Harry sat back in his desk chair, casting a heavy look at the door for what had to be the twentieth time today.
He looked around their empty office, thoroughly bored with the day he’s had so far. Draco was absent today, due to certain… personal issues. Harry suppressed a shiver, trying not to think about it. They’d been partners for a little over five years and when it all started, it had only taken Harry about seven months to develop an all-consuming, embarrassing crush on Malfoy. Malfoy who, after all this time, had become Draco, and who Harry was now pretty much completely, hopelessly in love with.
Lately, thinking about Draco when he was absent only made things worse.
Despite their history and initial antagonism, they turned out to work surprisingly well together. The mutual tension never dissipated or simmered down, just transformed over time into something private, loaded with things unspoken, and skyrocketing in strange moments, like during raids, or when they were alone in the office after hours, or in crowded bars after work. The dull ache needling at the inside of Harry’s chest anytime he looked at Draco for too long had become familiar in the way a person missed something they never had the chance to get.
And then, six months ago, everything had changed. It was a patrol-turned-raid, an unexpected encounter with a pack of neo-Death Eaters in one of the back alleys of wizarding London’s underbelly. They were surrounded in a matter of seconds, thankfully right after Harry had fired a Patronus to get some help. Spells cut the air in whirrs and rumbles and Harry and Draco fought back, taking down one opponent after the other, working in tandem like an efficient machine programmed to defend.
All it took was one stray curse.
They’ve always had each other’s backs and never talked about it—an unspoken bond between two Auror partners that Harry only dared wish to be something more in the dead of the night, in the privacy of his own thoughts. He saw a vicious yellow beam of light charging straight at Draco’s back and threw himself in the way without a second thought, holding up the strongest Protego he could muster. It hit, hard, shattering his defence, though luckily only after it had mitigated the full force of the blast. Everything that followed got very blurry, very fast, and promptly faded to black, accompanied by the pops of their backup’s Apparitions.
To Harry’s puzzlement, they both ended up in St. Mungo’s. But while Harry woke up in the Spell Damage wing, Draco was nowhere to be found. According to the reluctant Healers, Draco was placed on the first floor, in the Creature-Induced Injuries ward. Harry sneaked out there as soon as the staff had started their rounds and found Draco alive and well, albeit slightly uncomfortable and extremely cagey as to the reason for his particular placement.
The last thing Harry had expected to hear was that the Malfoy line had Veela blood.
Apparently, the amount of creature genes present in Draco’s blood in particular was plenty enough to randomly induce a Veela awakening in the middle of a fucking raid, an awakening Draco had expected as much as one expects it to rain frogs. Harry tried very hard to contain himself when in fact, he wanted to bombard everyone around them, and Draco specifically, with an onslaught of questions, including but not limited to: what was going to happen now, how could Draco not know, what did it mean, and why did it happen.
Draco’s answers felt like too much and not enough at the same time; nevertheless, they kept working together, with a few small adjustments.
Harry started noticing the changes about a month after the incident. At first glance, nothing about Draco seemed different, not to an acquaintance or a coworker. To Harry, though, it was torture, a distraction, and a big, big problem, all personified in Draco’s new self. Draco got… prettier, for lack of a better word. Harry would be the last to say Draco wasn’t gorgeous before but now that the Veela genes were active, he was glowing. His hair shined with an almost inner light, his skin seemed paler but also luminous in a way that made it hard not to reach out and touch. He turned heads wherever they went and Harry, in his constant misery, was completely and absolutely fine with that.
The worst part, however, was that Draco had wings.
Logically, on some level, Harry had been aware that Veela had wings, especially the pure-blooded ones, and were able to show them off whenever they pleased. He’d never seen a pair in his life, knowing they were considered somewhat private and not to be flashed in public. Draco had explained that the less Veela blood one had, the more exponentially random having wings was. And then, a week later, Draco’s popped out when they were having after-work beers at Harry’s house.
It’s not that Harry was a creep (he dearly hoped he was not). And it wasn’t wings in general, he supposed. But seeing Draco, pale and perfect, and his wide, terrified eyes at the two additional limbs springing out his back had awakened something in Harry himself. Draco had basically sprinted to Harry’s Floo, hastily thanked him for the drinks, and bolted before Harry had a chance to take a proper look or the wings to fully emerge.
That night, Harry had wanked himself raw and hadn’t stopped thinking about Draco’s wings ever since.
He propped himself up on his elbows, face in hands. Harry knew why Draco wasn’t at work, just like every month when he took a few days off—apparently, Veela went into heat.
Draco. In heat.
Harry suppressed a shiver at the thought, brushing off the images already forming at the forefront of his mind. Thoughts like that never helped—it was just a sure way to a dull, aching feeling in his chest and, sometimes, a painful erection if Harry entertained them for too long. He busied himself with another folder from the pile on his desk, knowing full-well Draco would notice Harry hadn’t done any work while he was absent.
Thoughts of Draco and his newly discovered creature inheritance tormented Harry until the end of the day and reached a culminating point when Draco’s owl pecked at his window later in the evening. Harry opened the laconic note in Draco’s familiar, pointy cursive and frowned. If you’re free, I’d appreciate it if you came over. His idiotic heart sped up a bit but Harry squashed the feeling down as worry slowly crept in—in the last six months, Draco had adamantly refused to see anyone during his heats, least of all Harry. During his… time off (Harry had once, erroneously, called it those days and bore the stinger scar to this day), he’d always barricaded himself in his flat and came back to work three days later as if nothing happened.
The break in the pattern was something new.
“You’re here,” Draco said quietly as soon as Harry stepped through the Floo. He looked as if he had been pacing his living room for the last few days if the bags under his eyes and guarded look he greeted Harry with were any indication.
Harry tilted his head. “I got your note. Are you okay?”
“It’s about my wings,” Draco blurted and stared at Harry with a mix of dread and embarrassment. “I… understand if you want to leave at any point but—” he sighed. “You’re the only person I can trust with this and,” he shrugged helplessly. “Salazar, what was I thinking?”
“Hey,” Harry said and took a step closer. “It’s all right. What’s going on?” He was using all the self-restraint he possessed not to do something reckless, like come closer, or touch Draco’s back. Or kiss him.
Oh, how Harry wanted to kiss him.
“Right,” Draco said and took a deep breath. “Well. It’s a very… personal matter, as you can imagine,” he said and turned around to resume the pacing. “My wings are— They’re causing me problems.” He stopped, and looked at Harry with a serious expression. “And I… require assistance.”
Harry stared. “I don’t understand,” he said blankly while his thoughts raced, utterly confused as to what exactly Draco needed from him.
Draco looked to the ceiling, and then at Harry again, clearly displeased he had to actually spell it out. “As you may know, winged creatures maintain a certain degree of… personal grooming, when it comes to… wings,” he gritted, though his anger didn’t really feel like it was aimed at Harry, rather at the whole world and the conundrum he had found himself in. “And I— I’m having trouble doing it myself. Veela usually have… companions, for that. And— I can’t reach so far behind my back, it’s physically impossible to do it properly, and it’s getting itchy, and they look terrible, and all of this is driving me insane—”
“Whoa,” Harry lifted a hand, “Draco, okay. So—you need me to help you, what, clean your wings? Am I getting it right?” He gulped. “Like, brush them or something?” The very thought of being allowed to even see them, not to mention touch, made Harry’s head spin, made something lurch in his chest, and he could only hope that his hunger didn’t show on his face.
Draco looked utterly miserable. “I wouldn’t normally ask but—”
“I’ll do it,” Harry said simply, careful not to sound too eager. “I’ll, er— I’ll help you. It’s the least I can do.”
“You will?” Draco asked with a hopeful note to his voice. “I—”
“Don’t mention it,” Harry said, silently begging for Draco to mention it. In the future, whenever. To not stuff it in a box they would never open, to make it a habit.
They moved to Draco’s bedroom solely for the sitting space Draco’s king-sized bed was able to provide. Harry was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his hands from shaking—he was going to touch Draco’s wings, in his bedroom, and his poor heart clenched painfully in a futile attempt to keep it platonic. Clinical.
Harry quietly sat down at the corner of the bed, not knowing what to say.
“Close your eyes,” Draco said hoarsely, not looking at him.
It was something about the please, something so small and vulnerable, that made Harry’s eyes immediately fall shut. There was a rustle of fabric and then a fluttering sound, the softest gust of wind, and Harry actually felt warm, fragrant air shift against his face.
He opened his eyes.
Before him stood Draco—impossibly beautiful, winged, and very distractingly shirtless. Harry could only helplessly stare and fall deeper and deeper in love with the man, with his weary expression and arms twitching as if wanting to cover himself, with the place his teeth pressed down on his lower lip, with the way his glorious wings fluttered under the scrutiny.
Harry immediately understood what Draco meant about the difficulties. His wings were… magnificent, in size as well as looks. Two huge appendages looming over Draco’s back, covered in large, sharp feathers that got smaller and fluffier towards the bottom; the longest ones, near the outer edges, were possibly the size of Harry’s forearm, reflecting the dim light from the lamp in the corner. The feathers weren’t exactly white—it was a delicate ivory, similar to Draco’s hair, only accentuating his porcelain skin.
Even though Harry could see several feathers had lost their shine, some sticking out in irregular angles, he was speechless nonetheless.
“It’s shameful,” Draco said quietly, shaking Harry out of his reverie. “Another Veela wouldn’t spare me a second glance, it’s— It’s a point of pride,” he finished with a bitter chuckle.
“It doesn’t look that bad,” Harry said, insistent and slightly miffed someone would dare describe any part of Draco in any words other than perfect.
Draco hummed. “See the matting? And— the feathers that are out of place, I can feel them, it’s…” he trailed off with a heavy sigh.
Harry swallowed thickly. “Yeah,” he croaked, nodding. “What do I do, then?”
Draco opened his mouth, then closed it. “I need them, ah, smoothed out,” he croaked. “The… grey-ish spots, it’s dust, and grime, it should come right off,” he said quickly, tucking his hair behind his ear in a nervous gesture. “You can just comb through them with your fingers,” Draco added, so quietly Harry almost missed it.
He watched Draco sit down on the bed with a hammering heart and wondered how sensitive those wings were, if Draco would be able to feel the tremble in his hands, if it was going to hurt him or— Harry didn’t dare think about the other option on his mind.
“You’re staring,” Draco murmured, his shoulders tensing under Harry’s intense gaze.
Harry was, indeed, staring because, well, there was a pair of wings in front of him and he needed another moment to deal with that. His eyes swiped over the thick joints and the slightest tremble took over the left one—perhaps one Draco could have hidden if it weren’t for the fact that the wings were so impressive, so utterly large.
Slowly, he reached out to run his hand down the edge of the left wing, from the joint to the tips of the primaries, and the wing recoiled with a flutter as Draco let out a choked sound.
Perhaps he heard Harry’s slow exhalation. “Sorry,” he murmured. “No-one’s ever…”
Touched them, Harry thought, taking note of the hunch of Draco’s shoulders, of how tense he seemed. A thought entered his mind, an obstinate suspicion that Draco, for whatever reason, wasn’t telling him everything. That this, the preening of his feathers, touching a part of Draco no-one had even seen before, meant something else, something much more than Harry’s trembling hands could ever hold inside their palms.
Biting his lip way harder than he should, Harry got to work.
He worked his way down the massive appendages, combing his fingers through the silk-soft feathers, straightening them out and thinking how they would feel against his face and cock, of all things. There wasn’t a part of Draco he hadn’t imagined touching him that way—Harry thought about it constantly, on days when he’d let his mind drift off, on days they’d spent in their cramped office, surrounded by their mingled smells and the scratch of quills on paper. He had thought of slender hands and bony fingers, watching Draco fold his letters, carefully stroking the expensive parchment with his fingertips. He thought about plump lips worried under perfect teeth, or wrapped around a beer bottle and slick with moisture. There was that one time when Draco was reaching for something on a high shelf, and Harry caught a glimpse of a toned stomach, a trail of hair disappearing under Draco’s belt, and watched, hypnotised, as the lean muscle moved under porcelain skin, and imagined putting his hand there.
There wasn’t a part of Draco he didn’t want. There wasn’t a part of Draco that wasn’t stunning. It made him doomed and blessed all at the same time, it sent a hot, stabbing jolt of possessiveness through Harry’s stomach, when he imagined anyone else seeing this. Doing this. He didn’t believe in soulmates but this foolish, hopeless, consuming love could have easily been the thing that might kill Harry one day, if there was ever someone else. It made him sick.
By the time Harry got to the longest, thickest feathers, outlining the tips of the wings, the air in the room was imbued with Draco’s scent. Harry was so preoccupied with the task, he’d simply let it encapsulate him, not realising how potent it was until he took a break to admire his handiwork.
“Draco?” He inhaled, deeply, eyes closing. Then, he noticed a faint wet trail next to Draco’s spine which must have been the source of the downright incredible aroma. “What’s that? Something’s… dripping.”
“It’s—” Draco trailed off, swallowed. “It’s oil. Wings have…” he gestured vaguely. “Oil glands. To keep them smooth and clean, and— Yes.”
Harry once again wondered what Draco wasn’t saying out loud because that heady smell mustn’t have been there just for the aesthetic. He had an idea, or rather a hope, a faint flame shivering inside his chest, that what was happening was affecting Draco just as much as it was affecting Harry.
Harry’s hand lingered near the base of the wings, right above the place where the godly-smelling oil slowly trickled down Draco’s back. He wanted to bury his face there.
“Should I—” Harry cleared his throat. “Should I use it?”
“I… suppose,” Draco said in a tight voice, the muscles in his back tensing and rippling under porcelain skin. “Can you gather some onto your hands? From— From my back?”
“Right,” Harry croaked, his head spinning from the scent. It was impossible to ignore now, and he wondered how much of it was the Veela magic and how much it was just Harry, immediately hooked, addicted to it the second he smelled it.
Draco was so tense Harry wanted to ask if it was okay, if it was going to hurt, but perhaps the temptation was too much to resist. The trust Draco put in him made something unfurl in his stomach, going deeper and growing hotter with every quiet exhale, and Harry was hopelessly trying to control his breathing as he lifted a shaking hand to gather some of the oil in his hand, going up towards the base of the wings.
As soon as Harry’s fingers brushed the place the glands must have been, barely able to get a feel of their shape, Draco bucked forward, crying out. “Fuck!”
He fell onto the sheets, elbows digging into the cotton, breathing heavily with his face in his hands. Harry’s heart was just about to jump out of his throat at the knowledge that he hurt Draco, that he did something he maybe shouldn’t have. The wings were shaking, curling inwards, undulating in irregular shivers as Draco tried to regain control. Pellucid oil was now freely trickling down the ridges of his spine, down, and down, pooling in the dimples at the base of Draco’s back.
Harry wanted to dip his tongue in them. One after the other, a slow, wet swirl over the left, then the right, maybe lick up Draco’s back and taste, and taste until he could feel the soft down feathers on his face. He immediately felt bad for thinking about it, because deep down he understood how Draco needed distance, and maybe it was what they both needed if they were to remain a part of each other’s lives.
It was okay. Harry could love him from a distance.
A ragged breath broke the silence and the pit of guilt in Harry’s stomach started to fill with something else entirely. He heard Draco exhale again and it was nearly a gasp, a repressed thing that tore out of him on instinct, and Harry watched the quivering wings as his pulse slowly sped up.
Draco wasn’t in pain.
The laboured breathing, the pink tips of his ears. And a slight tremble to his muscles, a little tremor in his wings that tried to reach out and curl back, nerve endings screaming to be grounded, to be held. Harry recognised that particular movement.
“Draco,” his voice was now thick, with emotion, with a dangerous kind of anticipation, with the realisation that somewhere between Draco taking off his shirt and being betrayed by his own body, something had fundamentally shifted between them.
Draco didn’t answer, still struggling to slow down his breathing, curled up in front of Harry, his fingers tangled between platinum locks.
“Draco,” Harry whispered, reaching out, but stopping his hand in mid-air. “Turn around. It’s just me.”
When Draco finally moved, Harry instinctively slid back to the end of the bed before the wings swooshed past, their heavenly-smelling feathers nearly grazing the tip of his nose.
Draco looked, for lack of a better word, completely debauched. His chest was blotted with a gorgeous pink flush, hair in disarray, and his lower lip was red and spit-slick so he must have been worrying it under his teeth for some time now. The whole look made Harry dig his fingers into his thighs.
The sight of an unmistakable bulge tenting Draco’s trousers, however, prominent and straining at the dark fabric, made Harry’s own cock twitch.
“I— I’m sorry,” Draco hung his head in shame. “I should have told you, I didn’t know it would be so…” he whispered, twisting his fingers in his lap.
Harry swallowed. His heart was racing; now that his suspicions turned out to be true, Harry wondered if Draco’s reaction had anything to do with him, with this strange, tender thing they’d been doing where Harry put his hands in that hidden, intimate place on his body, or if it was just a physical response of that very body, not yet at terms with its enhanced creature senses.
The smell was making it hard to think.
“Are they— That sensitive?” He choked out. “Am I doing it wrong?”
“No, no!” Draco rushed to reassure him. “It’s my fault. Shit. I’m sorry, I’ve never— I can’t control it as well as I thought,” Draco breathed. “We need to stop,” he added, “it was selfish of me to ask, I shouldn’t have—”
Something fiery clenched inside Harry’s stomach, a desperate, consuming want setting his nerves on fire. “Do you want to stop?” he asked, so quietly there was a chance Draco had missed it. What he definitely didn’t miss, though, was Harry’s own erection, slowly hardening under Draco’s hot, questioning gaze.
“Harry,” Draco said, sounding like he was begging—for an answer, for something to anchor them both, for Harry to stop and keep pushing at the same time.
He didn’t dare look at Draco’s face right now so instead, Harry lifted his oil-stained hand to his face and took another intoxicating drag of Draco’s scent.
“It smells like I imagined you’d taste,” he said. Draco’s breath caught in his throat into a strangled groan when Harry looked him in the eyes and licked his hand. Slowly, from the heel of his palm up to the tips of his fingers.
Sensation exploded across his tongue and his blood rushed with foreign electricity, and Draco watched, and pressed his palm against his crotch. It tasted like sweet petrichor, like sunlight, like Draco. Draco, who let out another quiet groan, whose eyes were nearly all pupil, who was biting his lip so hard it should have bled, and squeezing his cock through his trousers with a quiet hiss.
“Fuck, Draco,” he managed. “Come here.”
The next second, Harry was assaulted with a lapful of shirtless, winged Draco Malfoy, gorgeous and flushed, his muscles hard and defined under Harry’s palms. He briefly wondered if Veela tended to run so hot or was it all just Draco, with his warm skin, and breath, and searching lips. The smell of the wing oil hit Harry with full force and his hands slipped where he placed them at the dip of Draco’s spine and, gods, he wanted to touch that place again, to feel Draco shudder in his arms like that.
Their clothed erections rubbed together and Draco’s fingers gently combed through his hair. “Harry. Harry, I—”
Harry kissed him. He kissed Draco like he was his whole universe (he could have been, actually) and immediately knew he didn’t want to kiss anyone else for the rest of his life. Draco melted into him, opening up and letting Harry take what he had craved for years, moaning into his mouth at his own taste on Harry’s lips and tongue. They took their time, not setting any rhythm, just slowly, agonisingly tasting, and licking, and swallowing the soft sounds and whimpers the other was making.
The kisses slowly turned hungry, filthy, as Draco practically dry-humped him, his wings unfurled into their full, glorious span, nearly knocking over the nearest lamp. Harry kept pressing him closer and massaging Draco’s lower back, coating every inch of delicate skin with the oil as Draco’s glands just kept leaking more and more, and Harry suddenly wondered if it worked like precome, if Draco would get wetter if they kept going. It must have been induced by their shared arousal, the steady trickle of warm, fragrant, liquid evidence that Draco wanted this as much as Harry did. He kissed Draco a little harder, and dragged his hips just a little more, imagining how the lower feathers must have been soaked by now, his fingers tingling as the oil dripped down his hands.
“Oh my god,” Draco whimpered, touching Harry’s hands and finding them drenched. He brought his thumb to Harry’s lower lip and watched him flick his tongue out to catch the moisture and suck the digit into his mouth.
“Want you,” Harry murmured around Draco’s finger, palming all over Draco’s flanks, warming up his skin with the oil on his hands, fingers shyly skitting lower and lower until they were grazing the dark-blond hairs below Draco’s navel.
Draco’s hand moved to cup his jaw; he looked at Harry in soft wonder as he caught his lips again, his wings folding forward and around, encircling them both in a thick, feathery blanket. It drowned out all sound and set Harry’s senses on fire—he could hear Draco’s breathing, the smack of their tongues, the wet slide of skin on oiled skin.
“Are you sure?” Draco whispered, moving down to his neck and tracing the tendons with his mouth.
Harry paused, frowning. “What do you mean?”
Draco shifted, fingers fiddling with the hem of Harry’s t-shirt. “I’m,” he stuttered, and unfurled his wings.
He was so beautiful Harry almost forgot how to speak. “What?”
“I’m a freak, aren’t I? A— A creature,” Draco said helplessly, side-eyeing the wing in his peripheral vision.
Harry hooked his fingers at Draco’s belt buckle and pulled him closer. Kissed him, hard. “You are,” he said, fumbling to undo the belt, “the most beautiful thing,” he continued, pulling it out of its loops, undoing Draco’s fly, “I have ever seen,” Harry finished, swallowing Draco’s moan as he slid a hand into Draco’s pants, finding him hard, wet, and perfect.
Harry once again let his mind wander off to places filled with Draco and pleasure as he languidly stroked him, neither bothered by the awkward angle. Draco moved his hips, lightly biting Harry’s ear and Harry wondered about Veela. He wondered whether all male Veela were so virile, toned and musky, and so utterly irresistible. He buried his nose in the crook of Draco’s neck, in that soft spot right above his collarbone and wondered if what they were doing made him Draco’s mate, if it meant Draco wanted that at all, and if it was even a thing. The thought alone made his heart jump, the prospect of being owned, taken, and not only in some spiritual way. Harry hadn’t bottomed much in his brief sexual history but not for lack of trying on his part—he actually enjoyed getting fucked quite a lot, but always politely agreed to whatever his partners asked for.
But, this. Oh, gods.
He could feel Draco’s girth in his hand, imagined how it would feel slowly breaching him, sliding inside, setting him on fire. He was large, Harry thought, and maybe it was the Veela thing, maybe it was Draco alone, and Harry’s own cock pressed even harder against the fabric of his trousers.
As if on cue, Draco grabbed him by the hair at the back of his head, baring Harry’s throat, and sucked on the sensitive skin there. “May I take off your clothes, then?” he murmured, and that question had no right to be so arousing and yet, Harry only managed to make a breathy, incoherent sound and nod, not quite ready to give up Draco’s mouth on him.
Draco laid them both down and slowly, methodically undressed him, with unbearable tenderness. He helped Harry out of his shirt and trousers, took his time to take off each of his socks and placed a reverent kiss to the bridge of each foot. It should have felt at least a little weird but Harry let his head drop back onto the sheets with an elated sigh and absently waited for a sign this wasn't a dream. Every inch of skin that Draco kissed, and touched, and grazed with the tips of his fingers felt hot and restless, and then Draco finally took off his pants with his bloody teeth, unabashedly nosing at the wet spot in the front.
Harry was pretty sure he was going to die before he got to come.
He propped himself up on his elbows and watched Draco take off the rest of his own clothes in one smooth pull, his cock finally bobbing free. Flushed and thick, it was surrounded by neatly trimmed dark hair narrowing into a path that went up to Draco’s navel, a path Harry’d eat off of.
A deranged thought popped into Harry’s head, to call the British Museum, or perhaps the Vatican, because while he had seen his fair share of art and sculptures, none stood a chance against the statuesque beauty before him. Draco, completely nude, with his chiselled body and soft, honey light scantily shining through the outer feathers of his glorious wings. He looked like an archangel, if archangels were supposed to make people weak with desire, if Draco ever allowed Harry to even call him that.
Draco lowered himself onto the bed as soon as possible, not bothering to hide his rush. Their collective moan at the skin-to-skin contact was muffled by hungry mouths and a thick canopy of feather and muscle poised over Draco’s back in a severe arch. Oil was slowly trickling down his flanks, in the valleys between his ribs, leaving a glossy curve over his iliac crest.
Harry traced its path with the pad of his finger, feeling Draco shiver. He chased that trail up Draco’s chest and around his back, a safe distance from that most sensitive place, a little teasing but also a little nervous. Draco looked down on him, hooked his arms under Harry’s knees, and dragged him down the bed, closer, in one strong pull. While Harry logically knew Draco had to be on top due to the massive wings situation, it didn’t make it any less mind-numbingly hot to be manhandled like that, to feel that raw, feral power peeking through Draco’s usual sensibilities.
“Draco,” he gasped. Their cocks slid together, hot and oiled-up, as they moved their hips in a devastating rhythm. “Fuck, wanted you so long.”
“Tell me,” Draco whispered back, not stopping his movements.
“Five years,” Harry said, “Five years, I wanted you. Every day—”
Draco slowed down at that, studying his face in soft astonishment. “Why— Why didn’t you say anything?”
A teenage blush was the last thing Harry needed right now but Draco didn’t budge. He leaned down for a kiss, eliciting a low groan out of Harry with the change of angle. “I wasn’t sure you—” Harry kissed him again, every lick like liquid courage propelling him through. “You’re so hard to read sometimes,” he finished lamely, too incoherent to focus on semantics.
“Fuck,” Draco whispered, claiming Harry’s mouth with renewed vigour. “I— I never thought you’d—” He trailed off, running a hand through Harry’s hair.
The kiss was slower this time, with Draco carefully coaxing his mouth open, licking into it as if trying to convey all the things neither knew how to say. The room was spinning around him with Draco as his only anchor, a lifeline pulling Harry out into the surface after a five-year slumber.
Like a slow song starting to accelerate, they fell into a delicious rhythm and Harry’s legs spread wider and wider for Draco to slot in between, to be closer, to build up to the one thing Harry wanted even more than what they were already doing. He crossed his ankles at the small of Draco’s back, his body riding out the waves of pleasure, and tensing to keep them there despite all the slickness covering their skin.
“You smell like sex,” he gasped, voice muffled where his nose was buried behind Draco’s ear.
“I want to—” Draco gulped, brushing his hand up and down Harry’s flank. Going lower, curling under his knee and up his calf.
“Yes,” Harry breathed, pulling Draco in with his legs. “Fuck me, make love to me, whatever you—”
“Fuck,” Draco whispered, kissing him deeply, “yeah, all of it, whatever you want.”
He shifted them a bit, and Harry let out a quiet moan at the first touch to his cock as Draco’s slender fingers wrapped around his shaft. After a few teasing strokes, Draco moved his hand lower, fingers ghosting right where Harry wanted them the most, and he arched at the soft pressure right at his hole.
“Let me—” Draco said and lifted himself off, pausing only to cup Harry’s jaw in his palm with a strange, fragile look, the intoxicating scent of his oil lingering between them like a promise.
Draco turned to reach the nightstand where he, presumably, kept his lube, and a thought crossed Harry’s mind, a thought that nearly made him come on the spot, his cock filling even more at the very idea.
“Wait,” he whispered, and gently pulled Draco back by the wrist, flushing at his questioning glance. “We can— Here,” he said.
Once Draco realised what Harry was about to do, he fell back onto his haunches and watched, transfixed. Harry gathered up some of the oil staining his skin and dragged his slickened hand down his stomach.
“That okay?” he asked, his hips bucking as he slowly coated his cock with Draco’s essence, mixing it with his precome, and then pressed two wet fingers right where Draco’s had been just seconds ago. Shamelessly spread open, Harry touched himself, pulse quickening when Draco’s wings tensed, the longest feathers bristling up, like an independent entity, fueled solely by desire.
“Oh my god,” Draco choked out, “oh my— Harry. You’re… Fuck.” He scooted closer, eyes never leaving Harry. Draco reached behind his back, wings flexing outwards, and brought his hand back, this time covered with a copious amount of his own oil.
Usually, once Harry started to touch himself down there, it was rather difficult to stop, but he couldn’t bring himself to press any deeper, not with the way a single drop of wing oil trickled down Draco’s forearm, and definitely not with the knowledge Draco was about to fuck him using wing oil as lube. His hole tingled with an almost electric sensation, and perhaps some mysterious Veela magic was at play here—all the things happening inside his foolish, stuttery heart, though, those were all Harry.
Draco was back over him, gently nudging his hand away, whispering praise against his mouth, swallowing all the sounds Harry made. The tip of a single finger slowly pressed against his hole, and breached him, sliding inside easily, the magic-infused oil setting his nerves on fire.
“Fuck,” Harry hissed, “yes, god, more,” he whispered as Draco murmured sweet nothings, pumping his finger in and out.
Slowly, Draco worked him open adding another, and then a third finger, only stopping to gather more oil to slick him up more. It was downright filthy, wet and messy, and Harry could feel that tingling of his skin in the most intimate places, imagining how completely ruined he must look with oil dripping down his thighs and arse. Draco was hard as a rock against his hip, their sweat mingling with his precome and neither of them seemed to mind the wet spot on the bed forming around them and never actually getting the chance to cool.
“Gods, look at you,” Draco murmured, withdrawing his fingers. He watched as Harry lay there, painfully hard, covered in a thin film of sweat, his hole loose and ready. He took himself in his hand and spread some more of the oil over his cock, and Harry reached out to tug him back, to be closer. “I’ve got you,” Draco said, and captured Harry's mouth, slowly pressing inside while they kissed, and kissed, and kissed.
“Ahhh, yeah, right there,” Harry gasped against his lips when Draco bottomed out. “Oh god, Draco, oh fuck.”
Harry had almost forgotten the overwhelming feeling of being full, of being so intimately close to another person it set his body on fire. There was a steady pressure of mounting arousal building up deep under his belly as Draco set off an agonising rhythm, carefully pushing in and out as he stretched Harry to fully accommodate him.
Harry had never known sex could feel this way—an all-consuming, nearly out-of-body experience, punching the breath out of his lungs, with Draco’s hands holding his hips like Harry was only thing that mattered in the world. They were both soaked in the wing oil by now, hot and slick, and Draco sucked and bit at his neck as he picked up the pace. The oil must have heightened the sensations, it must have, because there was no way anything could feel that fucking good without at least a little bit of magic. Draco hit his prostate with every other thrust and soon, he was pounding into Harry with full force, the slap of skin on skin cutting through the silence of the room.
Harry just took it, and never wanted it to stop.
Draco straightened his back and towered over Harry like a mighty seraph, his wings string-taut, sharply glistening in the scant light, his toned body tense and nearly luminescent, as if some inner power came to the surface when he let go of his control. Harry could see a slight golden tint setting his irises aglow and it suddenly dawned on him, Draco’s raw power dormant in his blood, and the significance of being able to witness it.
It felt devastating, and Draco felt inevitable.
He hiked up Harry’s leg over his shoulder and Harry cried out as the angle changed, digging his fingers into the soaked sheets. Now that he had access, Draco’s hands massaged along Harry’s legs, rubbing soothing circles into the overheated skin, a stark contrast against the unrelenting thrusts of his hips. He turned his head, kissing and licking over Harry’s foot and ankle, brushing his lips at the side of the arch, and went lower, nosing at the coarse hairs on Harry’s calf. Harry had never considered his legs or feet to be erogenous zones but holy fuck, it felt so good, so sensual, the smallest touch set his body further aflame.
Draco pressed Harry’s leg flush against his body and held it there, slotting them even closer, and fucked him even harder, his stomach contracting on every grunt. Harry didn’t even register his own whimpers anymore, just let his mind float as his eyes rolled back in ecstasy.
Draco’s movements grew stuttered and Harry’s body was just a tangle of nerves and tissue, his bollocks drawn tight, cock red and leaking against his stomach. He let out a string of weak, broken moans and Draco lowered himself to capture his mouth. He was beautiful, all strong hands, wet lips, and twitching wings, he was fucking glowing.
His hand on Harry’s face was tender.
“You’re thinking,” Harry whispered brokenly and Draco leaned down for another kiss.
“I’m—” Draco said, dragging his nose at the crook of Harry’s neck. “I’m all over you. My scent,” he whispered, his thighs slapping obscenely against Harry’s. “You’re covered in it, you’re—”
“Yours,” Harry gasped, his whole body arching into the touch. He felt drunk, on pleasure, on love, on Draco.
“Mine,” Draco growled in his ear, his movements growing more desperate, irregular, and he wrapped his fingers around Harry’s cock to bring him over the edge. “Mine.”
“Only yours,” Harry groaned, “oh fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop—”
He felt his arousal reach its peak, and he scrambled for purchase, trying to pull Draco in, his hands slipping at the small of Draco’s back. He was soaked, oil generously dripping from the glands and Harry risked sliding his hand higher, just a fraction higher, until he felt the wet tips of the downy feathers brush against his hands.
“Fuck!” Draco cried out, slamming into him with renewed force. “I’m going to come, it’s—”
“Do it,” Harry whispered, trying and failing to thrust into Draco’s fist. “It’s okay, fuck, I’m close.”
“Now,” Draco gasped, not stopping his thrusts. “Touch me.”
Harry moved his hands up, wondering if he could find the spot. He immediately felt them under his hands—two soft globes the size of walnuts, wet and slippery, nestled at the base of Draco’s wings. All feathers around that place were completely drenched and as soon as Harry gently nudged them with shaking fingers, Draco howled, thrashing and moaning over him.
It took a few gentle rubs, and Harry slid a finger in between them, unable to see what he was doing. He slowly moved it up and down, feeling more oil seep onto his fingers, and then, Draco was coming. He shook violently, pounding against Harry’s prostate, and Harry followed seconds later with Draco’s fingers squeezing around the head of his cock.
As soon as Draco came inside him, he collapsed on top of Harry and Harry didn’t mind that one bit. He didn’t mind his own come only adding to all the wetness between them and he didn’t mind the solid, warm weight of his lover practically melting into him. He wrapped his arms and legs around Draco’s limp body and mouthed at his neck, not quite ready to feel empty again, gently massaging the oil glands until Draco shook and hissed from overstimulation.
Harry rolled them over, finally letting Draco’s soft cock slip out of him and let out a soft whimper when it was immediately replaced by gentle, probing fingers massaging his stretched out hole.
“Gorgeous,” Draco murmured against his hair, “bloody amazing. God, Harry, this was—”
Harry kissed him, deep and hungry, and Draco opened up to it, letting Harry claim him back.
“Don’t ever hide,” Harry whispered around the kiss. “Not from me, from anyone. There’s so much of you, Draco, and I’m— I think I’m—”
Draco made a broken sound at the back of his throat and folded himself tightly into Harry’s arms. The wings were gone, inconspicuously retracted back into Draco’s body as soon as they came, and all Harry could feel as he had Draco warm and sated in his arms, was the trails of oil warming Draco’s back.
“You’re mine,” Draco whispered into the night. “And I’m yours.”