Archive of Our Own

“Back again? You must've really fucked up with Kaminski. What did you do, kill a patient or something?”

“A colleague,” Draco replies dryly, taking a final drag of his cigarette and stubbing it out on the wall of the alleyway. “For being a nosy cunt.”

Anu laughs. “Fair enough. I won’t ask again.”

She isn’t entirely wrong. Draco had fucked up. He ought to have known better than to shag his bastard boss in the first place, let alone turn him down when he’d offered another round. Now Draco’s stuck here for the next few hours, doing second-year duties for the second Friday running, instead of where he should be - working the challenging wards of St Mungo’s A&E.

“He’d have your bollocks for smoking on the job, you know.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Good thing he won’t find out then, isn’t it? Come on, let’s get this over with.”

They enter the club, submitting to the security checks and signing the paperwork before being escorted to the main hall. The heat and noise increases the closer they get, and Draco's grateful their robes are back at the hospital.

Watching wizards fight like muggles on a Friday night is about as exciting as shagging Kaminski.

Unlike the raucous crowds around him, Draco watches as he did last week – with detached curiosity and mild disdain as the fighters enter the magical cage, wandless and practically naked, and proceed to knock seven shades of shit out of each other. If there are rules, he's yet to work out what they are. It's brutal. Barbaric. And terribly boring.

At the end of each fight – five rounds of five minutes, though Draco's yet to see one go the distance – he and Anu dutifully grab a clipboard and make their way to the club’s medical rooms to heal the fighters.

The evening passes as expected, in a tedious rotation of sprains, tears, fractures, lacerations, one suspected concussion and one lost tooth. Dull.

The final fight of the evening has the atmosphere at the height of unruliness, the crowd around them pissed and potioned, chanting and heckling as the fighters enter the ring. The commentator’s sonoroused voice competes with the noise of the spectators.

“This is it, folks! The fight you've all been waiting for! Two undefeated fighters going head to head…”

Draco and Anu stand a few rows back from cageside, still close enough to catalogue the list of injuries they'll soon be healing.

“I know why I'm here, but why do you keep getting drafted for this?” he asks, voice raised to be heard over the din.

Anu shrugs. “I’m still a grunt, aren’t I?”

“There are more than enough grunts to share the burden. Is he picking on you?”

She smirks at him. “What’ll you do about it if he is?”

It’s a good question. Draco is only one year qualified, and even if he's accumulated a good number of owed favours in that time, he'd still not be able to take on Kaminski. But he would do something, if he had to.

“Don’t worry,” she says before he can reply, hand on his arm. “I volunteer.” She must see the surprise and distaste on his face and she laughs. “What? It gets me out of the hospital for a while, and it's easy. Plus some of these fighters are really fit.”

Draco shakes his head with a grimace. “If you say so.”

The final fighters of the night are warming up in the cage; one fair, one dark, and something about the dark-haired one catches Draco's attention.

The unruly curls, the golden hue of his lean, muscled body, he could almost pass for…

“See?” Anu says knowingly into his ear, and Draco closes his mouth.

The fighter in question turns their way, revealing impossibly deep blue eyes – almost violet – a slightly hooked nose and a cocky swagger. No scar. Draco breathes easier.

“They call him the Diamond," she adds. "He’s up against the Mad Russian.”

Draco sniffs. “How fascinating.”

The fight is just as boring as the rest as far as Draco's concerned, though the crowd clearly disagrees.

Round after round they grapple, punch, kick. Draco distantly admires the lithe, quick movements of the Diamond, every now and again squinting and imagining a different curly-haired man with a similar build.

It happens early in the fifth, both fighters looking worse for wear. The Diamond has the Russian against the side of the cage, directly in front of them. He's shoving his weight against the blonde, throwing merciless punches and he looks so familiar, teeth bared, eyes burning, Draco instinctively draws nearer.

The Diamond catches Draco's eye through the bars of the cage and his arm freezes, mid-punch and for a moment, they just look at each other.

It only lasts a second – maybe two – but it's costly. The Russian twists out of the Diamond’s hold, manoeuvring him face-first into the side of the cage, twisting his arm behind his back as the crowd cheers wildly.

The Russian tries to get an arm around the Diamond’s throat, the Diamond only just managing to avoid it by dodging. His arm is pulled unnaturally as he moves and he gives a shout of pain.

An odd panic grips Draco as the Diamond writhes and he elbows Anu. “Shouldn't someone throw a rag in or something?”

“That's boxing.”

“He's going to have that arm out of its joint!”

“Mm, maybe. Tap out or knock out, though.”

Draco watches horrified. “Why the fuck isn't he tapping then?!”

The Diamond is bent over, his arm viciously pulled up behind him, features scrunched in agony.

“The tap is surely coming!” The commentator sounds gleeful as the noise swells.

In a swift move, the Diamond reaches down through his legs, hooks a hand around the Russian’s calf and pulls.

The Russian is yanked down onto his back, the Diamond’s arm is freed, and the fight is somehow on again. Draco looks to the egg timer suspended above the cage. Surely five minutes is nearly up.

The Diamond is riled. Even without magic, power radiates from his limber form. The two fighters grapple again and the Diamond wedges a forearm under the chin of the Russian, swinging deftly onto his back. Wrapping strong thighs around the Russian's waist, the Diamond's blue eyes burn as he apparently attempts to crush his opponent’s larynx.

It's over in a blink, the Russian unable to tap out as he goes from rigid to floppy in seconds and topples head first to the ground. The Diamond goes with him before springing to his feet and the crowd roars its approval.

“Would you look at that? The Russian KO’d by a rear naked choke! Jimmy the Diamond Evans is still undefeated!”

Draco snatches up the clipboard he wants before Anu can get near. “You see to him in the ring.”

Draco glances over the fighter's medical form. The information is sparse, but there's something about it that's nagging at him:

Jimmy Evans

24

No known health conditions

The door bursts open without a knock. The fighter is bruised and bloodied, still in his tiny shorts, a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of lucozade in the other.

Draco clears his throat, ready to introduce himself, but finds himself spluttering instead.

“You,” he says, aghast. The hooked nose has straightened, blue eyes switched to green. No glasses, but the scar peeking through his fringe leaves no room for doubt.

“Me,” Potter agrees as he kicks the door shut behind him. “Not usually you, though. What did you do to land yourself here?”

Draco’s trying to get over the surprise of it actually being Potter, and not a handsome lookalike, here to be treated by him. Of course Draco often sees him in the papers, but in the flesh is– is jarring. “None of your business.”

Potter tosses his bottle onto the side and takes a drag of his cigarette. He doesn't look at Draco as he starts removing the tape around his fist. “Fair enough. Just, I heard you were a proper healer now. Didn't expect to see you. We usually get trainees in for this.”

A few more blinks and Draco finally overcomes his surprise. “Well, if you expect me to do any healing tonight, Evans, you’ll put that out. Now.”

Potter freezes, fag midway back to his mouth. He eyes Draco critically as he takes another drag and exhales. “I always have a smoke after a fight. It’s not usually an issue.”

“It's an issue if I say it is,” Draco snaps. “It’s a disgusting habit. Put it out.”

Potter is unperturbed as he takes one final puff and vanishes the cigarette without so much as a muttered incantation.

He exhales. “Where do you want me, then?”

Draco hides his surprise at the wandless magic and indicates the bed. “Sit.”

Considering the brutality of the fight, Potter's relatively unscathed. A cut to his cheek, another to his lip, plenty of bruising, swelling. All straightforward to heal. Potter is untaping his other hand as Draco works.

“Do you have any pain?”

“Just my shoulder. You look different.”

“No, I don't. You took plenty of blows to your head.”

“Kind of unavoidable. But I'm not concussed, if that's what you're worried about. You do.”

“I think you'll find that's for me to determine, not you. I'm going to give you three words and I want you to repeat them back to me in the order I give them. Stupid, barbaric, neanderthal.”

Potter finishes pulling off the tape and flexes his fingers. “Why don't you kiss my arse?”

Draco smirks, pleased. “You should be so lucky.”

Potter huffs a little laugh. Draco checks him for more obvious injuries, privately admiring the honed muscle and smooth lines of his body this close. He supposes he can agree with Anu on this, at least – he is quite fit.

“Remove the cup and lie on your front.” He bites off the please just in time.

“Jesus, Malfoy. Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, you know.”

“It's Healer Malfoy. Now, can you do as I ask, or are you incapable of understanding a simple instruction?”

“Tell you what, why don't you do it?” Potter snaps, a spark of anger in his voice.

And there it is. This is the Potter Draco remembers. The boy who gave him endless hard-ons as a teen. No need to call me Sir, Professor. Merlin, it drove Draco to distraction when Potter showed his fire, especially if Draco was the one who’d stoked it. Why more people didn’t provoke him into it, Draco could never work out.

Draco raises a brow, barely containing his satisfied grin.

“Do you want to get back into that barbaric cage any time soon? Because I do believe you require my signature on your little form for that.”

Potter leans back and tilts his head, looking mildly impressed.

Not taking his eyes from Draco’s, he slowly slides a hand into his shorts and pulls out the protective cup.

“They don't usually ask me to remove it. You after a souvenir, Malfoy? You just had to say.” He holds it up, too close to Draco's face, the unmistakable musk of Potter’s cock entering his nostrils.

Potter smiles triumphantly, like an absolute tosser.

Draco smacks it out of his hand as Potter laughs. Potter clearly hasn't forgotten how to push his buttons, either.

“Be quiet and lie on your front. I won't ask you again,” Draco warns.

Faced with Potter's back, Draco takes a deep breath, summoning back his professionalism. He'd forgotten himself. He's twenty-four, not fourteen – and a healer, for Merlin's sake.

“Still a tosser, then?” Potter asks conversationally as Draco assesses his inflamed scapula. It’s hot to the touch and Potter gives a quiet grunt of pain as Draco carefully manipulates the joint. Rotator cuff tear. “I always wondered how you turned out.”

“How riveting for you. Your tendon is torn. I'm going to mend it. It'll be uncomfortable for a few minutes, but you need to hold still.”

“Whatever you say.”

Draco takes his time as Potter miraculously obeys, keeping his body and his tongue still. For the hundredth time this evening, Draco wonders why anyone chooses to get into that cage. Especially Potter, who gets no recognition through his glamour and surely has no need for prize money.

“Done. You can sit up.” Potter deftly moves to a sitting position, clutching and gingerly rotating his shoulder. Draco tries not to stare at the way his muscles flex with the movement.

Potter moves it cautiously up and down again. “Nice one. Thanks.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “It’ll be tender for a few days. But if the pain doesn't subside, you'll need to come in and get it checked again.”

Potter shakes his head. “I don’t go to Mungo's. I've got a private healer.”

Draco just manages to stop a second eye-roll, sighing instead. “Of course you do. Fine, if the pain doesn't lessen, go and see your private healer. Now, just a couple more checks and we'll be done. Follow my wand with your eyes.”

Potter is quiet as Draco works. Draco would usually fill the silence with small talk – jobs or family, quidditch, the good old British weather. But there's nowhere really to start with Potter.

He could ask what Potter’s been doing for the last six years as he listens to his lungs (clear), beyond attending fancy fundraisers and having his mug plastered all over the Prophet every month. Taking a well-deserved break, the papers said. They never said anything of substance.

He could ask why Potter chooses to get bruised and bloodied fighting like a muggle as he takes his BP (normal).

He could ask all the things he's wondered about Potter over the years as he checks his reflexes (normal).

He asks none of them.

Dropping to his knee, Draco runs his wand firmly up the sole of Potter’s foot (plantar reflex: normal), and then does it again because he noted his sensitive flinch the first time, and apparently Draco will never stop being an arsehole when it comes to Potter.

Draco runs his eye along the line of Potter's tanned, shapely legs, dusted with dark hair, remembering how they looked straining around the Russian. They're nice legs.

He’s about to get up when his gaze drifts over Potter's crotch and he double takes, eyebrows raising.

It's a normal reaction, of course; not uncommon during a physical exam, and unsurprising for a testosterone-fuelled caveman like Potter, keyed up like this after a fight. Ordinarily, Draco would ignore it, like the professional he is. But he can’t pass up the opportunity to poke at least a little, and he smirks childishly instead.

“Why, Potter. I'm flattered. Wouldn't have thought I was your type.”

If Draco thought he’d finally embarrass the man, have him stammering or apologising or attempting to cover his shame, he was very much mistaken.

Potter's answer is pitched low and distinctly unembarrassed. “Why not?”

Something in it causes Draco to look up. Potter meets his eyes, the weight of his stare unmistakable.

Except – no. Potter isn’t into men, as the Prophet reminds the wizarding world with great regularity.

“I've got a dick, for starters,” Draco says smoothly, still smirking as he straightens up. “Not exactly your thing, is it?”

Potter leans back on his good arm, cocking his head. “And you know what my thing is, do you?”

Without thinking, Draco steps in closer, standing over him. He expects Potter to shrink back, to baulk at the proximity. He doesn't.

Draco tamps down the ridiculous thoughts trying to run amok in his head as his pulse quickens. “Are you really trying to tell me you fuck men?”

The determined bulge in Potter's shorts, the way he'd widened his thighs as Draco stepped closer, the sudden sparkle in his eye as he looks up at Draco – well. They all certainly point towards it. Draco swallows, wondering if he’s misread this situation, after all.

In a smooth motion, Potter jumps to his feet and Draco only just manages to move back in time to avoid colliding.

They’re toe to toe, their heights annoyingly even, the mixed scent of sweat and smoke and Potter’s cologne making Draco’s stomach flutter, his cock twitching at the proximity. Potter’s eyes flick down to himself and then back to Draco. With exaggerated slowness and a smug little smirk, he palms over his shorts – just once. Potter’s knuckles lightly graze the front of Draco’s trousers – deliberately, Draco has no doubt of that – and he's embarrassed at the spike of arousal hitting him at the cockiness of it all.

Potter’s voice is low and teasing. “What does this tell you?”

Ethics. Ethics. Ethics. Draco chants it in his head. It's been drummed into him from his very first year of training, and every year since. Professional distance, always.

Draco takes a step back, trying not to show he’s flustered. “How interesting.”

Potter cocks his head. “Is it?”

“Mildly, I suppose.” As if Draco's dick isn’t showing an obscene amount of interest at the revelation. As if he isn’t currently imagining all the ways he could fuck Potter's hot, agile body into next week. He shrugs. “I imagine the press would find it interesting, anyway.”

It's not really a threat. Draco couldn't out him, even if he wanted to – which he doesn’t – bound as he is by healer-patient confidentiality, not to mention the contract he signed on entry tonight.

“And what about you?” Potter asks curiously.

It’s not the response Draco had expected. He frowns, stalling for time, unnerved but unexpectedly thrilled at the turn of conversation. “Do I find the fact you fuck men interesting?”

Potter looks like he wants to smile. “Yeah.”

“No. Not especially.” Draco holds himself still as Potter shamelessly appraises his body, the heat of it searing under Draco's skin.

“Mm.” Potter closes the gap between them again. He reaches down to slowly graze the outline of Draco’s cock with his knuckles, his mouth curving into a knowing smile.

“So this is what not especially feels like, is it?”

Draco almost laughs at the boldness of it.

If anyone had told Draco before tonight that he’d be propositioned by the Chosen Cock, he'd have laughed them straight out the door. And if anyone had told him that he'd be presented with the opportunity to turn down the Chosen Cock, well… let's just say he wouldn't have thrown such a strop at the rota staff this morning.

It's unfathomable. It should be Christmas come early. And yet, as the triumphant chance stretches before him, he can't seem to conjure the words.

Potter’s fingers trail purposefully down Draco's clothed cock again and Draco has to bite his tongue, growing harder by the second.

“I’m not allowed to be interested,” he says reluctantly, moving himself back and out of reach again.

Potter follows, predatory, still smirking. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but that didn’t sound like a no.”

Desire thrums through Draco at the challenge of it – a forgotten flame roaring back to life. People listen to Draco these days. They do what he says, and he bloody loves it. Thrives on it, in fact, on the safety of being unchallenged and in control. That Potter isn't like everyone else is no surprise; he's always been an exception. Draco just hadn't realised how much he'd missed the rush of a little spar, especially with this particular opponent.

Draco stands his ground, refusing to be pushed back any further. “Merlin, you're an arrogant bastard, aren't you?”

Potter’s still got that knowing little smile, irritatingly attractive. “C’mon, admit it. You're interested.”

“I’ll admit no such thing.” And because his dick apparently overrules his rational brain, he adds, “It would very much depend, anyway.”

“On what?” Potter asks, quick as a snake.

Draco thinks of all the pictures in the press. Pictures of Potter with a string of pretty young witches on his arm. Erection or not, Draco’s still not entirely convinced this isn't all some sort of wind up.

He narrows his eyes. “How?”

Potter’s brows draw together. “How what?”

Draco stares him down, but Potter holds his gaze unflinchingly. Gods, Draco had forgotten how utterly ridiculous his eyes are up close. That green. Honestly.

“How do you fuck men, if you really do?” Draco inserts the authority of his job into his voice.

Potter’s eyes dance with amusement. He’s close enough for his scent to be back in Draco’s nose, close enough for the warmth of his almost-naked body to buzz temptingly over Draco's skin. Draco has the insane urge to call Potter’s bluff, to cup his neck and pull him into a kiss that would surely wipe the smirk off that face.

Potter shakes his head slightly and tuts. “I'd have thought they'd at least teach you the basics. You see, when one man,” he holds a finger up as he sing-songs, “likes another man very much,” he raises a second finger. “They take off their clothes and–”

Draco knocks his hands away, trying not to smile. “Very fucking funny.”

Potter smiles properly then, eyes going all twinkly and a dimple appearing next to his mouth, and Draco feels the danger of it creep somewhere low in his belly.

Thankfully, it's there and gone in an instant as Potter's expression turns hungry once more. He boldly hooks a finger into Draco’s waistband, eyes locked on Draco’s in challenge.

Draco raises a brow, the answering pull in his groin causing his heart to pound. He just wants to see where Potter's going with this, is all. He's not really going to fuck a patient. He's definitely not going to fuck Harry fucking Potter.

Potter gives a tug and their hips snap flush. The hard line of Potter's cock is next to his own, the friction sending heat curling up Draco's spine as his breath hitches. Alright. Maybe he is going to fuck Harry fucking Potter, after all.

Potter’s piercing eyes drop to Draco’s mouth as he leans forward, fingers sliding around Draco's waist. Draco watches Potter's plush lips draw closer, his mouth watering as he imagines how they'll feel against his own, how they'll taste.

Seconds away from Draco’s mouth, Potter steps back, taking the warmth of his body and the teasing press of his cock with him. He's holding a packet of Benson & Hedges – Draco's packet of Benson & Hedges, swiped from his pocket.

Draco clenches his jaw with irritation, and perhaps a morsel of humiliation, as Potter nonchalantly flicks the packet open. He takes a cigarette out and tosses the rest on a cabinet, lighting it wandlessly.

“Such a disgusting habit,” Potter says, low and mocking, eyes bright. The triumphant smirk on his face is the most insufferable one yet. He wraps his seductive lips around the filter, inhaling deeply, and exhales towards Draco's face.

Through his annoyance, Draco’s cock gives another ferocious twitch. Potter’s even more infuriating than he’d been in school – more attractive, performing wandless magic as if it's nothing, more confident, more fuckable – and Draco aches to take him down a peg or five. His wand fingers haven't itched this much in years and he can't remember his dick ever being this hard from a mere conversation.

“I top,” Potter says finally as the smoke dissipates.

Draco rolls his eyes, hiding his disappointment. “Of course you do.”

Potter’s mouth curves up and he raises a brow, taking another drag and running his eyes over Draco again. “And you?”

Draco reaches across and plucks the cigarette from his mouth, drops and crushes it under his shoe. Stomping on it the same way Potter just stomped on Draco's newfound fantasies.

“I also top. Exclusively.”

Potter’s lips quiver down into an almost-smile, revealing that annoying dimple again. “Of course you do.”

“So we're incompatible. What a shocker,” Draco says dryly.

“Mm.”

He ought to be relieved by their incompatibility, really. But all he is, is disappointed. As if he’s had a decadent treat dangled before him – already imagined the taste on his tongue – only to have it whipped away just as he's about to bite.

Because Merlin, now it's been said aloud, now Potter’s fingers have whispered across his dick, Draco can't deny how much he wants it. Wants their naked bodies pressed together. Wants to fuck that arrogant smile right off his infuriating face, wants to fuck him until he's sweaty and boneless and begging for more.

The problem is, the greedy way Potter's looking at Draco, Draco now knows he's picturing doing the exact same bloody thing to him.

Which is quite simply not going to happen.

Potter's gaze is too intent for Draco's liking. Too knowing, when Draco is the one dictating how this goes. He's the healer here, the one in charge. He doesn't allow himself to get into situations he can't control, not since– not for years.

“Let's dispense with the theatrics, shall we?” Draco draws himself up, trying to get the extra inch of height he doesn't have over Potter. “The sooner we're done here, the sooner we can both piss off and you can find yourself a nice hole to fuck. How's that?”

Potter continues to watch him with that annoying little smile. “Mm.”

Draco crosses the room to the sign-off sheet on the cabinet. With a fortifying breath he lays down his wand and grabs a pen.

“I don't know if you know,” Potter says from behind him. “But there’s more than one hole that can be fucked.”

“Is there?” Draco replies, coolly, not looking up as he finishes and scrawls his signature at the bottom of the page. “Is that your way of offering me yours?”

Potter gives a soft laugh. “You'd like that?”

The understatement of the century.

Draco turns around and leans on the cabinet, flashing a curt smile.

“Wasn’t an answer.”

Potter huffs another almost-laugh, then shakes his head. “No,” he says evenly. “I’m not offering.”

Draco holds his eyes. “Well, then.”

“Well.”

They stare each other down, neither one moving.

Potter’s façade cracks first as he runs a hand into his hair and tips his head back. “Fuck. Look. Malfoy–”

“Healer Malfoy.”

Potter's lip twitches.

“Not that I'm not enjoying,” he gestures to and fro between them, “whatever this is. But you've no idea how much I want to fuck you right now. I can't be here, with you looking like that,” he gestures to Draco, “without– I need to– you know.” He huffs a breath. “Fuck.”

Draco smirks, enjoying Potter's discomfort. Pretending Potter's words haven't made his stomach flip and his dick throb. He keeps himself aloof and unmoved. “Yes, I can see how pathetically desperate you are. But in case your primitive brain has already forgotten, we just established that we’re not–”

Potter growls, and in two strides he's closed the space between them, pulling Draco roughly into a kiss. The force of it has Draco tipping backwards, but Potter's arm is around him, keeping him upright.

His lips are hot. His warm tongue slides into Draco's stunned mouth, strong and sure, sending molten heat pouring into Draco's veins. Potter's hand curls into his hair, gripping, firm and possessive. Potter is against him, around him, on him, in him. It's overwhelming. Potter’s using his strength to keep Draco in place as he kisses demandingly. As if he's in charge.

Needing to quickly disabuse him of the notion, Draco promptly kisses him back. And really, there's something very wrong with him. As a man of sophisticated tastes, cigarettes and lucozade should not be this fucking appealing. Potter moaning into his mouth like a slut should not have his dick pulsing so urgently. He really shouldn't be as desperate and needy as Potter, but – rather mortifyingly – he is.

He pushes into Potter's solid frame and takes over. Potter allows himself to be directed backwards as they continue their open-mouthed, greedy kisses. Draco runs his hands down the hot skin of Potter's back as they walk, digging his nails in for good measure.

At the drag of Draco's nails, Potter growls low in his throat. His fist tightens in Draco's hair and he grabs Draco's arse with his other hand, tugging them together, their clothed dicks back against each other.

The pressure is maddening and Draco pauses to enjoy it. Then he's pushing Potter again, not stopping until Potter is against the wall, exactly where Draco wants him. He can feel Potter's growing need, how hard he is as Draco swallows his urgent little grunts of breath. His mouth is perfect, matching Draco's energy, his tongue hot and relentless, and Draco can't stop kissing him.

Potter arches off the wall, driving his hips into Draco, their cocks sliding against each other again as he grips Draco's arse. Draco shifts and slots his thigh between Potter's legs, giving him something to rut against.

Potter groans and in a move Draco barely registers, he spins them both around. His mouth never leaves Draco's, his tongue doesn't falter as Draco's back is now up against the wall. Draco is impressed, indignant and so turned on he can hardly think.

Potter tugs Draco's shirt loose and slides his hands up underneath, seemingly trying to touch everywhere at once, tweaking Draco's nipples to a peak. He kisses messily, urgently, as if he can't stop either. Draco cants his hips and Potter slots his thigh between Draco's legs.

Draco can feel the dampness of his underwear where his cock is leaking as he rides Potter's thigh. It's almost too much. He bites Potter's lip – hard – needing to remind him who's in charge. Potter breaks their kiss as he makes a sound of desperation, grinding against Draco's thigh.

“Let me fuck you,” he pants.

“Let me fuck you,” Draco replies, equally breathless.

Potter groans again, resting his forehead on Draco's shoulder. It's a delicious, needy sound and Draco can't help pressing his advantage. He leans close to Potter’s ear and adds, “I'll make it good.”

And he means it, too. Given the chance, Draco would fuck Potter however he wanted, whatever it would take to make him weak and desperate and coming with Draco's name in his mouth.

Potter shudders, whether at the words themselves or just the whisper in his ear Draco isn't sure, but the reaction sparks a hope that maybe…

“Biggest dick,” Potter says.

“Excuse me?”

He lifts his head from Draco's shoulder. His cheeks are flushed prettily, the side of his lip swollen and bloody from Draco's bite. “Biggest dick gets to fuck the other.”

Draco stares at him open-mouthed, an incredulous laugh escaping him. “Are you– are you fucking twelve?”

“C’mon. It's as fair a way as any to decide.” He rolls his hips into Draco again, simulating fucking him.

Draco scoffs, only half tempted to say go on, then. He knows he's on the larger side. But so is Potter, he's already felt that. And Potter's confidence throws him into uncertainty.

Draco doesn't gamble.

Potter’s fingers are undoing Draco’s shirt as he places urgent kisses at his throat. Draco tilts his chin up to allow it. “Fuck, you taste good.”

“Of course I do.”

Potter makes that growling noise again and Draco wishes he didn't like it as much as he does, wishes Potter's needy little kisses weren't doing it for him.

Potter keeps up with his assault over Draco's skin – kissing, licking, nipping as he works his shirt open. Draco closes his eyes and snakes a hand into Potter's curls. He imagines guiding him lower, imagines holding him in place while he fucks that pretty mouth. If only Potter was willing.

Potter’s hands caress Draco's skin. “You're so fit,” he whispers as he laves over Draco's nipple and Draco moans, his hips twitching reflexively. “Let me fuck you,” he says seductively between licks.

“No.”

“Go on.”

“No.”

“You know you want it.”

“I don't.”

“You can fuck me after. We'll take turns.”

Through the arousal winding deliciously through him, Draco starts, snapping his eyes open. “What did you say?”

Potter straightens up, looking pleased with himself.

“Yeah,” he says proudly, with the tone of someone who's just stumbled on the solution for world peace. “I want to fuck you.” He drags a fingernail down Draco's stomach, making his muscles jump. He hooks his finger into Draco's belt. “You want to fuck me.” He does the same with his other hand, his nail tracing the pale line of hair from Draco's bellybutton. “So let's take turns. That's fair.”

Draco wants to object on principle. Idiot gryffindors and their obsession with fairness. That's not how these things work.

But. Well. The idea does have a certain logic to it. His dick definitely grew impossibly harder every time Potter said the word fuck.

And it's not like Draco hates taking a cock. He's done it before. He just prefers to be the one doing the fucking.

But then again, there's a vast difference between choosing to take a dick sometimes for a bit of variety, and letting Potter fuck him purely for the chance to fuck him back. He definitely couldn't agree to that.

“Alright.”

Or apparently he could.

Potter’s eyes widen, looking like all his Christmases have just arrived. “Alright? Yes?”

“Do I have to repeat everything like I'm talking to a fucking–”

A knock on the door halts his tongue.

“Draco?” Anu's voice. “I'm done, so I'm gonna head back.”

“Okay, great,” Draco calls, much too loud as Potter's fingers dance over his skin. Potter's mouthing at Draco's throat again and Draco tries to bat him away. Potter ignores him and keeps at it.

“Are you sure? I'd wait, only Kaminski’s letting me in on the lycan infusion trial at twelve.”

That bastard. That was meant to be Draco's.

“Fine, fine, yes. I'll see yo–” Potter’s teeth close around his pulse point, sucking hard, making Draco's voice hitch. “See you on the ward.”

Potter palms Draco's cock and the boldness of it is driving Draco spare as he cants his hips into Potter's hand.

“Sorry, I know you're with a patient. But just quickly…” Draco whines low at the rhythmic caress on his dick. “I know you prepped the solution. Do you know the loa–”

“A hundred mils loading, twenty mils an hour maintenance,” he croaks out as Potter bites his neck at the same time as he drags a hand over Draco's cock. “Fuuuck,” he whispers. “Don’t forget to–” he calls, sucking in a ragged breath, “to monitor pupil reactivity every five minutes.”

“Okay, got it. Thanks, Draco. I'll see you later.”

Potter licks up to Draco's ear and nips again. “When did you get so fucking hot?”

Draco's mortified at the gratification suffusing his chest. He pushes Potter backwards.

“Your desperation is embarrassing,” he lies.

Potter glides the heel of his palm along Draco's shaft and Draco bites off his moan. “Mm, because I'm the only desperate one here.”

Draco curls his fingers in Potter's nice hair and fists it.

“Merlin, your fucking mouth,” Draco says without thinking.

Potter smiles. “You like it?”

“I'd like to fuck it.”

He chuckles. “We'll see. I need to fuck you first.” He reaches for Draco's belt, but Draco stops him.

“What makes you think you're going first?”

Potter groans. “Merlin’s bollocks, do you have to be a bitch about everything? I’m going first, it was my idea.”

He goes back to Draco’s belt but Draco stops him again. “That’s not a reason.”

“Not a–?” Potter huffs. “Fine, how about because I deserve it – is that a reason?”

“Why?”

Potter looks ready to riot. “Are you– because– I killed fucking Voldemort, for fuck’s sake! Or did you forget?”

“Six years ago,” Draco says calmly. “And I’m sure you've had your dick sucked for it plenty.”

Potter’s mouth falls open. “I... so?”

“So, that one's expired. And I'm the oldest here, I’ve got seniority. Ergo, I go first.”

He vaguely wonders if he ought to be embarrassed that he knows Potter’s birthday.

“You can shove your latin up your arse, you twat. We’re the same age!”

“And I'm taller than you.”

“I'm bigger than you!”

“You're a bigger cunt.”

There's a beat of silence as they stare at each other, Potter looking like he’s about to explode. Then Potter snorts a laugh and Draco's mouth curves up.

“This is ridiculous,” Draco muses.

“Please,” Potter rumbles, low and whiny as he presses himself into Draco’s chest. “Fuck, Malfoy, I need it. I'll make it good, I promise.”

Draco likes the please, a lot. It's the first time he's heard it from Potter’s lips and he loves the whiny desperation it holds, even if Potter would likely beg a blow-up doll right now.

“Good? The state you’re in, you'll be lucky if you last thirty seconds.”

Potter laughs again, bringing his mouth back to Draco's throat. “You clearly don't know me.”

And that's true, isn't it? Potter feels familiar, somehow. But they've not spoken since the aftermath of the war. Haven't so much as crossed paths in years. Draco knows nothing about him, really.

Potter's mouth finds Draco’s again, the slide of his tongue tantalising. Draco wonders if it feels as good to Potter as it does to him.

His cock gives another needy throb and he reluctantly accepts that one of them has to bend a little if this is to go any further than heavy petting.

“Alright. I’ll let you go first,” Draco says sternly against his mouth. “But you get five minutes, then it's my turn.”

Potter draws back. “Five minutes?”

“If you can even last that long, which I highly doubt.”

Potter licks his lips, looking eager. “Alright. Agreed.” He pauses, chewing his bitten lip. “What happens if I make you come?”

“Not a chance.”

His mouth quirks. “Every chance.”

“If I did – which I won't – then obviously, I forfeit my go. But trust me, that’s not happening.”

That dangerous smile again. “We’ll see.”

Draco's not worried about Potter making him come. He is a tad worried about taking Potter's dick, though.

When Potter had whipped off his shorts, Draco was unsurprised – and begrudgingly impressed – by his large, thick cock, dark with enticing veins and a healthy amount of blood keeping it upright and straining. But it’s one thing to admire a well-made cock, and quite another to have it buried inside your unaccustomed arsehole.

If Potter had similar misgivings about Draco's cock – not far off Potter's in size at all – he hid it well. He’d watched avidly as Draco stripped, his eyes gleaming when Draco finally slid his boxers off.

“Well, fuck,” was all he'd said as he’d looked Draco up and down, before pressing him into the wall, restless hands roaming, mouth trying to devour him again.

Draco had been careful to remain business-like, pushing him away, locking the door and casting the necessary prep and protection spells on himself. He overdid the muscle-relaxing and lubrication spells, not taking any chances with the size of Potter.

“I can get you ready,” Potter had sounded almost indignant as he watched, an endearing pout pulling at his mouth. “I might be desperate, but I'm not a fucking savage.”

Draco had assured him there was no need and spelled over the lube from his bag for Potter to get himself slick. He’d activated the five minute egg timer Potter had summoned from the cabinet, slammed down his wand and muttered a challenging, “Come on then, Evans – clock’s ticking,” as the bright pink sand started its merry trickle.

And now he stands nervously, hands against the wall, stance wide as Potter palms down his back and over his arse with an oiled hand. His erection is flagging as he waits for Potter to start, for the intrusive pain, for the clock to run down.

“You sure about this?” Potter’s voice is quiet behind him. Serious.

“Are you taking the fucking piss?!” Draco snaps, incredulous. What a fucking question to be asked as he’s baring his fucking arse.

Potter laughs and grabs Draco's hips, lining up his cock at Draco's hole.

“Okay. But you know you can stop this any–”

“Potter, I swear to fucking Merlin, if you–”

“Alright, alright.” Potter gives a tentative push and Draco grits his teeth. Despite his relaxing charms, his rim is still tight and unforgiving. Potter goes slowly, nudging until he breaches the muscle, the slick tip of his cock sliding inside, hard and thick.

“Fuck,” Draco gasps as Potter stills, his hand stroking Draco’s lower back.

“Alright there, pet?” he murmurs.

“Don't you fucking dare,” Draco growls reflexively, heart sinking almost simultaneously as he realises his reaction will likely only spur Potter on.

Potter laughs breathily. “Darling?” he says softly as he twitches his hips, edging his cock in another inch. “You feel so good, darling.”

“No, you bastard,” Draco moans as the words skitter up his spine. Endearments don’t do it for him. He doesn’t allow anyone to call him those things. But it's not the names. It's the tease in Potter's darlings and pets that have him, because Potter knows fine well Draco will hate it, yet says it anyway. Purely to antagonise him. And fuck if Potter’s unerring dedication to pushing Draco’s buttons isn't the sexiest bloody thing.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” Potter praises, whispery in Draco's ear as he drags his cock back and presses forward again. “Tap out if you need to, pet.”

“You cunt,” Draco gasps, thankful Potter can't see his lip curving upwards, can’t see how hard his cock is between himself and the wall as the burn in his arse mingles with pleasure.

“Such pretty words for me,” Potter laughs, pushing even further, slowly stretching and filling Draco to breaking point. Potter leans closer and nips Draco's earlobe with his teeth. “Say it again, pet.”

Potter’s voice is as smooth as chocolate, winding Draco up in a way no one else can. “Cunt,” Draco groans and Potter hums in satisfaction.

Draco wonders if he’s dreaming. He can’t understand how he got here, on the wrong side of the wall, Potter’s cock threatening to split him open, Potter's mocking words in his ear. And the most absurd thing of all – he's enjoying it.

His thighs are trembling, his jaw painful from gritting his teeth and he decides to just rip the fucking plaster off. Bracing against the wall, Draco pushes backwards, forcing the last of Potter’s cock inside, not stopping until his arse meets Potter’s pelvis. Potter gives a surprised cry at the same time as Draco groans. He bites his knuckles, pleasure and pain radiating through every part of him.

“Fuck.” Potter keeps his hips still, breathing hard as he grips Draco's hips. “That’s– fuck. " He breathes out, long and loud. "Is this– is this okay? Are you okay?”

The question is genuine, not mocking, and for some reason the concern pisses Draco off more than anything has up to now.

He makes a show of looking over at the timer, even though he doesn't see it at all, on account of the massive dick in his arse taking up every inch of his awareness.

“You've got about three minutes,” he makes up, in the most bored voice he can muster, though it sounds strained to his own ear. “Is this all you've got, Potter?”

Potter makes a disbelieving sound. “Oh my God.” He grabs Draco’s arse cheek and squeezes once, before he starts to move, slow little shifts of his hips. Draco grunts as he adjusts to the feeling. “You’re– you’re something else, you know that?”

He's quite sure Potter doesn’t mean it as a compliment, but Draco takes satisfaction in it, anyway.

He has to hand it to him, Potter doesn't fuck like a man who just went five rounds with a mad Russian. His hips are strong, his strokes sure, everything about him screaming powerful, controlled, untiring.

But that's not the thing that’s really surprising Draco. What’s surprising him, is the way Potter is fucking him.

Draco had expected Potter to go hell for leather, to pound into Draco's arse, to selfishly chase his orgasm. Given what he'd seen in the cage, he'd half expected Potter to manhandle him, throw him around a bit, just because he could.

But instead, Potter's shallow thrusts had gradually lengthened, until he’s now fucking Draco slow and deep as he mouths at Draco's neck and shoulders. His hands run over Draco's skin, never stopping as he rolls his hips rhythmically and unhurriedly into Draco's arse, forcing unauthorised gasps out of him.

It's good. Somehow, Draco is melting, pleasure oozing through him as his cock throbs between his legs. Potter seamlessly switches the pace from rolling thrusts to long, slow slides of his cock, then after several strokes, switches back again. There’s a sexy, lazy confidence to it and inexplicably, Draco can’t get enough.

He fists the wall hard, biting his lip. He arches his back as pleasure dances up his spine and drips luxuriously into his thighs, down to his curling toes. It's good. He's good. He's good.

Potter's hand moves from Draco's hip to his stomach, skating down towards Draco's aching cock as he keeps his rhythm. As he tries to get a hold, Draco bats his hand away. “Off.”

“C'mon.” Potter's voice is coaxing. “Please. Let me make you feel good, sweetheart.”

And Draco's tempted. He's so fucking tempted, as his orgasm gathers uninvited at the base of his spine, and he fights the urge to take himself in hand. “No.”

“Do you know how fucking good you feel?” Potter rolls his hips and groans. “Tell me it’s good for you. Tell me you like my cock inside you.” His voice is stretched, less controlled than it's been up to now.

Draco's cock leaks onto the wall as his nails dig into his palms, legs weak.

He shakes his head, grabbing his dick and squeezing. He won't admit that it's good. It’s just biology, after all. Cause and effect. The fact it's Potter's dick making him feel good is irrelevant. And he won't lose his chance to fuck Potter because of it.

Potter’s changed his angle again and a moan breaks free from Draco's throat as a shock of pleasure erupts at his thrust.

“Yeah?” Potter breathes. “Like that?” He grips Draco’s hip, repeating the movement, his other hand smoothing over Draco's chest, squeezing. His teeth scrape Draco's shoulder and Draco's cock gives another dangerous throb. He squeezes it again with a whimper.

“Oh fuck,” Potter gasps, tone suddenly panicky. “Don't– don't make that noise.”

And there's no way Draco wants to make that noise again as Potter picks up pace, driving harder into him. But he can't help it. He rocks back and moans again, the bursts of pleasure too good to deny himself.

“Fuck,” Potter growls desperately, and he's properly losing control now, grabbing Draco's hips with both hands, thrusting furiously. Draco intuitively pushes back to meet each stroke, seeking more. Their skin slaps noisily as they fuck faster and faster. Draco's cock is leaking as, instead of squeezing, he starts fisting it.

The egg timer buzzes loudly from across the room and to Draco’s audible shock, Potter abruptly pulls out.

“Shit,” Potter hisses as Draco makes a strangled noise.

Dazed, Draco turns his head to see Potter flushed and sweaty, his hand around his cock, chest rising and falling with his laboured breathing.

“You stopped,” Draco pants, confused, muscles tingling from his almost-climax.

“Yeah?” Potter huffs. “We agreed, didn't we?”

Draco stays against the wall, squeezing his cock again and adjusting to the desolate feeling of not being fucked.

Potter's voice is uncertain. “I could… I mean, I could keep going, if–”

“My turn,” Draco declares firmly, peeling himself from the wall. “I’ll get my wand.”

When it comes down to it, Draco understands why Potter had checked in on him at the eleventh hour. Despite their agreement, despite how much he wants it, Draco is suddenly wary. It's a proper bastard who wants to top someone who doesn't really want it. And while Draco can admittedly be a bit of a bastard, he's not a full-blown cunt.

At the risk of losing all face, he hesitates as Potter stands naked before him, waiting for Draco to make his move.

Draco swallows. “We don't have to do this, if you don't want to.”

Potter smiles widely, tilting his head. “Cold feet?”

“Absolutely not. But–”

Potter nods to Draco's wilted erection. “Cold dick?”

Draco's wariness dissolves in a flash of irritation. “Just get over by the bed.”

Potter gives him a dimple and salute. His cock is still obnoxiously upright, bobbing in front him – as cocky a bastard as its owner, apparently – as he saunters over to the bed.

Leaning forward on his hands, he arches his back, his tight, round arse jutting beautifully. He looks positively pornographic, and Draco's mouth goes dry, his cock filling fast.

“Is this how you want me, Healer Malfoy?” Potter's voice is coy, teasing.

Draco winces. “Please don't,” he says quickly. “Not that.”

Potter's head snaps around and he looks assessingly at Draco before turning back. “Alright.”

Aware of the spectacular hypocrisy, Draco murmurs, “Now this may sting a little, but if you hold still, it’ll only last for a second,” as he aims the spells at Potter’s arse. Potter laughs loudly, shuddering as they hit.

Draco slicks his cock, double-checking his spells worked by inserting two fingers into Potter's loosened hole. Potter immediately moans, dropping down onto his forearms and rocking back, inviting more.

Draco can’t work out if he’s making a point, trying to act unbothered by the fact he's about to get fucked. Without seeing Potter’s expression, he can only guess.

Draco activates the egg timer with a muttered excitare and lines himself up.

“Ready?”

Potter huffs a laugh. “Are you taking the piss now?”

“No names this time,” Draco warns as he enters Potter's arse, stopping a couple of inches inside, as much for himself as Potter, as the hot grip on his dick threatens to annihilate him.

Potter groans in satisfaction. “Nng, you're so big.” He clenches his arse, the squeeze sending a bolt of pleasure down into Draco’s balls. “Such a big boy–”

“No,” Draco says vehemently. “Fucking hell, not that, either.”

Draco tries to slide in slowly, but Potter pushes back, not allowing Draco to dictate anything.

“What, then? Tell me what you like,” Potter says, rocking his hips as Draco tries unsuccessfully to keep him still. “Tell me how to be good for you, darling.”

Draco's already half mad with the tight heat of Potter's arse, he almost tells him how good he is, just as he is.

His breaths are shallow when he bottoms out, the pressure on his dick sublime, pleasure rocketing to every corner of his body. “Any chance you can stop talking?"

Potter laughs and groans at the same time. “Ahhh. I’m wounded. But.” He shuffles his hips, urging Draco to move. “Sure. Anything for you, daddy.”

Draco snorts. “Merlin fuck, absolutely not.”

He starts to fuck properly, moaning softly at the sweet caress on his dick, at the sight of it disappearing into Potter's lovely arse.

“Really? I was sure that was the one.”

“Shut up.”

Potter meets every thrust, supple and pliant, moving like he was built to take cock.

“Shame,” Potter breathes, before groaning filthily. “Nng. You’d be– ahh– such a good daddy.”

“Fuck, Potter. You’re–”

“–Hot?”

Draco scratches along Potter’s beautifully curved spine and Potter makes a noise of pleasure.

“A good boy?” Potter asks, and Draco laughs.

“You're mad,” he says, tipping his head back and laughing again. "Fucking mad."

“Fuck, harder,” Potter whines.

Draco obliges.

“Yeah, fuck,” Potter chants. “Like that. Like that.”

“You love this,” Draco pants.

“Yeah.”

“You fucking love this,” Draco moans, not really talking about Potter.

Potter is moaning like a whore with every pound into his arse. “Yeah. Yes.”

And– hang on a minute. Draco buries his cock one last time and with a determined effort, forces his hips to stop.

“You fucking love this,” Draco accuses, actually talking about Potter this time.

Potter squirms, trying to fuck himself back. “Fuck, Malfoy– what are you doing?”

Draco pulls out and Potter makes a desperate noise. He whips around to face Draco, glancing at the timer. “What are you– you’ve got loads of time!”

Draco narrows his eyes. “You lied.”

“No, I didn’t.” Potter’s cheeks are flushed, his brow damp with sweat, his bitten lip swollen and kissable. He’s so fuckable, it shouldn’t really matter that he lied.

“You said you only top.”

Potter exhales, then runs a hand up into his hair. He screws up his nose, tilting his head to the side, as if he's thinking. “Did I say only? I don’t think I did.”

Draco’s jaw drops. He frantically replays the conversation in his head. He never misses details like this.

“You– you sneaky fucking bastard!”

The trace of a smile dances across Potter’s mouth. “I do mostly top.”

“But you also take cock! You fucking love it!”

Potter barely contains his smile, the corner of his mouth twitching as his eyes laugh. “Maybe.”

“You cunt.”

“Are you cross?”

“I’m fucking murderous.”

Potter presses his hot, sweaty skin against Draco and Draco immediately regrets his decision to stop fucking him. “Yeah?” he asks against Draco's lips.

Potter pulls Draco to him as he shifts back onto the bed and wraps his thighs seductively around Draco's waist. “What are you going to do about it?”

Draco gives in, kissing Potter's smirking mouth with as much force as he can, still not quite over the deceit.

In one impressive move, Potter rolls them both sideways onto the bed, lying on his back and bringing Draco down on top of him.

Draco props himself up on his forearms, enjoying the new sight and feel of Potter underneath him. Potter keeps his legs around Draco, tilting his hips up. When Draco’s cock drags and catches on his rim, he sinks into the welcoming slick heat without a second thought.

They both groan, Potter winding his legs tighter around him.

The velvet squeeze of Potter's arse is heavenly, almost drowning out the warning bell sounding in the back of Draco’s head. Warning him that this could be… dangerous. Because fucking someone has never felt like this before. This isn’t simply biology – the mechanics of a decent arse and a natural bodily reaction to being inside it. This is more. It's fun. He’s fun. It doesn't really make sense; Potter is unpredictable and arrogant and annoying and everything Draco doesn't want. This whole encounter is the most bizarre sex he's ever had, but he can’t get enough of it. He already wants more.

Draco smiles down at him. “I'm going to fuck you.”

“God, please.” Potter rocks his hips up as the timer buzzes. Without looking, he throws out a hand towards it and the buzzing stops.

“No timer?” Draco asks as he drags his cock back and pushes in, watching Potter's eyes flutter.

“No timer.” He runs his hands over Draco’s chest, around to his back, down his arms, continuously groping at every part of him.

“That desperate?”

Potter just smiles, gliding his heels encouragingly along the backs of Draco’s thighs, finally allowing Draco to fuck however he wants.

And it's perfect. Potter watches him with his ridiculous, lustful eyes, his large cock hard and untouched between them, leaking over his abs. He takes everything Draco gives with pure satisfaction carved into his features, and none of the discomposure Draco had felt when it was the other way around.

“You're infuriating,” Draco says as he pistons his hips. His orgasm creeps closer, the pleasure growing, gathering momentum.

Potter gives a broken hum. “Am I?” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

Potter cups the back of Draco's neck and pulls him down, breathing hard over his mouth. “Tell me,” he whispers, his mouth skating over Draco's lips.

Draco’s hips are on a trajectory he can’t control as he pumps his cock faster into Potter's glorious arse.

“Tell me what I do to you,” Potter gasps out.

Draco is beyond rational thinking. “You–” he starts.

Thankfully Potter saves him by catching his lips in a kiss, soft and luxurious, as if he can't wait any longer. Maybe Draco shouldn't allow it. This is supposed to be his show, after all. But the decadent strokes of Potter's tongue are irresistible and he moans, balls pulling up tight.

It's Potter's answering groan that does it, drawn-out and filthy and pouring directly into Draco's mouth.

Or maybe it's all of it. The groan and the kissing, Potter's tongue on his, Potter’s legs around his waist, Potter's arse around his cock. Just, Potter.

Whatever it is, Draco's coming, hard and furious.

“Fuck!” He throws his head back, breaking their kiss as he rolls his hips, climax crashing over him, overtaking him, swallowing him whole.

Potter moans and clenches around Draco's dick. “Fuck, yes,” Draco hears him whine, but he's too wrapped up in his own orgasm to take in much of Potters’, his cock pulsing, muscles jerking helplessly. The room disappears as his body thrums with pleasure, the release of what feels like the lengthiest foreplay of his life.

Draco's still panting as he starts to come down, hips still twitching, cock not even fully softened when Potter's words reach his ears. “My turn.”

Draco snaps his gaze to Potter’s still very much upright cock between them, flushed and leaking on his stomach. “You didn't come,” he says in surprise, not meaning to sound impressed.

“I was close,” Potter admits. “But I– I want five more minutes. If you’ll let me?”

Draco realises foggily that their agreement could have done with clearer terms. Nevertheless, he's not going to go back on it now.

He nods wordlessly and slides off the bed, his bones feeling inadequate to hold his body. He folds himself over, resting his head on his arms. “You can have five minutes. No more. I’ve got places to be.”

Potter stands behind him, palming gently at his back.

“The timer first,” Draco says warningly.

“Excitare,” Potter mutters, and Draco checks to make sure it's started running. He drops his head back down and languidly waits for another fucking. There's none of the anxiety of the first time, now he knows what to expect.

Potter’s large hands smooth over his arse, parting his cheeks.

Draco gives a choked cry, eyes springing open when instead of the thick cock he expects pressing into him, it's a hot, slick tongue.

“What the fuck?”

Potter squeezes Draco’s arse as he spears his tongue all the way into Draco's hole and slowly licks around his walls, his only answer a low, satisfied hum.

“Potter,” Draco gasps as he squirms.

It's not that he doesn't love a tongue in his arse. He does. But he's never had a surprise rimming, without any warning. And he's never had someone eat his arse directly after he's come. It's confusing. It's…. too intimate, somehow. Vulnerable.

Which is ridiculous, really. If Potter wants to waste his five minutes licking Draco's arse like this, devouring him as if it's his only meal of the day, it's definitely his lookout.

Draco stops fidgeting and breathes into it, slowly allowing himself to get lost in the sensation. A distant guilt tugs at him that he ought to be back at the hospital by now, and not bent over being tongue-fucked by a patient. He pushes it away for later.

Potter uses his tongue the same way he had his cock – slow, fast, deep, shallow, teasing, hungry. Uses it in every way, until Draco's cock is showing tentative interest again. He finds himself rocking slightly back, though there's no way he'll be coming again before the end of their time.

He looks up and is shocked to see only half of the pink sand has fallen through the timer. It feels like it's been much longer.

“You taste too fucking good.” Potter sounds almost whiny as he pulls back.

“’Course I do,” Draco mumbles, rocking himself backwards in search of Potter's mouth, earlier inhibitions vanished.

Potter stands and drags his thumb gently down Draco's crease and over his fluttering hole. “Can I…?”

Draco clucks his tongue. “Oh, fuck off with permission, Potter. I'm literally bent over. Do your worst.”

Potter laughs brightly, a nice sound. There's a beat of silence as his hand leaves Draco's arse. “I think you're about the sexiest man I've ever met.”

“Piss off.”

In one long slide he's back in Draco's arse, groaning as his thighs meet Draco's skin.

There’s no pain this time, only fullness. Perfect fullness.

“Fuck, you feel so good. I don't know how long I'll last.”

“Just as well, because you have about two minutes left.”

Potter laughs breathily and starts to fuck in lazy, slick strokes. “Really want to make you come.”

“Not happening,” Draco replies unapologetically, even as his cock gives another interested lurch.

“Mm.”

Draco’s cock is filling, but not with the urgency of earlier. It’s a luxurious hard-on, coaxed along by the rhythmic fucking of his arse, the maddening slide over his sensitive prostate. It’s the kind of erection that could evolve into another bone-melting orgasm, if he let it. And he might have, if this was a different situation.

He enjoys Potter’s satisfied grunts behind him, turning breathy and urgent as he picks up his pace.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” Potter moans.

“About time,” Draco says breathlessly, somehow in danger of enjoying this too much again, the telltale hum of pleasure brewing under his skin, his breath coming too quickly, his cock now begging to be touched. He glances at the timer, taking a few blinks to focus as his body rocks with the force of Potter's thrusts.

He stares disbelievingly. The sand is running at a normal speed, but it’s still only half way through. “The timer,” he says. Potter’s pumping into him urgently now. “It’s broken,” he says uselessly.

“Yeah,” Potter pants, then, “fuck, your arse– fuck, I’m gonna– Malfoy,” he says frantically, tapping on his back. “Can I? In you?”

“Yes,” Draco replies instantly, surprising himself with how much he wants it. He regrets not bringing himself off now, knowing he could have joined Potter if he wasn’t so stubborn. He doesn't even know why he'd been so stubborn about it, only – well, it's Potter, so he had to be.

Potter makes a wounded, broken noise, pulsing hot, and the raw satisfaction in the sound is almost enough to tip Draco over the edge untouched.

The blissful moment stretches on, Potter holding still against his arse, throbbing inside him.

“Oh my God,” Potter finally gasps, rocking his hips. “Fuck. God and fuck. God.”

Draco laughs, the warmth of Potter's come somehow warming the rest of him as well. “Eloquent.”

“Thanks.” Potter's still grinding out the last of his orgasm, lazily rolling his hips. “Fuck.”

When Potter slides out, Draco stands on wobbly legs and finds his wand, aiming a cleaning charm at himself – warm and satisfied.

Potter hooks a determined arm around Draco's waist. “Just five minutes,” he mutters and pulls him towards the bed.

Draco goes with it, even though he ought to put up a fight – on principle, if nothing else. The bed is far too narrow. Potter deftly manoeuvres them both so he has most of the room, Draco lying alongside him in the crook of his arm.

“Fuck off with that,” Draco mutters, shoving roughly at him until he moves.

“What?” Potter says, tutting as Draco cajoles him with his elbows and knees, finally working them so Draco is on his back and Potter is wedged into the crook of his arm, with nowhere for his head but Draco's shoulder.

Potter sighs, and Draco knows it's a testament to how fucked-out he must still be that he's not putting up a fight about it.

They lie naked and entwined, the weight of Potter's head strangely comforting. Potter traces his fingers lightly over Draco's arm and it's– it's nice, actually. Which is odd, because Draco's not generally the cuddle-afterwards type. It feels distinctly coupley.

He pushes that thought firmly away. Cuddle or not, this was just a fuck.

The sand of the timer continues to rasp in the silence.

“The timer broke,” Draco says, mostly for something to say.

“Hm? Oh. Yeah.” Potter lifts his hand and mutters a tired finite and the sand ceases. “It didn't.”

“What do you mean, it didn't?”

Draco feels the now-familiar irritation – yes, it’s definitely irritation and not admiration – burgeoning.

“I might have charmed it.”

“Like fuck you did." He pauses. "When? How?”

Potter lifts his head to rest his chin on Draco's chest and looks at him. “Before I rimmed you. I didn't know if it’d work, but I had to try. I needed longer than five minutes.”

Draco stares at him open-mouthed, trying to look disgusted as a thousand questions crowd his mind.

“With what charm?” he demands. He's seen enough of Potter's wandless magic to know he could spell the timer off easily. But to keep it running against its inlaid charm was complex.

Potter's eyes brighten at the question. “Well. I kind of amalgamated a replenishment with an evanesco, with a focus on a fifty fifty ratio. I think I added an arresto momentum to slow the vanishing down, but I can't be sure." He smirks. "I was kind of distracted at the time.”

Draco blinks, stunned into silence. His brain is whirring with more questions – academic questions. But when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “How the fuck were you not in Slytherin?”

Potter's smile is dazzling. He lays his head back down. “As if.”

“You've always been a sneaky fucker, I don't know why no one else ever saw it but me.”

Potter shrugs. “I do what I have to.”

“Bollocks. You had to fuck my arse for longer than we agreed.”

Potter rumbles a laugh. “Yes. Trust me, if you'd been in your arse, you'd understand.”

Draco’s chest gives a pathetic little squeeze. “An arsehole’s an arsehole, Potter. Flattery doesn't work on me, you cheating twat.”

Potter points a languid finger into the air. “Now that's bullshit, and you know it. Arses are not made equally.” He clenches his thighs around Draco's leg. “And yours is fucking fantastic.”

Draco hates himself for the heady rush he gets at Potter’s words, remaining silent, lest he metaphorically shows his arse as well.

Potter tilts his head up to look at Draco. “What does?”

“What does what?”

“What works? On you.”

Draco swallows, eyes flicking over Potter's face. He can't tell if Potter's serious or not.

Ever the self-sabotager, though, Draco does what he does best and scoffs. “Well, not being you, for starters.”

Potter just smiles softly at him. “You don't know me.”

Somehow that fucked-out smile confirms what Draco has always suspected. There's fire inside Potter, yes, but there’s also a loveliness, warm and gentle as a pool of sunshine. A loveliness that'll thaw a cold, lonely heart with the simple curve of a smile. Soft and perfect and not really meant for the likes of Draco.

Potter sighs and glances down at Draco's cock. He still has a semi from their fucking, and from Potter's naked body wound around him.

“You want another go? I can take it.”

Draco tuts. “Do I want another go? Is that seriously how you entice people to fuck you? Fucking hell.”

Potter laughs, unfazed. “It’s usually the other way around, but basically, yeah. And you can talk, with your cogito ergo sum bullshit.”

Draco laughs in spite of himself. “Fuck off.”

Potter stretches luxuriously. “Suit yourself. Just thought you looked up for it, that's all.”

Gods, he is. Of course he is. He's already stiffening at the thought of being buried in Potter's arse again, surely still open and ready for him.

But there's something he wants more. Potter must see it in his face because he's sitting up, looking at him keenly, an eyebrow raised. “What?”

Draco purses his lips. The chances of Potter agreeing are slim, and asking only offers the chance of rejection. But Potter has always made him uncharacteristically impulsive, and this is his one and only chance, after all.

“Your face.”

Potter's other eyebrow joins the first.

The annoying dimple is back. “You like my face?”

Yes.

“I’d like to come on it.”

Merlin, he wants it so badly. Wants to cover it, paint it, claim it. Wants to come over every inch of Potter’s arrogant, perfect face, wants the memory seared into his soul to carry around forever. His cock jerks at the thought and Potter's eyes flick down, missing nothing.

“Yeah?” His mouth quirks up knowingly. In one athletic move, he's off the bed and on his knees, looking up at Draco through his dark lashes. Despite the submissive position, his eyes are sharp. As if he knows how much power he has like this. “Go on, then.”

Fuck. Draco scrambles off the bed and wraps a hand around his now fully hard cock and starts stroking. Unable to stop if he tried, the proximity of Potter's face to his dick eradicating all self-control.

“Shit.”

“Shit,” Potter agrees as he licks his pillowy, bitten lip. His eyes are transfixed on Draco's hand gliding up and down his cock, thumbing over the head to get the slick, too turned on to stop for more lube.

Draco drinks in the lines of Potter's stubbled jaw, the heat back in his heavy-lidded eyes, his confident, knowing smirk. He's so perfect, Draco could scream.

It takes an embarrassingly short time to get there.

“Fuck,” Draco growls as his balls draw up and everything pulls deliciously tight. Pleasure rolls through him and he’s coming hot and fast.

Thick white ropes hit Potter's flushed cheeks, his nose, his scar. Potter looks up at him admiringly, unflinching as Draco groans and milks his cock, aiming lower. Another rope lands on Potter's softly parted lips. Potter sweeps his tongue over it, eagerly drawing it in.

“You,” Draco groans nonsensically, still shuddering, legs threatening to give way.

You mad fucking sexy glorious bastard, he wants to say as his orgasm zips around his body, taking any coherence with it.

“Me,” Potter agrees in a low, raspy voice.

“Do you not have any clothes?” Draco finishes buckling his belt, smoothing his shirt and gathering up his bag.

“Locker,” Potter replies easily, finishing his lucozade and tossing it into the bin.

Draco steps closer, raising his wand to Potter's face. Potter doesn't flinch, just watches him curiously.

“Your lip,” Draco mutters, and is about to cast when Potter knocks his wand away.

“No, you’re alright.” He licks over the cut. “I’ll keep it for now, thanks.”

Draco’s heart gives another of those pathetic squeezes. There have been far too many of those for his liking.

“You’ll make me look like a shit healer.”

“You are a shit healer. I’m leaving in worse shape than I entered.”

Draco smiles as he looks out the vials from his bag. “There's just no helping some patients. Here. You can take these once a day, they’re slow release and will help with the pain in your shoulder.”

Potter shakes his head. “I don't take potions.”

Draco shoves them into his chest. “Don’t be a martyr, Potter. It's boring.”

Potter barks a surprise laugh at that, which lasts too long.

Draco gives him a puzzled look. “What’s so funny?”

Potter shakes his head, eyes still amused. “Nothing. You're just– nothing. No martyrdom, got it. And what should I take for the pain in my arse?”

Draco makes a show of looking at the clipboard. “I’m afraid there's nothing on my form about your arse, Mr Evans.”

As they leave the room, Potter swerves in front of Draco to beat him to the door. Like a fucking child.

Draco opens his mouth to say something, only to find the door pulled open for him.

“After you,” Potter says with a wink.

Thrown off balance, Draco can't think of a comeback. “Dick,” he mutters, on principle.

“You're going back to Mungo's now?” Potter asks as they walk through the empty corridor, the sound of the club’s music pulsing above them.

“Yes, I've still got…” Draco casts a quick tempus. “Four hours of a shift left.”

Potter grimaces. “Ouch.”

He stops at a locker along the wall and Draco halts with him out of politeness, standing awkwardly as Potter dresses in faded jeans, a black t-shirt and a hoodie. He really shouldn't look so fit in such dire clothes.

He watches as Potter takes out a battered leather satchel, opening it to put the pain potions inside. Draco glimpses several text books and stacks of parchment, all covered with messy writing, but isn't quick enough to catch the titles before the bag is shut again.

Potter lets out a groan as he pulls the bag strap over his head and he rubs at his injured shoulder. The sound has blood racing to Draco’s dick. Potter had come inside him with that exact same noise.

The bizarre fact hits Draco like a bludger to the face. Draco knows what Harry Potter sounds like when he comes. He likes how Potter sounds when he comes, that sexy groan from the back of his throat. Draco almost wishes–

“What?”

“What?”

“You're looking at me weird.”

Draco scowls. “No I'm not.”

“You are.”

“Piss off.”

“You piss off.”

Draco manages to keep in the question for at least ten seconds as they walk down the corridor again, before his curiosity wins out.

“Are you studying?”

Potter slants his eyes at him, looking wary. “Yeah. Why?”

“Just wondering.” When Potter doesn't venture more, he adds, “What are you studying?”

“Why do you care?”

Draco clucks his tongue in annoyance. “Merlin, I don't! I'm just making conversation. It's something people do after–”

“Fucking each other silly?”

“Keep your voice down,” Draco hisses, glancing around the empty corridor.

Potter just smirks. “You don't have to feign interest in me, it's alright.”

They're almost at the door when yet again Potter speeds up in time to pull it open for him, like a ridiculous bastard. He gives Draco another wink as he passes.

“Dick,” Draco says again, but this time with a tilted smile.

The exit leads them into the same piss-scented alley Draco had started the evening, and they walk the length of it in silence. Draco's aware he needs to get back to work but, rather pathetically, he's waiting for Potter to leave first.

They're in the street when Potter nods to the left. “I'm this way.”

Draco wants to ask if he has far to go. He wants to ask more personal things, too, like where he lives, and if he lives alone and what he studies and if he really dates women while he fucks men, or if he maybe dates men, too. There's a hundred questions stacked and ready on his tongue.

He nods. “Okay.”

Potter pulls his hood up, giving Draco a half smile. “I guess I'll see you around.”

“I doubt it.”

Potter nods his agreement. “Shame. Thanks for–” He slaps his shoulder twice and with one last show of his dimple, he says, “See ya, Malfoy.”

He turns and heads down the street. Walking, instead of apparating, despite there being no one else around.

Draco wills himself not to crack as he watches him go. Not to give in and look like a sad, desperate twat.

Potter's at the end of the street when Draco cups his mouth.

“Evans!” he calls. Potter glances back but doesn't slow his pace. Draco falters. “What are you studying?”

Potter rounds the corner, out of sight. His answer travels back on the breeze.

“Medical ethics!”

Draco laughs into the empty street. “Dick.”

Three days later - night shift

“Draco. Your patient is back.”

Poppy catches up with him, chart in hand. He sighs. “Let me guess, the witch with the foot?”

“Nope.”

He looks at her warily. “Enema kink?”

“No. I've not seen Derek for ages, now I think about it.”

“Well, now you've fucking jinxed it,” Draco says irritably, lack of sleep catching up with him. “I’m sure he's brewing a lovely impaction as we speak.”

“Yeah, probably,” she says brightly, unfazed as ever. “Looks like this one might have the same kink, actually. I went to examine him, but he’s adamant he'll only see you.”

She hands Draco the chart and he blinks down at the name, trying to stop the smile from spreading over his face.

Name: Jimmy Evans

Illness/injury: Pt complains of ‘sore arse’ - no further details. Refused physical ex.

Notes: Pt has trust issues after handled ‘roughly’ by prev hlr. Will only see hlr Malfoy.

“Draco?”

“Hm?” Draco lifts his head, realising he'd been smiling at the sheet for too long.

“I asked if you know this one?”

He clears his throat, back to business. “Oh, yes. He's a right pain in my arse. I'll deal with him now. Thanks, Poppy.”

Draco's steps are lighter than they've been all week as he heads for Exam Room Seven, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to remove the ridiculous smile from his face.

End