Author: Phoenix Angel Suyari
Summary: I’m aching, I’m shaking, I’m breaking…like humans do.
Archive: Just ask.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, and all other characters from the popular series are the sole ownership of J.K. Rowling and like all other authors, I'm merely borrowing them for my own satisfaction. Enjoy.
A/N: First runner up, in the What should Phoenix write next? Poll.
Warnings: Pseudo Rough/Hate Sex.
Draco Malfoy was a young man of many talents. He was clever and witty, and charming when he wanted to be. He had a sharp tongue, and eyes that could bore through anyone. Although, his father remained immune. He was focused and diligent, and always knew what he wanted. And when he wanted something, no one interfered.
When Draco had first recognized the heated, coiled feeling in his stomach that appeared whenever he sparred with Potter, had to do with something other than revulsion, he’d thought himself ill. How else could he explain wanting to hurt Potter in ways that would also bring pleasure? How else could he understand why the very thought of Potter could send him to his bed sheets, hand about himself, fisting until the world went white?
Ironic, that. At the very precipice of pleasure, the Death Eater’s son was engulfed in the purest white light. It hadn’t always been white, oh no…at one time, it had been black. Dark and comforting, and so sinfully sweet. And then there’d been Potter, poisoning him with his purity.
Bloody Potter. He was probably still a virgin. Untouched, unmarked, unmapped…Draco longed to claim that flesh. Longed to taste that mouth, and coax screams from that throat. But, incidentally, not the same screams his father did.
Lucius Malfoy wanted Potter screaming in agony, the pain unendurable. Draco wanted him screaming in agony, the pleasure overwhelming. Lucius wanted Potter to beg, beg for his life on his hands and knees like a dog. Draco wanted Potter to beg as well, beg to be taken, writhing in tangled sheets, maybe on all fours, but more often than not, on his back, so Draco could watch his face.
Lucius Malfoy wanted Potter to humiliate him. Draco wasn’t adverse to this; however, his ideas of humiliation almost always included a skirt and pigtails, and a pair of girl’s knickers. And Potter, with rouge stained lips, laying where he’d fallen, glancing over his shoulder like a blushing virgin. Or tied to a Quidditch post in nothing but his boots and wrist guards, hard and panting. Sometimes he was gagged.
Well, once Draco had gotten around these abnormally unstrange thoughts, and the feelings tied to them, he’d begun to devise little devious ways to make his wholly normal and healthy desires come to mutual fruition. It wasn’t hard; Potter was so easy to goad. By now, Draco knew every button to push to rile him. He knew every gesture and look that would bring heat, shame and sometimes hate, to the face of the Boy-Who-Lived. In fact, Potter colored nearly as easily as Weasley. Which wasn’t saying much, but still, Draco was satisfied with the knowledge, that when Potter’s brow furrowed just that way, green eyes sparkling with malice, it was only himself who’d placed it there.
It had taken a while to plan, dancing about Potter’s schedule, and the Dark Lord’s schedule, and his own heavy social calendar. But, eventually, things aligned, and Draco took his chance, not knowing when he’d get another. A casual remark about his incompetent, good for nothing, deranged Godfather and the riddance that had done them all a world of good, earned him a powerful right to the jaw. He rolled with the fall, shoving the curve of his palm into Potter’s chin. Potter rolled them right over, grabbing him by the robe front and cracking his head back against the stone walkway. He kneed Potter in the gut, and collided with the floor again. And over again, two connections to Potter’s head, before he twisted - very agile, Potter - and kicked him in the side. There was a bit of tugging and shoving and Potter’s hips colliding against his. Draco pulled them backward, tucking his legs to throw Potter off. But, Potter shifted his weight, tangling a leg about his, and down again onto the ground.
They were pulled apart by shouting classmates. Draco shoved them off, remarking on the hero’s need to be saved, as he could only do good for nothing deeds when someone died. And whether Weasley and Finnegan let go, or Potter was just that angry, in the next moment, Potter charged him with a roar. Had a wall been there, they might have been saved the nasty tumble down the front walk.
Potter ended up on top, and Draco didn’t bother to move his head, as Potter threw punches, Draco’s collar in his fist. Not to be beaten by the school golden boy, he shoved up with his hips, Potter’s leg flying out, as well as an arm. They ended up on their knees trying to strangle each other, with their clothing.
Draco pushed, and Potter pushed back, and they managed to get to their feet, dust swirling about them. They continued this dance of power, sidling hither tither, until Draco managed to shove Potter past a bush, the branches catching him behind the knees. Draco didn’t let go, and they both went flying over the hedge.
As their fellow classmates ran down the hill, Draco tucked a knee behind Potter’s thigh and thrust. Potter froze. Exhaling, he did it again, and this time, Potter moaned, deep and needy. They didn’t have much time, not that they needed it. As Draco thrust harshly against Potter, the darker boy thrust back hungrily. Starved for affection, that’s what Potter was. Beloved by all, loved by none.
They jerked and thrust, grinding into one another, like starving men. Panting harshly into one another’s faces, locking eyes, but not one kiss the whole time. Potter came first, with a sharp cry of pain, clutching Draco close, and the look of abandon on his face dragged Draco over, he himself coming with a shouted curse.
They got detention for an entire month. Of course, both houses blamed the other, but as long as both seekers were out of commission, it wasn’t as bad as it could be. Other fights broke out on occasion, but never another from Draco and Potter. They ignored one another’s existence, to muttered comments by their comrades.
They went about life with nary a comment, nor glance toward the other, and people talked. But then, they always did. They placed bets on who would snap first, on when another fight would be, and who would throw the first punch. They betted and waited, lost and re-bet, never knowing that every night, in the quiet darkness of Hogwarts’ shadowy corridors, if you listened carefully, and looked closely, Draco and Potter fought.
They fought until they couldn’t breathe, collapsing against one another, sweaty and boneless. And there, in those secret matches, there were no insults to be flung. For tongues were always busy with far better uses. And the Death Eater’s son knew darkness and light, for after all, when it came down to it, he and Potter were no different. Shaking and aching and breaking…like humans do.