Pretense

Draco’s mouth tasted like Boy.

Harry didn’t know how to describe it better than that, lacking all the useful
descriptors like sweet or honeyed or the words Hermione and Ginny
whispered about when they thought he couldn’t hear. It wasn’t sweet, or
honeyed—or any kind of food taste, really, which was odd given they’d both
eaten not too long ago. But there was no cinnamon or bitter coffee taste as
Harry counted teeth and what he thought might be a wizarding-equivalent of a
filling. No cool whipped cream, or hint of fudge-thick chocolate. There was
just the taste of Draco, something masculine and dark, bitter the way
Harry imagined the sea might taste, had he ever tasted it.

No lights bloomed behind his eyes when they kissed. His stomach tightened, and
something trembling and nervous filled his body, but it wasn’t heralded with
fire crackers or angel’s song. It was just there, a feeling that mixed in with
the scent of clean soap and sweat-salt skin, musky and just a little too
strong. Draco’s bones were too prominent, digging into Harry’s flesh until he
was certain bruises would appear the next morning. They always had before, but
under thin, grey light just touched with pink, he liked them. He liked the way
they decorated his skin, badges of honor and respect that he treasured because
they were accidental bruises. Unintentional. The bruises Harry created,
meanwhile, were very intentional: one hand gripped the back of Draco’s neck so
that capillaries split and broke, staining him red from the inside out. His
other hand kneaded Draco’s arse, enjoying flesh not quite as hard as it could
be, tensing back against him as Harry twisted his current handful.

“I’m going to turn you over,” Harry promised, tearing his mouth away to bite at
Draco’s jaw. “Strip you down and beat you red for what you said to my friends.”

Draco’s irises were almost colorless, lust draining them the way it drained
Draco’s blood, sending it shooting towards a cock that rubbed helplessly
against Harry’s. “Not a chance, Potter,” he panted.

Harry smiled, clenching tighter and twisting until Draco gasped, going totally
limp when Harry stopped the pain. “Oh there’s a chance, Malfoy. Big chance.
Cause when I’m done, I’m gonna rub up against that red arse of yours until you
beg me to fuck you.”

There was no sense of rightness, the way girls always nattered on about.
No cloud-wreathed perfection that meant this was the way things were supposed
to be. No bells or singing told them anything. This wasn’t something out of a
fairy tale, or the sickening romances Lavender quoted all the time. This was
real, with sweat and bitter mustiness of a mouth that needed brushing, a body
that needed washing. There was no love or affection here. No friendship. Harry
would as soon as hex Malfoy as shag him, and vice versa. This was raw,
broken and acrimonious no matter how many times it was repeated. What they had,
if either could admit to having anything at all, was pure physical need, as
fragile as pale skin that did little to protect those milky blue veins. It
wouldn’t last. It couldn’t last.

Harry liked it better that way.