Chapter Text
Draco wouldn’t say he’s an idiot… usually.
But, if someone had told him five years ago that he not only volunteered, but outright asked for Harry Potter to be his partner, heads would almost certainly have rolled.
Childish adolescent rivalry aside, they actually are a formidable duo, one with the highest record of arrests and certifiably keeping the streets of the Wizarding world safe from all manner of crime—robbery, kidnapping, cats in trees. The works. (One particular cat they had saved was so adorable—albeit a little deranged with his tongue always poking out unnecessarily—that Draco even considered taking him home until an old, angry woman had stomped up to them with a cane in hand, shooing Draco away while calling for her beloved Rigby. Whatever.)
Draco wouldn’t say he’s an idiot. But requesting Potter as his partner, when he knows he has an irritating, inconvenient crush on the man is probably not his finest moment. Especially when you consider that Potter, Merlin help him, is a werewolf.
There’s three things Draco Malfoy knows about Harry Potter.
The first thing is that unfortunately or fortunately, depending on the day, Draco is intimately aware of just how rugged the man is. Trust Potter to turn a bloody Auror uniform into temptation. The jacket clings indecently to those broad shoulders, stretched to its limit as if the fabric itself were begging for mercy. His arms fill the sleeves with muscle that had no right existing outside of fantasy, veins standing out when he flexed. And his trousers—Merlin, his trousers—are tailored far too well for decency, pulled snug across thighs that look capable of breaking a man in half. Draco wasn’t even going to talk about his arse; those thoughts are saved for late nights under the covers with his hand and a bottle of—ahem. Potter moves like he knows it too, every casual shift of his body a provocation, every roll of muscle beneath cloth a dare. It’s obscene. It’s infuriating. And worst of all, Draco can never seem to drag his eyes away.
The second thing to keep in mind is Potter’s sheer strength. When Potter had first turned, he was agitated and violent. There was really no other word for it. His temper was unmanageable; even the smallest thing would piss him off. Over the years he had learned how to control it better but around the full moon, Potter is still testy. To his credit, Potter is well aware of his temperament and usually locks himself away all alone. No one really knows what Potter does during that time, but he is rather insistent on being isolated. Draco knows too well that Potter is afraid of hurting his loved ones, but Draco can’t help but feel the slight twinge in his heart at the thought of Potter dealing with each full moon all alone, especially when he comes back to work covered in scratches and scars that he never heals properly until Draco gets a hold of him and does it himself. If only he would let Draco help him sooner... but no. It was a non-negotiable, however, and Draco had tried to argue his way in to no avail.
The third thing, but by no means the least important, is that Potter is a damn good Auror. It’s obviously not very surprising but for somebody who used to think that he got away with life on sheer, dumb luck, Draco finds it refreshing to see that Potter actually has the skills he is so often lauded for. The man is certainly capable, oftentimes annoyingly so, and that brute strength and annoying charm certainly help him. People are more than willing to divulge their secrets to him with just a look, just the way he leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest. It would be annoying if it didn’t help their collective record so much, but it does and all Draco can hope for is that he’s never on the other side of that table, having to deal with the full force of Potter’s devastatingly strong powers in every sense of the word.
Draco sits at his desk, quill balanced between two fingers as he glares at the empty chair across from him. If scowling were a Summoning charm, Potter would have appeared hours ago. Unfortunately, it isn’t, and Draco is left to stew in his own brilliant, rapidly fraying mind for company.
The chair seems to taunt him, in a way, and it’s infuriating because it works on Draco, even though he is all too aware that inanimate objects harbor no ill will toward him.
The mug he gave Potter to “celebrate” their first year as partners without killing one another still sits on the desk with a chip in its facade, reading World’s Okayest Partner and it’s oddly sweet, really that Potter has kept it around this long. Even though it’s been dropped multiple times with cracks running through the porcelain, Potter has found new ways to repair it.
It’s laughable, because the mug costed Draco all of five pounds but it seems to mean something to Potter, and it’s honestly ridiculous what that knowledge does to Draco’s chest so he just… leaves it.
Potter has never been on time to work, not even once, but not showing up since yesterday means only one thing: the full moon. Draco’s used to this routine, has the cycles of the moon memorized in his head at this point.
It starts a couple days prior, when Potter turns up stubborn as a kneazle in a rainstorm, looking like death warmed over but infuriatingly pretending otherwise. He sits right there, across the desk, snapping at Draco to stop fretting and worrying while his own shoulders twitch and a reckless energy buzzes just beneath his skin. Never mind that Potter’s enormity lends for beastly strength, but his magic… that’s another matter entirely.
Of course, Potter is, without doubt, the most powerful wizard the world has seen, but when he’s like this—preparing for the full moon—it’s even more potent. One look can turn a solid wooden desk into ash, as poor Susan Bones is aware, and whenever he’s particularly agitated, everything around him vibrates. It’s like his magic is in overdrive, turned to the highest dial and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
Today, though. Nothing. No Potter, no banter, no distraction. Just silence and paperwork and the growing realization that Draco is… concerned. It’s ghastly, honestly, the way he worries about Potter but he can’t help himself. Five years, and it never gets easier. He hates that Potter insists on being alone, and he hates that his chest performs tumultuous protests every single time.
Tapping his fingers against the wood, his stomach twists further into something that feels entirely inappropriate for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement office. Potter’s been a werewolf for years now. The man has his Wolfsbane, his wards and his bloody band of Gryffindor misfits ready to hover over him like a pack of mother hens.
He’s fine.
Draco knows he’s fine.
And yet.
His eyes keep darting back to that chair, expecting it to be filled with messy hair and green eyes and hidden freckles and that one dimple and that irritating smirk that all, in combination, do lethal things to Draco’s equilibrium. He keeps imagining Potter learning back in the chair with his arms crossed behind his head in that tantalizing way that makes his untucked shirt ride even higher, showing a sliver of that golden skin that Draco sometimes feels a bizarre desire to lick, to bite, to suck. It always sends a shiver down his spine, even when Potter is quick to pull it down, almost as if he's hiding it.
It’s indecent, really. A hazard.
Someone should probably arrest him.
And then, that inevitably triggers the thought of Potter in handcuffs and Draco has to put his head down on his desk for a moment to catch his breath. When he finally does, he huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Pathetic, Malfoy,” he murmurs to himself. “Worrying about that Gryffindor git. Next you’ll be making him soup and petting his hair.”
Though, admittedly, petting his hair does sound nice. Years of staring at those thick black strands means that Draco has wondered just how soft that disastrous bird’s nest really is, despite his best efforts not to think about his fingers tangled in it.
He forces his gaze back to the parchment on his desk, but the words blur into nonsense. Normally, he gets some sort of warning before Potter leaves, whether it’s a shoddy note in Potter’s incorrigible chicken scratch or a word from the Weasel because apparently everyone knows how much Draco worries. But this time, nothing. And Draco feels the claws of unease pricking under his skin pricking, sharper with every passing minute.
And that’s precisely how the empty chair ends up winning.
It’s nearly six when Draco has shredded one report, snapped two quills and made precisely zero progress on the stack of files teetering on his desk. Every glance at that blasted chipped mug across from him twists the knot in his gut tighter.
Theodore Nott had stopped by his desk earlier, trying to convince Draco to come out for a drink at the pub, using those lingering hands to grab Draco’s arms and physically pull him along.
“Come on, Draco,” his old friend cooed, brushing the lint of Draco’s jacket. “One drink."
“Not tonight,” Draco had begged off, knowing that his worry would not let him enjoy his drink, and certainly not if Potter wasn’t even going to be around to sit too close to him, knees knocking together as they shared the same space and breaths and—
Salazar.
Enough.
He rises so abruptly that his chair screeches against the floor, pocketing the mug. A few of the straggling heads lift in the office, and he shoots them a look sharp enough to cut glass.
“I’m leaving,” he declares.
Susan Bones, sitting on a new desk that Potter paid for, blinks. “It’s… after hours. No one cares.”
“Oh,” Draco says dumbly. “Well. I’m off then.”
Heading to the Apparition Point, he says Grimmauld Place, knowing it will spit him out on the street, not the sitting room itself.
The ancient house materializes reluctantly as he stalks up the street, sliding in between the two bracketing buildings on either side. The crooked door creaks open when he whispers Potter’s name.
“Potter?”
Draco is well aware that he shouldn’t be here, but he’s too concerned and worse, he’s morbidly curious, which is a dangerous combination in any form. Despite knowing that he should not be here, he steps further into the gloomy, dusty hallway with that damp, peculiar scent of a place never fully rid of its ghosts. His boots echo on the floorboards as he moves from room to room that he remembers from his childhood.
The kitchen with sugar just for Draco because while Potter likes his tea bitter as Draco himself, Draco prefers three spoons. The sitting room where they’ve sat with too much takeout on too many nights. The narrow staircase where they’ve had a long moment or two, the kind where it seems like Potter wants to push him against the wall and—
Nope. Not the time.
The house is manifestly empty.
The silence presses against Draco’s ribcage, constricting and tight as he considers where else Potter could go. Of course, it makes sense that he might not be at Grimmauld for his shifting, but where?
It clicks instantly.
Once, months ago, Potter had mentioned a cottage. A retreat in the country where he had put up wards strong enough to hold him through a full moon. Draco had scoffed at the time, joking about terrorizing the countryside, but now the words stick now, carved sharp into his memory.
It’s quite the gamble, but Draco’s not willing to shy away from the risk. Especially not when every inch of him is humming with the thought what if he’s hurt? Unwilling to even think of such a thing, Draco twists on the spot and Apparates.
The world cracks into being and practically spits him out again.
Immediately, the wards slam into him, raw and merciless. Ancient power coils around the land like a serpent with its fangs bared. Draco staggers, teeth gritted, wand flashing up just in time to keep himself from being shoved halfway to bloody Romania.
Of course Potter would do this. Of course he’d lace his prison with protection so thick that it feels like pushing through a dragon’s hide. Draco plants his feet into the gravel and breathes hard, every nerve ringing with resistance and so much power.
“Bloody Gryffindor,” he mutters, drawing in more magic.
The wards hiss and snap at him with sparks and surges that rattle his very bones. It all feels like Potter, like being surrounded with the sheer force of his magic and its raw, untamable power. Luckily for Draco, he has five years of experience in managing Potter’s power and becoming accustomed to it. Sweat beads on Draco’s temple as he shoves back. Counter-curses peel layer by layer from the shield, unraveling tangled knots of defensive charms Potter must have built with dogged determination. Each one gives way reluctantly, tearing at Draco’s strength, demanding more of him.
Draco’s arms ache, his lungs burn, his magic strains and frays and yet, he pushes because there is simply no universe in which he walks away from his partner, even if he is the world’s okayest.
Finally, mercifully, the wards groan and split and ease open, just enough for him to slip through. It’s a near thing, but Draco stumbles over the threshold and finds himself facing a small, ivy-clad cottage tucked beneath the trees. Lavender grows all around it, and it’s rather sweet, actually, like somewhere a couple would stay when they had settled down with a kid or two. Was Potter imagining a future with someone here? The thought left a bitter taste in Draco's mouth. The windows are shuttered and it’s quiet in a way that makes Draco’s skin prickle with anxiety. Smoke curls thinly from the chimney, a wavering signal that someone is inside.
Draco advances, boots crunching on gravel, wand still clenched tight though his hands tremble faintly from the exertion. His heart hammers. Please be okay. Please be alright.
The door gives beneath his hand, swinging inward with a weary groan.
The first thing Draco notices is the magic. It clings to the air, thick and volatile, like a storm that hasn’t broken. It’s the same magic he felt outside with the wards, suffocating in its power. The second thing he notices is Potter. And honestly, it’s a wonder how it wasn’t the first thing he noticed at all.
Potter is standing in the middle of the room with a confused expression on his face. Admittedly, Draco only got to his expression second because Potter is also standing with a towel slung low around his hips and… well, not much else. His hair is dripping wet and sticking up worse than usual as his chest gleams with beads of water, muscle shifting with every startled breath. That golden expanse of skin is sinful, borderline pornographic and it’s, fuck it’s so goddamn hot that Draco’s mouth goes dry.
But it’s not just the skin… it’s the tattoo. Merlin. How has Draco never seen this before? Potter must Glamor it when he comes into work, but it’s obscene. The way the antlers frame his abdomen, highlight the cut V on his hips, as if they’re leading right down to his cock. It’s a work of art, a beautiful tapestry that is equal parts majestic and lewd. It makes Draco want to trace his fingers on it, even though he is well aware that is a terrible idea.
Potter is big, in every way imaginable. He’s at least twice the size of Draco, so… big. Merlin, he’s out of words. He’s… he’s… yeah. There’s nothing to be said. There’s no words formulating in his brain. Just… Potter.
Despite the whole Greek God appeal Potter’s got going on, Draco sees the other things too. Bloodshot green eyes, rimmed with a faint glow of gold that makes Draco’s pulse stutter. Skin slick with sweat despite the shower he obviously just took and yes, Draco can tell the difference.
“What are you doing here?” Potter rasps.
Fuck. So much skin. So big. Fuck. Fuck.
“Hi,” Draco says.
Potter blinks. “Hi.”
“How’s, uh, how’s it going?”
Potter drags a hand down his face. “Malfoy. You have to leave.”
And suddenly, the purpose comes washing over him again.
“I wanted to check in on you.”
“You’ve checked,” Potter says, a bit rough. “Now go.”
Draco steps further. “You don’t look well.”
Potter’s free hand clenches into a fist, as if to stop himself from reaching out. He rubs a hand over his face again, but this time, it presses against his nose for a brief moment. “You need to leave. Please.”
“Come on, Potter,” Draco says, taking another step forward. “You won’t hurt me. And you really don’t look well.” Reaching out a hand, Draco offers, “Maybe I can help?”
Potter takes a harsh step back, like the vicinity burns. Something flashes in his eyes and Draco has seen bits of it before, but not like this. Not to this effect. It’s savage, it’s fierce, it’s… terrifying. It looks like the intent to kill, to run, to tear and shred. It looks violent and untameable and menacing. It looks… like a wolf.
“Leave. Now.”
Growing more stubborn—because Merlin forbid someone tell Draco Malfoy to do something he doesn't want to—Draco takes another step forward. “I won’t.”
Potter inhales a deep breath and then stops abruptly. Instantly, he stops, going absolutely still, almost eerily so. Those broad shoulders go taunt, nostrils flaring like a wolf scenting the wind. The look in his eyes is deadly and displeased, like something has disturbed him and he's determined to fix it—no matter the means.
For the first time since stepping into this cottage, Draco is a bit uneasy because that look is downright murderous. “What?”
Potter blinks, slowly and then he moves too, swift and deliberate, closing the space between them in two strides. Draco’s back hits the door with a thud before he can think to step away. They’re about the same height, but Draco still has to look up at Potter when he’s towering over him like this, chin tipped up to stare into those eyes.
“What—”
Damp hair drips onto Draco’s collar. Towel still clutched in one first, the other braced behind Draco’s head, caging him in like a predator. His eyes are wild, still rimmed with molten gold, and Draco swears he can feel the heat of every breath against his cheek. This close, Potter smells like sandalwood and broom polish, a scent that's haunted Draco for years. Maybe because he's never smelled it ever since they had to brew Amortentia in sixth year.
“Who touched you?” Potter asks. Asks seems innocuous because Merlin, his voice is low and raw, like a wound dragged open. His gaze flicks down Draco’s body and back up, as though he’s mapping every place someone else might have dared to touch. Potter's jaw tightens as he says, “I can smell him on you.”
Draco swallows hard, confusion addling his brain. “What are you talking about? No one touched me.”
Potter growls, baring his teeth. “Don’t lie to me, Draco.”
His heart stutters at the sound of his name in Potter’s mouth, however acidic it may sound at the moment. Racking his memory for who may have touched him at all today especially when he was in a foul mood, Draco frowns as the brief interaction comes back to him. “Nott asked me to go to the pub for a drink—”
The hand braced by Draco’s head curls into a fist, and it’s mildly terrifying. Draco’s breath falters and his hands, those traitorous things, twitch at his sides, aching to either shove Potter off or fist into the towel and drag him closer. The sheer heat radiating off Potter right now is equivalent to that of a nova, and it’s making Draco sweat. Well, that and all that skin. And that big body. And Potter. Salazar.
“Potter,” Draco says slowly, trying to inject some calm into his voice. “Nothing happened.”
“He’s always wanted you,” Potter snarls, low and dark. Those pupils are blown wide, jaw clenched tight as if he’s holding something back. “You know it too.”
There’s so much loaded into that statement, but Draco can’t possibly decipher it, not with Potter standing so very close, looking frayed and on edge. His magic is a dangerous thing right now, crackling in the air around them and making it hard to draw a single breath.
“But I don’t want him,” Draco replies. “I've never wanted him.”
Draco wonders if Potter can hear the unspoken words: he's not the one I want.
“I don’t like it,” Potter admits, and it’s like his filter has completely melted away now, like it’s dissolved into the puddle of water now forming at their feet. “I don’t like anyone touching you.”
Draco, torn and… turned on, just nods. Without moving too much, he strips the jacket off his back and tosses it to the side. “He didn’t touch me. Just the jacket.”
Within a second, the jacket catches fire. Potter’s hand hadn’t moved, his eyes hadn’t shifted. Nothing. Just wandless magic caused by a jealous rage, and why, oh why is that so irresistible?
Sighing, Draco rests his head against the door, forcing a small smile onto his face. “You’re going to have to buy me a new one.”
“Happily,” Potter agrees, “but this one’s going to smell like me.”
Desire curls in Draco’s stomach as he tips his chin down to look at Potter. His breaths are shallow, pulse racing against his will. He tells himself it’s lunacy, that Potter’s fevered, that werewolf instinct don’t mean a thing. But he knows it’s not true. Not even a little.
It’s been five years, after all. Five endless, maddening, irresistible years of Potter.
How can it mean nothing when there’s that time in the Auror training room where Potter had leaned over his shoulder, close enough for Draco to feel the heat of him through his shirt and rub at the muscle there. “So tense, Malfoy,” he had purred. “Relax.”
How can it mean nothing when Potter’s laugh had hit a certain note in those late nights in the office, reviewing reports and Draco imagined leaning over the desk, not for the files but for his mouth. How only Draco can unleash the one smile that reveals his hidden dimple, tucked away for Draco’s pleasure only.
How can it mean nothing when, during the last Auror gala, Potter had looked over at Draco talking to—surprise surprise, Theo—and grabbed the bottom of the chair, yanking it closer to him. Not to mention, that moment where he rested his hand on Draco’s thigh for a moment too long, shooting Theo a look that could turn him to cinders.
All of it. Every fleeting brush, every lingering glance, every teasing quip that carried a weight Draco pretended not to notice. Every moment he’d told himself he was just imagining it, and that it was really nothing.
But now.
But now, Potter’s chest is bare and his hair is damp and his hands are fisted by Draco’s head and he knows, deep inside, it wasn’t nothing. It was never nothing.
He wants him. He’s always wanted him.
Every tension-laden moment over the last five years rushes forward at once, a perfect, maddening, exquisite avalanche, leaving Draco dizzy, breathless and incapable of pretending at all. This is the moment to take it, when Potter's defenses are down and he's finally being vulnerable. No one else has ever been allowed in this cottage but Draco's here, standing before him, and it seems like an absolute waste not to make his intentions perfectly clear.
Slowly, keeping his eyes on Potter's greenish gold ones, Draco sinks to his knees, holding Potter's gaze as he hit the floor.
“Merlin,” Potter groans and pushes off the door. “No. You have to leave.”
“You’re not going to hurt me,” Draco whispers.
Potter shakes his head, trying to take a step back. “I can’t. You don’t understand—”
Draco, tired of this argument, reaches out and pulls on the towel so it drops to the floor. And Merlin, Merlin that is a sight he will never forget. Draco wasn’t wrong in his earlier comparison to a Greek God because every bit of Potter is perfect and well-proportioned and fuck, Draco wants to taste it. Wants to taste the length of that cock as it slides into his mouth. Wants to feel it hit the back of his throat.
Potter is already hard, and Draco has to wonder why. What was he doing in that shower? Who was he thinking of? Or, was it the sight of Draco? Their proximity? Merlin, Draco doesn't even dare to hope that's true.
Potter’s breaths are so shallow now, eyes unable to move from the sight of Draco on his knees before him. Draco can see his resolve crumbling, but he wants to see it shatter entirely on the floor.
“Can I taste you?” Draco asks sincerely. “Please?”
“Fuck, Draco, no—”
“Just a little bit? I won’t ask for more.” It takes some effort, but Draco puts a bit of innocence and pleading into that voice. Some effort is a crucial distinction though, because it’s really not that hard to tell Potter he wants to suck him off. He really, really does.
“You have to go. I’m going to hurt you.”
“You won’t—”
“I will,” Potter growls. “I will. I will hurt you. I will use you. I will devour you. I will take everything I want and I won’t be kind about it. I will be selfish and greedy and use every hole in your body for my own pleasure and leave you crying, but full of me. It will be rough and needy and fuck, please. Don’t make me do this, Malfoy.”
Unfortunately, Draco’s never heard of anything he wants more.
Draco drops his jaw, opening his mouth in a painfully slow motion, almost salivating at the thought. His tongue peeks out just a bit and he reaches out to flick the head of Potter’s cock. A low rumble moves through Potter’s chest as his entire body convulses. That resolve is crumbling, slowly but surely, so Draco leans forward and licks him again, taking more of Potter’s cock into his mouth. It’s big, just like the rest of him, and Draco is well aware that he’s going to have a sore jaw tomorrow, but he can’t bring himself to care.
“Draco,” Potter whispers in a jagged voice. “I'm not strong enough to fight this. I never stood a chance with you but especially not when you look like an offering, made especially for me.”
Made especially for him. Yes, that's precisely how Draco feels at the moment. “Then stop fighting this. Stop fighting me.”
Potter’s hand, trembling, reaches out to touch Draco’s cheek. “You look so pretty on your knees.”
Draco just looks at him, breaths heaving and heart thudding.
“I can’t lie to you,” Potter admits slowly. “I have imagined this a hundred times before. I’ve always wondered what you might look like with my cock down your throat. I’ve dreamed about it so many times it’s embedded into me and yet.”
“Yet?” Draco prompts when it seems like Potter is lost in tracing his lips with a finger.
“And yet nothing compares to the real thing.”
The words, reverent and deep, seem like they’re spoken from the heart and Draco’s isn’t quite sure how to deal with that level of emotion.
Wrapping his lips around Potter's cock, he finally slips the head into his mouth and past his lips and Merlin, the taste of Potter explodes into his mouth like a sinful dream. He’s thick and warm and fits perfectly and Draco feels a bit blessed, like he’s the one who gets to be on his knees for Potter. Above him, Potter looks like a lord, like a king, looking down at Draco as if he’s a sinner looking for benediction. Draco might as well be, for how much he’s going to want this moving forward.
With an agonizing level of patience, Draco slides his mouth over more of Potter’s cock, sucking slowly as he takes it all the way to the hilt. Groans escape Potter’s mouth as he fists a hand in Draco’s shoulder-length hair and tightens his grip, wrapping it around his knuckles with a tug.
“Oh. Oh.” Potter gasps. “You feel—you feel so good. Hot and wet and tight. If your mouth feels this good, your arse must be made for me.”
Another delighted shiver runs down Draco’s back as he reapplies himself to the task at hand. The first taste of precome hits Draco’s tongue and he moans, needing more of it immediately. He wants Potter's come to flood him everywhere, wants to taste it even in the dead of sleep. He wants to be marked, claimed, overwhelmed by Potter. He wants his mouth to be used, just something for Potter to fuck at his pleasure.
Evidently, his self-respect is on the other side of the door.
“Fuck, you’re too good at that, love,” Potter moans, tightening Draco’s hair around his fist. “I have so many more plans for you tonight but I want to come like this. I want to see my come in your mouth, dripping out because you can’t take anymore. I want you to swallow it all so you remember the taste of me.”
“Do it,” Draco pleads.
The wet, hot glide of Potter’s cock is addicting, so right that Draco knows he is going to need this again and again and again. Merlin, it is intoxicating to feel like Potter wants him this much. He feels like a prince in Potter's gaze, the way he's looking down at him with such devotion in his eyes.
“Such a pretty mouth, baby,” Potter purrs. “Merlin, yes—just like that. Such a clever thing you are. You’re doing so good.”
Fuck, for that kind of adulation, Draco will do anything.
When Potter hits the back of his throat, he pulls off entirely and unwraps Draco’s hair from his fist, being gentle with it even though it's trembling slightly. Potter’s obsession with his hair… Merlin, it’s heady, even if Draco doesn’t fully understand why.
Confused, Draco asks, “What—”
“Get up.”
“But—”
Evidently, Potter is not in the mood for conversation because he grabs an arm and hauls Draco up, spinning him around so he’s facing the door. “Like I said, I’ve thought about this a hundred times before. I’m not close to done with all the things I want to do to you. Where do I even start, hm? Where do I start with this beautiful, perfect body?”
Draco places his hands on the door and arches his back, just a bit, desperate for Potter to do something. Groaning, Potter comes up against his back and puts his hands over Draco’s, locking their fingers together. His cock is a hot press against Draco’s arse, and Draco feels shaky, like he would do anything to vanish his own trousers and feel it against his skin.
“He didn’t touch your hair, did he?” Potter murmurs.
“My hair?” Draco nearly laughs but it dies down in his throat as the memory slams into him.
It had all started as a mistake, really. They had been on an assignment in a secluded, remote mountain that obviously had no access to Draco’s posh hair stylist who had always taken excellent care of Draco with overly expensive potions. As a result, Draco’s hair had grown out to a softer shoulder length. Draco had thought that Potter was paying more attention than usual to his hair during that mission, but he dismissed it as just a month of feeling trapped together. However, when he had gotten it cut the day after the mission ended and showed up to the office, Potter looked like someone had stabbed him.
“You didn’t tell me you were cutting your hair.”
“I didn’t realize you would care?” Draco had asked, confused.
Potter had just shook his head, murmuring something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I care about everything you do.”
Needless to say, Draco had never let it get shorter than his shoulders again.
It wasn’t just the obsession that month, though. Potter really didn’t like when other people got close to it. One time, when they were all at the pub having drinks with the team, a junior Auror made the mistake of trying to braid a section of Draco’s hair. Within minutes her martini glass had shattered on the table, spilling all over her clothes so she had to go home.
Draco always knew that Potter was a bit possessive, but he had always chalked it up to the wolf. Now, he's starting to think it was him. Maybe a bit of both.
“No,” Draco says in a soft voice, heart softening. “No one touched my hair.”
“Good.” Potter’s heat presses against his back, teeth brushing against his pulse. It’s so erotic, so fucking hot, the way Potter presses against him, rubbing gently.
“Oh, fuck,” Draco gasps when Potter rolls his hips. “Potter—”
Potter stills. “Harry. You can call me Harry when you’ve had my cock in your mouth and you’re about to have it in other places too. When it's the last cock you'll ever know and I'm the last man you'll ever touch.”
Merlin preserve him.
“Harry.”
A satisfied breath of air against the back of Draco’s neck. “Good boy.”
“Please, Harry,” Draco pleads, arching his back even further to feel more of Harry's cock rubbing against his arse.
“Do you like feeling me against you?” Harry rasps against his throat, wrapping a hand around his neck to tilt it backward. “Do you like feeling how badly I need you?”
“Yes.”
“You just wouldn’t listen, would you? You don’t get it, Draco. You don’t understand how badly I need you—the way my wolf needs you.”
“Show me,” Draco cries as Harry continues to rub against his arse. Merlin, it feels so good, how juvenile it is. He’s fully dressed but Harry isn’t and something about the way that Harry can’t even wait to get him out of his clothes to rub off on him is heady. Like Draco’s the very air he needs to breathe, needs to survive.
“You are mine. Fucking mine.”
Draco's back arches, needing more friction, more everything. In a heartbeat, Harry spins him so his back is against the door again, and then he pushes a leg between Draco's thighs. That strong, muscular quad is a dream, it feels so good as Draco rubs himself against it like a kneazle in heat. It's degrading, truly, to need Harry this badly that he is quite literally dry humping his leg, but Draco's past the point of dignity.
“Look at you,” Harry laughs and it's a bit teasing, like he's laughing at Draco's frenzied desperation. “Rubbing yourself on just my leg like this. You must want it so bad, huh?”
Draco can barely process what he's saying, so he just nods.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Harry coos. “You want me to make it feel better? Does your cock ache for me, love?”
“Oh, Harry. Yes.”
“Rubbing all over me like a puppy, aren't you? You're so needy, Draco.”
He is. He really, really is.
“Merlin, look how desperate you are,” Harry says, like he's amazed by the sight of Draco desperately rubbing his cock against Harry's thigh. “Your cock is leaking and I've barely even touched you. What are you going to do when I fuck you, hm? Can your sweet cunt even handle that?”
“I—yes. I can.”
Harry tsks. “I'm not so sure about that, puppy.”
“I can take you. I promise.”
“We'll see about that, won't we?”
All Draco hears is a promise of more.
“He’ll never make you feel like this.” Harry presses the words against his pulse. “He’ll never have you. Never.”
“Who?” Draco asks, mind blurred with lust. This rubbing is not enough; he needs more, more, more.
“Fucking Nott.”
Oh, for Merlin’s sake. “I’m yours, you beast. Now make me come.”
A short chuckle against his skin. “Not quite yet.”
“Harry,” Draco protests.
“I’m going to fill you up so you can feel me dripping out of you with every step you take. I’m going to tie you to the bed and make you come, over and over and over again until you’re begging me to stop and still, I won’t. I’m going to use your pretty hole as long as I want, fucking it like it’s mine because it is mine, isn’t it, love? It always has been.”
“I—”
“Don’t lie now, Draco,” Harry tuts, hand traveling down Draco’s throat to grab his swollen cock through his trousers. “There’s really no point.”
“I want to come,” Draco says. Pleads. Begs.
Harry laughs crudely and pulls Draco off the door, pushing him forward into the bedroom by the door. When Draco sees the bed, he nearly weeps and his legs give out. Harry pushes him further into the room with a hand on his lower back.
“Strip,” Harry demands from behind him.
Slowly, Draco turns around and raises a brow. “Don’t want to do it yourself?”
“I’m going to tear them up if I try,” Harry says tightly, teeth grinding. "And I know how you feel about your pretty clothes. To me, they just block me from what I really want."
Harry's hands flex on either side of him. He doesn’t seem to have any problems with being gloriously naked and Draco supposes if he were built like a golden Adonis he wouldn’t have any problems with it either.
Not really wanting his well-tailored clothes to be shredded, Draco slowly peels the shirt off his chest and sets it aside. Next are his trousers and his pants, which he tosses on a chair nearby before standing upright for Harry’s viewing pleasure.
Merlin, he feels so exposed as those green eyes trail down his chest, stopping ever so slightly at the scars etched into his skin. Is that possession that flares in his eyes?
“Lay on the bed. Hands on the headboard.”
Asking clarifying questions is not going to get Draco any answers so he just does as told, making his movements as slow as possible as he obliges. Somehow, he has the presence of mind to remember a wolf’s sense of smell, so he makes sure to cover as much surface area as possible, leaving his scent on the sheets. It’s clear Harry can tell what he’s doing because his nostrils flare. No doubt he can smell the extent of Draco’s arousal, the way he needs and wants this more than anything else.
“What do I smell like?” Draco asks as he puts his hands on the headboard above him. “To your wolf.”
Harry throws his head back, exposing the long column of that throat that Draco wants to lick. “What do you smell like? Now there’s a question.”
“Tell me,” Draco pleads.
The gold around his eyes gets a bit brighter, like it’s expanding before Draco’s eyes. There’s something lurking there, something untold.
“You smell like home,” Harry tells him, edging closer to the bed. “You smell like warm tea with three sugars and parchment paper in the office. Like sunshine and rainy days sitting in Grimmauld, looking over case files. Like late nights at the pub, watching you laugh at some stupid joke someone said. Like comfort and solace and peace. You smell like home, Draco.”
The words are so heavy and heated and perfect that Draco reaches an arm out to touch him. Surprisingly gentle, Harry takes it and lets himself be tugged down on top of Draco’s body.
“Careful,” Harry murmurs, holding himself up. “I’ll hurt you.”
“I don’t care,” Draco protests, wanting to feel Harry’s crushing weight on him.
Harry drags his nose up the skin of Draco’s neck, along his jawline and then, in the next moment, his mouth is on Draco’s and it’s hot and hungry and so bloody desperate that it makes Draco weak. Harry kisses him like he’ll die if he’s denied it and there’s something savage and possessive in it too that’s so distinctly Harry. Draco’s arms tighten around Harry, holding him closer as Draco arches into him and bites his lower lip. A growl moves through Harry’s chest as he slips his tongue into Draco’s mouth and yes, that’s just what he wanted more than anything in the world. It’s hot and heady and Draco kisses back with the fervor of a thousand suns, melting into Harry’s hold like hot wax on a summer day.
“You taste like mine too,” Harry whispers, and Draco can’t help but lick and bite his way into Harry’s mouth even further. The length of Draco’s cock is brushing against Harry’s and all he wants is to come, so badly, so desperately that he starts to move his hips upward, desperate and needy.
Harry grinds against Draco for one moment, and then growls in frustration, pushing away and off Draco once again, moving down to throw both of Draco’s legs over his shoulder. Draco reaches for him with a whine, but Potter’s wandless magic is quicker. Within a heartbeat, Draco’s hands are tied to the headboard with something… blue and Draco can’t tell what it is, but it’s strong enough that Draco can’t move. Upon further inspection, though, Draco recognizes the silk and barks.
“I have been looking for that shirt for a year, you animal!”
Harry’s smile is sheepish—dimple, dimple, fucking dimple—as he says, “I stole it from our last mission. The one where you started to grow your hair. It smelled like you and I couldn’t give it up. Sorry.”
And how can Draco scold him when he says things like that? When he knows bloody well he's never cut his hair short again because that's how Harry likes it?
Lifting his hips and spreading his legs, Draco plays, “You can make it up to me in other ways.”
Harry grins—seriously, that dimple is a danger to society—and the familiar tingle of a cleaning charm sweeps through him, though this one is infinitely more powerful than anything he has ever felt before. Draco is already shivering and shuddering as Harry’s magic flows through him, but Harry doesn’t give him a moment to recuperate as his tongue presses right up against Draco’s hole.
“Merlin.”
Draco’s stomach flexes as Harry’s tongue laps at him, swirling and tracing over the tight furl of his arse. Long, guttural sounds pull from Draco’s throat as Harry’s lips flex tight around his hole, sucking relentlessly. Harry manhandles him, prying him open as his tongue pushes deeper, more and more needy as he grabs Draco’s thighs tighter.
“Such a pretty, perfect hole,” Harry purrs. “Can’t wait to fuck it.”
Draco cries, clenching around Harry’s tongue as his cock hardens even further, falling against his stomach. Harry’s eyes dart to the precome leaking on Draco’s stomach as if he wants to taste it, like a man faced with an impossible choice between two treats he needs to survive.
Harry digs his face even further, so deep that Draco can feel the burn of Harry’s stubble against his own thighs as he sucks, greedy and obscene, as though he will never have another meal again.
“I love the way you open for me,” Harry murmurs lightly. “You were made to take me—every part of me. My tongue, my fingers, my cock. Merlin, you’re perfect.”
Draco feels a wave of something pass through him as he flexes and throbs and clenches, trying to feel more.
“Please,” Draco cries, gasping and chanting and desperate like it's a prayer. “Harry.”
Thrashing against the ties on the headboard, Draco cries as Harry pushes his tongue in, swirling it with just the right amount of pressure. Every once in a while, Harry hums in that contented way that Draco knows intimately, and it sends vibrations through his entire body. This is quite the unique form of torture to make Draco endure this, without letting him even touch Harry’s unruly nest of hair. But Harry just snarls every time Draco tries to move, beastly and hot, mouth refusing to leave until a finger is there, pushing its way in too.
“That’s it, love,” Harry purrs. “Oh yes, just like that. Your arse is so bloody perfect, Draco. You’re such a slut for me, aren’t you? Your arse is so greedy you’re just taking all of me without a bit of hesitation.”
Draco moans, insensate, as another finger squeezes into him. Harry gives him barely any time to prepare as he keeps pushing them deeper, moving them ever so slightly to pry Draco open.
“You’re such a good boy, baby,” Harry praises. “You’re doing so good.”
Harry’s tongue doesn't stop its furtive motions into Draco’s hole, as it opens up around Harry’s fingers, sucking and lapping and positively dripping with need.
“Fuck me,” Draco cries. “Harry, I need you to fuck me. Fuck me.”
Harry just laughs, the bastard, delivering a sharp slap against Draco’s arse. “You should be begging me, not demanding me. Want to try that again?”
“You fucking bastard—”
“I should clarify,” Potter hums, biting the inside of Draco’s thigh. “Try it again, nicely.”
Merlin, even the heroes in the bodice rippers Draco definitely does not read aren’t this demanding, this needy, this insufferably hot.
“Please, Harry,” Draco tries. “Please, will you fuck me?”
“My poor, desperate love,” Harry hums, leaving one last sucking kiss against Draco’s hole as he pulls his fingers out. “Only since you’ve been so good for me.”
Draco wants to do something ridiculous, like cheer, but he resorts to begging—a tried and true strategy. “Please, I want your cock.”
Harry moves forward on his knees, looking down at the flush of Draco’s skin. He’s stroking his cock with that lazy sort of arrogance, like he has all the time in the world and like Draco isn’t just laying there with his hands tied up. The tattoo looks so bloody good on his abdomen, framing Draco’s attention right where it was anyway.
Immediately, Draco imagines the sight of himself riding Harry, of looking down at those antlers as he spears his body on Harry's hard cock, moving himself up and down and being so filled up with Harry. He imagines the way his hands would look pressed on the large expanse of Harry's muscled chest, the way Harry would probably lay back like an imperious king and just enjoy the show Draco would put on for him. And Merlin, would it be a show. Draco tugs on the makeshift bondage, trying to bring his fantasy to life, but Potter's magic is way too strong for that. Alas, riding Potter will have to wait for another time then. Maybe in the morning.
A wolfish smile crosses Harry’s mouth as he watches Draco struggle. “Merlin, you’re such a slut for it. The way you beg… men could go insane trying to hear that from your mouth.”
“But they won’t,” Draco promises. “Only you.”
Harry’s eyes flare with heat. “Only me.”
The first push is nearly agony, because Harry is so big in every form of the word.
“You can take it,” Harry promises, his voice soothing and low. “We’ll make it fit.”
Draco is admittedly skeptical, but when Harry comes down on Draco, bracketing his face on either side with those thick forearms, corded with muscle, it somehow feels a little better. Draco's eyes briefly catch onto the bite mark on his bicep, and it's probably a bit deranged that he finds that hot too. Admittedly, Harry could do anything right now—knit, make tea, read—and Draco would probably have to bite his lip to contain his moans.
“I know, love,” Harry whispers against Draco’s lips, pressing a brief kiss there as if he can't help himself. “I know.”
A light sheen of sweat coats Harry’s skin, and Draco can tell they’re close to the full moon just with how much it’s taking for Harry to hold back. Part of Draco doesn’t want him to hold back but he also doesn’t want to die especially without being fucked by Harry, so he doesn’t push it.
Draco gasps as Harry pushes himself in, pausing here and there for Draco to adjust. Those antlers look sinful as they ride low on Harry's hips and the sight of them connecting with Draco's thighs as he fucks him is ethereal. There's no other word for it.
A low rumble moves through Harry’s throat as he buries his face against Draco’s neck, inhaling deep breaths—smelling Draco. Smelling his arousal. Draco wraps his legs around Harry’s waist and arches to draw him deeper, rutting desperately. Harry curses, losing himself for a moment as he thrusts forward on instinct, burying another couple inches into Draco’s body.
“I'm trying to go slow, love,” Harry says in a broken voice. “But you’re sucking me in, I can’t stop myself. Fuck. You feel so bloody good.”
Draco moans a low, greedy approval as Harry pushes in again, feeding him the rest of his cock, filling him up with inch after inch. It’s so heavy and thick and hot inside him, better than anything he’s ever felt. Harry hits something inside of him with the head of his cock—that spot that makes Draco see stars. Harry makes a low noise, carnal and feral, and then pulls all the way out. Pulling back, Harry holds Draco’s eyes as he shoves his full length back in and growls. Draco’s entire body lights up as Harry hits that spot again, over and over and over until Draco’s crying, tears streaming down his face because it feels so bloody good.
“I’m so fucking deep, in the heart of you and it’s still not deep enough,” Harry gasps.
It’s been hours now, since this all began and between the disrupted blowjob and the mild dry humping and the enthusiastic rimming, Draco simply needs to come.
Harry brushes his hands over Draco’s nipples, tweaking them slightly so that they’re red and perked and begging for a mouth to soothe them. Draco's cock is neglected, leaking between them and Harry’s eyes flare every time he sees how red, how hard, how much Draco needs it.
“I want to come inside you and then lick it all up. Fuck. I want you to be so filled with me that every single person knows you belong to me. I want to smell myself on you, inside you all the bloody time. I want you to taste like me, smell like me, be filled with me every moment of every day so I know you belong to me.”
“I want that too,” Draco mewls.
Harry shoves harder and harder, squeezing Draco’s hips and touching Draco's stomach and digging his nails into Draco's thighs. Every time his abdomen flexes, the tattoo moves with it and Draco feels an incurable urge to lick it, touch it, worship it. Draco wants nothing more than to dig his nails into every muscle of Harry's back until he's bleeding, but the ties on Draco's wrists are far too strong for that. It’s a different kind of sickness, this desire he feels, but Draco doesn’t want to be cured.
“You feel so good, love,” Harry says, hips working his cock in and out of Draco’t tight hole with a furious heat that’s entirely animalistic. “I want to breed you, fill you up with so much come that you’re dripping for days. I’ll keep doing it until you’re filled with me, until you’re knocked up.”
Draco’s sobbing now, discovering something quite new about himself, his hole clenching around Harry’s dedicated cock. There’s more words that barely filter into his consciousness like pregnant and so fucking full and put a baby in you and it’s all entirely too much.
All of a sudden, Harry starts pulling out and Draco, alarmed, wraps his legs tighter around Harry’s waist. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Harry hesitates. “Draco, the moon—fuck. If I come now, I’m going to—”
“Going to?” Draco prompts when Harry trails off.
“I’m going to knot you.”
The word floods every single one of Draco’s senses, the reality of the situation settling in. Knotting. Does he want that? Is it safe? Does he even know what it entails? His brain is telling him they probably shouldn’t do that right now, but unfortunately, all of his blood currently resides in his cock so he is thinking with the wrong head.
Tightening his legs around Harry’s hips to pull him closer and, more importantly, back inside him, Draco says, “So do it.”
Harry shakes his head, eyes flaring as if he's waging a war within his own head. “Draco—”
“Haven’t I been so good, Harry?” Draco pouts. “Haven’t I done everything you asked for?”
“Draco.”
“Please, Harry. I want you to knot me. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to claim me, knot me, stretch me open in a way no one else ever has and no one else ever will?”
“You are dangerous,” Harry rasps, but he resumes his steady fucking, snapping his hips with even more fervor. He lifts Draco slightly, the angle even better for Harry to his his prostate, pushing harder and deeper and oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—
Draco goes limp as he comes, something exploding behind his eyes with a fierce power. It’s overwhelming, it’s not enough and too much all at once. Harry fucks him through it, a deep growl, reverberating from his chest through Draco’s cock, lengthening the aftershocks of Draco’s orgasm. Harry feels larger, somehow, and that’s when Draco knows it was happening.
The knot.
Draco gasps as Harry swells further, his insides stretching to accommodate Harry, even though he feels like there's no possible way he can accommodate anything more. The knot presses insistently against Draco’s prostate now, and he feels so much pleasure it could even be pain. The tears don’t stop even as he screams, throat hoarse from it as Harry sinks his teeth into Draco’s scent gland where his shoulder meets his neck—
And the world goes black.
It’s an unknown time later when Draco wakes up in the same position as when he was passed out, but his hands have been untied and maybe even massaged because there isn't as much of an ache in there as he felt before. He wants to move, but he’s sore all over and his body feels like it’s been hit by the Knight Bus.
Harry must not realize that he’s awake again because he draws a line through the come on Draco’s stomach and then rubs it over his own chest, letting it blend into his skin. He does it again, and again, like he wants to cover himself in the evidence of Draco’s need, marking him with Draco's scent. It's carnal, feral, and so base and the sight of Harry covering himself in Draco's come does something twisted to Draco's insides. He looks boyish, almost, as if he's trying not to get caught with his hand in a biscuit tin.
“Hi,” Draco says, voice rough from the crying, and screaming, and moaning and... yeah. All that.
Harry’s head snaps up. “Hi.”
His cheeks are flushed and red across those hidden freckles as if he thinks he should be embarrassed about this, which is ridiculous because it is quite frankly, the hottest and most endearing thing Draco has ever seen in his entire life.
“How long until the moon?” Draco asks, yawning and stretching—however constricted he may be.
“Not very,” Harry replies and looks down where they're still very intimately connected. “But this needs to… go down first.”
Draco laughs, and it hurts because Harry is still so deep in him, knotted and intertwined and Merlin, it’s some perverted form of bliss.
Harry lays down on Draco again—as best as he can, anyway—smoothing the hair from his face and pressing kisses everywhere he can reach. “You’re so perfect. Fuck, I can't believe you're in my bed and you're here and I'm inside you and... if I'm dreaming, please don't ever wake me up.”
Draco’s smile is sated and sleepy, listening to Harry ramble on like that. How is he so bloody hot and so sweet at the same time? “Good thing I came to check on you, hm?”
“Thank Merlin for that, indeed,” Harry says softly, and the look in his eyes… it’s familiar. It’s what Draco sees in the mirror all the time. It’s a reflection, gold rimmed and green.
“I’m sleepy,” Draco murmurs. “You've tired me out with your cock. And your mouth. And your fingers. And—”
“Sleep, love,” Harry whispers, pressing a kiss to Draco’s cheek as he laughs. “I’ll watch over you. I'll take care of you.”
With that sweet promise and the weight of Harry resting on him and in him, Draco succumbs to the promise of sleep, dreaming of being cradled in warm fur to the sounds of deep purrs. It's so comforting that he doesn't even want to get up, wants to stay like this forever. He wonders, when he wakes up, if he can ask Harry if he can meet his wolf form, especially if he feels anything like this dream.
By the time Draco wakes up again, light is filtering in through the curtains on the windows.
Alas. The moon is over then. There’s a pang in Draco's heart because he wanted to see Harry’s wolf form, but he knows there will be other moons.
They have time. They have forever.
The smell of something foreign lingers in the air. It’s not his own starched sheets or the faint musk of old parchment and ink from his flat in Bloomsbury above the bookshop. No, this is different, more warm and rich. Something sizzling, unmistakably breakfast, and laced with the faintest hint of slightly-burnt biscuits.
With a yawn, Draco stands up and stretches, noticing that even though he is sore, he expected it to be a lot worse. No doubt Harry has used some of his magic to soothe the aches and pains. (He also doesn’t delude himself into thinking that it isn’t selfish on Harry’s part to allow for a repeat, but he’s quite alright with that. Draco still has a riding fantasy to make true.). Stealing one of Harry’s jumpers and a pair of his sweats that are too long and large on Draco's body, Draco makes his way to the kitchen where Harry is standing by the stove looking like a wet dream.
Salazar. Harry is wearing his shirt and his pants from the previous day. Thank Merlin he didn’t even try with Draco's trousers because they certainly would not have fit. As it stands, the shirt looks ridiculous, stretched so tight on Harry's large frame that one wrong move and it would rip.
Even though Harry's wolf senses probably allow him to hear everything, Draco sneaks up behind Harry and wraps his arms around Harry’s back. “That is the most dressed up I have ever seen you and you’re not even wearing trousers,” he comments wryly, resting his cheek against the shirt.
A laugh moves through Harry’s back, body heat radiating through the fabric. “Normally, fancy shirts are itchy. But yours are rather soft.”
“High quality fiber, darling. I’ll get some made for you, shall I?” Draco offers, playing with the collar of Harry—his shirt.
“Only if you dress me every morning.”
“As long as I can undress you at night,” Draco promises.
“It’s a deal.”
Draco kisses the skin above the neck. There’s scratches littered there, and Harry smells faintly of fresh mud and pine. They’ll discuss more about this later, but for now, Draco wants to focus on the simple things in front of him.
“I actually brought you something. It's in that shirt.”
Harry frowns, patting himself down. “What?”
Draco shakes his head with a smile, reaching into the breast pocket. With a whispered charm, he enlarges the tiny item he had brought with him from the office.
“My mug!” Harry exclaims with entirely too much excitement, eyes lighting up like a kid on a broom for the first time. How special that Draco actually knows what that memory looks like for Harry, isn't it?
“Yes, darling,” Draco laughs. “Why do you love it so much? I’ve offered to buy you a new one so many times.”
Harry scoffs, like the idea is ludicrous. “I’m a wolf, Draco. And this is the first thing you ever gave to me. What makes you think it’s something I want to give up?”
And fuck if that doesn’t make Draco’s heart stutter in his chest.
“I don’t want a new mug, thanks ever so. I like mine just fine.”
Draco nuzzles his face against Harry’s neck, inhaling a deep breath. “Alright.”
“Mine,” Harry whispers, turning his head to press a kiss to Draco’s temple.
“Are you making me breakfast?”
“I am,” Harry says proudly.
“And is it edible?”
Harry laughs again. “That’s for you to find out, isn’t it?”
Lifting a piece of asymmetrically buttered biscuit, he turns around and puts it near Draco’s mouth. Draco makes a show of chewing slowly, and then sighs. “Yes, I’ll admit. It’s edible.”
Harry beams—that damn dimple—and it’s remarkable just how much that grin could light up any room, how it knocks the air from Draco’s lungs more effectively than any hex. Draco trails a finger across those hidden freckles and places a kiss there too.
“I’ve made your tea,” Harry says. “Three sugars.”
His heart does something stupid again, when Draco realizes that even though Potter doesn’t drink tea with sugar, and never expected Draco to show up to this cottage, he still had sugar for Draco. Merlin, was this man perfect in every way?
They eat together at the cramped table, sunlight spilling through the small window, painting Harry’s shoulders in gold. It’s absurdly, disgustingly domestic. Potter steals biscuits off Draco’s plate, Draco swats at him half-heartedly, Potter laughing like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.
Potter looks at him across the table, eyes soft, lips curved, and Draco doesn’t flinch away from the weight of it. He lets himself be seen. He lets himself stay.
When Harry leans across to kiss him, slow and sticky with toast crumbs, Draco doesn’t stop him. He never will.
But, as they linger at the table long after the food is gone, Harry toys with his dilapidated mug, thumb tracing the rim, jaw tight. Draco recognises the look, the one Potter wears right before he tries to martyr himself.
Here we go, Draco thinks to himself.
“Draco,” Harry starts carefully, eyes fixed on the mug instead of him. “You don’t… you don’t have to do this.”
Draco leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “Do what, exactly?”
Harry exhales, but presses on. “Last night. Me. Us.” He finally looks up, and there it is: raw, earnest fear. “I’m a wolf. You know what that means. It’s not… normal. It’s not easy. You don’t deserve to be tied to that.”
Draco stares at him, incredulous. “Are you trying to break up with me before we’ve even had a proper go at this?”
Harry’s mouth twitches, but he shakes his head. “I’m trying to give you a choice. Because once you’re in… once you’re mine, it’s not something I can just turn off.” His voice dips lower, almost ashamed. “The wolf doesn’t share, Draco. It doesn’t let go.”
For a long moment, Draco says nothing. He lets Harry squirm, lets the silence stretch, sharp as glass between them. Then he stands, steps around the table, and stops at Harry’s side. He pushes the chair back, straddling it to sit on Harry’s lap.
“Harry,” Draco says, voice cutting through the air like a spell. “I don’t want out.”
Harry blinks, startled.
Draco leans closer, until their foreheads almost touch. “I’ve wanted you for five years. Wolf or no wolf, easy or impossible, I don’t care. I want you. And if that means being claimed, marked, whatever bloody animalistic instinct you’re fretting about… then, good. Let it. I want it.”
Harry swallows hard, eyes searching his, desperate to believe.
Draco smirks faintly, though his voice softens. “So stop trying to be noble and let me have what I’ve already decided I want.”
For a heartbeat, Harry doesn’t move. Then his hand covers Draco’s, warm and trembling slightly, grip tightening as though he’s afraid Draco might vanish.
“Alright,” Harry whispers, voice rough with relief. “Alright, then.”
“Thank Merlin you said that,” Draco scoffs with an airy sort of insouciance. “Because I had a thought last night... and I'd like to bring that to life.”
A brow raises on Harry's handsome face, that dimple peeking through. “Oh?”
Draco presses a kiss against those hidden freckles that will only ever be his. “How sturdy is this chair?”
“Sturdy enough for whatever your filthy mind is coming up with.”
“Excellent." Draco beams, Vanishing his own clothes and Harry's.
“Hey,” Harry pouts. “I wanted to keep those. They smelled like you.”
Fuck Draco's poor heart. “Darling, I will make sure every single one of your clothes smells like me moving forward. I promise.”
“I will hold you to that,” Harry says very seriously and Draco just has to kiss him again because he's just so adorable he can't help it.
"Hands behind your head, please."
“What?” Harry asks, amused. “Why?”
“Don't ask questions,” Draco scolds, soothing the sharp words with a kiss. “I even said please.”
“Alright then,” Harry says, again with the arrogance of a prince, as he puts his hands behind his back, threading them through his hair. “Show me what you've got.”
Even though Harry had spelled some of the soreness and ache away, he thankfully had not done any cleaning spells. Possessive bastard. Draco's thankful for the “oversight” at the moment, because it makes it easier for him. His hole is still stretched from Harry's knot, from the vicious fucking he endured last night. Harry's come is still sticky on his thighs, still in his arse, and Draco's never been quite so grateful to be filthy.
Lining himself over Harry's cock, Draco spreads his legs and settles lower, looking down at that damn tattoo on Harry's hips. Yes. This is exactly what he wanted. The sight of his cock rubbing against those antlers is enough to make him go insane.
Just to be a tease, Draco pushes a finger inside himself with his eyes on Harry. When it becomes two fingers, he rests one hand on Harry's chest for balance.
Harry's jaw is tight, like he can't believe his eyes, but he doesn't move his hands from behind his head. “You're killing me.”
Draco smirks. “I haven't even done anything yet.”
Harry's groan is low and deep when Draco rises ever so slightly on his knees and starts to lower himself onto Harry's cock.
“Oh.”
That stretch, Merlin, it feels so good. He starts slow at first, like an wave is rolling down his spine, a gentle movement that starts from his neck and all the way down to his knees, straddled around Harry's hips. When Draco sinks all the way down, taking all of that gorgeous cock, it feels like Harry's home.
How can it be that he lived his whole life without this and now, he can't imagine a single moment where he isn't constantly surrounded by Harry?
Harry's biceps are straining, that bite mark flexing against Harry's skin with the effort he's putting into restraining himself. Draco feels a bit like a fool, because he wants Harry to dig those fingers into his hips so hard it'll leave marks, but he also knows Harry well enough that it's only a matter of time before he loses control and does what he wants anyway.
A hiss breaks past Harry's lips as Draco keeps his hand on Harry's chest for support and adjusts until he's comfortable, sinking all the way down Harry's already hard cock. The first inch is agony, but then his body readjusts and accommodates the length that Draco is growing increasingly greedy for.
“That feels so good,” Draco whispers. “Merlin, you're so deep like this. I can feel so much of you.”
Harry lets out a shaky, satisfied moan as Draco puts his hips to work, moving them in a figure-eight motion. His thighs do burn just a little with the effort of holding himself aloft, but it's so worth it for the sight of Harry's slack jaw and reverent green eyes.
“Not that I'm not enjoying this, my love,” Harry grits through strained teeth, “but aren't you sore?”
“Stop being a chivalrous hero for once, Potter,” Draco teases with a smile. “I want your cock in my arse so I'm taking it. Really, you're just here for show.”
Harry's eyes flash dangerously. Hook, line and sinker. “Oh? Just any other cock, hm?”
Draco hums, rising up on his knees and back down again. “Basically.”
Snap.
Harry's hands unwind from behind his head and descend on Draco's hips. Draco fights a slight victory grin because he knew this was going to happen.
“I thought I told you to keep those behind your head?”
“I don't listen to disobedient little brats.”
Draco hums, a shiver going down his spine at the danger in Harry's voice. Harry's hands are resting lightly on Draco's hips as Draco positions himself again, lifting off a couple inches only to go back down. The slick sound of last night's come is obscene, and it makes Draco's lips part with want. The hand on Harry's chest suddenly doesn't seem like enough, so he wraps both arms around Harry's broad shoulders, holding on for dear life.
“Fuck.”
Harry presses his nose to Draco's throat, inhaling a deep breath before sinking his teeth into the flesh there. “I want you to know just whose cock you're riding, love.”
Draco had only been teasing, but it seems like Harry's intent on making him pay for it now. “Harry—”
“Spell my name with your hips when you ride me. Let me see you move.”
Salazar. When Draco spells out Harry and then tries to resume fucking himself on Harry's cock quick and dirty, Harry's palm lands on his arse, hard.
Draco gasps. Did he just spank him? “What was that for?”
Harry's eyes are dark as he warns, “My. Full. Fucking. Name.”
“Why?” Draco asks in agony.
“Because if you're fucking a Potter, you're going to damn well know it,” Harry says. “You told me you're in this now, so you might as well get used to your new last name.”
Salazar. “We're hyphenating.”
Harry's laugh is low and menacing as he bites Draco's neck in warning. “We'll see.”
It's torture, it really is. Trying to move his hips and rock them in a way that spells out Harry's full fucking name. And every time he sinks lower, Harry's hands tighten on his hips, making him feel insane. Draco's hips swivel as Harry makes him say each and every single letter out loud, slow and long.
He looks like a Greek God, a brilliant, unflappable force of nature. Like something to name a statue after, or a star in the endless sky.
“I love watching your arse swallow my cock,” Harry breathes. “You take me so well. You move like you were made for me.”
Draco digs his fingers into Harry's hair, pulling and tugging while he fucks himself on Harry's length. “I was made for you.”
Harry's hands are running up and down Draco's back, scratching his nails down Draco's back. Draco groans and speeds up, swirling his hips fast and hard and quick, body sprawled over Harry's thighs. It's a sight to see the sheen of sweat on Harry's shoulders, like he's still trying to hold himself back with everything in him.
“Harry,” Draco pleads, feeling tired and worn out and knowing he can't come without Harry's... permission.
“Oh,” Harry pouts, utterly insincere, “did you want me to take care of you now?”
“Please.”
“But I thought I was just another cock.”
“I didn't mean it,” Draco cries. “Please, Harry.”
Harry hums, like he's thinking about indulging Draco's whims. “I don't know...”
“I'll do anything,” Draco begs. “Anything. I want to come.”
A thick brow raises on Harry's face. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Tell me just whose cock you're riding,” Harry threatens. “Say you're the only one for me, Harry. Say your cock is the only one allowed to fuck me anytime you want.”
“You're the only one for me, Harry. Your cock is the only one allowed to fuck me anytime you want.”
“How generous, love,” the bastard purrs.
And then he fucks.
With both hands on Draco's hips, he lifts him slightly and starts raising his own hips, thrusting up into him. Draco whimpers, tightening his arm around Harry's shoulders. He pushes his upper body against Harry's solid chest, trusting it to withhold the weight of him.
“You feel like heaven,” Harry rasps. “I'm going to need this all the time, you know. When we're at work, I'm going to pull you into interrogation rooms so I can use your mouth to take the edge off.”
Harry thrusts faster, harder, fucking into him with ruthless intent, with wild abandon. Draco feels much like an object, just there for Harry to fuck into, and he's never loved anything more.
“Tell me more,” Draco pants. “What else do you want to do to me?”
“So many things, Draco. The list never ends. I want to come home to you every single day and bend you over the kitchen counter. I want to fuck you every morning, come so deep in you, and then plug you so everyone knows you belong to me. So I can smell you all day long.”
Draco's moan is so long and broken he thinks he might have sobbed. His cock brushing against Harry's chest is agony, each sensation a delightful caress and a teasing torture.
“More,” Draco demands. “Tell me more.”
“I want to pump you so full of my come that you'll—”
Draco pulls back a bit to look at Harry's face, flushed with exertion and embarrassment. How does he manage to look shy even when he's ruthlessly fucking into Draco? “What?”
“That you'll carry my child.”
“Oh.” They haven't talked about a future yet, but Draco knows this is exactly where he wants to be. For the rest of his life. “I want at least two.”
Harry's eyes light up with excitement and triumph. “I'm planning to fill you with as many kids as you'll let me, love.”
Draco leans in for a kiss. “Better get to work, then.”
Harry's hips are snapping harder now, cock pushing into his arse ferociously. The thrusts are unrelenting, and Draco feels the muscles in Harry's thighs straining just as hard as his own are. Harry's not holding back anymore, fingers digging into Draco's hips so hard they're almost certainly going to bleed. His dark hair is sticking to his forehead, his beautiful face contorting in pleasure. Draco's torn between watching that expression or that tattoo—an impossible decision, truly—but when Harry kisses him with everything he has, that's when it's all over.
“I'm coming,” Draco cries.
“Come for me, love. Come all over my cock.”
The first shudder rolls through Harry's body as Draco sobs Harry's name, his cock spilling white streaks all over Harry's stomach. Come drips down to the tip of the antlers, as if they always belonged there, like an accessory. He's moaning Draco's name through the kisses as the muscles of Draco's arse clench around Harry. Harry comes and comes, flooding him even further, more than he already was. The sounds are obscene, and the air smells like sex, and it's perfect. So fucking perfect.
Draco collapses, burying Harry's pulsing cock inside him, heavy breaths loud as they press into Harry's hair. Harry wraps his hands around Draco's back, holding him even closer as if being inside him just isn't enough.
For a moment, it is only their breath—the rise and fall of chests that echo the same rhythm, the hush of air suspended between them as if the world itself has gone still. It is the quiet thrum of their hearts beating not apart but in tandem, as though drawn together by some invisible thread. It is the delicate flutter of something unnamed yet undeniable, like wings stirring in the dark, trembling with the promise of flight. And in that fragile space, where silence sings and time dares not intrude, it feels as though they are not two souls at all, but one.
One soul. One heart.
Draco laughs helplessly. Kisses Harry. Laughs again. Kisses Harry again. Presses his lips to Harry's dimple as Harry laughs too. They're giddy and laughing and kissing and happy and sated, it feel like—
It feels like love.
“Forever,” Draco whispers with one hand on Harry's chest, because somehow, that feels like enough. It feels like a promise they would never dare break.
“Forever,” Harry vows.
Draco lifts the other hand to do a cleaning spell, but Harry stops him.
“No, don't clean it,” Harry says, catching his wrist and pressing a kiss against the pulse there. “Just—just for a little?”
Draco shakes his head with a laugh and then he can't even help himself. “Merlin, I love you.”
Harry doesn't seem surprised, but it's almost like a weight is lifted off his chest. “My heart has beat for yours for years now. Thanks for catching up.”
With a deep sigh, Draco leans in and kisses the love of his life.
“I love you, Draco.”
The moon may rise and fall, but Draco knows a fourth thing now: Draco will always belong to the wolf, and the wolf to him.