Battlefields
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
9,459
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
9,459
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Battlefields
Title: Battlefields
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Crossdressing, graphic gay sex, anal creampie, snowballing
Summary: A clandestine meeting in the middle of a war—with a corset. D/H. Bottom!Harry.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter.
He can barely breathe in the corset you’ve tied him into just that little bit too tight, but he’s never looked more beautiful, or more right.
The dusky pale pink of it—with its white lace and all those yellow ribbons crisscrossing up the back—is extraordinary against the rich olive of his skin: his skin that’s so soft and paper-thin, wrapped sinewy-sleek around every inch of his body—over every long, angular plane and slight stretch of boyish musculature.
You know that this humiliates him, and that he hates it; that’s part of the reason why you do it. Only part of the reason, though—the other part being that you really like it when he’s like this: flushed, flustered, and panting—all done up in this pretty pastel outfit; so scandalous with his flouncy, frilly white skirt rucked up around his hips and garters grasping high up on his slim, uncovered thighs.
He probably gets off on this, too, though, you think—or why else would he be doing it? Why else would he keep coming back for more?
Not that that’s any concern of yours; he could be doing this to punish himself, or to manipulate you—any number of ridiculous things that he could have gotten into that ridiculously pretty head of his—and it really wouldn’t matter one whit to you, because all that you care about is that you have him spread-out and face-down and ready for you, and that you’re on him—in him. He lets you do that; he wants you to.
You own him in fragments.
“Malfoy, please—” he says, gripping the iron railing at the end of the bed and tilting his arse up imploringly.
His arsehole—a tiny pink ring of sensitive muscle, hastily-prepared and slick with lube—clenches as you swirl your fingertip over it ever-so lightly, so slightly, so brief.
You do it again.
It is so beautiful. He is so beautiful, tightening his hold on the bed-fixture till his knuckles go white—crying out under your touch. So responsive.
He looks even better with your cock in him.
You fist yourself with one lube-slippery hand, then, and guide yourself to his entrance, steadying his hip with your other hand and placing the blunt end of your prick at his opening.
You watch as the very tip of your cock-head pushes its way past the flimsy barrier of his body—forcing him to open, making him accept the intrusion.
This is your favorite part: watching his body resisting your cock, then welcoming it—swallowing it down, wanting more. Watching his arsehole stretch unthinkably around your length as you sink into him: either shoving yourself in all at once—shocking him with that feeling of fullness, of being brutalized—or drawing it out as long as it can go, so he feels every second of that penetration; every last millimeter.
You love to watch your cock disappear into Potter’s body; you can’t clearly remember a time when you didn’t have him. Maybe you just don’t want to remember a time when you didn’t.
The way Potter bends for you, the way he almost bites clear through his bottom lip when he comes, the perfect fit of his body with yours—it’s addictive. You acknowledge that, but you are not controlled by it.
You are in charge here. Harry Potter yields to you. He is yours. Yours.
“More—Draco, please,” says Harry, and the grin you wear is vicious in its satisfaction, and your cock, pounding into his body, is relentless. And he loves it, you know he must love it—you both do.
“That’s right, Harry—you love this, don’t you? You aren’t happy till I’m so far in you you’re gagging on my cock. You like me to dress you up like my pretty little whore and fuck you. You like being used. Isn’t that right, Harry? Huh?”
You pull a little at his hair, and he cries out and moves his arse back to meet your next thrust, and says, “Yes, Draco, I love it, please, yes, please!”
“Who do you belong to, Harry?” you ask. “Who’s the only one who gets to have you, Harry?”
“You,” he says. “You, Draco, always you, please—”
And then you give your pretty little whore what he’s been asking for so nicely and grab his cock, rubbing your thumb along its sensitive pink tip—his precome is all over it—and you keep yourself inside his squeezing warmth a little longer, rocking into him so every last inch of you is enveloped in his arse, and then you pull out again and thrust, over and over you thrust, hitting Harry’s sweet spot with the head of your cock and making him arch impossibly in his fantastic girly outfit, shouting as he comes and comes in hot white spurts all over your hand and his tiny soft skirt.
His arsehole clenches as he comes, and it the feel of it tightening around you pushes you almost off the edge; you hold onto his waist with both hands—they’ll probably leave bruises, but you like that—and snap your hips into his, faster and still faster and without regard to the way he drops down onto his elbows and keens, and then you’re coming, too: filling him up.
When you pull out, he stays where he is—keeping himself in position as you bend down and lick at his open arsehole. He knows what you like.
You watch his body close itself back up in seconds, his puckered pink sphincter pulled tight again—puffy and undoubtedly aching. Then he gives you what you want: your semen, oozing out of his opening in a thick, pearly-iridescent stream.
You manage to catch most of it in your mouth, licking it off his perineum and arsehole, and then you turn him around onto his back and kiss him, spilling your ejaculate from your mouth into his, and he swallows it—all of it—licking every last trace of it from your lips and teeth and tongue.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” you say, touching his thigh.
He kisses you—briefly; just a touch of his lips against yours. You can taste yourself on him, and you like that.
“I have to go,” he says, getting up.
“Now?” you ask. “Already?”
“We’re in the middle of a war,” he says. “They need me. Help me out of this?”
He turns his back to you in the sudden silence, and you unloosen the ties, and he takes a deep, deep breath now that he can.
“Ah—free!” he says, wriggling out of his costume in relief. He hates wearing it, but he does it when you tell him to. It has left deep red marks on his pale, flawless skin; you kind of want to lick them.
“Yes,” you say, unenthusiastically. You’d thought you’d have him longer. He always leaves you wanting more.
“Next week?” he asks.
“Next week,” you say, and Harry dresses and leaves.
In his own robes, now, but bruised and rumpled, Harry smiles, and keeps on smiling. You will not see him do it, and you wouldn’t know what to make of it even if you had.
Harry really was, in the end, meant to be a Slytherin. You’ll find that out, eventually.
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Crossdressing, graphic gay sex, anal creampie, snowballing
Summary: A clandestine meeting in the middle of a war—with a corset. D/H. Bottom!Harry.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter.
He can barely breathe in the corset you’ve tied him into just that little bit too tight, but he’s never looked more beautiful, or more right.
The dusky pale pink of it—with its white lace and all those yellow ribbons crisscrossing up the back—is extraordinary against the rich olive of his skin: his skin that’s so soft and paper-thin, wrapped sinewy-sleek around every inch of his body—over every long, angular plane and slight stretch of boyish musculature.
You know that this humiliates him, and that he hates it; that’s part of the reason why you do it. Only part of the reason, though—the other part being that you really like it when he’s like this: flushed, flustered, and panting—all done up in this pretty pastel outfit; so scandalous with his flouncy, frilly white skirt rucked up around his hips and garters grasping high up on his slim, uncovered thighs.
He probably gets off on this, too, though, you think—or why else would he be doing it? Why else would he keep coming back for more?
Not that that’s any concern of yours; he could be doing this to punish himself, or to manipulate you—any number of ridiculous things that he could have gotten into that ridiculously pretty head of his—and it really wouldn’t matter one whit to you, because all that you care about is that you have him spread-out and face-down and ready for you, and that you’re on him—in him. He lets you do that; he wants you to.
You own him in fragments.
“Malfoy, please—” he says, gripping the iron railing at the end of the bed and tilting his arse up imploringly.
His arsehole—a tiny pink ring of sensitive muscle, hastily-prepared and slick with lube—clenches as you swirl your fingertip over it ever-so lightly, so slightly, so brief.
You do it again.
It is so beautiful. He is so beautiful, tightening his hold on the bed-fixture till his knuckles go white—crying out under your touch. So responsive.
He looks even better with your cock in him.
You fist yourself with one lube-slippery hand, then, and guide yourself to his entrance, steadying his hip with your other hand and placing the blunt end of your prick at his opening.
You watch as the very tip of your cock-head pushes its way past the flimsy barrier of his body—forcing him to open, making him accept the intrusion.
This is your favorite part: watching his body resisting your cock, then welcoming it—swallowing it down, wanting more. Watching his arsehole stretch unthinkably around your length as you sink into him: either shoving yourself in all at once—shocking him with that feeling of fullness, of being brutalized—or drawing it out as long as it can go, so he feels every second of that penetration; every last millimeter.
You love to watch your cock disappear into Potter’s body; you can’t clearly remember a time when you didn’t have him. Maybe you just don’t want to remember a time when you didn’t.
The way Potter bends for you, the way he almost bites clear through his bottom lip when he comes, the perfect fit of his body with yours—it’s addictive. You acknowledge that, but you are not controlled by it.
You are in charge here. Harry Potter yields to you. He is yours. Yours.
“More—Draco, please,” says Harry, and the grin you wear is vicious in its satisfaction, and your cock, pounding into his body, is relentless. And he loves it, you know he must love it—you both do.
“That’s right, Harry—you love this, don’t you? You aren’t happy till I’m so far in you you’re gagging on my cock. You like me to dress you up like my pretty little whore and fuck you. You like being used. Isn’t that right, Harry? Huh?”
You pull a little at his hair, and he cries out and moves his arse back to meet your next thrust, and says, “Yes, Draco, I love it, please, yes, please!”
“Who do you belong to, Harry?” you ask. “Who’s the only one who gets to have you, Harry?”
“You,” he says. “You, Draco, always you, please—”
And then you give your pretty little whore what he’s been asking for so nicely and grab his cock, rubbing your thumb along its sensitive pink tip—his precome is all over it—and you keep yourself inside his squeezing warmth a little longer, rocking into him so every last inch of you is enveloped in his arse, and then you pull out again and thrust, over and over you thrust, hitting Harry’s sweet spot with the head of your cock and making him arch impossibly in his fantastic girly outfit, shouting as he comes and comes in hot white spurts all over your hand and his tiny soft skirt.
His arsehole clenches as he comes, and it the feel of it tightening around you pushes you almost off the edge; you hold onto his waist with both hands—they’ll probably leave bruises, but you like that—and snap your hips into his, faster and still faster and without regard to the way he drops down onto his elbows and keens, and then you’re coming, too: filling him up.
When you pull out, he stays where he is—keeping himself in position as you bend down and lick at his open arsehole. He knows what you like.
You watch his body close itself back up in seconds, his puckered pink sphincter pulled tight again—puffy and undoubtedly aching. Then he gives you what you want: your semen, oozing out of his opening in a thick, pearly-iridescent stream.
You manage to catch most of it in your mouth, licking it off his perineum and arsehole, and then you turn him around onto his back and kiss him, spilling your ejaculate from your mouth into his, and he swallows it—all of it—licking every last trace of it from your lips and teeth and tongue.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” you say, touching his thigh.
He kisses you—briefly; just a touch of his lips against yours. You can taste yourself on him, and you like that.
“I have to go,” he says, getting up.
“Now?” you ask. “Already?”
“We’re in the middle of a war,” he says. “They need me. Help me out of this?”
He turns his back to you in the sudden silence, and you unloosen the ties, and he takes a deep, deep breath now that he can.
“Ah—free!” he says, wriggling out of his costume in relief. He hates wearing it, but he does it when you tell him to. It has left deep red marks on his pale, flawless skin; you kind of want to lick them.
“Yes,” you say, unenthusiastically. You’d thought you’d have him longer. He always leaves you wanting more.
“Next week?” he asks.
“Next week,” you say, and Harry dresses and leaves.
In his own robes, now, but bruised and rumpled, Harry smiles, and keeps on smiling. You will not see him do it, and you wouldn’t know what to make of it even if you had.
Harry really was, in the end, meant to be a Slytherin. You’ll find that out, eventually.