Respira

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Harry likes the feeling of Draco’s hot breaths against his lips, his palms, his fingers. Harry likes Draco bound to the bed, defenseless and whining, all naked flesh and panting exhalations.

He likes the way the pads of his thumbs leave indentations on Draco’s neck, pressing hard against his throat. He likes the way he can feel Draco’s adam’s apple tremor helplessly under the pressure. He likes the way he can feel the pulse of air in and out.

Harry likes the way his Gryffindor tie wraps cool, and taut, and silky around Draco’s pale aristocratic neck. He likes the way the color stripes the white, the way Draco’s face flushes red when the ends are pulled tighter.

Draco kisses him more desperately then, trying to suck air out from Harry’s mouth, but unable to draw in anything but more stale, used, wasted air.

Harry likes when Draco begs. He likes when his voice comes out in a rasp, a hiss, sometimes a swallowed sort of moan, as he tries to conserve what little air Harry is allowing him to keep.

“Please…”

Harry’s eyes flash a dangerous green and he loops the ends of the tie around his palms.

“Please, what?” he asks. It is a simple question and has only one correct answer.

“Please, Harry. God, Harry, please…” Draco chokes out the words, and Harry rewards him with a kiss.

Harry likes the way he can see it in Draco’s eyes, can see the moment when Draco’s lungs are rendered perfectly empty. Draco’s eyes look so full then, the grey brimming over with wantneedplease.

When Harry thrusts into Draco, he moves so hard that Draco’s breath should hitch, and would, had the boy air to give. But he doesn’t. Draco just releases a sharp guttural moan, a protest, and his lips push tighter around Harry’s tongue, clinging to the hot, wet life there.

Good Draco, Harry thinks smugly, holding the ends of the ties like they are reigns now, pulling and releasing on them in time with his thrusts. It is a cruel synchronization.

Draco is choking out breaths now, sounding panicked and startled and coming closer.

When Harry lets go of the tie and closes his hand hard around Draco’s cock, he swears the boy stops breathing entirely, freezing and then jerking up off the bed into Harry’s firm grip. Harry’s fingers are calloused and he spares no tenderness for Draco, fisting him roughly from base to tip in a way that makes Draco whimper, and squeal, and plea.

Draco makes a sound like a breathless growl in the back of his throat, and it’s new and strange and beautiful.

Harry decides that he likes Draco best just like that; when he’s twisting and writhing and coming hot over Harry’s fingers.

Harry likes Draco best when he breathes again, when Harry allows him to breathe again, and the only sound Draco can form is Harry’s name.

*~*~*