Fran's story archive - The Big Match
Another story from my old journal which I am archiving to this journal.
It was written during the Football World Cup of 2002 and is the first part of a series of stories about Harry watching the England matches with a very uninterested Draco.
This is the first one written after the England vs Sweden match on 2nd June 2003.
The Big Match -- some smut for Stacey
Happy Birthday Stacey. Thanks for everything. Have a wonderful day.
This wasn’t the story I’d planned for you, but I hope it you like it.
Thanks to Tine and Ina, with whom I ‘watched’ the match and who have to take some of the blame for what follows.
Alex I hope it cheers you up a little after your morning.
Author note: the smut in the cut is NC17, it is slash and it is Harry/Draco. You have been warned.
I have also just been told to warn people they shouldn’t read this in places they might get embarrassed if someone else should read it over their shoulder!
Written: 4th June 2002
The Big Match
Location: A house somewhere in the South of England. I can’t tell you where exactly because it is unplottable thanks to the anti-location spells on it.
The time: 2nd June 2002. 10.15 on a sunny Sunday morning. But neither of the occupants are taking the opportunity to sit out in the nice, neat little garden.
“What times does it start?”
Harry glanced up briefly from kitchen table and picked up the bowl of crisps. “Another 15 minutes.” He padded silently in bare feet across the wooden floor and placed the bowl next to the bottles of Butterbeer on the glass-topped coffee table.
“Who does he play for?”
Draco was stood beside the huge sofa, arms folded across his chest as he watched the people on the television prattling on about things he didn’t understand and wouldn’t be interested in even if he did.
“That is the commentary team.” Harry dropped down onto the sofa.
“Isn’t he one of the people who does Formula One?” Draco pointed at the screen and then rested his hand on top of Harry’s head, the tips of his fingers tangling in the dark strands.
“Mmm, Jim Rosenthal. I didn’t realise you took that much notice.”
“I like Formula One. Lots of nice boys in one-piece coveralls. And all those throbbing engines.”
Grey eyes glinted mischievously as Harry met the gaze. “Draco, one day....”
10.22am: The teams emerge into the sunshine of the Saitama stadium which is packed to capacity.
Any further response temporarily forgotten, Harry’s attention shifted back to the screen as the teams appeared on the pitch. Draco settled himself on the arm of the sofa, the hand sneaking round Harry’s shoulder. A thumb made slow hard circles at a point just above the shoulder blade where tension always lingered, and Draco was rewarded by a long, low groan.
“Which is our team?”
The dark head slowly turned towards Draco and the green eyes that looked at him were full of disdain. Harry’s hands grabbed at the hem of the white shirt he was wearing. He flapped it slightly. “England, home strip, white shirt and black shorts. Remember you did buy this for me.”
“Strip -- that sounds like fun.” The long slim fingers brushed across the black letters, which formed the word ‘Potter’ across Harry’s shoulders before pushing into the shirt’s collar. They ran back and forth over the ridges of Harry’s spine, the journey feather-light into the hairline and back inside the clothing. “Nice arses though.”
A hand slipped between the arm of the sofa and another arse, this time not clad in shorts. “There’s only one arse you should be interested in.” Harry squeezed at the soft flesh and felt Draco shift against him. The hand on his neck stilled, the fingertips pressing hard for a second before returning to their slow languid movements.
10.30: The eagerly-awaited game is finally underway as England kick off against a Sweden side wearing an unfamiliar blue change strip.
Harry’s attention shifted to the large television screen as the whistle sounded to start the game. He raised his legs onto the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. If he had cared to look at Draco, he would have seen that the blond was pouting.
“I really don’t see what is so engrossing about 22 men kicking one ball around. At least in Quidditch there are four balls.”
“Dean and I have tried to explain in the past, Draco. It’s not my fault if you refuse to understand.”
“What’s the off-side rule again?” The fingers beneath his arse pinched hard before pulling away. “Ouch.”
“Be quiet. Or go and find something else to do.”
“But it’s a Muggle game.” Draco slid off the arm into the small space Harry had left between himself and the side of the sofa. Harry had no choice but to move fractionally, leaving Draco pressed tightly against his side, touching from shoulder to hip.
“You forget, I was brought up in a Muggle home. Almost every boy loved football.” A smile ghosted on Harry’s mouth. “I used to dream that some team scout would find me and take me away.”
“Oh?” Draco turned slightly, so that his knees where under Harry’s raised legs, snuggling in against him. A hand started to run lightly over a bare thigh, teasing at the hem of the black shorts.
“I played when we had sports lessons, but wasn’t that good. And I never got to join in at play times. No one would pick me to play because they were all scared of Dudley.”
“How did your fat cousin manage to play football? He could hardly run around like that.” The hand paused in its passage along the thigh and pointed briefly at the screen. Someone in a white shirt was having a shot at the net thing and Harry suddenly leapt forward, nearly elbowing Draco in the face. Harry slumped back with a groan of disappointment.
“Who was that?”
Harry settled back, unconsciously nestling into Draco’s body. “Danny Mills tried to get the shot to Michael Owen, but Jakobsson got there first.”
“Which one’s Owen?”
“The one who looks like he should be at school.”
“Oh.” Draco carefully settled back in to his place. He had managed to lean in against Harry’s shoulder now and the Gryffindor’s arm was draped around his shoulder. Draco right hand was up the leg of the black shorts, fingers still for a moment. “So how did Dudley play?”
“He didn’t.” Harry absently played with the fine silk of Draco’s hair. It never ceased to amaze him how different it felt to the texture of his own. His black hair always seemed coarse and heavy to him, while Draco’s was completely the opposite. He turned slightly, his cheek resting against the other’s head. “He would stand by the opponent’s goal and wait for the ball to be brought to him. Then he would shoot. Most kids were too scared of him and his cronies to even attempt to stop him. One day....”
10.41am: Sol Campbell collects England’s first yellow card for a lunging tackle on Henrik Larsson.
The hand, which had been stroking Draco’s head, suddenly shot out, pointing at the screen. “I don’t believe it, the ref’s given Campbell a yellow card!”
“And that’s bad?”
“Yellow cards are given when someone does something wrong. If he does anything else he’ll get a red card and then he’ll be sent off.” A hand pushed through the mop of black hair.
“He shouldn’t have gotten caught then. What’s the point of fouling someone if the referee is looking.” The hand up Harry’s shorts began to move a little.
“So speaks a true Slytherin.” Harry gave Draco a quick squeeze and the briefest of kisses on the upturned forehead. The kiss tasted of Draco’s shampoo and shower gel, a minty combination of clean summer days and hot nights. He returned for a second taste, this time lingering along the hairline. “I was in goal once,” Harry continued in between the tongued caresses. “Dudley was stood there with the ball, he shot and I saved the thing.” The hand on his leg had reached further and he turned slightly into the touch. “You could have heard a pin drop, which considering there were loads of 10-year-olds clustered around the goal was a feat in itself. His face was like a beetroot -- bright red.” Harry gave a chuckle, both from the memory and from the searching hand. “Of course, he couldn’t beat me up, there were teachers watching, but he did when we got home. I had the biggest black eye....”
“Harry....”
“Um?
“You aren’t wearing any underwear.”
“No.”
“Then I can’t be held responsible for what I do next.”
“No, I guess you can’t.”
10.53am: The England fans erupt as Campbell powers home a header from Beckham’s corner to give his side the lead.
Draco was so shocked when Harry grabbed his face and kissed him, he didn’t have any chance to react. By the time he had pulled himself together, his lover was on his feet gesturing at the television and acting like an idiot. He sighed slightly and waited for Harry to calm down.
“I take it someone scored.” Unlike me, Draco mused.
“Yes!” Harry’s dark hair whipped about as he nodded violently, settling untidily around his slightly flushed face. “One - nil to us.” He turned to face the television screen, back now to Draco, and waited for the match to restart.
Draco watched the clenched fists, the way the fabric of the shirt rippled across the muscles of Harry’s back and how the black silky material of the shorts fitted his lover’s pert arse. He had always liked well-fitting clothes on Harry, but there was something about the slightly loose shorts which intrigued him. To push a hand inside and caress the warm flesh and then run a finger down to that entrance which he knew he was the only person to ever touch.
Harry was his. Except, of course, he reminded himself, when the football was on.
He made himself comfortable on the sofa again and reached out his hands to the slim hips in front of him. Long fingers curled around the flesh and pulled. Harry tottered slightly and fell backwards, landing in the ‘V’ formed by Draco’s spread legs.
Harry let out an oomph of surprise as he collapsed back against the other’s body. The hands, which gripped his hips, pulled him backwards until he was pressed hard against Draco. For a moment, Harry tried to pull away, but after a not very convincing struggle, he settled back against the firm body behind him. He flexed his hips slightly and was rewarded by the sound of a groan close to his ear. A warm breath caressed the ear and in its wake, a tongue trailed along the skin. It ended its journey at his earlobe and Harry matched Draco’s groan as he felt the tug of teeth and suction of a mouth on the flesh.
11.17am: The half-time whistle blows after two added minutes and it is so far, so good for England.
Arms snaked around his waist, settling in the fold where torso joined legs. Harry’s hands moved down to rest on top, pressing the fingers into his flesh. “What’s happening?” Draco’s deep voice vibrated against Harry’s neck.
“Half time,” Harry breathed.
“Good.” Draco sucked gently at the junction of Harry’s neck and shoulder. “How long do I have?”
“Fifteen minutes.” Harry tilted his neck slightly, giving Draco better access.
“Hmm. Then you’d better help me, hadn’t you.”
With that, he pulled his hands free of Harry’s and pushed his fingers between the closed thighs. They gave way under the pressure. Ankles uncrossed and spread out across the table. As his fingers pushed into the soft inner thighs, Draco pulled Harry back, tighter against his own spread legs, his semi-hard erection moulding into the cleft of Harry’s buttocks.
“Are you going to help?” One of Draco’s hands took hold of Harry’s right hand so that it’s back nestled in the Slytherin’s palm. He pushed his fingers between Harry’s, effectively trapping the other’s fingers. “Well?” The joint hand was pushed down over the front of the shorts and Draco cupped Harry, squeezing the Gryffindor’s fingers over his own erection.
Harry didn’t answer. Instead his comment was a deep throaty groan.
“I’ll take that as a yes then.” Draco pulled the hand away, pushing it inside the loose fitting shorts. He wrapped the trapped fingers around their own erection and felt rather than heard the shocked hiss as Harry’s body seemed to freeze for a moment. Nuzzling the bared neck and shoulder, Draco clenched his own hand, feeling Harry’s fingers contract beneath it, wrapping about his cock.
Release. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze.
“Oh, yes, Harry.” His voice changed, the tone cooing, gently teasing as he unlinked his fingers, leaving Harry to carry on the rhythm on his own. “Are you going to come for me?” The now free hand pushed past the hardening cock, teasing briefly with the balls, before pressing lightly on Harry’s entrance. It gave slightly, but Draco didn’t push in any further.
“Come on, sweet. Touch yourself for me.” He took Harry’s other hand and brought it up to his lover’s own mouth. “Suck for me, Harry.” Two fingers pushed into the waiting mouth and Harry moaned, suddenly bucking as Draco pushed into his anus.
“Oh, I love your mouth, do you know where I want it?” Draco gently pushed and pulled Harry’s fingers in and out of the warm, wet cavern as he bit hard on the exposed neck. “Umm, yes, I want it wrapped around me. Would you like that? Would you do that for me?” Whispered vocal caresses joined the physical ones.
Harry stiffened against him, the hand working his erection holding tightly as Draco worked a second finger inside him.
“Am I hurting you?” Harry murmured against the fingers in mouth. “ I can’t have that can I” The voice was soothing as he pulled the fingers out of Harry’s mouth and pushed the hand into the shorts to join it’s partner. “No, I can’t have that,” he soothed.
Draco pulled out his fingers and pushed Harry’s hand, slick with his own saliva against the entrance. Harry’s legs spread wider, a foot sending the bowl of crisps tumbling to the floor, as Draco pressed the fingers home.
“Do you like that? Touch your self for me, Harry. I want you to come.”
“Fuck....” Harry’s hand tightened around his own hard erection again as Draco’s words whispered in his ear, tantalizingly sexy in their quiet tones. He felt his own finger being pushed inside of him and he whimpered.
“Oh, yes, sweet. Are you nearly there?” Draco ground against him, words a silky purr. “Oh, I can feel you, you know. Feel it so close.”
“Please....”
“Almost there, sweet. Almost there.” Fingers grazed around the base of Harry’s cock while his other hand pushed Harry deeper within himself. “Come for me...”
With a throaty groan, Harry gripped himself, finally sending himself over the edge. Draco felt him shudder, buck and freeze as he came, chocking back cries of “fuck” and “bastard”. His own hands eased from the confines of the shorts and draped over Harry’s shoulders, cradling him through the after-shock of his self-inflicted orgasm. He could feel the Gryffindor shaking slightly and he murmured quiet endearments to him.
“Mmmm, sweet.” A hand reached up, pushing through the dark hair.
“Bastard,” Harry’s voiced quivered.
“Yes, I am.” He turned Harry’s head and captured the lips. They were full and sweet, and Draco knew that Harry had been biting at them. “You are magnificent, my love.”
11.32am: There have been no substitutions as Sweden start the second half.
Draco glanced up at the screen. “They’ve started again.”
“Bugger that...” Harry suddenly sat up, wiping his hand on the much-abused shorts. He grabbed at the remote control and, turning the set off. Then straddling Draco’s lap, he leaned forward and kissed him. “I’ll catch the highlight. We’re one - nil up, what can possibly happen.”
11.46am: Everton’s Niclas Alexandersson levels for Sweden from just outside the area after picking up a poor clearance from Danny Mills.
12.22pm: Referee Carlos Simon blows his whistle to end proceedings.
Final score: Draco finally gets his own way and the coffee table is used for something else besides the coffee.
--------------------------------
The match ‘highlights’ are taken from BBC Teletext.
I’m not sure if the above is physically possible, but I’ve decided they are both very flexible *grins*
It was written during the Football World Cup of 2002 and is the first part of a series of stories about Harry watching the England matches with a very uninterested Draco.
This is the first one written after the England vs Sweden match on 2nd June 2003.
The Big Match -- some smut for Stacey
Happy Birthday Stacey. Thanks for everything. Have a wonderful day.
This wasn’t the story I’d planned for you, but I hope it you like it.
Thanks to Tine and Ina, with whom I ‘watched’ the match and who have to take some of the blame for what follows.
Alex I hope it cheers you up a little after your morning.
Author note: the smut in the cut is NC17, it is slash and it is Harry/Draco. You have been warned.
I have also just been told to warn people they shouldn’t read this in places they might get embarrassed if someone else should read it over their shoulder!
Written: 4th June 2002
The Big Match
Location: A house somewhere in the South of England. I can’t tell you where exactly because it is unplottable thanks to the anti-location spells on it.
The time: 2nd June 2002. 10.15 on a sunny Sunday morning. But neither of the occupants are taking the opportunity to sit out in the nice, neat little garden.
“What times does it start?”
Harry glanced up briefly from kitchen table and picked up the bowl of crisps. “Another 15 minutes.” He padded silently in bare feet across the wooden floor and placed the bowl next to the bottles of Butterbeer on the glass-topped coffee table.
“Who does he play for?”
Draco was stood beside the huge sofa, arms folded across his chest as he watched the people on the television prattling on about things he didn’t understand and wouldn’t be interested in even if he did.
“That is the commentary team.” Harry dropped down onto the sofa.
“Isn’t he one of the people who does Formula One?” Draco pointed at the screen and then rested his hand on top of Harry’s head, the tips of his fingers tangling in the dark strands.
“Mmm, Jim Rosenthal. I didn’t realise you took that much notice.”
“I like Formula One. Lots of nice boys in one-piece coveralls. And all those throbbing engines.”
Grey eyes glinted mischievously as Harry met the gaze. “Draco, one day....”
10.22am: The teams emerge into the sunshine of the Saitama stadium which is packed to capacity.
Any further response temporarily forgotten, Harry’s attention shifted back to the screen as the teams appeared on the pitch. Draco settled himself on the arm of the sofa, the hand sneaking round Harry’s shoulder. A thumb made slow hard circles at a point just above the shoulder blade where tension always lingered, and Draco was rewarded by a long, low groan.
“Which is our team?”
The dark head slowly turned towards Draco and the green eyes that looked at him were full of disdain. Harry’s hands grabbed at the hem of the white shirt he was wearing. He flapped it slightly. “England, home strip, white shirt and black shorts. Remember you did buy this for me.”
“Strip -- that sounds like fun.” The long slim fingers brushed across the black letters, which formed the word ‘Potter’ across Harry’s shoulders before pushing into the shirt’s collar. They ran back and forth over the ridges of Harry’s spine, the journey feather-light into the hairline and back inside the clothing. “Nice arses though.”
A hand slipped between the arm of the sofa and another arse, this time not clad in shorts. “There’s only one arse you should be interested in.” Harry squeezed at the soft flesh and felt Draco shift against him. The hand on his neck stilled, the fingertips pressing hard for a second before returning to their slow languid movements.
10.30: The eagerly-awaited game is finally underway as England kick off against a Sweden side wearing an unfamiliar blue change strip.
Harry’s attention shifted to the large television screen as the whistle sounded to start the game. He raised his legs onto the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. If he had cared to look at Draco, he would have seen that the blond was pouting.
“I really don’t see what is so engrossing about 22 men kicking one ball around. At least in Quidditch there are four balls.”
“Dean and I have tried to explain in the past, Draco. It’s not my fault if you refuse to understand.”
“What’s the off-side rule again?” The fingers beneath his arse pinched hard before pulling away. “Ouch.”
“Be quiet. Or go and find something else to do.”
“But it’s a Muggle game.” Draco slid off the arm into the small space Harry had left between himself and the side of the sofa. Harry had no choice but to move fractionally, leaving Draco pressed tightly against his side, touching from shoulder to hip.
“You forget, I was brought up in a Muggle home. Almost every boy loved football.” A smile ghosted on Harry’s mouth. “I used to dream that some team scout would find me and take me away.”
“Oh?” Draco turned slightly, so that his knees where under Harry’s raised legs, snuggling in against him. A hand started to run lightly over a bare thigh, teasing at the hem of the black shorts.
“I played when we had sports lessons, but wasn’t that good. And I never got to join in at play times. No one would pick me to play because they were all scared of Dudley.”
“How did your fat cousin manage to play football? He could hardly run around like that.” The hand paused in its passage along the thigh and pointed briefly at the screen. Someone in a white shirt was having a shot at the net thing and Harry suddenly leapt forward, nearly elbowing Draco in the face. Harry slumped back with a groan of disappointment.
“Who was that?”
Harry settled back, unconsciously nestling into Draco’s body. “Danny Mills tried to get the shot to Michael Owen, but Jakobsson got there first.”
“Which one’s Owen?”
“The one who looks like he should be at school.”
“Oh.” Draco carefully settled back in to his place. He had managed to lean in against Harry’s shoulder now and the Gryffindor’s arm was draped around his shoulder. Draco right hand was up the leg of the black shorts, fingers still for a moment. “So how did Dudley play?”
“He didn’t.” Harry absently played with the fine silk of Draco’s hair. It never ceased to amaze him how different it felt to the texture of his own. His black hair always seemed coarse and heavy to him, while Draco’s was completely the opposite. He turned slightly, his cheek resting against the other’s head. “He would stand by the opponent’s goal and wait for the ball to be brought to him. Then he would shoot. Most kids were too scared of him and his cronies to even attempt to stop him. One day....”
10.41am: Sol Campbell collects England’s first yellow card for a lunging tackle on Henrik Larsson.
The hand, which had been stroking Draco’s head, suddenly shot out, pointing at the screen. “I don’t believe it, the ref’s given Campbell a yellow card!”
“And that’s bad?”
“Yellow cards are given when someone does something wrong. If he does anything else he’ll get a red card and then he’ll be sent off.” A hand pushed through the mop of black hair.
“He shouldn’t have gotten caught then. What’s the point of fouling someone if the referee is looking.” The hand up Harry’s shorts began to move a little.
“So speaks a true Slytherin.” Harry gave Draco a quick squeeze and the briefest of kisses on the upturned forehead. The kiss tasted of Draco’s shampoo and shower gel, a minty combination of clean summer days and hot nights. He returned for a second taste, this time lingering along the hairline. “I was in goal once,” Harry continued in between the tongued caresses. “Dudley was stood there with the ball, he shot and I saved the thing.” The hand on his leg had reached further and he turned slightly into the touch. “You could have heard a pin drop, which considering there were loads of 10-year-olds clustered around the goal was a feat in itself. His face was like a beetroot -- bright red.” Harry gave a chuckle, both from the memory and from the searching hand. “Of course, he couldn’t beat me up, there were teachers watching, but he did when we got home. I had the biggest black eye....”
“Harry....”
“Um?
“You aren’t wearing any underwear.”
“No.”
“Then I can’t be held responsible for what I do next.”
“No, I guess you can’t.”
10.53am: The England fans erupt as Campbell powers home a header from Beckham’s corner to give his side the lead.
Draco was so shocked when Harry grabbed his face and kissed him, he didn’t have any chance to react. By the time he had pulled himself together, his lover was on his feet gesturing at the television and acting like an idiot. He sighed slightly and waited for Harry to calm down.
“I take it someone scored.” Unlike me, Draco mused.
“Yes!” Harry’s dark hair whipped about as he nodded violently, settling untidily around his slightly flushed face. “One - nil to us.” He turned to face the television screen, back now to Draco, and waited for the match to restart.
Draco watched the clenched fists, the way the fabric of the shirt rippled across the muscles of Harry’s back and how the black silky material of the shorts fitted his lover’s pert arse. He had always liked well-fitting clothes on Harry, but there was something about the slightly loose shorts which intrigued him. To push a hand inside and caress the warm flesh and then run a finger down to that entrance which he knew he was the only person to ever touch.
Harry was his. Except, of course, he reminded himself, when the football was on.
He made himself comfortable on the sofa again and reached out his hands to the slim hips in front of him. Long fingers curled around the flesh and pulled. Harry tottered slightly and fell backwards, landing in the ‘V’ formed by Draco’s spread legs.
Harry let out an oomph of surprise as he collapsed back against the other’s body. The hands, which gripped his hips, pulled him backwards until he was pressed hard against Draco. For a moment, Harry tried to pull away, but after a not very convincing struggle, he settled back against the firm body behind him. He flexed his hips slightly and was rewarded by the sound of a groan close to his ear. A warm breath caressed the ear and in its wake, a tongue trailed along the skin. It ended its journey at his earlobe and Harry matched Draco’s groan as he felt the tug of teeth and suction of a mouth on the flesh.
11.17am: The half-time whistle blows after two added minutes and it is so far, so good for England.
Arms snaked around his waist, settling in the fold where torso joined legs. Harry’s hands moved down to rest on top, pressing the fingers into his flesh. “What’s happening?” Draco’s deep voice vibrated against Harry’s neck.
“Half time,” Harry breathed.
“Good.” Draco sucked gently at the junction of Harry’s neck and shoulder. “How long do I have?”
“Fifteen minutes.” Harry tilted his neck slightly, giving Draco better access.
“Hmm. Then you’d better help me, hadn’t you.”
With that, he pulled his hands free of Harry’s and pushed his fingers between the closed thighs. They gave way under the pressure. Ankles uncrossed and spread out across the table. As his fingers pushed into the soft inner thighs, Draco pulled Harry back, tighter against his own spread legs, his semi-hard erection moulding into the cleft of Harry’s buttocks.
“Are you going to help?” One of Draco’s hands took hold of Harry’s right hand so that it’s back nestled in the Slytherin’s palm. He pushed his fingers between Harry’s, effectively trapping the other’s fingers. “Well?” The joint hand was pushed down over the front of the shorts and Draco cupped Harry, squeezing the Gryffindor’s fingers over his own erection.
Harry didn’t answer. Instead his comment was a deep throaty groan.
“I’ll take that as a yes then.” Draco pulled the hand away, pushing it inside the loose fitting shorts. He wrapped the trapped fingers around their own erection and felt rather than heard the shocked hiss as Harry’s body seemed to freeze for a moment. Nuzzling the bared neck and shoulder, Draco clenched his own hand, feeling Harry’s fingers contract beneath it, wrapping about his cock.
Release. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze.
“Oh, yes, Harry.” His voice changed, the tone cooing, gently teasing as he unlinked his fingers, leaving Harry to carry on the rhythm on his own. “Are you going to come for me?” The now free hand pushed past the hardening cock, teasing briefly with the balls, before pressing lightly on Harry’s entrance. It gave slightly, but Draco didn’t push in any further.
“Come on, sweet. Touch yourself for me.” He took Harry’s other hand and brought it up to his lover’s own mouth. “Suck for me, Harry.” Two fingers pushed into the waiting mouth and Harry moaned, suddenly bucking as Draco pushed into his anus.
“Oh, I love your mouth, do you know where I want it?” Draco gently pushed and pulled Harry’s fingers in and out of the warm, wet cavern as he bit hard on the exposed neck. “Umm, yes, I want it wrapped around me. Would you like that? Would you do that for me?” Whispered vocal caresses joined the physical ones.
Harry stiffened against him, the hand working his erection holding tightly as Draco worked a second finger inside him.
“Am I hurting you?” Harry murmured against the fingers in mouth. “ I can’t have that can I” The voice was soothing as he pulled the fingers out of Harry’s mouth and pushed the hand into the shorts to join it’s partner. “No, I can’t have that,” he soothed.
Draco pulled out his fingers and pushed Harry’s hand, slick with his own saliva against the entrance. Harry’s legs spread wider, a foot sending the bowl of crisps tumbling to the floor, as Draco pressed the fingers home.
“Do you like that? Touch your self for me, Harry. I want you to come.”
“Fuck....” Harry’s hand tightened around his own hard erection again as Draco’s words whispered in his ear, tantalizingly sexy in their quiet tones. He felt his own finger being pushed inside of him and he whimpered.
“Oh, yes, sweet. Are you nearly there?” Draco ground against him, words a silky purr. “Oh, I can feel you, you know. Feel it so close.”
“Please....”
“Almost there, sweet. Almost there.” Fingers grazed around the base of Harry’s cock while his other hand pushed Harry deeper within himself. “Come for me...”
With a throaty groan, Harry gripped himself, finally sending himself over the edge. Draco felt him shudder, buck and freeze as he came, chocking back cries of “fuck” and “bastard”. His own hands eased from the confines of the shorts and draped over Harry’s shoulders, cradling him through the after-shock of his self-inflicted orgasm. He could feel the Gryffindor shaking slightly and he murmured quiet endearments to him.
“Mmmm, sweet.” A hand reached up, pushing through the dark hair.
“Bastard,” Harry’s voiced quivered.
“Yes, I am.” He turned Harry’s head and captured the lips. They were full and sweet, and Draco knew that Harry had been biting at them. “You are magnificent, my love.”
11.32am: There have been no substitutions as Sweden start the second half.
Draco glanced up at the screen. “They’ve started again.”
“Bugger that...” Harry suddenly sat up, wiping his hand on the much-abused shorts. He grabbed at the remote control and, turning the set off. Then straddling Draco’s lap, he leaned forward and kissed him. “I’ll catch the highlight. We’re one - nil up, what can possibly happen.”
11.46am: Everton’s Niclas Alexandersson levels for Sweden from just outside the area after picking up a poor clearance from Danny Mills.
12.22pm: Referee Carlos Simon blows his whistle to end proceedings.
Final score: Draco finally gets his own way and the coffee table is used for something else besides the coffee.
--------------------------------
The match ‘highlights’ are taken from BBC Teletext.
I’m not sure if the above is physically possible, but I’ve decided they are both very flexible *grins*