm buried deep, deep and soft and hot and wet, and at this moment, this is all I'll ever need. He's mine. All mine. Look at him. Fucking look at him. He's mine, and I laugh with relief.
His eyes screw up with pleasure at the feel of his own hand working his cock, then flicker open to look at me as I move above him. He sighs as I slam in, then moans as I pull out. I want to watch him all day, just watch him, and listen to him humming with appreciation as I pause to rub the head over his lips, marking him with my scent.
“Good,” he murmurs. “So good, please, more.”
Tension and heat are building in my thighs, like a simmering, rolling boil. I want to fuck his face, fast and brutal, but I force myself to slow down, let him mouth at my foreskin and run his tongue over the head, his expression intent with need.
The rug is scratchy against my knees, the floor below hard and unyielding, but his lips are creamy-soft, his tongue hot and supple and wicked.
“Look at you now,” I say. “What would they think, if they could see you like this? Your friends. Your colleagues. What would Robards say, if he could see you now, taking my cock like this and lapping up every second of it?”
He closes his eyes and I can hear him rubbing himself faster and more furious than ever.
“You'd love that.” I hiss. “Oh, you'd just love it.” My world is shrinking down to the essentials. His mouth. His eyes. Heat and pleasure, pleasure and heat, intensifying, overwhelming me— “Think how that would be, with everyone watching you on the floor here, sucking cock.”
His body strains in an arc, nearly dislodging me from his chest. Every inch of him pleads for release, and then he's coming, his face contorted and damp. I feel a wet stripe of his come hit my arse. I let him ride it out and then thrust with renewed force between his lips. There's a choking noise and he gags as I hit his throat, but his hands grip my hips and urge me on. I let go... give in to the feeling of urgency that's making my balls clench tight, and use him, just use him. Just how I know he likes it. I can do whatever I like, take what I need, and now I'm coming, too. Wave after wave of hot, rapturous thrills, and with each and every one I feel like I'm flooding his mouth.
“Uhhh... Don't― swallow,” I manage to tell him.
His eyes are wide but he does as I ask.
I come until I feel hollow, letting the last shivers of orgasm fade away, and then pull out. “Keep holding it,” I warn him as he closes his mouth.
I can't describe how it feels to be able to say such things to him and know that he will comply. The sheer heady rush of it.
He looks gloriously uncomfortable, and also rather shy about it. I wish I could make him hold it in his mouth all night; all week. The great Harry Potter, just going about his business with a mouthful of my come. People would know, then. Know that I can do what I please.
I lie down next to him and stroke his throat, admiring the line of it, the jut of his larynx. My body's brimming with lush contentment. Harry's eyes are almost bulging with the effort of not swallowing. His spunk is cold and damp where it splashed across my arse, and I wave my wand vaguely to clean us both up.
“Look at you. You do know that you're filthy.”
His hair is all sweaty. I brush it back from his face.
“What you did tonight. Telling those Muggles all the things you like to do. It was depraved.”
I can't tell whether he's trying not to laugh, or just concentrating on not swallowing.
“And then you just lay down here and let me fuck your face. Wanked yourself off while I used you as a hole for my cock. Filthy. But you love it.” I stroke his cheek again, imagining my spunk cooling within. I kiss him, closed-mouthed, pulling his hair to tilt his head back and give me better access. His acquiescence makes me merciful.
“Go on, then. Swallow it.”
His throat works and he grimaces a bit and wipes his mouth. “Merlin. S'not that nice when it's cold.”
I smile. “Pity.”
I kiss him again, slow and thoughtful. I can taste myself on his tongue. And the salt of his skin. It's warm in front of the fire and I think I could just drift off to sleep right here, with Harry curled around me like a blanket.
“Draco.” His fingers trace the curve of my back. “Tonight was so hot.”
“Mmhmm.” My body is awash with satisfaction. I certainly do have the best ideas.
“I liked telling them. I want people to know.” He props himself up on one elbow. “I wish everyone could know. I wish—”
“Shhh.” I stroke my thumb along his bottom lip. “Hush, now. It must be wearing off soon, surely.”
“It is. I can feel it is. It's not the Veritaserum any more. I just wish we didn't have to be so― secretive, like we're ashamed of—”
“We're not ashamed. We just don't need to brag about it.” I kiss his chest, just above where the dark hair curls.
“I want more than this, though. Sometimes... sometimes I think I'm—”
“Ssshhhh!” The harsh hiss that comes out of my mouth surprises the both of us. But this is all wrong. This is not how it can be. He wants more. What does that even mean? There's a sick jolt in my chest like I missed a step walking downstairs.
If he told anyone about this – what would he even call it, for god's sake? If he told anyone – it would be over. How could we...? Someone would—
No. This can't happen. Ever.
“I do, Draco, I feel like—”
“Be quiet.” I have to calm this agitation in my head. “I don't want to hear it. This is― this is all I want. I don't feel that way about you.”
He's looking me right in the eyes. God, he's probably been Auror-trained to tell truth from lies. At least he's no Legilimens.
I make my voice matter of fact. “You know that it's just sex for me.”
He flinches a bit at that, but keeps looking me in the eye. I need to make this so convincing that he doesn't mention it ever again.
I let a little smirk dance around the edges of my mouth, trying to keep my lips from trembling. “You're a great fuck. Truly. The best.”
He smiles, but it's a poor imitation of his slow and sexy one. His eyes look like someone slid a knife into his guts.
“It's good like this.” I whisper, stroking his face. “Don't spoil it.” And I soothe him after all, and coax him back to arousal, undressing him as I go, and then I have him again, slow and sweet and deep. I go gently, because I know he's still sore from last night. But I take him from behind, so I don't have to see his eyes, liquid and full of ardor.
Afterwards, he's sleepy-sated, and almost unbearably affectionate. I guide him up to my bed, let his dark hair lie across my pillows and even tolerate it as he winds his long limbs around me.
I don't need more. Instead I'll take what I can get. The flash of sheer elation on his face when I use the Invisibility Cloak to get into his office and then suddenly reveal myself. The sight of his body, stretched to the point of pain across my bed and waiting for me, the black ropes standing out stark against his skin. The light in his eye that says, I will never surrender, even as I'm pushing him down on his knees before me.
And sometimes, as now, the chance to watch his face slacken into sleep. His breathing calms, then slows into a steady rhythm like a cat's purr. I love to see his brows and jaw soften, relaxing into something uncensored. He sleeps flat on his back, one knee brought up to the side. Like someone who has never known fear or betrayal.
I know, of course, that I can never flaunt him on my arm as I long to do. Not in the magical world, at least. My dream of leading him down Diagon Alley naked on his hands and knees will have to wait for another lifetime. But I'll watch over him, guard him closely while I have the chance. He stirs, flinging one hand out towards me. I place a kiss on his palm, nuzzling at the sweet scent of his skin, then fold the fingers inward and tuck his hand away under the clean white sheets.
I would have sworn he was sound asleep, but his eyes flick open. “Draco.” His voice is smoky, playful. “Your mother lied once, to save me, did I tell you?”
I don't know why the fuck he's bringing this up, but he's obviously quite pleased with himself, his eyes glinting in the dim lamplight.
“Yeah. She fooled Voldemort. Nearly fooled me, as well.” He gives a half-smile. “You Malfoys.” His lips brush my shoulder. “Maybe next time you should take the Veritaserum.”