Fic: Contact, NC17-ish
Title: Contact
Author: kabeyk
Rating: Adult-y. Mild porn.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: It's a purely business arrangement.
Notes: Cheque #21 - Harry to Draco: I promise to sleep on the wet patch. I was drunk when I claimed this, for which I blame scoradh. Much love to the gorgeous wildestranger for reading this through.
It was accidental, falling together onto the heavy kitchen table during a short cross argument, but their struggling limbs and wrestling hands quickly became grinding lips and hips. A few uncomfortable, blurry minutes and the taut-stretched tension inside Harry broke sharply into a warm rush, just as Malfoy made a tight little grunting sound and Harry's underwear was suddenly wet on the outside as well as the inside.
After, they lay side-by-side on the solid table-top, taking it in turns to huff out long wobbly breaths, and Harry wondered if that had been a little too easy, and that possibly something like that had been brewing a long time in some horrible sick-and-dirty sort of way, lusting torridly after someone he purported to hate.
The papered ceiling bulged heavy with brown bubbles of mouldering damp, ugly and unclean, though in that awkward moment it was strangely fascinating.
After a while, Malfoy said, "I brought some highly valuable information for you, you know."
"I know," Harry sighed, finding the courage to let his eyes flick to the right.
Malfoy smiled a small, pointy smile that Harry could only see half of. "So you could at least have got on your knees for me."
Malfoy was ever the petulant, spoilt child, and it was almost funny except for the fact that Harry was still feeling rather ashamed and grubby. "The information," Harry said, hoping he'd loaded his voice with enough dry humour and unimpressed suspicion that his spy wouldn't expect anything more from him than a firm handshake.
Sitting up, Malfoy started to pat his robes down, his long white fingers rippling over and into the folds of his clothing, and Harry scrambled to his feet and hurriedly crossed the room to fetch the 'medicinal' whisky from the back of the cupboard.
#
The second time, Malfoy tasted of dry bread and he was rough with anger, kissing more with his teeth, hands around Harry's biceps firmly holding his shoulders against the wall. There'd been no lead up, unless you counted "Got your fucking information, Potter" and the hours Harry had spent surrounded by papers and research, longing for action and the only bright spot on the horizon being the slight possibility of his informant turning up and fucking him forcefully into the table again.
With the painfully good sensation of a hard cock grinding into his thigh, Harry was dazedly wondering if this happened with everyone Malfoy spied for, if he went round the houses delivering classified information like a twinkle-eyed milkman, or if he was charging Harry for the extras. If I'm paying for this, Harry thought, turning his head to the side and clenching his fingernails tightly into the hips he held, why can't I have a bit more? But then god knows how much a proper, neat kiss on the lips would be, and the price of a cuddle afterwards was probably more than even Malfoy could afford.
"Fuck, yes," Malfoy muttered, his tone clenched and straining, teeth catching briefly on Harry's cheek, "yes." Harry yanked him in close and pulled urgently at the boy's hips to quickly draw out his own orgasm, a sudden crash of dirty pleasure.
Afterwards, he kept his eyes closed until he could sense that Malfoy had stopped smirking.
#
In a change to their previous, becoming-regular schedule - brief exchange of insults, quick rough shag, a few secret documents and a nip of whisky if there was time - Malfoy turned up the one day and said calmly, "You want this so badly you'd do anything for it," which didn't really have the wounding bite of Malfoy's usual insulting openers.
There was a sudden coldness in Harry's stomach and a flare of embarrassment to his cheeks. "Do I?" he asked frostily, fighting down the bit inside him that was silently begging yes, I need this, fuck me.
And then an envelope was carefully withdrawn from a crease of robes. Harry's eyes immediately locked onto it, as Malfoy began to tap the fold of paper idly against his hand. "Is that what I think-" Harry began.
"Yes," Malfoy said, cutting in crisply. "So."
Harry watched the envelope nervously. "So… what?"
Malfoy smiled, his eyes a little too bright. "I think I do want you on your knees."
A twisted, calculated and sordid Slytherin sort of blackmail it was, but even so, Harry hadn't been expecting it. Giving in would gift Malfoy the upper hand for, in Harry's opinion, the first time ever, and it was galling to say the least. He took his time thinking it through, burning with a combination of lust and the fevered anticipation of finally getting his hands on the long-coveted document Malfoy was holding irreverently in his too-casual hands.
Deciding on the only viable course of action, Harry snatched the folded slip of parchment cleanly out of Malfoy's teasing fingers and flung it clear across the room and into a corner, dropping to his knees simultaneously to silence any protests. He ignored the gentle sigh of triumph and swiftly tucked the skirt of Malfoy's robes into their makeshift belt cord, then tore open his underwear.
It was more the sudden intimacy of it he found shocking, not so much the act but rather the feel of fuzzy dark blond curls against his cheek and the soft warmth of Malfoy's belly as he nuzzled into it. The hot scent of sweat and dirt, and the weight on his tongue as he began to suck on the smooth stiff skin of Malfoy's prick.
Harry found the rhythm of it easily, bobbing his head neatly and barely noticing the uncomfortable wooden floorboards beneath his knees. Too soon there was that familiar taut grunt as Malfoy came in a burst of sour saltiness and Harry swallowed carefully, sitting back on his haunches to allow Malfoy to rearrange his clothing.
"Best be off," Malfoy announced shortly as he straightened his cuffs and resignation stole over Harry.
"Yes," Harry agreed calmly, climbing slowly to his feet.
Once Malfoy had gone he waited five minutes before reaching for the document, using the time to take comfort in his own clammy palm.
#
Harry never offered any food, because that would be too much, like it was a date or something, like he was nervous and eagerly waiting for this. But whisky was acceptable. Malfoy drank whisky like he rarely saw it, which could have been true for all Harry knew, licking and savouring the first few sips, rolling the liquid around his mouth like it was a pure, erotic experience, then drinking the rest of the glass down far too quickly in a way that suggested he was trying to take his time but couldn't.
Harry liked the musky whisky-breaths, hot over his skin as they moved their hips and their faces did little more than rest together, their eyes half-closed and looking down, watching the way their clothing shifted as their bodies rubbed together.
They never sat down either, on Harry's rather flea-bitten sofa, never attempted foreplay or passionate kisses. Maybe Malfoy was always half-hard and ready, or maybe he longingly anticipated these meetings too, warm and aroused even before he lifted his hand to knock on the door, but either way it made no difference to this purely-business arrangement.
Harry glanced a little longingly in the direction of his bedroom door, even as Malfoy found the perfect angle and nearly made him come on the spot. The idea of sex in a bed was becoming as enticing and fetishistic to him as the thought of rough-and-dirty-with-the-wall-digging-into-your-spine probably was to bored married couples. But Malfoy was already starting to groan when he turned back, so he didn't dare suggest it.
#
The lack of the usual arrogant knock put Harry immediately on the alert, and when it was followed by a weighty, tired bang against the door and a worrying slow scrape that sounded like someone slumping down to the floor, he found his heart was thumping with fear. When he pulled the door open, Malfoy was a bundle of crumpled black robes curled up on the doormat, his white hair and skin covered in half sticky, half dried-brown blood.
There was a first aid kit, full of potions and lotions and ointments, but Harry had only very sketchy ideas about what to do with the contents of which bottle, so he simply stripped Malfoy almost-naked and shoved him under a hot shower and tried not to stare too much.
After that, Malfoy seemed rather more awake, or at least enough to complain. He wouldn't answer the question "Who did this to you?", but the answer to the question "Do you have any information for me?" was "Yes, my father's a prick," so that was enough for Harry.
Suspending all other activities, Harry spent the afternoon pretending to read an important book when actually he was covertly watching Malfoy sleep, nestled childishly into the blankets on Harry's rickety old bed. Harry felt like it was the first time he'd looked at Malfoy for years, and suddenly he was pretty; golden-white eyelashes and very thin dark-pink lips, a hint of what could be called stubble on his chin and upper lip if it wasn't so soft and fluffy-looking.
When the boy finally woke, Harry forced a mug of whisky-laced tea on him and said "Still suck your thumb, eh?" It wasn't true, but it was a fair enough assumption from the way Malfoy slept with a curled fist held up so close to his mouth.
Malfoy looked absolutely mortified, but quickly managed to come back with, "D'you want to suck it too?"
Harry said, "Drink your tea," but if he was honest then the answer was yes he did, again, especially with Malfoy sitting up in his bed, beautiful narrow white chest, small dark nipples and a line of fluffy hair leading him down. And his sharp, elegant collar bones, chapped, blood-smeared lips and the way his muscles flexed neatly under his pale skin when he brought his drink up to his mouth. It was all getting too much for Harry.
"Do what you like," Malfoy said, the comment accompanied by a perfect shrug, so Harry leaned and kissed him in a drowsy, mild way. Unsurprisingly, Malfoy tasted of tea and whisky and stale sleep and blood, but it was still warm and human enough to please Harry. "Bit lower," Malfoy mumbled and Harry rolled his eyes. Instead he cuddled his body underneath the blankets, slipping his hand over one slim thigh and into borrowed underwear to reach lower.
Malfoy was surprisingly hard and tipped his head back onto the pillows with a comfortable-sounding hum when Harry stroked him. Unbuttoning his own trousers, Harry nestled closer and began to rub himself off simultaneously against Malfoy's side, in time with the gentle movements of his hand and some very slow, sloppy kisses. This was so much nearer to being sex, a depth of physical contact that Harry had missed, and he came quickly, eagerly fucking Malfoy's hip where it met the mattress. Malfoy made a short huff of laughter, but went quiet as he came himself, the soft pleasure on his face making him look very young and delicate and he kept his eyes closed, though he shuddered a little.
"You filthy bugger, Potter," Malfoy mumbled after, edging slightly away from Harry and barely awake, "you came all over the sheets." Harry took that as a good moment to wipe his hand on Malfoy's arm.
"Doesn't matter," Harry said, rather focused on sleep himself. He shuffled close again, ignoring the cold sticky patch, wrapping one arm over Malfoy and taking the opportunity to drift into sleep with a warm body pressed against his.
Author: kabeyk
Rating: Adult-y. Mild porn.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: It's a purely business arrangement.
Notes: Cheque #21 - Harry to Draco: I promise to sleep on the wet patch. I was drunk when I claimed this, for which I blame scoradh. Much love to the gorgeous wildestranger for reading this through.
It was accidental, falling together onto the heavy kitchen table during a short cross argument, but their struggling limbs and wrestling hands quickly became grinding lips and hips. A few uncomfortable, blurry minutes and the taut-stretched tension inside Harry broke sharply into a warm rush, just as Malfoy made a tight little grunting sound and Harry's underwear was suddenly wet on the outside as well as the inside.
After, they lay side-by-side on the solid table-top, taking it in turns to huff out long wobbly breaths, and Harry wondered if that had been a little too easy, and that possibly something like that had been brewing a long time in some horrible sick-and-dirty sort of way, lusting torridly after someone he purported to hate.
The papered ceiling bulged heavy with brown bubbles of mouldering damp, ugly and unclean, though in that awkward moment it was strangely fascinating.
After a while, Malfoy said, "I brought some highly valuable information for you, you know."
"I know," Harry sighed, finding the courage to let his eyes flick to the right.
Malfoy smiled a small, pointy smile that Harry could only see half of. "So you could at least have got on your knees for me."
Malfoy was ever the petulant, spoilt child, and it was almost funny except for the fact that Harry was still feeling rather ashamed and grubby. "The information," Harry said, hoping he'd loaded his voice with enough dry humour and unimpressed suspicion that his spy wouldn't expect anything more from him than a firm handshake.
Sitting up, Malfoy started to pat his robes down, his long white fingers rippling over and into the folds of his clothing, and Harry scrambled to his feet and hurriedly crossed the room to fetch the 'medicinal' whisky from the back of the cupboard.
#
The second time, Malfoy tasted of dry bread and he was rough with anger, kissing more with his teeth, hands around Harry's biceps firmly holding his shoulders against the wall. There'd been no lead up, unless you counted "Got your fucking information, Potter" and the hours Harry had spent surrounded by papers and research, longing for action and the only bright spot on the horizon being the slight possibility of his informant turning up and fucking him forcefully into the table again.
With the painfully good sensation of a hard cock grinding into his thigh, Harry was dazedly wondering if this happened with everyone Malfoy spied for, if he went round the houses delivering classified information like a twinkle-eyed milkman, or if he was charging Harry for the extras. If I'm paying for this, Harry thought, turning his head to the side and clenching his fingernails tightly into the hips he held, why can't I have a bit more? But then god knows how much a proper, neat kiss on the lips would be, and the price of a cuddle afterwards was probably more than even Malfoy could afford.
"Fuck, yes," Malfoy muttered, his tone clenched and straining, teeth catching briefly on Harry's cheek, "yes." Harry yanked him in close and pulled urgently at the boy's hips to quickly draw out his own orgasm, a sudden crash of dirty pleasure.
Afterwards, he kept his eyes closed until he could sense that Malfoy had stopped smirking.
#
In a change to their previous, becoming-regular schedule - brief exchange of insults, quick rough shag, a few secret documents and a nip of whisky if there was time - Malfoy turned up the one day and said calmly, "You want this so badly you'd do anything for it," which didn't really have the wounding bite of Malfoy's usual insulting openers.
There was a sudden coldness in Harry's stomach and a flare of embarrassment to his cheeks. "Do I?" he asked frostily, fighting down the bit inside him that was silently begging yes, I need this, fuck me.
And then an envelope was carefully withdrawn from a crease of robes. Harry's eyes immediately locked onto it, as Malfoy began to tap the fold of paper idly against his hand. "Is that what I think-" Harry began.
"Yes," Malfoy said, cutting in crisply. "So."
Harry watched the envelope nervously. "So… what?"
Malfoy smiled, his eyes a little too bright. "I think I do want you on your knees."
A twisted, calculated and sordid Slytherin sort of blackmail it was, but even so, Harry hadn't been expecting it. Giving in would gift Malfoy the upper hand for, in Harry's opinion, the first time ever, and it was galling to say the least. He took his time thinking it through, burning with a combination of lust and the fevered anticipation of finally getting his hands on the long-coveted document Malfoy was holding irreverently in his too-casual hands.
Deciding on the only viable course of action, Harry snatched the folded slip of parchment cleanly out of Malfoy's teasing fingers and flung it clear across the room and into a corner, dropping to his knees simultaneously to silence any protests. He ignored the gentle sigh of triumph and swiftly tucked the skirt of Malfoy's robes into their makeshift belt cord, then tore open his underwear.
It was more the sudden intimacy of it he found shocking, not so much the act but rather the feel of fuzzy dark blond curls against his cheek and the soft warmth of Malfoy's belly as he nuzzled into it. The hot scent of sweat and dirt, and the weight on his tongue as he began to suck on the smooth stiff skin of Malfoy's prick.
Harry found the rhythm of it easily, bobbing his head neatly and barely noticing the uncomfortable wooden floorboards beneath his knees. Too soon there was that familiar taut grunt as Malfoy came in a burst of sour saltiness and Harry swallowed carefully, sitting back on his haunches to allow Malfoy to rearrange his clothing.
"Best be off," Malfoy announced shortly as he straightened his cuffs and resignation stole over Harry.
"Yes," Harry agreed calmly, climbing slowly to his feet.
Once Malfoy had gone he waited five minutes before reaching for the document, using the time to take comfort in his own clammy palm.
#
Harry never offered any food, because that would be too much, like it was a date or something, like he was nervous and eagerly waiting for this. But whisky was acceptable. Malfoy drank whisky like he rarely saw it, which could have been true for all Harry knew, licking and savouring the first few sips, rolling the liquid around his mouth like it was a pure, erotic experience, then drinking the rest of the glass down far too quickly in a way that suggested he was trying to take his time but couldn't.
Harry liked the musky whisky-breaths, hot over his skin as they moved their hips and their faces did little more than rest together, their eyes half-closed and looking down, watching the way their clothing shifted as their bodies rubbed together.
They never sat down either, on Harry's rather flea-bitten sofa, never attempted foreplay or passionate kisses. Maybe Malfoy was always half-hard and ready, or maybe he longingly anticipated these meetings too, warm and aroused even before he lifted his hand to knock on the door, but either way it made no difference to this purely-business arrangement.
Harry glanced a little longingly in the direction of his bedroom door, even as Malfoy found the perfect angle and nearly made him come on the spot. The idea of sex in a bed was becoming as enticing and fetishistic to him as the thought of rough-and-dirty-with-the-wall-digging-into-your-spine probably was to bored married couples. But Malfoy was already starting to groan when he turned back, so he didn't dare suggest it.
#
The lack of the usual arrogant knock put Harry immediately on the alert, and when it was followed by a weighty, tired bang against the door and a worrying slow scrape that sounded like someone slumping down to the floor, he found his heart was thumping with fear. When he pulled the door open, Malfoy was a bundle of crumpled black robes curled up on the doormat, his white hair and skin covered in half sticky, half dried-brown blood.
There was a first aid kit, full of potions and lotions and ointments, but Harry had only very sketchy ideas about what to do with the contents of which bottle, so he simply stripped Malfoy almost-naked and shoved him under a hot shower and tried not to stare too much.
After that, Malfoy seemed rather more awake, or at least enough to complain. He wouldn't answer the question "Who did this to you?", but the answer to the question "Do you have any information for me?" was "Yes, my father's a prick," so that was enough for Harry.
Suspending all other activities, Harry spent the afternoon pretending to read an important book when actually he was covertly watching Malfoy sleep, nestled childishly into the blankets on Harry's rickety old bed. Harry felt like it was the first time he'd looked at Malfoy for years, and suddenly he was pretty; golden-white eyelashes and very thin dark-pink lips, a hint of what could be called stubble on his chin and upper lip if it wasn't so soft and fluffy-looking.
When the boy finally woke, Harry forced a mug of whisky-laced tea on him and said "Still suck your thumb, eh?" It wasn't true, but it was a fair enough assumption from the way Malfoy slept with a curled fist held up so close to his mouth.
Malfoy looked absolutely mortified, but quickly managed to come back with, "D'you want to suck it too?"
Harry said, "Drink your tea," but if he was honest then the answer was yes he did, again, especially with Malfoy sitting up in his bed, beautiful narrow white chest, small dark nipples and a line of fluffy hair leading him down. And his sharp, elegant collar bones, chapped, blood-smeared lips and the way his muscles flexed neatly under his pale skin when he brought his drink up to his mouth. It was all getting too much for Harry.
"Do what you like," Malfoy said, the comment accompanied by a perfect shrug, so Harry leaned and kissed him in a drowsy, mild way. Unsurprisingly, Malfoy tasted of tea and whisky and stale sleep and blood, but it was still warm and human enough to please Harry. "Bit lower," Malfoy mumbled and Harry rolled his eyes. Instead he cuddled his body underneath the blankets, slipping his hand over one slim thigh and into borrowed underwear to reach lower.
Malfoy was surprisingly hard and tipped his head back onto the pillows with a comfortable-sounding hum when Harry stroked him. Unbuttoning his own trousers, Harry nestled closer and began to rub himself off simultaneously against Malfoy's side, in time with the gentle movements of his hand and some very slow, sloppy kisses. This was so much nearer to being sex, a depth of physical contact that Harry had missed, and he came quickly, eagerly fucking Malfoy's hip where it met the mattress. Malfoy made a short huff of laughter, but went quiet as he came himself, the soft pleasure on his face making him look very young and delicate and he kept his eyes closed, though he shuddered a little.
"You filthy bugger, Potter," Malfoy mumbled after, edging slightly away from Harry and barely awake, "you came all over the sheets." Harry took that as a good moment to wipe his hand on Malfoy's arm.
"Doesn't matter," Harry said, rather focused on sleep himself. He shuffled close again, ignoring the cold sticky patch, wrapping one arm over Malfoy and taking the opportunity to drift into sleep with a warm body pressed against his.