Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s a game.

Really, that’s all, just a game. Nothing more.

It’s a game that they’ve written the rules to, designed the board, made themselves the pawns.

That’s it.

It’s a game Draco most likes to play when he’s had a bad day. Or a good day, or a stressful day, or just a regular Thursday.

It’s a fun game, okay? He refuses to read into it anymore than that.

So if he goes to a pub he knows he can find Potter at, it’s only because he’s playing the game, following the rules, setting out the pieces.

“Malfoy.” Potter greets when Draco slides into the barstool next to him, his green eyes don’t leave the telly hanging above the bar.

“Potter.” Malfoy replies, waving down the barkeep and ordering a pint without sparing a glance at the man to his left.

That’s it, they don’t need to talk about their days, they don’t need to discuss work, they certainly don’t need to bring up their friends and families.

In the five years since they’ve left Hogwarts, they’ve barely exchanged more than a hundred words in each of these encounters, and that suits Draco just fine. Thank you very much.

It wouldn’t matter if they did talk, because they don’t like each other, so they’d both be wasting their breath. It’s all perfectly fair in this game they play, just the facts of love and war.

Potter finishes his pint just a minute before Draco does, and he leans back and stretches his right arm along the back of Draco’s barstool. His eyes still don’t leave the telly, but his weight and warmth seem to be working closer to Draco by the passing second.

The moment that Draco’s empty glass hits the lacquered wood of the bar top, Potter is standing up, giving Draco an expectant look that borders on annoyed. That’s fine, it’s part of the game.

Draco rolls his eyes like he’s annoyed too, and follows Potter to the loo, admiring the lines of Potter’s shoulders in the dark green jumper he has on.

They are very nice shoulders, and the jumper fits him well. The rules allow them to admire one another, surely.

He steps through the bathroom door after Potter, who closes the door and locks it behind them.

“Bad day?” Potter asks, not because he cares or anything, just because he can, Draco supposes. 

Draco shrugs, “Doesn’t much matter, does it?”

Potter shrugs in return, he steps into Draco’s space, bringing the scent of Sleekeazy's and a woodsy cologne with him, body heat intense in the small bathroom.

He pushes his hands under Draco’s coat, sliding along his waist and dragging him closer to his body, until he can press kisses under Draco’s ear, a sensitive spot he found ages ago.

“It matters if it’s bothering you.” Potter murmurs, lips moving up to drag along the shell of Draco’s ear.

Draco digs his fingers into Potter’s biceps, then move to wrap around his neck, “It doesn’t matter, Potter, really.” He puts one hand under Potter’s chin and lifts his face from where he’s nibbling along Draco’s neck.

Potter nods, then his lips are on Draco’s. Smooth and unyielding, licking into Draco’s mouth, hands skating up and down Draco’s back under his coat. He presses his body closer, backs Draco into the nearest wall and slots his thigh between Draco’s legs.

Draco drags his nails down Potter’s back, then slips his fingers under the dark green jumper to feel his warm skin. Draco can hardly wait to dig his nails into that olive toned flesh, to see the angry red lines that linger there after they’ve finished playing their game.

Perhaps Potter heals them before he goes home, perhaps he vanishes the small hickeys and bruises Draco bites and sucks into his skin.

Perhaps he leaves them, as Draco does with the marks Potter leaves on his alabaster skin. Lets the mottled marks linger as a reminder of why they continue to play this game, why they keep coming back for more.

As though they’re sharing a brainwave, Potter separates their lips and dives for Draco’s neck immediately, teeth sinking into that sensitive spot nearly too hard, tongue and lips following straight after. Draco can feel the mark grow warm, blood rushing to the surface under the busted capillaries, his ears nearly ring from how bloody good it feels.

“Why must you always insist on making me beg?” Draco hisses when Potter’s lips are still slowly devouring his throat, marking his earlobes, kissing Draco’s lips until they’re swollen and dark pink.

“I quite enjoy the way you get worked up,” Potter replies, “Always have.” Then he’s kissing Draco again, unrelenting, bruising, lustful, rutting his hardening cock against Draco’s thigh.

There’s a knock at the bathroom door and Potter just growls into their kiss, hands in Draco’s hair, he always makes such a mess out of the both of them.

He kisses Draco as though he needs the air in Draco’s lungs, as though the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence is Draco’s lips. It’s intoxicating, it’s invigorating, it’s the one thing Draco can’t get out of his mind, no matter how hard he tries.

He can forget the taste of Potter’s release on his tongue, he can forget the way it feels to wrap his legs around those hips, he can forget the throbbing of Potter’s cock deep inside of him.

But the one thing that keeps him awake at night is those bloody lips, the way that he kisses, the way that it makes Draco’s head spin.

The next knock at the door is impatient and accompanied by an annoyed voice carrying through the wood. Draco has no idea what the person has said, there’s too much blood rushing through his ears, everything is just static.

But Potter has stopped kissing him, his eyes are locked on the door, his jaw set firmly. And Draco simply can’t stand for that, not when they’re in the middle of playing a game.

So he locks his fingers around Potter’s waist and everything grows pinched around them, tight and dizzying and hot, then they’re in the small front hallway of Grimmauld Place.

Potter shoves away from him, hands resting on his knees as he takes a few gasping breaths. “I hate it when you do that.” Potter says with a glare.

He’d actually thrown up the first time Draco had Apparated them somewhere, and all he’d asked is that Draco warn him in the future. Which Draco did not do this time, but, all is fair, right?

“We were being interrupted, I’m in no mood to be interrupted, Potter.” Draco says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“See? I knew something is bothering you. Please stop telling me it doesn’t matter, I can tell that it does.” Potter stands up straight and levels Draco with a challenging stare.

This is not part of the game Draco had in mind. This is part of the other game they play. The one where they dance around one another on eggshells, never quite saying what they want to, never admitting what this means.

“Can we please just not talk about it right now?” Draco sighs, “I really need a distraction.”

Potter blinks twice before he nods, then he takes Draco’s wrist and leads him up the stairs. They don’t speak and Draco goes willingly, staring at those dark fingers wrapped around his pale wrist.

He takes Draco’s coat, laying it carefully over a chair in his bedroom, they both kick their shoes off, then they climb into the bed together.

They don’t speak as they undress one another, Potter’s hands undoing every one of Draco’s buttons, lips attached to Draco’s ear, Draco’s hands tugging that green jumper off and tossing it in the floor.

He pushes Draco’s shirt off his shoulders, unlatching his mouth from Draco’s neck for long enough to strip off not only Draco’s undershirt, but his own as well before he pins Draco to his back on the mattress. 

“Are you ever going to get a mattress that isn’t terrible?” Draco drawls, trying to sound as bored as possible as Potter’s lips travel down his chest, kissing the pattern of scar tissue until he reaches Draco’s left nipple. It’s disfigured from a scar that slashes through it, and Potter always dedicates so much time to it that it will be sore by the time they finish.

“Sure, the same day that you stop being such a prat.” His teeth catch the nipple hard enough to make Draco gasp, to make his back arch, to make his cock jump in his trousers.

Potter palms him, hand gripping the outline, just enough friction to make Draco whine in the back of his throat.

“Undress me, you’re being insufferable.’ Draco gripes, he digs the first of those angry red marks into Potter’s back, watches the gooseflesh that spreads out from the lines.

“You like it.”

“I hate you.”

Potter chuckles roughly, he undoes Draco’s trousers and begins tugging them down his hips, Draco lifts off the bed to help him. “I know, I hate you, too.” He says it like he thinks it's funny, like he doesn't even mean it.

“We’re not friends, you know.”

“No, it’s much worse than that.” Potter replies cheekily, and Draco has half a mind to slap him for it.

But then he kisses him again, that same intoxication, better than any whiskey or wine, longer lasting than any drug that has ever coursed through Draco’s veins.

He wraps his hand around Draco’s cock, lube already conjured in his hand making the slow strokes slick and glorious. Draco moans softly, sinks into the pleasure, lets it cleanse his mind and wash his worries away.

He still has the presence of mind to undo Potter’s jeans, even though Potter has to finish stripping himself because Draco has gone boneless in his hands.

It's not Draco’s fault that Potter does this to him; takes him apart, puts him back together better each time. It’s why he can’t stop, why he keeps playing this game with Potter.

Potter spreads his legs and settles between his thighs, he opens his hand and ruts his length up Draco’s shaft, closing his hand around them and thrusting into his fist.

Draco throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, nails dug into Potter’s biceps, mouth falling open and allowing himself to pant praises to the ceiling.

Potter jerks them both, grinding into Draco’s cock, hand curled around both of them as he whispers filthy words in Draco’s ear, until Draco’s thighs are tense and he could spill over Potter’s hand at any second.

Then Potter stops, almost abruptly, and before Draco can even complain, he’s planting a foot on either side of Draco’s hips.

Draco blinks up at him, Potter uses that conjured lube to spread over his own hole, then he’s nudging Draco’s cockhead against his slicked entrance.

Draco’s breath catches in his throat, even though they’ve been doing this for years, he can nearly count on one hand the number of times he’s been inside Potter. It’s always been because he’s asked for it, too, after Potter has nearly tormented him to the edge and back.

Today though, Potter just loops one hand around both of Draco’s wrists, pins them above his head, and begins slowly sitting on his cock.

The tip finally pushes into the slick heat of Potter’s body, and even though they did zero prep, Potter stretches easily and beautifully as he settles himself all the way into Draco’s lap.

He's hot and slick and tight, as incredible as anything Draco has ever imagined, somehow better than the last time he felt that tight heat wrapped around his cock.

“You were ready for that.” Draco says, he grips Potter’s hips and grinds up in a slow circle, watching how Potter’s mouth falls open and his eyes flutter shut.

“Yeah,” Potter gasps, “Fingered myself earlier in the shower.”

Draco groans, he plants his feet and thrusts up into Potter hard, it makes Potter’s cock leak onto Draco’s stomach.

The simple sight of that gorgeous cockhead practically drooling is all it takes for both of them to lose any sense of composure.

Potter puts his knees down and begins riding Draco, he catches both of Draco’s hands, threads their fingers together, and pins Draco’s hands to the bed.

“You love it like this, don’t you?” he gasps, “You love when I take your cock, you love how tight I am for you.”

Draco groans, he meets Potter on each thrust, thrusting up as he sits down, pushing impossibly deeper into Potter each time.

“Fuck, it feels so fucking good.” Draco moans, “You love me being inside you, love being full, don’t you?”

“Merlin, yes,” Potter moans, his head lolls forward and he gasps with each thrust that Draco deliberately aims at his prostate.

 Draco knows how much he can make Harry leak that beautiful precome just from doing so, knows that the sight of it dripping off Harry’s cock makes his mouth water, makes his ears ring, makes the rest of the world fall away until there’s nothing but them doing everything to give one another pleasure.

It's not gentle, it’s not sweet, it’s not loving or kind. It’s primal, it’s powerful, it’s hard, it’s nearly addictive.

And why shouldn’t it be? Why shouldn’t Draco allow himself this simple joy in life? In that same vein, why shouldn’t Potter?

They’ve both been through enough, suffered enough, fought for others enough; they’re growing up and it’s high time that they indulge themselves in things like this.

Perhaps Potter does, stumble into clubs and take home a pretty face, wink at fit blokes across pubs and rendezvous with them in the loo, go on nice dinner dates to be seduced over wine and fancy cheese.

Perhaps he’s like Draco, and perhaps he only seeks this pleasure here, with Draco, in this way that’s so perfectly them it only makes sense to do with one another.

Draco has never asked, because they aren’t friends, and they don’t like one another, so at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter.

Potter still comes back, and so does Draco, and as far as he’s concerned, that’s all that matters.

Potter leans back, spreading Draco’s legs further apart and placing a hand on either one of his knees, he uses the leverage to fuck himself on Draco’s cock. His cock bounces in time with his movements, hard, red, leaking over Draco’s stomach.

“Gods, you look so good like this.” Draco murmurs, watching Harry’s cock move with rapture. “Always forget that you look so destroyed when you ride my cock.”

Potter whines, he puts both hands in the middle of Draco’s chest and grinds back hard, making tight little circles and dragging Draco’s cock over his own prostate. “Want you to fill me up.” He gasps.

“Well, of course you do,” Draco drawls, “You wouldn’t be fingering yourself in the shower otherwise, stretching that tight little hole open in hopes that you’d see me, that you could be full of me.”

“You wish.” Potter grinds out, but his cheeks are flushed and his mouth hangs open as he pants for air.

“Oh, darling, I don’t have to wish.” Draco hooks his hands around Potter’s waist and drags him down, putting them chest to chest, then he flips them over. “I have you here, stretched around my dick, ready to make me cum any way I desire.” He hooks Potter’s knees over his arms and begins thrusting hard and deep.

Potter pulls him down into a sloppy kiss, whining and moaning into Draco’s mouth, hand opening and closing uselessly on Draco’s bicep.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.” Potter chants, eyes rolled back, voice breathy and blissed out.

Draco can never last like this, and it’s an established fact. But it’s all fine, because Potter has never once been satisfied with making Draco only cum once.

This is Draco's favorite part of the game, as pressure builds deep in his spine, as pleasure courses through his belly and makes his chest tight.

“Yeah, you wanna fill my hole up, don’t you? You want me to be stuffed full of your load while I fuck you in a minute. Surprised you haven’t came already, always so greedy to be full of my dick, have to fuck you in public half the time.” Potter says, he probably means to sound composed and sharp, maybe even nearly insulting.

His voice is so thready and heady, though, breathy and fucked-out and it’s enough to make Draco lose it.

“Shut up, gods, shut the fuck up.” Draco says through a moan, his hips stutter and he’s so close to falling over that edge that he can taste it. His ears ring, his vision tunnels, all he can hear is their skin meeting, vaguely aware that Potter does not shut the fuck up.

It's no matter, because Draco just buries himself all the way inside Potter’s tight, hot, incredible body and lets his head roll back as he begins to come. His dick throbs and pulses and empties inside Potter, wet and glorious and quite nearly the distraction Draco needed.

Almost.

When he can take a breath again, open his eyes, hear his surroundings, he’s trailing his fingers gently up and down Potter’s thighs.

“Yeah, bloody beautiful when you come, aren’t you?” Potter says softly, voice sweet and sincere.

Draco wants to hate him for it, wants to hex Potter for even daring to say something so nice and soft and kind.

They are not nice or soft or kind to one another, it’s not part of the game.

Draco sits back on his heels, pulling out of Potter and gasping to catch his breath. He tries to not go completely feral at the sight of Potter’s hole dribbling come when Draco slips out, he really tries to maintain his composure and play the game by the rules.

Potter apparently has no such plans, because he grabs for Draco desperately, pulls him into a kiss that’s deep and full of passion and fire, he pins Draco to the bed and settles between his thighs.

“Still need distracting?” Potter asks, kissing softly down Draco’s neck and chest.

“I am not begging you, Potter, you can get on with it or I will fuck off.” Draco snips, and Potter smiles up at him lopsidedly.

He’s grown up so much, he’s growing a lovely beard, his hair is cut stylishly, he doesn’t wear the glasses anymore. Green eyes and dark hair and a gorgeous body, covered in thick body hair that Draco could fall asleep in. He really has turned out to be quite a fit bloke.

Draco can’t tell him those things, though. It’s simply not a part of the game, and Draco follows the rules to this game very carefully.

There’s no point deductions or penalties for breaking these rules, there’s only a sharp, steep, rocky landslide into the abyss of being head over heels in love with Harry Potter.

And honestly? Draco can think of very few things that would be worse than falling in love with this egotistical, self righteous, Ministry shill and his soft touch and gentle understanding and the way he kisses Draco breathless.

It's something Draco must constantly remind himself of, especially as they play the game, as they dance around the boundaries and test one another’s resolve.

But he forgets so often. He forgets himself, who they are, all the things that keep them apart. Potter makes it so easy to forget. He makes it easy to enjoy this, to feel good, to bask in the easy, lovely energy between them.

Potter lays flat on his chest between Draco’s legs and kisses and nibbles his way further and further down until he spreads Draco’s legs and drags his tongue slowly over Draco’s hole.

Draco moans immediately, finding it easier and easier to allow himself this pleasure each time they do this.

It’s a really fun game they play.

Potter makes unbelievably filthy noises as he licks and sucks and eats Draco out like it’s all he's ever thought about, Draco is hard again after just a few minutes of this.

He doesn’t fuss anymore about how Potter is taking his sweet time, because Draco’s enjoying it quite a bit, and that’s all that matters.

Potter pushes his tongue into Draco’s entrance, moaning and rutting himself against the bed.

Truly, he has no right to act this way with Draco. To behave as though he can’t get this out of his mind, to touch and taste and tease like it’s all he’s thought of since the last time they were together. Who is this bloody insufferable man to put Draco on such a pedestal, to worship his body like he does, to make Draco come back for more over and over?

He leans back and drags in a deep breath that must be filled with musk and sweat and come, his pupils wide as he glances up at Draco, lips swollen, chin and beard wet with saliva. Then he’s conjuring more lube and spreading it over Draco’s hole, slowly pressing his first finger in.

Draco knows how this next stage of the game goes, he’s got it memorized, down to an exact science. Like brewing a potion, just following the steps and coming to an expected outcome.

“You’re ready, huh?” Potter says, voice thick and dark with lust. “Not the only one fingering myself in the shower, am I?”

“I hate you so much.” Draco hisses, voice hitching when Potter crooks his finger and finds Draco’s prostate with practiced ease.

Potter just huffs a soft chuckle, then he’s pushing a second finger in, Draco’s body stretches easily for it.

Not that he’d ever tell Potter, but yes, okay? He did prep himself earlier.

He’s in dire need of a distraction, and he’s always been able to find that here, ever since the first time they met this way in that empty classroom at Hogwarts.

It seems like another lifetime, the world Draco lived in prior to his thoughts being consumed by Potter seems like a distant memory, nearly lost to time.

“I love how bloody impatient you are.” Potter says, Draco snaps his eyes open to glare at the wanker. “No, really, it’s pretty much my favorite thing.”

Draco finds the energy to roll his eyes, biting back a moan as Potter drives both fingers into him quicker, scissoring them apart, curling expertly. “I hate how patient you are. Don’t know how you don’t lose your mind with how long you take.”

Potter hums, “I enjoy teasing you, you’re beautiful when you flush like that.” He takes one of Draco’s balls into his mouth and Draco is just glad that he’s shut up finally.

He really can’t stand to hear Potter say such nice things to him, he’ll behave inappropriately. Recently, Potter has taken to saying nicer and nicer things, especially when he’s between Draco’s legs. He has no shortage of praises to pour out, calling Draco beautiful and telling him all the things he loves about this game.

It's highly likely that this has always been a mistake, because Draco knows how slippery that slope is, how badly he could fall for this man. That’s never stopped him, though, only given him pause a few times over the years.

It's always worth it, and Draco has no doubt this will be, too.

Potter pushes himself to his knees, slips his fingers out of Draco, and begins stroking his cock with the lube in his hand. “Do you know that, Draco? Do you know that you’re beautiful?”

Draco opens his mouth to say something rude, but nothing comes out, and he just blinks up at Potter, mouth opening and closing dumbly.

Salazar, he’s ruined.

Potter puts Draco’s legs together and puts them over one of his shoulders, then he shuffles forward until he can rub his cockhead over Draco’s entrance.

“I love having you here like this, I’m really glad you found me tonight.” He says softly, taking his cock in hand and teasing it against Draco’s hole.

“Potter, I swear, if you don’t fuck me…” Draco doesn’t get a chance to finish the threat, which is fine, because Potter finally relents and pushes his cock into Draco.

Draco loves this, even though he’d never admit it, but he loves the way it sets him on fire when Potter fucks him.

The way that his body stretches slowly, sending tendrils of flames licking through his limbs, making his face tingle, nearly painful but too bloody good to call it that.

Potter has a huge cock, too, thick and long and crooked upwards in a way that should be sinful. It’s pure ecstasy every time he slides into Draco, sending pleasure rolling down Draco’s spine as he sheathes himself fully.

He lifts Draco’s hips off the bed easily, nearly folding him in half as he leans over and catches Draco’s lips in a long, wonderful kiss. He grinds himself further in, more sparks and flames igniting in Draco’s chest.

He tastes like sex and sweat, his hair sticks to his forehead in a few places, his skin slightly tacky where Draco’s legs are over his shoulder.

It’s no matter, Draco would let this man fuck him in a mud pit, damn the consequences. They’ve fucked in much worse places than Potter’s bed.

Like the time they ran into each other at Tesco’s, Draco had broken his sunglasses when Potter bent him over in a tiny bathroom stall.

It’s so fun.

Potter finally begins moving, one hand holding Draco’s legs, the other gripping his hip, powerful body thrusting slowly, green eyes focused on Draco intensely.

He's never really hurt Draco, and there was a time when Potter likely didn’t care if he did hurt him. That time is gone, long ago washed away by whatever the hell they’re doing, and Potter always watches for any signs of discomfort.

Draco is careful to school his face impassively in the event that Potter did hurt him, because Draco likes it when it’s a bit too rough. He likes it when he goes home sore and when he’s reminded of Potter days later.

He doesn’t tell Potter those things, because it feels too dangerous, so he just lets his mouth fall open to pant openly to the ceiling as Potter begins snapping his hips harder, faster, deeper.

“Yeah, there you go.” Potter murmurs, “That’s what you needed, isn’t it, beautiful? Needed my cock inside you.” He thrusts upwards intentionally, cock hitting Draco’s prostate so good that he cries out. “So tight, so good.” Potter continues, soft praises filling Draco’s ears and threatening to drag him into that abyss. Toeing the line of that other game they play.

Draco grabs for Potter, needs to feel flesh in his fingers, finding one thigh and his forearm, squeezing tightly.

“Yes, baby, touch me.” Potter groans, thrusting even faster, filling him up so bloody perfectly.

Draco complies, but only because he wants to, not because Potter wants him to. That’d be absurd! Just…absolutely mental, that.

He slides his hand up and down Potter’s arm, feeling the ripple of his bicep as he drags Draco closer, feeling his thigh flex with each thrust, digging his nails into the tender flesh there.

His hard cock is trapped in the space between his own thighs and stomach, leaking over him and running down his chest as Potter fucks into his prostate.

He can come just like this, just from being fucked, he doesn’t even have to touch himself for a moment to do so. He will, too, once he’s had his fun, but he’s not quite done yet.

Potter opens Draco’s legs and wraps them around his hips, he leans over until their chests meet and his body drags over Draco’s cock with every thrust. It’s so bloody good, hot and dirty and incredibly fulfilling.

His skin has no right to feel so good, to send electric currents through Draco at every point where their bodies meet, his entire body a live wire. It’s unfair, really.

Potter presses open mouthed kisses to Draco’s neck, chest, sucks a bruise into his earlobe. Draco does the same, bites Potter’s collarbone and whines against his chest and drags scratches into his back.

Potter groans and sighs and says filthy, wonderful, beautiful things to Draco, calls him pet names and tells him how perfect he is.

Draco wishes he hated him for it, but it just makes his chest tight, makes his heart beat too fast, makes him lightheaded. He doesn’t hate this man, not truly, not as much as he should

He reminds himself of the rules, of how they play the game. He reminds himself who he is, who Potter is, why this has only ever been a game. He reminds himself of obligations, standards, requirements, duties, and it helps, or he tells himself it helps.

Potter wraps his big hand around Draco’s throat, squeezing just enough to restrict the blood flow, and Draco’s eyes roll back. Potter fucks into him hard, fast, deep, grinding a little after every few thrusts, hitting Draco’s prostate every few thrusts.

“Come for me.” He says roughly in Draco’s ear, “Show me that beautiful face you make again, let me take you apart, let me make you feel good, Draco.”

In the last several years, Draco has gotten very bad at denying this man anything, much less something so wonderful. So Draco digs his fingers into Potter’s back again, nails gripping the skin too tight, he scrambles to wrap his legs tighter around Potter’s waist, he pushes up into the pressure Potter is putting on his throat.

It’s enough, it’s always been enough, it’s always been everything.

Draco gasps twice, quick, hiccupping breaths before he lets out a loud, long moan, and slides over the edge into pleasure.

He comes hard, it runs down his stomach and chest and onto Potter’s sheets, he clutches Potter tightly, holding on for dear life.

Potter takes his hand off Draco’s throat, pushes it into his hair and kisses him, drinking the noises falling off Draco’s lips as he pants and moans and whimpers and comes.

Potter never stops fucking him either, never stops burying his cock in Draco’s body, never stops grinding into his prostate. He’s still talking, too, the absolute arsehole.

“God, yes, just like that.” He murmurs against Draco’s lips, “You feel so unbelievably good when you come for me, darling, look at you, look at how gorgeous you are. You love it, don’t you? Fuck, I can see how much you love it, how bad you need it.”

Draco gasps wetly, he pulls Potter closer, lifting his head off the bed and burying his face in Potter’s chest hair. He digs his fingers into his back, grounding himself, reminding him that he’s not allowed to have this. Well, he can have this.

But not how he wants to.

After Draco has ridden out the tremors of his orgasm, after his body has stopped trembling around Potter’s cock, after he’s dropped his head back to the bed and drug in a deep breath, Potter is smiling at him.

It's a lovely smile.

Potter slips out of him gently, rolling Draco to his side and spooning up close behind him before he slips his cock back in.

He wraps his arms around Draco, one around his waist, one under him and gripping his chest, and he begins to fuck Draco again.

He can hit Draco’s prostate with every thrust like this, and he does so slowly, softly, face buried in Draco’s hair.

“Feels so good.” Draco rasps, because he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least let Potter know that.

Potter hums quietly, he thrusts a bit faster, but smoothly, nearly gently, something that borders on tender and careful.

It’s too much, honestly, it is.

It would be better if Potter fucked him through a hole in the wall and they never made eye contact.

No, this is a terrible idea, and it will inevitably lead to Draco having his feelings hurt.

Isn’t that pathetic, too? A young man getting his feelings hurt over a silly game.

“Merlin, you were tense, weren’t you?” Potter asks, but it’s hypothetical, so Draco doesn’t answer. “You’ve relaxed so much now, I can tell. Do you feel better?”

Draco lifts one shoulder, “I feel distracted, which was all I wanted.”

Potter tuts softly, “I want you to feel good.”

“I’ve come twice, Potter.”

Potter chuckles, his breath is warm against the back of Draco’s neck, “Yeah, guess you have.” He kisses Draco’s neck, nibbles at a sensitive spot at the bottom of Draco’s hairline. “Do you want me to feel good?”

Draco can’t breathe for a moment, not just because Potter picks up speed a bit, thick cock filling him up so nicely. He nods, “Yes, you deserve to feel good.”

“So do you, Draco.” Potter says, defiling Draco’s given name with every time he utters it. It never sounds right coming from anyone but Potter now. “You deserve to feel good, to feel sexy, to feel wanted.” He bites Draco’s shoulder, he does almost every time he’s behind Draco. “To feel loved.”

Draco squeezes his eyes shut, but he threads his fingers with Potter’s hand that’s over his waist, “So do you.” He whispers.

Potter nods, he kisses the place he’s bitten on Draco’s shoulder, then he begins fucking harder again.

It’s easy to lose himself to it, until it’s nothing but bliss and the sound of skin meeting, nothing but them gasping and moaning, until Draco could swim in this safe, warm, beautiful feeling.

“Love your body, love the way you fit in my hands, love how you stretch on my dick.” Potter says, breath growing ragged, “I love how you love it, how you come back for it, how you need it just as badly as I do. I love that you’re so fun, so playful, so down for anything. I love your energy, your spirit, your snide comments and your sarcastic eye rolls.”

Draco allows himself to soak the words up, the soft, kind, lovely words that Potter pours over him. He can hear them, that’s fine, he’s decided he deserves to hear them.

“I love that you want to take my cock, want to be full of my come, want to feel good with me.” Potter says, he kisses Draco’s neck over and over, wet, open mouthed kisses that leave bruises in their wake.

“Want it so bad.” Draco whines, needy and fucked-out. “Want you to fill me up, need you to.”

Potter’s hips stutter at the words, “God, fuck, Draco.” He moans, breathy, almost a sigh. “Gonna give you what you need.” He says, he thrusts a few times, harder, faster, more desperate than before. He holds Draco close, tight, his breath is hot, Draco can just tell his mouth is hanging open as he drags in deep breaths and utters wonderful, blasphemous praises that go straight through Draco and cut him to the bone. Such beautiful words. Such lovely sounds.

Such an incredible person.

Potter buries himself in Draco, and he comes hard, leg shaking, breath stuttering and gasping, perfect, perfect, perfect.

Potter goes boneless after that, arms still wrapped around Draco, panting as he regains his breath. Draco drags his fingers up and down the arm over his waist, allowing himself the gentle touches in the soft afterglow.

The bed is destroyed, they’ll need a shower, the room smells of sweat and sex and Sleekeazy's. Draco relishes in it, basks in the warmth, sighs contentedly as Potter kisses his shoulders and neck gently.

“I ended my marriage arrangement today.”

Draco is surprised that he doesn’t go tense again after blurting that out, Potter hugs him closer, still buried inside Draco’s body.

“With Astoria, you know?” Draco swallows, “I decided I’ve lived enough of my life trying to meet my father’s impossible expectations, and I’m done.”

“Good, Draco, that’s fantastic.” Potter says, he kisses Draco’s neck again, “I’m happy for you.”

Draco nods, “Thank you.” He murmurs softly.

They’re quiet again, Potter still holds him until he goes soft and slips from Draco naturally. He mutters a cleaning charm that helps them feel better, but they’ll still need a shower.

“Come here.” Potter mutters, he rolls to his back and urges Draco to roll over, rest his head on Potter’s chest. He drags his fingers up and down Draco’s back soothingly, “Stay.” He says quietly.

Stay.

Draco has only stayed twice ever, and both times were accidents, and Potter hadn’t asked him to stay.

This is so different, it feels vulnerable, and Draco isn’t sure he’s allowed that.

“Stay?” Draco asks, voice weak.

Potter hums his affirmation, “Stay tonight, and go to dinner with me tomorrow.”

Draco swallows loudly, or it seems loud in the quiet stillness of Potter’s bedroom.

“Will you?” he asks after a moment passes.

Draco nods, “Yes.”

“Do you want to?”

Draco drags in a fortifying breath, and takes that terrifying plunge into that abyss, the one he’s narrowly avoided for five years now.

“More than anything.”

Potter tips his chin up and kisses him, long, slow, tender.

"Good."

Perhaps they can rewrite the rules to their game, perhaps these things can be allowed.

Perhaps they always were.

All that Draco knows as he falls asleep is that it really, truly, without a doubt in his mind is the best game he’s ever played.