antidixk
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When Harry Potter's experimental potion ends up all over Malfoy, and he starts behaving differently, Harry is left wondering: what the fuck is wrong with Draco Malfoy?
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Harry knows the body holding him down. Knows its gives and takes, knows how it will play havoc on his senses in the best and worst ways. Harry keeps his eyes closed, head tilted back, because he doesn't want to see, doesn't want to admit that he wants this as badly as he does.
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Though he won't ever admit it—not even years later, when Draco's giving Harry shit about it right before they go to sleep, the bedside light just dim enough to hide the worst of his blush—it takes Harry an embarrassingly long time to realise that something is wrong. It's not like he's trying to pull regularly. If he wants to get laid, he gets laid. He is, after all, Harry Potter.
But it's not until it's a Saturday morning, and he's languidly stroking himself off in the shower with long, slow pulls that he feels deep in the pit of his stomach, that Harry realises that he's been at this for quite some time, and while it feels amazing and his toes are curling and his balls are pulled up tight…
Nothing's happening.
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“The supplements are formulated to elevate all of my alpha properties,” Derek said. “Dominance. Strength. Vigor.”
AKA Derek takes supplements. Stiles enjoys the benefits.
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The wolf bites him all the time when they do this, when they — get together. Stiles cringes internally at his own thought process, but there’s really no better phrase for it. They’re not together together, not dating or anything, they just — do this sometimes.
Derek’s passionate, attentive, sometimes acting like he’s nearly obsessed with Stiles, gripping his thighs tightly as he rocks into him and sucking possessively on his neck. Biting his jaw, his ear, his bicep, his stomach, his thighs — everywhere except his neck.
Stiles tries not to care, knows Derek would never want him like that anyway.