Any Way You Want Me

Title: Any Way You Want Me
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Summary: This doesn’t change anything. Except that it *does*.
Word Count: 1,803
Disclaimer: I don’t own HP.
Author’s Note: Written for _outercourse, to prove that there *is* fanfiction out there where someone’s pants get caught on their shoes while taking them off. ^__~
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Draco’s shirt is open and Harry kind-of-really wants to lick the smooth, white line of his collarbone, so he does.

His tender red mouth is warm and soft on Draco’s cool skin—his tongue a long, wet swipe; so curious—and Draco grabs the back of his neck like he’s handling a fucking *kitten*, which Harry would have yelled at him for if his other hand hadn’t been groping his small, ready rear and their erections weren’t bumping through cloth.

Harry’s hands scrabble at Draco’s fly like they’re in a race and it just might kill him not to win, and he fumbles for a while before the full, aching length of that cock is burning in his hand, the material of Draco’s underwear tugging at his bony wrist.


“*Fuck*,” hisses Draco as Harry’s thumb drags along the leaking slit of his head, and this is good, this is fucking *brilliant*, but he wants Harry—he wants to be *in* Harry—and his hands are tugging at the waist of Harry’s trousers and blindly searching for the zipper—there, there, take it down; he hears him gasp as he yanks down the material to just under his arse, and the underwear follow, and Draco is snarling “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t *see* straight,” and Harry hisses “You just fucking *try*,” as he works that hard shaft in his curled hand and fists one side of Draco’s crisp school shirt, palms sweaty and eyes dark—lips bruised—making strange noises when Draco’s fingers dig into his waist and probe the tight, unready ring of his arsehole.

“I’ll have you screaming like a bloody *banshee*, and you’ll *still* beg me for more!” yowls Draco, working at the buttons of Harry’s shirt impatiently with one hand; circling his entrance purposefully with the fingertips of the other.

“In your *dreams*, you pillock,” spits Harry, bucking forward towards Draco’s waist with his hips when Draco nudges the tip of one finger into him.

“We’ll see about that,” says Draco, pulling at Harry’s shirt so the last two buttons pop off and go scattering to the floor, and then he’s taken his hands away and is shrugging off his shirt, and Harry does the same.

Draco leans in and suckles the delicate flesh of Harry’s neck as he toes off his obscenely expensive dragon-hide shoes, and with the blond bending over him and his hand firm in the hollow of his narrow back, it’s all Harry can do to suck in air and hold onto the other boy’s shoulders, grinding himself single-mindedly against him.

“Get on the bed,” growls Draco, cock pressing against Harry’s stomach, and Harry doesn’t like being bossed around except when it’s said like *that*, so he pulls down his trousers, but they get caught on his shoes, and Draco’s wriggling out of his clothes with no problem and there’s no *time* when you’re a teenage boy to be worried about whether your shoes are on or off while you’re getting fucked, so he crawls up on the bed on his hands and knees with his shoes still on, his trousers and underwear bunched up around his ankles.

“You’re hopeless,” scoffs Draco when he looks up, but it’s not enough to deter him from that round, pale little bottom raised up in the air and waiting for him, and he grabs at his wand and gets out a lubrication charm over his hand before Harry can think up a decent response.

Then he’s gone up on the mattress and his hand is slick and glistening, and he pushes it inside Harry’s rear and works a finger deep into the tiny entrance, and Harry flinches against it.

“Damn it, that’s *cold*,” yelps Harry, clenching up around Draco’s intrusive digit, and Draco moves it around inside him and works it in and out until Harry relaxes; he thrusts into that space and Harry opens up his legs as far as they can go, still trapped in all that uncompromising cloth. Then Draco adds another finger and Harry mewls a little and pushes back against his hand, and Draco curls them up inside him and pulls at his own bobbing hard-on.

“You’d better do this soon before I come,” pants Harry, leaning down on an elbow and reaching down and playing with his own balls.

“Don’t you *dare*,” says Draco, taking his fingers out of Harry’s body—leaning forward, his chest against Harry’s back, and holding his wrist, stilling it.

“You’re not coming until I’m inside you,” he grates out inside Harry’s ear, and Harry braces himself with both elbows on the bed and says, “So *do it*, already,” and Draco re-positions his knees outside Harry’s and holds himself in his hand, guiding the blunt head of his cock past the slight, slippery resistance of Harry’s arsehole and then going *inside* him, and Harry’s hot, confining little frame accepts him in, swallowing every last inch that it is given.

“*Christ*,” warbles Harry, sounding shaky, and Draco reminds himself to breathe, keep breathing, keep breathing—he tells Harry, too, because it sounds like he needs it—and, fuck, he can feel Harry all around him, he is enveloped in his tense, adapting heat, and the pressure is unbearable, it’s unthinkable, he’s harder than he’s ever been in his entire life and he’s *taking* this, it is his, he’s claimed it; Harry has given himself over to him and he maybe didn’t know it at the time but he will, he will, Draco’s going to fuck every last bit of him until they can’t walk, he just has to keep himself from coming right now—he has to hold out, has to stop himself from shooting out into and *through* this tight, tiny body, he just needs a—he just needs a second—

And at the same time Harry is dealing with being stretched out farther than he could have dreamed; he’s biting his bottom lip raw and ragged and if Draco could see it he’d probably want to kiss it, except he doesn’t, which is okay with Harry because he doesn’t think he can take any movement right now, anyway—there’s this hard length piercing him right down the middle and it’s strange and it kind of hurts, he can still feel the buzzing friction of it sliding inside him, and he’s trying to get used to it but he’s sort of thinking he might have made a mistake—he might like Draco’s weight pressing in on him and the sly, dark taste of his smirk, and his hands, and—well, there are a lot of things, he guesses, but he isn’t really enjoying holding Draco’s cock *in* him, isn’t this supposed to feel good—

Draco moves.

“What are you doing—?” starts Harry; he’s not too sure of the logistics—he once saw a sticky magazine with men doing this hidden under the cereal box and broken eggshells in the kitchen trash, but he hadn’t known there was anything involved after having a cock put into you; wasn’t that it?

“Just shut up and enjoy this,” says Draco to the nape of Harry’s neck, and Harry wants to tell him to fuck off except that he already kind of *is*, and, also, because the feeling of Draco rocking in and out of him feels kind of—feels kind of *nice*, actually, feels *really* nice, as he keeps at it, and then Draco pushes in and his cock runs into *something* inside Harry that makes him yelp and throw his arse back into the forward thrust of Draco’s hips without even meaning to.

“You like that, do you?” asks Draco, and Harry can *feel* his smugness through his back without even needing to turn around.

“Shove it, Malfoy,” says Harry, frowning, and Draco laughs and says, “I *am*,” and Harry squeezes with his anus and his opened little bum and hopes it *hurts* that self-satisfied prick, and Malfoy starts and gasps behind him, though it sadly doesn’t sound like he’s in any pain at all.

“*Fuck*,” wheezes Draco, hips snapping.

“*Fuck*,” and then the conversation is reduced to Draco impaling him over and over again, and Harry *liking* it.

“God, yes, yes, just like that,” says Harry, sweating, when Draco finds that *place* again and keeps hitting it, and he grabs his weeping cock with his hand and starts rubbing it and doesn’t even notice the ache in his knees or the crick in his straining neck.

Draco keeps himself balanced with one hand spread against the bed, wrist bent and protesting and fingers stiff, and the other is probably bruising one side of Harry’s waist, but his cock has taken all his attention and he doesn’t notice, and, when he mumbles “you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful” against the soft skin of Harry’s back, he’s forgotten the words as soon as they’ve left his mouth.

Harry moans when his balls tighten and he comes all over his chest and Draco’s bed; he pumps his hand along his shaft and milks out every pearly strand, and sags when he’s ridden the last of it out.

It’s uncomfortable; Harry is covered in his own semen and limp against the soiled sheets as Draco keeps thrusting into him, but Harry is content to lie there and memorize the way it feels as Draco leans into him and *pushes*; he hears him swearing about lazy Gryffindors making him do all the work and smirks—he relaxes into Draco’s movements and then *squeezes* again when the other boy doesn’t expect it, and Draco orgasms into him with a shock, his seed wet and stringy and hot, and he doesn’t really mind it at all.

Draco seems to stay inside him forever; he collapses beside him when he’s done and Harry isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do or say in these kinds of situations, so he just stays there until he can catch his breath again; the silence is vague and uncomfortable, and Draco’s grey eyes press in on him as he sits up and slides off the bed.

He feels some of Draco’s cum dribble out of his rear and down his leg as he bends down and quickly tugs up his clothing, and feels his face flush—two furious spots of color bloom on his cheeks, and he won’t turn around.

“This doesn’t change anything,” says Harry once he’s fished out his slightly-mangled shirt from the pile on the floor and put it back on; he grabs his wand from where it’s rolled to on the floor and tucks it in a pocket of his newly-donned robes.

“I never said it did,” says Draco lazily—coolly, so casual, and that makes Harry *angry*.

“Of course not,” says Harry, voice hard and sharp, but, what he really means is, *I hate you.*