hp side blog ⚡️

He want's to enjoy this, especially after craving it for so many years.

The sound of skin on skin is sharp, obscene. Sweat slicks Draco’s face, his shoulders, his chest. Every muscle in his body is tight with the effort of holding on.

“You—fuck—you close, Malfoy?” Potter asks.

Draco can’t answer. He only tightens his grip, fingers digging into Potter’s hips, and even that is too much.

Potter leans forward, one hand braced on Draco’s chest, the other gripping the headboard. He doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop moving his tight, perfect heat over Draco. Over and over, until the world narrows to the sound of his breath.

“Oh you are, aren’t you?” Potter groans. “Your cock—God—it was made for this. Could do this forever.”

Draco wishes that were true. He isn’t naïve. Potter was bored. They both were. Five weeks into a seven-week posting in the middle of Siberia, babysitting a rare Norwegian Ridgeback egg for the Russian Dragon Reserve—anyone would crack.

Especially when Firewhisky is involved.

Potter’s groan drops into something rougher as his hand slides up, fingers settling at Draco’s throat. Gentle.

Draco arches back instinctively, giving him more. Offering.

Take me.

Have me.

Keep me.

For a moment, he thinks he’s gone blind—then realises his eyes have rolled back, his vision blown white. 

Potter’s grip tightens.

It’s too much.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” Draco pants, the sound breaking apart.

Then—helplessly—“Harry.”

Potter stills.

Draco realises what he’s said too late. He forces his eyes open, bracing himself for the look of horror on Potter’s face.

It never comes.

Instead, Potter is staring at him like he’s witnessing something holy—like Draco has split himself open and shown him something sacred. Awe. Reverence. Holy.

Then Potter moves again. Slower now. Deliberate. Less frantic. Intentional.

“Say it again,” Potter says quietly.

He rolls his hips, just enough, and Draco lets out a sound he doesn’t recognise as his own.

“Merlin—”

“Not quite,” Potter murmurs, grinning, smug and soft all at once.

“I’m—” Draco swallows. “I’m close.”

“Say my name,” Potter says, voice low. “And I’ll let you come.”

Draco doesn’t fight it anymore.

He can't.

“Harry.”

It breaks over him all at once—sharp, blinding, fire, the absolute peak of it—and Harry follows a heartbeat later, gasping Draco’s name like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

After, they collapse together in a tangle of limbs and breath. The mattress dips, the bed creaks.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of breathing. Then Harry laughs softly, stunned.

“We’re doing that again,” he says. Certain. “And when we get back—properly back—we’re going on a date.”

Draco turns his head, exhausted and wrecked.

"We are?"

Harry nods. Confident.

"I thought..."

"What?" Harry asks.

Draco shrugs, still breathless—trying to play it cool. Because he's not sure if he heard it right. "You want to go on a date?"

Harry smirks, his gaze half lidded.

"Why?" Draco asks.

"Why? Why... why do you think I agreed to spend seven weeks out in the middle of nowhere with only you for company, Draco?"

Draco blinks. "Merlin..."

Harry grins into the pillow. “Wrong again, it's Harry," he says, wrapping his arm around Draco's body.

Draco smiles, shifting into the nook of Harry.