Word Count: 6,000+/-
Warning(s): (highlight to read)* AU; EWE; total PWP; creeping crack; Pro-Quidditch Players!Harry & Draco *
Disclaimer: This piece of art or fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offence is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.
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"You have got to be fucking joking me!" Draco exclaimed, peering over Harry's shoulder at the glossy image centered on the backlit editing table. "I look like a bloody vampire!"
"Oh, now," Harry replied, peaceably, "it's not so bad. It's rather, er... hot, actually."
"Hot?! How d'you mean, 'hot'?! I'm a bloody vampire in the midst of a buggering nervous breakdown there, Harry-look at me! How can you even think that's 'hot'? That's atrocious!"
"Your shirt's open, see?" Harry pointed this out, his forefinger resting on the sculpted flesh revealed by Draco's gaping shirt. Image-Draco turned his head briefly and glared at Harry through his red-rimmed eyes. Harry grinned at him. "I like that part. And you look all wall-eyed and desperately romantic, with your jaw clenched. I like that, too. Reminds me of things."
"Yes? So!?" Draco was not at all appeased by this possible compliment. "I'm a tawdry mess, Potter, that's what. I don't look 'desperately romantic' at all-I look harassed! There's nothing good about it! You know what, Harry? That's it! I've had enough of these-these horrible attempts at decent portraiture!" He flung a hand out at the collection. "I'm going to demand a retake! From a professional, this time."
"But, I do like it, Draco," Harry said, reasonably, turning his head so that he could look up into his lover's furious orbs, which were not, in actuality, at all bloodshot. They were a pure, clear grey; the colour of water and sky, and full of light. Harry assumed a pleading expression, widening his own iconic green eyes in precisely the way that always had his lover giving in to his wishes-eventually. "Really, I do. Lots. You're very fit, here. Very fit."
Draco's gaze-just as intense, really, as the one in the potential cover photo-darted from Harry's artfully quirked brows and just-parted lips to the emotionally charged image of the two of them Rita Skeeter had arranged to have taken; one of the many to choose from, intended to decorate the cover of the new, sure-to-be-an-instant bestseller 'reveal-all' book, Obsession.
"You don't say?" he drawled, all angry upset vanished in a twinkling, as it appeared that Potter was indeed quite serious in his statement. That particularly disturbing (for Draco's peace of mind) glint of sexual interest in that startling bright stare had not a thing to do with the instant upswing of his mood-or so Draco Malfoy would've solemnly sworn, under the influence of Veritaserum.
Not. A. Thing.
"I do say," Harry replied softly. He tipped his chin in that way he had; Draco's breath hitched. "I say you're the best thing in my life, Draco Malfoy, and one incredibly sexy ex-Death Eater, and that Witches and Wizards everywhere will be wanking themselves off repeatedly over this photo of you." Harry crowded up to him and nudged Draco's shoulder with his own, which brought them even closer. Draco automatically slid an arm around his companion, though he still gazed in an abstracted manner at the controversial photo. The image-Harry winked saucily at Draco when he noticed he was being eye-balled. "...And, in a really weird and awful way, I'll get to watch; ew!" Harry added softly, but his lover didn't seem to catch that last aside-fortunately.
"Then tell me, Harry," Draco asked him, in his smooth, cultured voice, the one that poured over Harry's nerve endings like heavy cream nearly every single time he used it, soothing them into sweet pliability, "do enlighten me, please, as to why you look as cool as the proverbial viney veg in this photo? Singularly unaffected by my terribly 'fit' presence hovering at your shoulder? Surely, Harry, one would expect you to be needlessly emoting, or perhaps waving your wand about insanely and pointing it at my vitals, oh, Saviour of the Wizarding World. Is that not what you do best?"
"Slag," Harry shot back, eyes narrowed, but he was quietly chuckling. "Which wand are you referring to, Draco?" he added, archly.
"Prick," Draco replied, clearly not paying attention to the calibre of their usual exchange-of-insults. "Answer the question. Why do you get to be so unemotional here? That's so not like you, Potter. It should me, by rights; I'm the cool one."
Harry had ended up tucked securely into Draco's arms whilst they conversed, his spine coming to rest comfortably against the other man's torso. Draco's long fingers played absentmindedly across his belly and groin in a very distracting manner, fiddling with his waistcoat buttons and his belt loops, and Harry swallowed against a suddenly parched throat. He was certain Draco was up to his old tricks: fighting dirty, leading him away from what was important.
"I'm assured, that's all. Very, uh, assured," he stated, determined to be the winner at their game of wills. The image-Harry nodded in agreement and the two of them shared a secretive glance-and an eye-roll at Malfoy's innate pigheadedness. "Persistent. Goal-oriented. Confident, even," he added, for his own nefarious purposes of distraction.
"Pfft! Wanker!" Draco scoffed, ignoring any frivolous by-play going on between Harry and image-Harry, and pressing a hot palm against real-Harry's dick, hidden currently behind his suiting, which in turn perked up noticeably at the attention. "That's hardly as I remember it, Potter! You were most certainly not confident at that crucial moment of Voldemort-ending, not to my recollection! Pull the other one, Potter-do!"
"Well...no, maybe not entirely 'confident', per se," Harry admitted, and the image-Harry had the grace to look a bit shamefaced. "But I was very determined, wasn't I? And that counts for something," he concluded decisively, "being determined." He pressed a tiny passing kiss into Draco's jacketed upper arm for emphasis, and Draco instinctively tightened his grip, till they were one solid mass of handsome, young, powerful Wizard, done up in the very best of Saville Row. "I am," Harry continued, frowning slightly at Draco's elbow, "for that matter, rather determined now."
"Cease your endless flirting, Potter," Draco murmured in Harry's ear. "It's pointless." There was a definite and undeniable bulge to be felt in his form-fitted black trousers, though, which rather contradicted that assertion. "We must decide whether we'll be allowing this specific abomination to be viewed by your ever-adoring public or whether we shall request new ones to be taken. Pay attention."
"I've no problem with it," Harry smiled. Image-Harry raised a fist in silent victory, whilst image-Draco glared at them all, scowling. "I, erm, rather like it, as I've said. Twice now, Draco. It's a bloody hot photo of you."
"You are 'hot', most certainly, though I'd enjoy wiping that sanctimonious expression right off your picture's face, Potter," Draco agreed, leaning forward to examine it again and appearing mildly irked when image-Harry stuck his tongue out at him and flipped him a two-fingered salute. Image-Draco watched that with amusement, but he'd apparently already either made the decision as to which side his bread was buttered on or decided to stay out of on general Slytherin principle, as he made no move to either berate or defend little image-Harry.
"Maybe I will, now that I think of it," real-Draco went on, thoughtfully, his pointy chin digging into Harry's clavicle. That motion naturally led him to open his jaw across the breadth of Harry's left shoulder, which he promptly bit, viciously. Quirking his brows at Harry's instantaneous hip-grind and the groan he barely stifled, Draco withdrew a step, allowing a space to grow between them, certain that Harry would retaliate. But Harry's smaller form followed him immediately, sticking close again, removing any possibility of the 'space' growing. He glared at Draco over the abused shoulder and shrugged, miffed.
"Stop it, Draco," he whinged, but Draco majestically ignored him, looking over the other photos taped to the table.
"I'll ask for a re-do for me, then; as that's what's required," Draco announced with barely a pause, for all the world as if he didn't notice his school rival from Day One was snuggling cozily in his arms, and cocked his head once more to stare contemplatively at the disputed image of himself, mourning silently the ruffled hair, the dark circles and the wan complexion. He looked ghastly, Draco decided; as if he hadn't slept for days on end. The world needed to be spared this version of him; there were plenty of other photos to choose from, including the rather decent one stuck to the uppermost corner of light table, which pictured the two of them seated demurely in armchairs, looking attentive, their hands clasped across the surface of a whatnot table. Some fool had labeled it 'Cute, but boring', the dastard.
Harry humphed, and opened his mouth in what turned out to be another abortive protest, as Draco was already speaking. One manicured fingernail tapped at the word 'Obsession'.
"You know, Potter, this one is utter rubbish but you, amazingly, show up well enough in it. You're even rather dapper and presentable in that Muggle getup of yours. You'll do." That was a compliment par excellence, at least coming from Draco Malfoy. He so rarely approved Harry's usual garb, it was an actual physical shock when he did so.
"Will I?" Harry sharply lifted his cleft chin in minor irritation, peeping up at the patrician features of the man wrapped about him like Sellotape on a Christmas parcel. "Glad to hear you've no objections-but I like this image just as it is, Draco. So--no alterations; no re-dos; no take-backs. I want this one."
Image-Harry did a little 'Huzzah!'-silently. Image-Draco folded his lips tightly and returned to staring off at some ghastly vision, still in 'desperately romantic' mode.
Draco's brows climbed into an arrogant slash and his chin, in seasoned response, firmed pugnaciously. "Harry..." he started, warning clear in his tone. "Potter-"
Harry instantly ground his arse back into Draco's bits and rubbed his cheeks against them; quite, quite deliberately. Draco gasped at his boldness but continued doggedly on to object, "Potter, not to be overly vain or anything like, but I look as though I've been pulled through a hedge backwards, honestly, and I will not-"
With lightning-fast reflexes, Harry whipped his head around and snogged Draco's protesting mouth, shutting it up nicely. Within seconds, his guerilla-style saliva assault was over. It left the Malfoy scion gaping stupidly.
"-have it...." Having managed to close his jaw after a long, tense moment, Draco finished his sentence, his tone considerably mellowed. "Er. Happen. Like that, I meant."
"Think of it this way, Malfoy," Harry purred, not for moment letting go of his newly gained advantage, "if we stay for yet another retake, we'll be late for luncheon, and if we're late for luncheon, then there's no time to, er, relax and unwind before the interview with Witch Weekly, is there? Let it stand as is. You look fit."
Harry shifted his arse about again, to very positive effect. He even went so far as to snag Draco's hand in his own and press their twined fingers against his groin, caressing.
"Uh," Draco replied, eloquently. He blinked several times, rapidly, spine going rigid, and swallowed with visible effort, and both image-Wizards in the centre photo hustled forward so fast they practically fell out of their frame, shoving past the block of print to get a better view of what the 'real thing' looming over them were up to. Image-Draco licked his lips at he assessed real-Harry's meaningful wriggle. He snuck a speculative sideways glance at image-Harry.
Real-Harry, taking advantage of his partner's glazed-over inattention, insinuated busy fingers into Draco's parted flies, having apparently unfastened them with some sort of sleight-of-hand whilst no one was looking; the digits of the other were removed from Draco's and applied instead to Draco's hip and flank, where they began rubbing continuously up and down, smoothing the fine-gauge wool against the heating skin hidden underneath.
"Hum? Right," Draco gulped, startling out of whatever private 'happy place' he'd been for the moment. "Er-right!" He swallowed again and attempted to reclaim his famous furious glare. "Stop that, you little cocktease! I'm not about to walk out of the Prophet with a boner!"
Harry pressed closer into Draco's loosened clutches, never removing his hand from his lover's now wide-open flies and the thrusting flesh they no longer managed to contain. Draco, Harry knew, never wore pants if he could help it; when he did, they were pure silk, and Harry had no objection to either. Both options had their points in favour.
Draco swayed, his knees beginning to buckle under the assiduous attention. Harry chuckled, pleased.
The various many image-Wizards 'Wooted!' uproariously-even some of the Dracos-and cheered Harry on, inaudibly.
"We can Apparate, you know," he suggested calmly, sliding a furtive wink at his tiny brothers-in-wands. "You are a Wizard-remember, Draco?"
"I'll give you Wizard, Potter," Draco threatened, his jaw doing that 'desperately romantic' thing. He gathered himself together by sheer force of will, inflicting injury in return for insult, via the heinous act of capturing Harry's earlobe with his teeth and nipping it- smartly. Snarling, with his upper lip curled just so-a look that truly became him, no matter how he furiously he objected-he spoke through the succulent mouthful, his voice muffled by Harry's hair, currently neatly styled but still quite abundant. Harry shivered in helpless response and sighed.
"I'll give you wand, too!" Draco threatened, letting go the abused flesh. "In fact, I'll shag you right here, right on their sodding light-table, Chosen One, if you insist on keeping up this infernal badinage of yours," Draco stated, clearly meaning business. "You do realize you've absolutely no sense of place or timing, you irritating plebe. No proper grasp of manners," Draco chided, his forehead pressed hard against Harry's as he twisted his body ever closer; so close, in fact, Harry nearly went cross-eyed. "At all. Pernicious git."
Image-Draco appeared to approve of real-Draco's actions. He nodded and nearly elbowed image-Harry off the invisible surface he reclined on so as to watch the proceedings more closely. Image-Harry good-naturedly slid his dapper arse over, making room, and he seemed very pleased, in general, but no one in particular noticed that.
Real-Harry nipped Draco's chin, which brought their mouths well within reasonable snogging distance. "I'm good with that," he allowed, agreeably, blandly accepting the slur on his decorum, or lack thereof. "With both, really. We can christen it; you know, the 'Chosen Cover'? Rita will be so pleased to find it marked up like that. Better than an approval stamp."
"Bugger Rita." Draco had let go of Harry's earlobe and was now sucking vigorously on the freshly exposed skin of his neck, one hand holding Harry's shirt collar and tie out of the way. He exerted more force to make his point, liberally employing teeth, and Harry lost his faintly superior expression altogether, moaning as he was ravaged, his features slackening as a wave of solid lust in the form of the other ace Falmouth Chaser tumbled into him, literally staggering him sideways.
"Bugger your approval stamps," Draco went on sternly and methodically, "whatever they are. And bugger you, you irritating twat! Always getting your own way, aren't you, stupid Chosen One?" he demanded, but he didn't come across as being terribly upset about that; in fact, he appeared rather delighted with the prospect, as if he might wish to encourage it. "Terminally selfish," Draco observed, punctuating the words with a forgiving kiss.
"Arse." And another, full of tongue and the implicit invitation to be naughty. He'd grabbed at Harry's jaw to hold him in place, and bent his entire will to the act, so that Harry's answering hiss of annoyance evaporated into tiny gasps of panting steam.
"Hole," Draco finished, a firm hand gripping the arse in question, with a long and questing middle finger dipping perilously close to the Chosen One's orifice. Satisfied with his endeavours to unbalance his long-time Hogwarts rival and current squeeze, Draco smiled happily down at what was indeed a derailed Potter, wriggling fitfully in his confining arms, rather obviously no longer thinking of potential book cover choices.
"Please!" Harry's hands were already active on Draco's belt, his waistcoat, his buttons, pushing and shoving frantically. He got them out of his way more through inspired fumbling more than anything else. "Yes!" Harry anchored a damp palm around Draco's exposed length and began pulling, using his other arm to pin the taller man so he couldn't suddenly shift away.
Draco was instantly hoist in his own petard, appropriately enough. He groaned under the welcome touch of slim fingers and hastily Episky'd roughened knuckles that betrayed Harry's day job: Quidditch professional extraordinaire.
"Aungh...oh, that's nice," Draco mumbled, and closed his eyes in pure appreciation. "Um."
Evidently, the act of exposing Malfoy to further acts of sedition and seduction allowed a canny Potter to regain his concentration. He smiled at Draco's rumpled shirtfront and paisley waistcoat, and it was a truly dangerous smile indeed.
"I do rather think you should be making me pay, Malfoy, for all these insults to your person," Harry invited, having now thoroughly retrieved more than his fair share of the upper hand. Malfoy's knees were buckling.
"I deserve it, don't I? For being rude and plebian and ill-bred? Don't you have to get me back for all that? Torment me?"
Harry stepped back, taking Draco with him by main force and his unrelenting grip on Draco's dick, and propped his waist against the convenient edge of the light table. In one smooth swoop, he leaned back over the large white surface behind him, strewn about with various potential covers for their upcoming joint biography, all red-wax penciled with editor's comments, such as 'This one's sooo adorable!' and 'OMG! Definite Witch pleaser! Ten out of ten!' And, in the farthest most corner, the damned by faint praise photo: "Cute, but just so ditchwater dull.'
"You know you do so love getting back at me, Malfoy," he went on mercilessly, palming Draco's tightening scrotum. "You know--punishing me for being such a prat and an all 'round gormless Gryffindor?" Harry murmured, his low tone all about challenge-and cock teasing. Malfoy, Harry reflected breathlessly, had managed to teach him a few things over the years; tricks he could put to good use on occasion. "I do think I deserve it; at least this time, don't you? I believe you may very well have to teach me that lesson you keep promising-in manners, Malfoy."
Malfoy groaned, swaying, and glared at Harry through half-slitted eyes.
"Do tell, Draco," Harry chivvied him. "I'm more than ready."
Draco growled, not admitting anything to anyone, but his actions spoke for him, loudly enough. He pressed forward, forcing Harry the rest of the short distance down, so that his opponent came to rest, his blue-black hair a dark silky cloud feathering across the brilliantly back-lit white glossy surface, his eyes all aglitter with possibilities in the bright light that filled the editing room.
With a shared gasp of horror, image-Harry and image-Draco had hurriedly bolted for the edges of their frame when Harry's spine had first begun its inevitable descent. Now they finally disappeared from the photo's confines altogether, leaving only the caption floating lonely in a curling grey mist:
The Death Eater
The Chosen One
Two different men,
Sharing one enduring...
By Rita Skeeter
Had either of the real Wizards present been paying any attention to this cowardly retreat, they'd have caught image-Draco's departing thumbs-up gesture and image-Harry's lingering smirk of satisfaction. As it was, Malfoy and Potter were...obsessed...with an entirely different topic.
Draco segued easily into full out Molest-Potter mode, ripping Harry's pants down his slim hips with fierce hands and a wandless spell or two, hissed sotto voce. Harry willingly eased his bum up and onto the smooth white surface of the table, spreading his thighs readily as they were freed, all the while determinedly drawing Draco's twisting body down on top of him, and locking their lips as soon as Draco had his own hips bared and his trousers dragged far enough below his jutting cock to allow for action.
"Fucking do it faster, Potter!" Draco bitched at him, mid-segue, when Harry's belt jangled, catching in an inconvenient trouser loop. "I can't get at you!" He waved his hawthorn wand one last time before it clattered carelessly down onto the light table, Vanishing Harry's charcoal-grey woolen suit pants altogether and smearing them both liberally with lube simultaneously. "I want at you!"
"You do it now, Draco!" Harry hissed right back, nearly falling into Parseltongue from sheer frustration and irritably wrenching Draco's vest completely apart, sending pearl-grey buttons pinging around the high stools, scribbled-upon whiteboards and the other various accoutrements of the book-editing process. Wax pencils went flying; rulers were knocked askew; closely inscribed parchments slid off a nearby filing cabinet in a tiny paper tornado. "Now, you fucker! It's not like I haven't been asking for this! Enough of your decorum shite, already!"
Draco snorted and tore his hands from Harry's shoulders and hips, where they'd been occupied with shoving, and grabbed at his newly exposed knees instead. He brought them up all in one rapid motion that slammed Harry's head onto the surface of the table nearly hard enough to do them both damage. Harry was consequently tipped completely off-balance, his weight bearing down upon the small of his back; his arse cheeks prised wide open and dotted pink with darkening finger-marks, and Draco thrust his already pulsating pelvis forward with a blisteringly violent vengeance, jabbing in the general direction of Harry's arsehole, and then finding it nearly by accident-or perhaps the familiarity of a very long and intimate acquaintance. His unlubed cock followed through without a pause, dragging a rusty groan out of them both as it slotted in, sideswiping Harry's prostate on its rapid journey past.
"AH!" they shouted, nearly as one. "Fuck you, Potter!" Draco added, for good measure. "Bastard git!" Harry yelled, and curved his hands into talons across the straining reaches of Draco's shoulder blades as he shoved himself upright for better balance.
"Ngh!" Harry muttered after a moment, wiggling insanely to adjust himself to the rapid invasion. "Ah-umm...um, um, ummmm." He hummed himself into comfort, finding his mental centre as Malfoy began the inevitable slow withdrawal of his cock from Harry's gut.
All about them on the surface of the glowing plastic-topped table, the remaining images of much smaller Harrys and Dracos, or at least those not in immediate danger of wrinkling, squashing or worse, jostled forward in their black-lined frames, their bodies bumping and butting close together, their hands and mouths moving rapidly on each other's parts. The 'Witch pleaser!' picture's Wizards had already stripped naked and were busily sucking each other off, spawled in a heap at the floor of their frame, having wisely anticipated this confrontational moment.
"Fuck!" Draco ground out again, full of ire at Harry for the unplanned assault-and too, the unwanted call back to reality by the excessively annoying images of little blond and brunet Wizards ripping off clothing and furiously preparing to bonk. "Fuck! Distracting git! You did this on purpose, Potter! We'll be late for our bloody WW appointment! I despise being late!"
"Who cares, Malfoy?" Harry was just as irate as Draco thrust forward once more, the walls of Harry's dragging and pulling against his knob. "Who gives a flying fuck!? Screw Witch Weekly! Move, you laggard arse bandit! Shag me!"
"Dying to, Potter, believe me," Draco sounded it, too. "Oh, Merlin!" He shut his eyes against the frenetic images of many smaller green and grey ones eyeballing them avidly and settled Harry's knees more firmly over his still-jacketed shoulders, taking up a jerky, jagged rhythm to begin with, then increasing in both his speed and those sly, deft brushes against the nub of pleasure inside Harry as he went along.
"Oh! Oh, Draco!" Harry appreciated that thoughtful gesture, or it certainly appeared that way. His lids lowered heavily once or twice before they drifted shut altogether and he pushed his hips forward eagerly to meet Draco's every onward thrust. "Oh, fuck me!"
"Salazar, yes!" Draco replied, his fingernails biting ever more deeply where they gripped at Harry's hipbones and the ripe swell of his Quidditch-defined arse. "I'll roger you, Potter!" he promised fervently. "Good and well!"
The tabletop they sprawled across was smeared liberally with stray sweat and spare lube-and photos of shagging Wizards. All the many image-Dracos and image-Harrys were in various states of undress around them, their avid, greedy eyes now turned only on each other, and voyeurism was no longer an issue, even if one was only being viewed by one's miniaturized magical projection. Draco paid none of them heed, in any case; he had his eyes closed in bliss, hammering hard and rhythmically into Harry's quivering bum, dragging it forward to meet his cock with an practiced, automatic motion that had Harry's mouth gaping repeatedly and a thin stream of drool running down one cheek as he blindly tossed his head.
"Please! Please-please-please, Draco!" Harry pleaded, sliding to and fro on the slippery surface as Draco buggered him mercilessly. "Harder! Harder! I want more!"
"Give...you...harder!" Draco swore, and took that as a cue to really throw himself into it, so that the table shook on its metal underpinnings and miscellaneous objects danced 'round the room in magical spill-over. "Give...you...more! Bugger you into fucking bloody Sunday, Potter!"
Draco's wand hit the floor in the mêlée and bounced once before it fell flat, unnoticed.
Harry moaned and twisted and shimmied his bared torso in excitement, striving to take yet more of that delightfully, sinfully hard cock into his aching, needy arse. "Gods, yes...do it, Draco; oh, do it!" he whimpered, and Draco finally opened his eyes, only to fix them stolidly on Harry's slackened jaw and hypnotically dreamy expression. He tore a hand from Harry's waist and grabbed frantically at his lover's swollen, bobbing cock as a mere afterthought, apparently working solely on auto-pilot. He pulled on it, his fingers trembling but very firm, and attempted to match precisely the pulse of his cock in Harry's flushed and fluttering entrance.
"Fu-fu-fuck!" Harry cried out, in mindless ecstasy. "Oh, gods! Oh, Merlin! Come-oh, please come, Draco," he moaned, "Please, please come!" One of his own hands fumbled to cover Draco's slimy one where it jerked and yanked; the other scrabbled for purchase on the slippery table so that he could arch himself as deeply as possible into the narcotic slam-and-drag of Draco's dick. "Come for me, Draco!" he ordered, testosterone-fuelled triumph elbowing aside wimpy pleading when he caught a passing glimpse at Draco's twisted, imploring features.
"Argh!" Draco clenched his own professional Quidditch-toned arsecheeks and his picture-perfect teeth, as well, as he barreled forward and back, baring them grimly in a fearsome rictus of his usual suave smile. He was by this time far more undone that he'd ever been in the disputed photo: tie dragged askew, shirt tails flapping, pale locks pulled every which way by Harry's questing fingertips and designer pants sagging forlornly 'round his silk-socked ankles. "Ugh! Ahn-ahn-AH! Merlin-fucking-damn-it-all! Harry!"
Draco's movements became but a blur of blond and black; white flesh flushed, splotched hot and red; stormy eyes wild; his palm greased slick with Harry's precum, overflowing; his pelvis shoving and retreating at top speed as he battered Harry's flinching arse again and again, which in turn sent his keening lover into a penultimate wordless curve of reaction, the whole of his slender body racked at every joint and levitating a full foot or more off the table, deliriously seeking his full due of so-called 'punishment'. It was as if the young ex-Death Eater had spelled the impetuous Hero under an Imperius to come at his bidding-harder ever than he'd come before, in this lifetime.
"Shite! I'm c-coming!" Harry screamed, "Draco-I'm coming!" and did just that, all over Draco's incredibly costly jacket and vest, the underside of his pointy chin, the besmirched light table and the squeaky linoleum floor, the thick liquid spattering softly as it decorated whatever immediate area not already sticky and smeared. A few stray photos got it, too, 'round the square-cut edges, but their inhabitants never noticed, being similarly occupied.
Indeed, all about Draco and Harry, one could nearly hear the tinny cries of the many image-Wizards finding their own separate completions. Some had utilized the oversized caption words as a sturdy surface for vertical shagging; others had ignored them or shoved them aside altogether in a messy jumble, and were humping madly on the undefined flat surface small Harry had been seated on before this weird image-orgy began. Various sated 'desperately fit' Dracos wearing mussed black clothing dominated every scene, wide shoulders shielding image-Harrys' half-naked and well-used states from the general view; excepting, of course, in those few photos wherein both participants had disappeared out of sight altogether, taking their prurient activities beyond the bounds of their frames. Tiny blissed-out Harrys flopped, lounged and sagged, weak legs collapsing under image-Draco's falling weights, blushing bums smeared shiny pink with perspiration and silvery streaks of Wizarding lube, dribbling miniature white streams of image-Draco ejaculate down their quivering thighs. The smell of satiation was rank and musky, bitter and utterly overwhelming, rising up to mix in with the elusive scent of real-Draco's exclusive cologne and then wavering almost visibly as a cloud vapor under the concerted beams of the reflective sconce-lights that filled the stark, utilitarian-white purpose room.
"Harry..." Malfoy sighed. 'Harry..."
"Draco," Harry returned feebly, a reedy breath of satisfaction that didn't quite achieve true audibility.
It was a supremely erotic picture: gilded semi-naked youths, each in the prime of their young lives and undeniably physically beautiful, heedlessly half-garbed in solemn, sober black and grey, their bodies arrayed in a sublime clinch just post-passion; their dampened red-lipped mouths and brilliant eyes-the only colours remaining in a world of knife-edged monotones, other than the already blossoming bruises across Harry's hips and arse- meeting, tasting and partaking of each other; only to meet again and again, muted but never quite parting.
Rita Skeeter would've fainted dead away with utter delight, had Divination driven her to chose that particular moment to check in with her two favoured superstar newsmakers-or, more likely , she'd have wrested a camera from a passing Creavey and captured the erotic moment for all eternity. This randy image blew the other quite out of the water, smoking hot as it truly was; sadly, irksome decency laws wouldn't allow it to be printed on the cover of a book sponsored by the doughty Daily Prophet.
"Gah!" Harry grunted eventually, pinned helplessly against the tabletop by Draco's weight. "'S'good, Draco. Get off now."
He raised his head an inch or two from where it lolled across the edges of a few abandoned photos and peered down at his lover's lint-blonde one, now dark-streaked with sweat, with little tufts sticking up in various ridiculous places. "Ver'good," he sighed again, happily replete and still quite dazed. "Still, get off."
"...Yeah," Draco agreed after the passage of a very long moment, during which he chased his breath down and successfully caught it. He opened bleary eyes to survey the wreckage but didn't immediately raise himself off Harry's warm and sodden body, choosing instead to stay relaxed and annoyingly boneless atop the limp, lightly gasping form beneath him. "Yeah, it was, wasn't it?" he affirmed confidently, grinning a kneazle-got-the-kippers smile at the opposing white-painted wall for no real reason other than he rather felt like it. "Always good with me, Potter. And you know it."
"Hmm. Very pleased with yourself, aren't you?" Harry sniped stertorously, and started shoving viciously at the parts of lolling Draco that were nearest. "Now, get off me, will you? I can't breathe," he complained. "Sodding walrus, you are. Must weigh a fucking tonne."
"All muscle," Draco acquiesced to being forcibly levered off Harry and summarily thrust over to one side of the wide working surface. Gingerly, he propped himself on an elbow and stared 'round them, still assessing the damage. The room was an appalling caricature of its previous work-a-day state. Objects had fallen this way and that; they littered the floor; the tabletop was sticky all over and the room stank of cum and persperation. "See what a friggin' mess you've gone and made, Potty-do look at this! Photos everywhere! Everything everywhere! Disgraceful!"
"Piss off, berk," Harry replied succinctly, sitting up carefully. "You're more than half to blame, not doing up your shirt properly in the first place. Told you were fit-what'd you expect?"
"Hmm," Draco didn't agree, but he didn't protest it, either. He eased himself up and off the table instead, fumbling for his pants, which had comfortably found his Italian leather loafers and were making friends there, and his precious hawthorn wand, which had rolled away in the fracas. He'd his flies and belt settled in a blink, and his shirttails tucked in neatly. His vest and jacket were shrugged back into creaseless perfection momentarily.
"Hold still," he commanded a much slower-moving Harry, who obliged, freezing in place as Draco waved his still-tacky wand, grimacing in well-heeled disgust at the oily feel of it. With a swish and a whisk the cum, sweat and lube were Vanished. Another had the photos lined up neatly, framing image-Wizards busily straightening up and doing much the same as real-Draco and real-Harry were.
Harry found his own feet eventually; albeit he was still slightly wobbly withal, enough so that he leaned gratefully against the table edge. "'Kay," he said finally, having retrieved his neatly pressed pants from where Draco had sent them earlier, spelled them on and rebuttoned his own shirt and waistcoat. "I'm voting for that one, Draco. It has a rather nice effect, overall. I think it'll be successful." He cocked an elbow at the image they'd been examining critically before they'd gotten off-topic, wordlessly daring Malfoy to object one more time.
Within it, image-Harry and image-Draco had finally deigned to return, considerably worse for wear. Image-Draco was busily setting image-Harry to rights, whilst image-Harry grinned, dodging his Draco's tidying efforts and waving his wand to spell the letters of the hovering caption straight, lining up the word 'Obsession' properly.
Real-Draco, having poked the tip of his pink tongue between his teeth whilst he retied an uncooperative Harry's tie, finally released the finished article and directed his gaze at the photo that was Rita Skeeter's pick for the cover of their collaborative work. That same photo was actually the acknowledged favourite of every single person on the publishing team, at least from what he'd heard tell from Bones and Thomas, their editors. His other, smaller self had just fallen back into his original studied pose, staring sideways off into the distance with a tortured expression on his handsome face, and Harry's image-self had returned to watching them skeptically, hands tucked casually in his pockets and shoulders easy against the frame, his expression cool and vaguely challenging...with, perhaps, the very faintest hint of his habitual grin visible only to the knowledgeable eye.
Draco allowed himself a small smile in return, and leant forward to peck his own Harry's cheek fondly. "Come on, Chosen One; you and your ex-Death Eater will be very late indeed for that pesky interview, if we don't shift our respective arses right smart. Stop mooning over romantic me and my glorious chest."
"So...that one, then? You're really alright with it, Draco?" Harry's brows rose up inquisitively as he turned smartly on his heel within Draco's loose embrace. Draco caught him closer, still reluctant to be parted more than an inch or two from Harry's person or for more than second or two at a time. His lover's answering gaze upon him was very soft and the brilliant emerald of earlier shagging had gone hazy with affectionate approval.
"That one," Draco agreed, "since you seem to be so bloody stuck on it; why I don't know, nor care to"; a most reluctant acquiescence, or perhaps it was simply that he felt required to make a tolerable show of his disapproval, real or imagined. "It does make for an excellent sales pitch; I do agree on that. Should sell millions of copies with not a single sickle spent on marketing. The orphans will be very pleased with us, I dare say."
"Wizarding folk everywhere will be more than pleased," Harry agreed, and nestled into his lover's hold, laying his cheek familiarly against Draco's narrow lapel. "How can they not, with you posing nearly naked on the cover, you Slytherin Sex God, you?"
"Hardly that," came Draco's cool reply. "Potter."
Gathering himself to Apparate them, he paused for one last look back at the compelling photo, and admired for a moment his own air of potently tragic intensity, before his eyes drifted to image-Harry's direct and inquiring gaze. He winked it and image-Harry smirked back him, lips curving, the hint of a smile much more pronounced. And undeniably...fond.
"Gittish little bugger, you are," Draco murmured, and then, loud enough to be heard clearly by real-Harry: "I always was quite photogenic, Potter. You should see my baby album."
"Prat," Harry shook his head over that, equally fondly. His eyes had drifted shut and he was totally relaxed within Draco's arms, every line speaking of trust and deep affection. That would change to a cool demeanour soon enough, when they met up with the Witch Weekly interviewer at the exclusive restaurant where Draco had booked them a table. "After luncheon it'll have to be, your precious baby album, as I'm afraid I've worked up quite a ravenous appetite with all that unplanned exercise." Harry's vocal gut rumbled in agreement and he patted it comfortably before resetting a hand on Malfoy's forearm and clutching it tightly, his body tensing up at last for the anticipated next step. "Well, hurry it up, git. Side-Along us to Antonio's," he ordered. "I'd like to get this next part over with as quickly as possible. Interviews with WW people are always a fucking monumental drag."
"Very quickly," Draco agreed promptly, with an enlightened eye towards afterwards, and firmed up his grip 'round Harry's waist. "Ready, Harry? Alright there?"
"Always ready," Harry grinned, "for you, Malfoy."
With a resounding crack, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy disappeared abruptly from Editing Room No. 3 of the Daily Prophet's newly established Bestseller department, leaving behind them a scattering of photographic images of themselves, each one more provocative and compelling than the last. But the best one-the superlative one that caught a viewer's attention and wouldn't give it up for anything-reflected two very smug image-Wizards: one blonde, tousled and with his black shirt agape across his faintly scarred chest, the other black-haired, intense and dreamy-eyed, and both snogging each other fiercely, as if they'd never, ever cease.
Madly, truly, deeply they snogged, as if somehow...obsessed.