The Herowhores gather early and often, drawn like addicts to small, dank rooms for the latest in communal wanks, the cultivated solidarity of lifestyle with the illusion of choice. There's variety here, all costumes and choice, but they're all here for the dichotomy, so it's variations of sameness in really fancy robes.

None of which Herowhore founders will acknowledge. Perfectly reasonable, dragging the names and faces of celebrated strangers into the realm of cheap, easy sex, and it's pretty clear pretty fast they don't see the flaws.

Expect, insanely, that while they'll be vilified for this by the masses, that they'll be adored by those they're whoring. That they'll be understood.

There's easily a hundred Harry Potters under this roof, most of them spread lewd for their own gratification, all of them apparently incapable of admitting they're not sure how the Chosen One might take all this.

Flattery, some say, as though it is.

Because maybe once there was a boy called Harry Potter and maybe once he did things for others, stopped a war and all that, but what's he done for them lately?

Fear and Loathing at the Phoenix, Regulus Black, p.147

 

Slytherin Common's clearly a mistake, because they're not there ten minutes before Harry's got a fan. Draco studiously ignores the bit of blonde bint bouncing on the seat between them, all obvious glee she's stumbled over Regulus Black.

Honest-to-shit, that's who she's babbling about, and she's laughing like it's funny, like it's bloody hilarious Harry's dressed as Harry, because she swears she's always known Regulus Black was a sick fuck and she's thrilled to see it's true.

She says "sick fuck" like Harry thinks the interns should, like it's a gift or something instead of an apparent personality flaw.

"I knew I knew you," she says, leaning in, hand on Harry's arm, and he's not sure he likes that, the touching, so he tries to wiggle away. Can practically hear Draco hissing at him to stop squirming, behave like a bloody grown-up already, Scarhead, you wanted to bond with them? So fucking bond.

And Harry, Harry just needs Truth for Deadline, backbone of Journalism, this, and he's thought maybe Slytherin Common might be something Draco'd like, closest to "friendly" they're likely to find. Seems a bit off, both of them sitting in what's clearly not the dungeons, but Harry's not sure why. And yeah, all right, so he's still a bit oblivious when he's homing in on Deadline, but fuck, Draco already knows.

"I can't believe you're really Regulus Black," she says, the bouncy bint, lowering her voice in a right awful flirt. Harry's fairly sure he's written things, made it clear he's gay, but he can smell the Firewhisky on her so he assumes it's all just bar scene. Even if there's not really an official bar. He looks up at Draco then, and apparently so does she, because she squeals, "Oh my Merlin, you're his attorney, aren't you?" and then she's touching Draco, Harry doesn't like that at all.

Draco's smile looks like a sneer. "Pleasure," he says, sounds like every syllable hurts him, like it all grates.

She babbles again, things about the column on the werewolf school and ahahaha, Harry's last lawsuit, and she flutters a sidelong look at him that's all too sweet, very early Ginny, and says, "Don't see why you'd need an attorney, you're smashing in court all on your own."

Draco's eye tics, a metronome of pissed.

***

"I love what you've done with Potter," she says. "I mean, really, that tattoo's too much, yeah?"

And she pets it. Pets him. On the forehead, where no one's touched but Draco since he'd had the ink done. Harry feels this a bit beyond bonding, thanks, and he slides away, fixes her with his Bad Undersecretary eyes.

Bats at her hands, but not like he does with Draco, like he's learned on the pitch, a slick, fluid motion that catches her wrist before she's noticed a thing.

He has no clue what to say. Thinks Draco might, but Draco's not even looking, Draco's turned away and staring at the far wall or something, Harry doesn't understand.

"No," he tries. "No, we don't touch that. It might…erm…"

"Really, it's adorable, I love how the angles of the spider's legs half look like that lightning bolt. D'you think it was really a lightning bolt? Always thought that was a bit funny, me. I mean, what are the chances, right? Avada not leaving a mark on anyone else but killing them, and then not killing him but looking just like a bit of bad weather?" She leans in, conspiratorial. "You ask me, that was that memoirist making things up so she'd have a better story."

And, well, yeah, the memoirist is about 90 per cent full of crap, but that bit, she's sadly got right.

Draco says something. Harry doesn't catch what, but it feels like a lifeline, so Harry says, "Huh?" and Draco shoots him pissy daggers before wading in. "I said, they'd've had to doctor all his pictures, then, if she's made up the scar. S'a bit much, even for her, yeah?"

Bouncy bint wibbles. Says, "Oh, like you'd know," in a stung voice, sounds like she's hellbent on tears. Harry really wants his room. Settles for snagging a passing house elf for the biggest, brightest drink he can.

***

Harry slides into drinking, which is probably a bad plan, and bouncy bint turns handsy, which sets Draco off. Every time he tries to wade in, because obviously Draco's turning Malfuck, there's obviously a scrap brewing on the couch, she looks at him like he's her hero because he's Regulus fucking Black and Harry can't do it. Just bloody can't.

Turns out, he's got nothing against being Harry Potter, he just hates the blanket worship.

It turns sick and cyclical. Draco says something she hates, she turns those "save me" eyes on Harry, who can't crawl off the couch for trying, and Draco snaps something to draw her attention again. She snaps back, too, she's not entirely curse fodder, but Harry can't hear what they're saying for the rushing in his ears.

He really, really needs to go. Needs Draco to get him out of there like Draco always does, Draco's brilliant at that, saving Harry from society. Only, Draco's not.

Those really bright drinks, the green ones, they're really good.

***

"Oh, please, you're a dime a Draco 'round here, look around you. Who d’you think Sorts Slytherin anymore? Just Malfoy apologists and Snape redeemers and—"

"Malfoy apologists? Snape redeemers? Who the fuck are you people, that you think any of that's up to you?"

Harry thinks there's more, he's certain Draco's not done, but Harry loses himself in the difficult task of mastering his straw, slurping back what's left of his drink. Can't hear them through the slurping, and thank Merlin for that. He wants to say something, maybe drag Draco away somewhere quiet-private-room, but Draco's sounding pretty Malfuck and not in the good way.

"Like you're any better. Look at yourself. Done up like cheap Draco imitation, acting like the whole world owes you an explanation, Merlin, you're one of those bastard!Draco arseholes, aren't you? Like him evil, do you? Snivelling little Death Eater and all. Don't know how Regulus puts up with you, really I don't."

Harry needs a house elf. Snaps for another round, and it's there, and his straw's tricky, keeps dancing away and making him hear things, Harry wants out.

"Maybe it's that Regulus has sense enough to know who he's not."

He gives Draco a lazy, loopy smile and says, "You tell 'er, Malfuck," with drunk sincerity. Slumps his head back on the couch and thinks he hears Draco curse quietly half-a-couch away. 

***

A few Sobrietus-laced minutes later, they're back in the hall. Harry feels clingy, like he needs Draco's touch, but asking for it's really, really girly, so Harry's making do. He plasters himself to Draco's side, rests his head on Draco's shoulder until the world makes sense. The dull ache of forced Sobriety won't last long, but it's no bloody great thrill, either.

"God, I can't take you anywhere, can I?" Draco says, shaking his head, and Harry knows he's not as mad as all that, Draco's secretly laughing, Draco's dragged him away by the belt. All the same, Harry rights himself in the lift, shakes loose the grip and scowls.

"This is important; this is the Truth."

"You're disturbed."

The wrinkled, sagging couple behind them squeeze closer to the corner, as though they'll disappear into it if only they move in enough. Harry grins at them, hard and maniacal. Draco swats his arm.

Unbelievably, they appear somewhat relieved by Draco's small display of dominance, like he's actually Harry's keeper. Harry wonders how awful his grin looks, who the couple thinks they are.

***

"So, historically, I spend today riding dragons and committing felonies," he says, an obvious angle, and Draco says, "Well, yes, there has been Journalism."

***

They don't do this, not where they might get caught. They're neither of them thrilled by the thought of making the Prophet and Murphy's Law says they will, so when Draco drags Harry into a loo stall, Harry's right baffled.

He'll say, too, just as soon as the kissing stops.

"Mine," Draco says, intent on Harry's trousers, and Harry wiggles a bit to help get them off. Draco, it seems, feels no waiting compunction, because Harry has pants of pale palm and yeah, he knows there's something off about this, something too frantic in Draco's movements, but it feels so fucking good it can't be wrong.

When he tries to touch Draco back, to feel all that hot-hard-him under his hands, Draco squirms away. Doesn't stop wanking Harry, but clearly won't let Harry wank back.

So Harry thinks. So Harry holds Draco's face. So Harry says, "I get to touch back, that's how this works," and hopes Draco gets it.

Draco's breathing hard, all pretty and flushed, and there's something skittish in his eyes Harry hates. "Just let me do this."

Harry eases back against the stall door, takes in all Draco's not saying. Draws Draco in for a sweep of careful kisses, angled brushes of open mouth saying things Harry can't. It's soft and it's tender and when Harry feels Draco smile, he says, "Potter redeemer," in mock accusation, and whatever the fuck's skittish in Draco's head seems to melt.

"Git."

"Scarhead apologist."

"Shut it," but Draco's laughing, no sting in that at all, and while Draco's slowing the fuck down and moving the hell closer, Harry makes his move.

"Closet Ravenclaw," he says, then pins Draco against the stall door, hauls Draco's knees up to wedge him in proper as he spells Draco stripped.

There's this look on Draco's face as Harry lines up his cock, stretches Draco with spells and fingers and kisses, that's almost holy, that almost hurts. "Bloody Slytherins," Draco says as Harry sinks in, rolls his hips up to meet Harry's, and they both pretend they don't hear the way Draco's voice shakes.

***

Harry pins his wrists over Draco's head, noses and nuzzles and mouths along those pale, Marked forearms, as slow and careful and deliberate over Riddle's brand as he is over the opposing family crest. They don't do rings, don't even do words, but there's something about having his byline inked in Draco's skin that sets Harry humming, hits every possessive button he has, and when he finds the patience, he proves it.

Doesn't stop moving, pushing in, sliding deeper, burying himself in Draco's body like he's drawn in Draco's arm.

***

He's so. Close. Gritting-his-teeth, thinking-of-Filch, reciting-Goblin-war-trivia close, actually, but he wants Draco's, first. Leans in, nips at Draco's ear so he knows he's got his git's attention, and says in a voice as deep-rough-solemn as the moment allows, "Don't have anything to apologize for, Ferret, not one. Bloody. Thing."

Digs in hard, roughs over Draco's prostate for every pointed word, and Draco tightens, spills, eyes wide and pupils blown. Harry comes then, too, can't help how easy Draco's orgasm takes him over the edge, and Harry sinks into Draco as he sags in release.

***

It's probably worth his life to mention how well vulnerability suits his git, so Harry doesn't, Harry just sticks close, holds Draco's weight on his hips until Draco's lost that fuckstoned bliss bleeding through all those hard, lovely angles.

His back hurts. Pretty much every muscle he's got burns. He feels wrung out, stiff and sticky, and he's pretty sure they'll have to ease up on the wall sex at some point for the sake of his knees.

Wouldn't trade it for the world.

Draco rubs a kiss, little more than a brush of comfortable heat. Says in words that aren’t much more than breath, “You’re my Beltane.”

Harry’s not sure he gets that, but he thinks he understands.

***

There's applause when they emerge, the sort of shocked awe that goes with shagging his git half-blind just steps from a line of loo-faring witches. Draco flushes again, ducks his head and shakes it like he'll hide the embarrassed laughter. Harry just grabs his hand, raises the other, and eases their way through the cluster of leering women with the smuggest grin he's got.

Doesn't faze him at all when one of them says, "Should've been Blaise," to the one beside her.

***

It starts with a painslut who's not getting enough. The post-war world, though, it's full of potential, steeped in lingering hate, and once it's Idea, it's unstoppably real.  Charm a Mark, Transfigure a mask, it's all too easy, really, and the first scene goes so well, it happens again. Spreads. Becomes culture, subculture.

Becomes kink.

"The vulgar side of victory", Regulus Black, The Quibbler, May 3, 2008, p. 5

 

He knows what he'll find at the Faction Functions, so he's meant to be prepared. All hims and Dracos in that one room, he's studiously avoided the rest because honestly, what's he going to do in the him-and-Ron room but hex everyone senseless?

Though he's spent some time mulling the way so many seem to know he's gay; despite what it's said in those memoirs, the him-and-Ginny crowd's only slightly larger than the him-and-Hermione crowd—and what the fuck's that, were they really that excited about the camping, was it not clear about Ron, he worries about the world sometimes, really he does.

He's not sure what to make of the him-and-Lunas, though, thank Merlin there's only a few of those. Part of him wants to explain about Neville, who's fucking scary when he's pissed, and part of him, the malicious bit that lands him in court, wants to put them in Neville's path.

***

He's a bit put out there's a DE suite, but he can hear the snaps and whips and commands from well beyond the doorway and if this is where submission's gone in the wizarding world, he thinks he can live with that. So long as they're not, like, trying to revive the Riddle git.

Bit off, getting a terrorist klan confused with a swinger's club, but if that's what lights their wands...

He's got a few choice phrases bouncing about his head when he approaches the corridor to the him-and-Draco section—mostly about how there's some willing to kink red-eyed and slitty, there's apparently been some thought given to Riddle's cock, and that thought tastes like sick-up, Harry feels ill. He'd follow that sign for the Muggle anti-heaving stuff, only it's all fake-'Miones and not-Dracos, Harry lacks words for the wrongness, his eyes need washing up with bleach.

***

You haven't heard of Herowhores yet. You will. Someday soon, you'll be kicked to the couch for irritating the missus or trying to get that one last assignment done before class, and you'll sneak out back for a quick wank because nothing eases the concentration like a wank, really, and you'll see Sirius Black slipping into your neighbour's yard to give it to the neighbour's girl. Pet. Whatever.

And you'll stand there and think, "Fuck me, was that Sirius Black?" and then you'll realize you already know, you've just seen your first Herowhore, and at first, you'll feel like it's huge, like it's revolting, and then you'll realize it appeals on some level, that you've secretly looked at a Prophet picture of the Weasleys and thought one shagging another, those twins were made for it, and you'll be hooked.

Drawn it. Dragged. Addicted and smothered, sure it's everywhere, some unspoken language no one else hears.

And when you've found yourself in one of them, when you know who they'd fuck and why, you'll invest a few Sickles in the kit, maybe test it out as a kink. Your dry run, it'll be rough, not-quite-right, but you'll work at it and worry at it and eventually, you'll be ready to take it public.

To fucking con.

Fear and Loathing at the Phoenix, Regulus Black, p. 149

 

It hasn't occurred to him he'll feel this way, but he sees the herds of Malfakes mauling Not-Harrys mauling Malfakes and something inside him, some vicious visceral beast, bears bloodied fangs and snarls malicious. There's a Draco, his Draco, trapped by the bar, and the Harrys around him are clearly persistant. Obvious slags.

"Well, yes, you are a Harry, but you're not my Harry," Draco says, but he's speaking to no one because Harry, Harry doesn't have to put up with this shit. They can have his life, he figures, his name, his looks, his possible futures. But there's nothing on earth that will compel him to let them have his mate, and he'll defend that the way he knows best, all bared knuckles and bared teeth and pure fucking anger.

He dimly notes how poorly Auror!him takes fear.

There's something leaching up from his hands, a throb growing stronger with a steadying pulse, a burning ache he'll feel for ages, and he likes that, thinks it grounds him, makes the snarl wider and brighter and something almost gleeful. It's one thing, letting Draco step in, keep his life as sane as it can be, but it's been too long, maybe, since he's stepped in to defend his own like this, so pathetically immediate, and the more he clashes his steeping temper, the more Gryffindor he feels.

Then he hears, "As your attorney, I'd advise you to keep this Finite-able," in steady Draco calm, a wave of cool blue washing over furious red.

Draco, when he turns, leans against the rail, arms folded over his chest, Slytherin smirk in his eyes. Pleasure, yeah, but more, too, something sweetly, brewably them.

Harry lets go.

"You're asking me to get my wand?" If there's anyone left in the room, Harry can't see them. Don't matter anyway, do they?

"Yes, well, I believe we all know about you and your wand, Potter," Draco says with that precious little leer, a lilt of pure sex in the cool of his voice. "Bloody unstoppable with it, aren't you?"

"Depends on m'cause."

***

Draco hears him out about the other rooms—"You and Severus? Ahahahaha, wasn't he straight as nails and in love with your mum? Read it in the memoirs."—which apparently breeds some manic Herowhore love Draco won't explain.

"Oh my Muggle things, that's bloody perfect, d'you think we can adopt them?"

Harry feels himself sink to a scowl inverse to Draco's grin. "There's a room down the hall of me. Fucking. Severus. How is this funny?"

Draco rolls his eyes. "Clearly it's not really you, git, you're sitting right here—" though there's a flash of irritation that says if Draco sees him snogging anyone untoward, there'll be hexed hell to pay, which is somewhat mollifying. "—and anyway, haven't you checked in with his portrait lately? Running short on things to bitch about, Sev; I'd think this'll keep him going for years."

Harry will grant that Snape's portrait’s been somewhat calmer since the whole Sirius-Remus battle of the great move-in, but honestly. "He's only just calmed down about that last book."

That final memoir fucks with them all, yeah, but Harry’s malcontent was nothing in the face of Snape’s rabid, portrait-spewed scorn, and really, who could blame him? Mudblood love and Gryffindor envy; the memoirist couldn’t have done worse by the great greasy git if she’d tried. Given her interviews, Harry thinks maybe she had.

"Yeah," and Draco looks a bit glassy-eyed giddy. "Hey, but Lupin'll like how no one believes that bint about how we're all straight."

Well, yeah, there is that.

***

"You're an Auror, did you know?" Draco smirks. Harry scowls. "What? Don't like that one? How's DADA prof catch you? Better? No? Hrm. Well, that lot over there thinks you're a nursery school teacher, and thank fuck for heroin!Harry over there, I'd no clue what nursery school is but apparently you're good with children sometimes? I know, I was shocked, too."

"Why. Are. There. Skirts?"

Draco laughs so long, Harry has to thump his back to make sure he's not choking on it.

***

"Right, so the ones with wings are…?" Harry does his best to concentrate but it's hard, there's a hundred Malfakes running about, most of them half-dressed and chasing Not-Harrys with some degree of success, s'bloody distracting.

All that skin, and it's obviously the wrong skin.

"Veela," Draco says, with displeased moue.

"Veela. Right. Should've known."

"Well, the arse babies don't make themselves."

***

"Think I'm a bit disturbed you're not offended, actually," Harry says, and he can't look anymore, there's a Malfake in leather trousers carting a whip and wiggling his arse, a Not-Harry in chains mewling back, Harry's bloody alarmed into taking off his glasses and rubbing them on his shirt so he can't see. It's better, a little, when the whole room's a blur, when all he can see is his Draco.

"They couldn't be more wrong for trying," Draco says, all Malfuck-calm. "I mean, all this work projecting our futures and there's not one of them close enough to count, right?"

"Yeah, all right. But you're not…"

"Jealous? Should I be?"

Considering Harry's brilliant display of fisticuffs earlier, Harry doesn't think it's so far wrong, but Draco's attained some sort of zen Harry can't touch. Harry hikes a brow. "You're asking me? I just beat the shit out of some fool in a kilt."

"Look around you, Potter. This, all of this, s'not really about us. It's…We're how they get where they need to be, maybe, but it's not about us. Understand?"

"I'm not actually thick, you realize."

"If you're judging by that lot—" and Draco hikes a thumb at the clusterfuck by the loo without looking at them. "—I think I'm the only one who does." His expression softens. "It's just, fuck, I sat here what, ten minutes? If that? And, I mean, I'm not the ideal Draco, whatever the fuck that means, but as you saw, I wasn't exactly ignored, either. And no, before you get all mental-chest-monster again, I wasn't trying to do anything but wait for your gitty self, only think where we are, me looking like this is pretty much an invitation, yeah? So, I mean, it's not like I didn't meet a few of the, well, the possibilities, I suppose. And…" Draco's lashes flutter, dark smudges against too-pale cheeks, offering peeks of grey, and Harry feels that in his gut, an answering flutter that turns into a tug. When Draco looks back, he looks up, looks at Harry with the sort of no-shit severity that stops Harry cold, bludgeons the chest monster Stunned with how serious Draco is about this. "I knew it was you. Could've come in drag, could've come as me, could've done almost anything, Scarhead, and I would have known it was you."

This feels an awful lot like that thing they don't say. Harry wonders if saying that's like saying that. Time, he feels, for inappropriate humour. "Well, yeah, s'hard to miss what I've done to the scar."

Draco links their fingers. Locks them. "Didn't ever want any Harry but you," Draco says finally. "Though there's clearly potential in putting you in a skirt."

Harry elbows him. Hard. "Speak for yourself, Wing Boy."

***

I'll give them this, though, the Herowhores and their Muggle mates: they may be wrong, but they've not forgotten.

And the Muggles, they don't even think we're real.

Fear and Loathing at the Phoenix, Regulus Black, p. 165

***

Six months into the rampant, random fucking, Draco L. Malfoy rims the hell out of Harry J. Potter's arse, finds a spell that feels like he's licking prostate, and when Harry's a lump of quivering foodstuffs on Draco's bed, Draco says, "I won't ever say it. Just so you know."

Harry nods because that's all Harry can do, and tells himself he feels the same.

They stay that way for years.

***

The difference between whores and heroes is a slip of the quill.

Soon, it's not even that.

"The vulgar side of victory", Regulus Black, The Quibbler, May 3, 2008, p. 5

 

Harry's set up nicely for a view of the Harry-on-Harry action on the main stage, which is a bit disturbing, really, he's never been that flexible, Draco'd best not be getting ideas. When he checks, he finds Draco tittering like he knows, and when Harry faffs a threatening hand, Draco fellates his drink.

Sits up, perky, coquette's innocence, a tentative flash of toothless smile, then bloody swallows. Hard.

He licks his lips slow, turns predatory, never takes his fucking eyes off Harry for a second, like he doesn't know or care there's Not-Harrys fucking the impossible just to his left, and Harry knows Draco knows so…

Half Harry's brain cells Apparate the fuck out. The other half, apparently, flee to his pants for safety. It would be funny, honest-to-fuck it someday will be, only he's in public and he's really not thinking and if he doesn't touch Draco soon, get him alone somewhere, he'll bloody maul him right here and Merlin, haven't they already sworn they won't? The actual rules of being Harry Potter involve a fuckload of things to keep himself out of the Prophet, and public sex with Draco, that's top of the list.

Draco leans in, says, "Look around you, Scarhead, we're surrounded by us, who'd even notice?" and Harry thinks he's finally found a use for the Herowhores, after all.

***

"See that lot there?" Draco nudges in, tips Harry's head to the right and does something wicked hot with his tongue that makes Harry's knees pudding. "Ten Knuts says they're the arse baby sort."

"Fuck. Fuck. Tongue."

Draco laughs right in Harry's ear, a rumble rolls through Harry's chest like they're swapping heartbeats, and Harry's grip's so tight on Draco's shirt, Harry swears he hears a rip. "Tongue, Potter? Don't know you've been good enough for that."

Urk. Malfuck. "No Malfuck, not now, can't…" Harry says, and Draco kisses him like Draco, nips that he knows, and it's a good bloody thing Harry's got wall behind him because honestly, he's pudding right through.

***

Harry's not even hissing Parseltongue, Harry's just making incoherent noise, but if the fevered "Fuck, Scarhead, yes," is anything to go by, Draco doesn't even care.

***

He's so bloody close, can practically taste it, and Draco's hand dips in to pinch it off. Harry growls his frustration, has full plans to voice it only Draco says, "Not here, don't want to share you."

***

That thing they don't say? He'll never tell Draco, he'd ruin things completely, but Harry thinks it loads.

***

"Apparate much?" Harry says, half-sure they're splinched, and Draco shoves him onto their bed. Well, so long as they've got all the necessary bits, Harry doesn't care.

***

Draco crawls in over him, leans in with this glorious grace that makes Harry arch serpentine, makes him hiss when Draco bites at his neck. Feels good, Draco's teeth catching his skin, tugging and releasing with a swipe of tongue to do it all again, and Draco works his way along like there's some path he's following. Harry closes his eyes. Hisses with purpose just to feel Draco squirm.

"Shut it, git," Draco says, very close to his ear. Harry's smile grows disproportionate, the way Draco makes it consume his face, until it's muscles pulled so taut they hurt.

Took Harry two years to sort what part of Draco he liked best, the good or the hurt, because on their best nights, it's impossible to separate one from the other. Turns out, Harry likes both. The combination, because that's really Draco, turning Harry's head and breaking Harry's skin.

Harry wants fists full of blond.

Hisses as much and feels the tiniest shiver in Draco's breath. Feels like yes, that shiver, so Harry takes him up on it.

***

"Git," Draco says again, says like that's Harry's name, and he's already moving his hand down, dragging Harry's hand with him while Draco rakes his nails over Harry's chest. When that shallow scratch grazes over his nipple, Harry can't help his hiss, and when Draco' claws his way south, Harry really wants to watch. Something impossibly erotic still about Draco's hand circling his cock, watching Draco's pale, pretty fingers curl in possessive grip.

So yeah, he wants to watch, only he can't, he's got himself lost and muddle-minded over the distant heat and unfathomable patience in Draco's smoke grey eyes.

"Tell me what you want." A world on offer, a tentative trail over his dick.

"You….this…Mal—fuck—" and Harry has to stop because Draco's scratching along his length, root to head, and it's too much. Not enough. Harry pushes up into those nails, needs something to break the tension building with Draco's pace, and Draco tuts again. Digs in, a flirting flex of fingertips that Harry thinks he needs.

"No Malfucks tonight," Draco says, and yeah, Harry thinks they're beyond that just now. Wandering shamelessly into girl territory and he doesn't even care.

"You," Harry says, as fixed and focused as Draco is because this, this is serious, this is them. "Want you."

"This is my surprised face."

Harry laughs, feels helpless in it, like Draco will just spend forever making him do things, good things and keeping him out of trouble and letting him have this, s'fucking brilliant, his life, honestly. He takes his fistful of blond, uses it to drag Draco's mouth in properly for an endless, messy kiss that's more teeth than tongues and flames fiendish.

"Make me die for it," he says. "Make it last."

"Bloody martyr."

"Make it take forever, then. I want you to watch."

***

Years he's had Draco Malfoy in his bed, doing things to him that would absolutely slay a swath of Witch Weekly readers, and for all it's familiar now, it's no less good. He remembers accusing Draco of some Slytherin sex secret, remembers how long and hard Draco'd laughed. Remembers Draco stopping long enough to point out that yeah, of course the Slytherins were obviously sex fiends, Crabbe and Goyle should've been the school's first clue because those two were sex on legs, them, and then Draco'd broken back into laughter so hard he couldn't breathe.

Harry remembers swatting at Draco for it. Mocking back that how would he know, he'd been in the great house of noble virgins, hadn't he? Whole of the tower, saving themselves for their wedding nights.

He's still insanely proud he managed that with a straight face, because it took ages for Malfuck to go properly pale and horrified but when he had? Comic fucking gold. 

***

So yeah, Draco knows just how to touch him to call up those sounds Harry hates in principle. Sounds bloody needy, doesn't he? Some depraved, pathetic thing, lying there all needy and naked under Draco's wandering hands, Draco's flicking tongue, hissing impatience and frustration while Draco relearns his curves.

Draco makes him mindless easy enough, knows every button to hit and just where to nip, how to tug, and when Harry's hissing fragments, Draco settles in on Harry's cock, those rough jerks Harry likes with the snapping wrist and everything, but Draco's gaze never leaves Harry's face.

Harry does his best to bite through his lip when he comes. Draco licks there, soothing little flicks that match the way his hand gentles on Harry's too-sensitive cock, and when Harry's shuddering at the contact, Draco says, "Selfish prick. You couldn't wait? Slag." In another life, that might sting, but Draco's licking that, too, tonguing the word into his ear. "You're so. Incredibly. Cheap for me, aren't you, Scarhead?"

"Wanker." Harry's almost 30, so yeah, maybe his cock's not overtly interested right at this moment but the rest of him? Totally is.

"You like my wanking," Draco corrects easily. "C'mere, Scarhead, let's make us some arse babies, yeah?"

And Harry has nothing to say to that, so Harry just spreads his legs.

***

Ten years to the day after Harry let an Avada take something awful out of him, Harry lets a Lubricus put something amazing in.

Still riding dragons, it seems, but he thinks his taste has improved.