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Technically, it wasn’t the first time Harry had sunk his prick into Malfoy— it was just the first time he knew it was Malfoy. And didn’t that make all the difference?
The toy, if such a magical and lewd relic could even be called a toy, was incredible, yes, but nothing compared to being able to trace the curvature of Malfoy’s lean and opalescent lumbar. To watch the soft tan of his own fingers paint bruising imprints where he held onto the handles of his hips. For a second, Harry wondered how his day had brought him to that moment, where he watched his cock be welcomed home into Malfoy’s body for the second time.
More notable a difference than anything else, the experience with the magical mirror was very quiet, and Malfoy was very much not.
“Merlin’s fucking cock, Potter! Where do you hide that monstrosity?” Malfoy bit out between distorted moans.
His face had long ago dropped into the pillow— hands scrabbling at the rumpled sheets, trying to gain some sort of leverage against Harry’s never-ceasing thrusts. His back bowed like a branch in the wind. It was beautiful. It was better than he had ever imagined.
Oh, how he had imagined. Probably every day for the last several years, if he was being honest. Everybody knew Harry was obsessed with Malfoy, and that did not exclude Harry himself.
Maybe it was the concept of forbidden fruit, or maybe it was the long and lean stature that Malfoy had been molded into by puberty. Or maybe it was the way the blonde boy could stoke a flame in Harry with not a twig of tinder.
He’d been telling the truth, when he told Malfoy it was him he had thought about while he’d fucked that toy. The fantasy had been right there on the shelf of his mind, always within grasping distance. He’d laid in Malfoy’s bed and sucked down the debilitating scent of him while he’d licked open that sweet little pink hole.
Harry had taken his time, cycling through all the things he’d wanted to do to the real Malfoy if he’d ever had the chance— wished he had access to nipples or a bulging prick to really live out the fantasy, but far be it from him to look a gifted Hippogriff in the mouth.
So yes, while he wanked himself off with that disembodied hole, he’d thought only of Malfoy, but never once did it even cross the deepest trenches of his mind that he was literally fucking Malfoy.
He wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been hexed out the window or transfigured into a slobbering mongrel when he realized what he had done. But Malfoy never raised his wand. He’d looked at Harry with batshit crazy eyes and not five minutes later, there they were— blistering with tears as Harry went from fast and brutal to slow and languid.
“You’re so sensitive,” he whispered into the back of that flushed red neck. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Harry did not know what he would do if Malfoy told him to stop, but he had to ask. He’d already essentially assaulted Malfoy with that mirror stunt, even if he hadn’t realized it at the time. He needed to know it was okay to keep going, to keep gliding in and out of that loosened and obscenely wet hole.
“I don’t care,” Malfoy moaned, thrashing his hips to try to get Harry to move faster. “Don’t stop, no matter what. Come on, Potter. Take me!”
Fuck.
He hoped Malfoy meant it, because he couldn’t stop. Not when Malfoy writhed and trembled, nor when he dissolved into snot and tears and came all over those evergreen sheets.
“I should take that mirror with me,” Harry gasped, chasing desperately after his orgasm. “I could keep it under my pillow. Use you any time I’d like. Tell me, Draco, how heavy of a sleeper are you? Would you wake up on my fingers, or on my cock?”
Malfoy— no, Draco, was a slobbering mess. Harry had never seen him in such a state. His hair wild and clinging to the sweat of his forehead. His tongue, lolling through rapid gasps for air. It was the glimmer of a tear gathered on his feathery blonde lashes that finally wrenched Harry’s orgasm out of him.
He’d had half a mind to follow through with his lust-induced threats and take the mirror with him. But Draco had slipped into a practically impermeable sleep, and Harry wasn’t sure if he’d agree to such a thing in a reasonable state of mind. He’d tried a few times to wake him. First with a gentle hand on his shoulder, then with a wet and promising kiss on the slope of his neck.
Draco had moaned, but stayed utterly out.
Resetting the toy had been a gamble, but the next best option. Harry hoped that when Draco found it, he would understand that the quaffle was in his end of the field. That Harry had given him explicit, unconditional permission to pay him back in full if Draco felt inclined.
God, he hoped Draco felt inclined.
Of all the things Harry had been imagining lately, the consequences of such blanket permission hadn’t occurred to him until it was too late. Until he was hunched over a library table with Hermione and Ron, trying to force himself to absorb literally anything on the parchment in front of him, and a peculiar sensation of breath tickled his arsehole.
“I have to go,” Harry practically shouted, sliding his scrolls back to Hermione.
He felt like a ponce for it, but he knew she’d put them away and he certainly hadn’t the time to do it himself. He didn’t know how much time he did have. Each second was measured by the jam of his heart in his chest. The anticipation alone had him half erect despite having already come twice only hours before.
“Are you alright, Harry?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowed as she looked him up and down.
“Nope. Might be ill,” he lied.
The crease of her brow deepened.
A tapping, on his hole. Like knocking softly on a door. A curtesy that Harry himself had not given Draco. It was almost sweet.
“Yep. Absolutely ill. I’m going to lie down, and before you ask, I promise if I don’t feel better soon I’ll go to the infirmary.”
Hermione’s mouth, which had been open in preparation to protest, closed.
Harry’s eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head at the first cold dribble of lube.
“Something must be going around,” Ron mumbled, sneaking a biscuit when he thought Hermione wasn’t looking. They both knew how she felt about dirty fingers flipping pages.
Harry really needed to not think about dirty fingers.
“Just let us know if you need anything, then,” she said.
Speak of the devil, a finger— dipping in, making a beeline for Harry’s prostate. Draco knew exactly where to look, exactly what he was doing. The realization alone was almost as excruciatingly exquisite as the sensation.
Practice makes perfect, don’t it? Harry thought deliriously, and then he ran.
Of course Harry hadn’t made it to the dorms in time. He’d hardly made it to a bathroom, locking it down as effectively as he could before leaning over the sink and just taking every inch of prick that Draco was willing to give him.
It was one of the most surreal experiences he had ever had, gripping the porcelain for dear life— watching his own face in the mirror distort into a twist of ecstasy. Feeling the push and pull, the take and give, until his shakes and trembles had knocked the glasses right from his face.
Until he came with a guttural bellow.
By the time he had made it back to the dorms, his arse dripping with spend and lube, there was a letter on his pillow.
I was worried I wouldn’t know if you had come. I knew. You nearly strangled me, Darling.
“Darling,” Harry whispered.
He was in monumental trouble.
What did this make them? He didn’t know. They hadn’t five seconds to have a conversation where they both weren’t with their pricks at the forefront. Fuck. Harry wanted Draco. He wanted him like oxygen. He’d spent nearly half his life watching the other boy. In the beginning, he was a tangled wad of yarn, and through the years, slowly, Harry had unraveled, rewound— until the shape of him resembled somebody who could fall in love with Draco Malfoy.
And wasn’t that something?
It took several days for Harry to have another run in with Draco. He didn’t overthink it. They both had their hands full with classes and preparation for N.E.W.T.s, not to mention well-intentioned friends who seemed much clingier than usual.
Ron.
Ron had, in fact, been at Harry’s side dutifully for days and it made Harry barmy. If he really thought about it, it wasn’t that peculiar for them to be in close proximity for such an extended period, it was just that this time was different because Harry had somewhere else he was aching to be.
“You have to come to Hogsmeade, Mate. Since when do you bail on Hogsmeade?” Ron yammered through a fat mouthful of eggs.
“I just feel like I need the day,” Harry said. He did not say, Because I need to find a way to shag Malfoy into a new dimension.
And Draco was definitely down to go again. He practically screamed cock-starved with the way he roved his eyes up and down Harry’s body, intentions written right on his face.
But he hadn’t used the toy on Harry again. Maybe he also figured they were due for a talk.
Then the game changed because Draco was standing— was heading right to the Gryfindor table like an asteroid about to strike the Earth.
Don’t get hard. Don’t get hard. Think unsexy thoughts, damn it.
“Potter,” Draco announced his presence.
“Malfoy, Mate. You need something?” Ron choked out, not even trying to hide his surprise.
They may have been roommates but Harry wasn’t sure if he qualified Draco and Ron as friends in any capacity. Also, it was clear Draco was here for Harry, with whom, if anyone at the table were asked, he was on neutral ground with, at best. And wasn’t that a joke? They couldn’t be neutral. Harry had tried, and look where that got him.
Balls deep in Malfoy. That’s where.
Draco shifted his weight onto one foot and examined his nail bed. He looked wretchedly bored.
“I have a magical artifact I’m evaluating for a project. I’m supposed to be collecting data on all of its potential uses.” Draco’s eyes darted back to him, and it told Harry everything he needed to know. “As everyone else will be in Hogsmeade today, I suppose you’re the only one who can assist me.”
Harry could barely breathe.
“Yeah. Okay,” he stuttered.
“What class is that for?” Ron asked, but Draco had already fucking sauntered away.
Harry had been hard for nearly an hour, and he blamed his nerves on the prolonged chubbing. He supposed it was better than a limp prick.
When Draco let him into the room, the first thing he did was wrap his arms around Harry’s neck and kiss him. It was slow, uncertain, but more than Harry ever thought he would be allowed to have.
“Draco,” he murmured into that blistering kiss. “Didn’t know if I was allowed—”
“You’re allowed,” Draco panted, trying to unbutton his shirt while trailing his lips down Harry’s jaw.
Fuck, he didn’t know what they were to each other. They should really talk about it before falling into bed again. But those weren’t the words Draco wanted to hear, Harry could tell. Harry would give him the words he wanted.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.” It was true. “I can’t close my eyes without seeing you.”
Draco gasped, teetering further into Harry. As if his knees had nearly buckled.
“I hope when I die, they bury me inside you.”
“Fuck. Harry. Just fuck me, please!”
Harry had Draco spatchcocked beneath him on the bed in seconds. They ripped feverishly at one another’s clothes, Draco’s trousers and pants quickly joining his shirt on the floor.
“Not even in the hamper?” Harry teased.
“Shut up, you fool. I’ve needed you for days.”
“Fuck,” Harry moaned, grinding down against Draco’s long and slender erection. The last of Harry’s clothes went as well. The newfound skin against skin was like the striking of a match. It was clear that they could both easily lose themselves in the velvety glide.
“Wait. Fuck,” Draco mumbled, pushing Harry off of him.
Harry didn’t even have time to feel distressed before Draco was fetching the mirror from the bedside drawer and holding it up.
“I have a proposal,” he said, smiling in that wicked way.
Harry would have fallen in love with Draco eventually. It was only a question of what would be the tipping point. This could be a tipping point— his prick shoved deep into Draco, who sat on his lap, back to his chest.
“Ready, Harry?” Draco asked, his breath shaky and cheeks pink.
The use of his name had him in the stars. Somehow he nodded.
“Fuck, yes. Merlin,” Draco seethed as he held the mirror, currently displaying Harry’s lubed up hole, and pressed the mushroom head of his cock against the rim.
Harry buried his teeth into Draco’s shoulder, hard. His body practically short-circuited. Draco wasn’t deterred by the gnash of teeth, just kept sliding that mirror down his prick until he was as deep inside Harry as Harry was in him.
Christ, he could die like this. He could, and it’d be worth it.
“It’s so much,” Draco whimpered. “I don’t know if I can move.”
Harry shifted from biting to kissing the indentations left behind by his teeth.
“Just, let me.”
Using mainly his thighs, Harry thrust the best he could up into Draco. It was ill-paced, but it was everything. Eventually, Draco managed to bounce just enough to meet him— to jerk the toy up and down along his prick, twisting on the upstroke.
“Fucking, Christ. Draco,” Harry cried into his skin. Those twists made him positively primal.
Draco was no better. They both howled like animals. Hands flew everywhere. Twisting fingers— in hair, around pink and pebbled nipples, all the while Draco never faltered his wanking motions and Harry fucked him as viciously as he could.
He had never felt anything like it. It was physical. It was emotional. He always felt like he and Draco were reflections of one another, but they had finally overlapped so entirely they may as well have been one person.
“Harry. You’re everywhere,” Draco moaned.
It seemed like he was of the same mindset as Harry. That, above everything else, above fucking Draco and being fucked by him, gave Harry hope that they might find something together if they looked for it.
“You’re going to make me come, Harry. Your cock and your arse— you're better than I’ve ever imagined.”
You’ve imagined? Harry wanted to ask, but all that came out was a wet garble. Instead, he bit Draco again on the nape of his neck.
“Merlin, you really are a Neanderthal,” Draco gasped.
Then Harry was coming— squeezing around Draco’s prick. The other boy shot right off at the clench, his own hole tightening. Harry had never had an orgasm quite like it before. It ripped a deep wail from his chest.
Draco fared no better, gasping and mewling like a kitten. He wriggled and twitched, as if trying to wring every speck of love out of Harry’s prick that he could.
When it was over, they sat there, heaving— sunken against one another, unwilling to withdraw until absolutely necessary.
Eventually they toppled onto their sides, Harry rearranging them so that he was resting his chin on Draco’s chest.
Draco deactivated the mirror and let it fall somewhere into the disheveled bedding.
“You’re so beautiful,” Harry said.
Draco always was, but the particular glaze of bliss that drooped his eyelids and the dewdrops of sweat glittering in the divets that gathered them were the makings of a masterpiece. Harry would hang him on his wall, if given the chance.
Draco smiled, and while it was still in a way, guarded, it was softer than any Harry had ever received from him.
Fuck— he was in deep.
“You aren’t half bad, for a Gryffindor,” Draco said. “Doesn’t hurt that you're hung like a Hippogriff.”
Harry laughed and bit the soft pudge of his pectoral. Draco wriggled, but didn’t try to stop him as he made his way along, marking a path of his favorite places on Draco’s body. A nipple. A rib. The fleshy dip of his navel.
“You’re barmy,” Draco gasped as Harry took his soft prick into his mouth.
Harry sucked, hard.
Draco’s limbs all thrashed wildly, much too sensitive for that degree of attention.
Harry would blame himself for what happened next.
The mirror, so innocent, so full of potential, was sent flying from the bed, landing with a very damning crack.
They both froze— Harry letting Draco’s prick slip out of his mouth.
“No!” Draco bemoaned, rolling Harry off of him and crawling to the edge of the bed to look down at the mirror.
Glass was scattered across the floor.
“Fuck,” Harry groaned. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Never apologize for sucking my prick, Potter.”
“But your… your thing!”
“It’s called a Love Bridge, actually.”
Harry blinked rapidly and scrunched his brow.
“Really? That’s awful.”
“I didn’t fucking name it!”
Harry started to feel a bit silly sitting there cross-legged beside Draco, the both of them starkers.
“Now what?” he asked.
Draco shrugged and settled back down against the pillow.
“I’m sure we will manage to keep it interesting somehow.”
“You want to keep doing this?” Harry asked, and then immediately considered hexing himself when Draco’s shoulder’s stiffened.
“I mean, I wasn’t sure if you’d be interested,” he added hastily. “In me, that is.”
Defenestration was starting to sound like a reasonable option.
Draco scowled. Harry missed that soft smile from earlier. He hoped he could bring it back somehow.
“Do you think the mirror is the only reason we had sex?” Draco asked.
Harry’s eyebrows shot up.
“Okay, yes, it certainly forced our hands, but Potter…”
Draco sat up and rested his chin on Harry’s shoulder— whispered the sweet words into his ear.
“All you had to do was ask.”
Harry had to kiss him. Did kiss him, until he had Draco sprawled out beneath him and his exploratory lips.
“It’s quite a shame,” Draco murmured. “I hadn’t even had the chance to fuck myself with it.”
Harry nearly choked on his own tongue.
“What?” he gasped. “We need to fix this! I need to see you do that!”
Draco snickered, wrapping his arms tightly around Harry’s shoulders.
“Who said I’d let you watch?”
“I did.”
“Fuck,” Draco moaned. “Fuck yeah, I’d let you watch.”
Two years later
Harry nearly blasted out of the damn floo like the devil himself was on his heels. Even the pages of the book Draco was reading fluttered with the grandiose entrance.
“Draco!” Harry shouted, as if he weren’t ten feet away, draped along the chaise.
“Darling, please. Grimmauld is only so big. Must you shout so?”
Whatever had Harry’s wand in a twist certainly piqued Draco’s interests, though he’d be damned if he let him know that.
“I have the best anniversary gift for you,” Harry said, very seriously.
The magma in his eyes promised Draco that what he said was true. He was brimming under that predatory gaze.
“Well? Don’t keep us all waiting, Potter,” he said, straightening up. “What is it?”
Harry pulled out a small satchel from his back pocket and handed it to Draco, who tore into it faster than he would ever admit.
And there it was. The Love Bridge, as he recalled, with its intricate golden framework and promising glass.
“Fuck, Harry. Where did you find it?”
“Let’s say now we both owe Pansy our souls,” Harry said.
“Shame. That’ll be such a boring afterlife.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that.” Harry’s smile turned wicked suddenly. “Now I believe if my memory serves me, that you were going to fuck yourself while I watched.”
“Right now?” Draco pretended to lament, closing his book.
“Right now.”
It was the hottest thing Draco had done in months. How easy it was in a long term relationship for the sex to level itself out. Most nights they cuddled more than fondled, and their recent lovemakings were just that, lovemakings. Sweet and endearing, slow and adoring.
This was not that. This was Draco, leaning on the headrest of his and Harry’s queen while Harry himself sat on an ottoman at the foot of the bed, watching.
He watched Draco like he was a filthy magazine— like his eyes could not be satiated as they swept his body desperately. Draco was already a mess, being able to finger himself open with such ease, finding an angle he had never quite been able to accomplish alone before. His prick was as stiff as a broomstick.
He tried to prepare himself mentally for what he was about to do.
When the head of his prick popped through his hole, a rush like arctic waters raced up his spine. Draco’s eyes crossed. He felt like a conduit. He felt incredible.
Deeper into himself he went, trying to stumble on that spot that made his lights go out. In. In. Fuck, he was sinking— capsizing. Humans weren’t supposed to ever feel this, he decided, as he finally bottomed out.
“Look at you,” Harry whispered.
Draco wished he could. He wanted to see what Harry saw in him.
He tried to move. Fuck, did he try to move. But every twitch, every minute thrust was so intense he thought he might die before he even had the chance to come. His rhythm was anything but, it was erratic and clumsy. His hips weren’t moving the way they were supposed to. Like gravity itself had been displaced by the magic at play.
Harry saw him struggling. Harry always saw him.
“Let me,” he whispered, crawling onto the bed.
Let him—?
“Fucking Salazar. Fuck!” Draco screamed when Harry wrapped his hand around the metal frame of the mirror and wanked Draco off like his life depended on it.
The pleasure was fiery and unbearable. He was frozen in place, unable to take a complete breath under the brutal pace.
“Now you know why you drive me crazy,” Harry said with a bit of a mad look in his eyes. “Your hole is the best there it is. It’s Nirvana.”
Draco had devolved into screaming— gasping, while Harry helped him like a jackhammer.
“You’re doing so well, Kitten.”
Draco choked out a sob.
“Almost there, yeah?” Harry whispered, leaning in to kiss his parted, panting lips. “You’re gonna know how good I feel when I get to come inside you.”
Then Draco came. He came, and he blacked out from the rebounding force of it.
When he woke, Harry was kissing him, whispering little praises in the places where he landed.
“You looked possessed,” he said.
“I felt possessed,” Draco mumbled, trying to gather his bearings.
“I need to fuck your face.”
Draco still managed to moan, despite feeling on the precipice of death.
“You’re incorrigible,” he hummed, letting Harry straddle his chest.
Harry guided the head of his prick to kiss Draco’s lips. He looked at Draco the way he always did, like he was a beautiful challenge, and Harry played to win.
He really owed the world to that stupid toy.