“Harry?” Granger finally—finally!—managed to squeak out a response for the shocking actions shortly about to take place before her appalled, befuddled eyeballs. “Are you—will you—I mean, it’s Malfoy you’re…? You’re…?”
“Shagging?” Draco prompted casually. “Why yes, in fact. It would be me. So sorry to burst your bubble. Did you think it was some other bloke?”
“Yes, Ron,” Harry cut in at last, wearying of his mate’s failed attempts at articulation. “It is and now we’ll prove it to you. Ready, then?” He incanted the spell that simultaneously stretched and lubed; Draco shivered, his stomach rubbing queasily across the faded plush of the Room’s just-the-right-height sofa.
“Um, Harry…” he muttered, craning his neck to stare up into his lover’s intent visage, second thoughts popping up left and right in his nether brain, “I dunno about thi—ark!” He squawked piteously. “Ack, arsehole—watch the ramming action, damn it! That’s my—“
“Love you, babe; easy,” Harry crooned, his eyes fixed upon Draco’s rolling ones with every indication of ardour. “Breathe in, m’love. Breathe out—that’s it. I’ll take it nice and slow—“
“You—you're really—Merlin!” she panted, shifting her Muggleborn bum on the cushions ‘neath her. “That’s so—my gawd, Harry!”
“Eeep!” Weaslebee had also entered a higher altitude, where there was much less oxygen. "No, no, no," he whimpered. He sounded as though he’d huffed a great lot of the that Muggle element; hydrogen, maybe? Or perhaps had stumbled upon a nest of spiders. Harry, Draco reflected with the part of his brain not actively melting, had mentioned his best mate had a terribly difficult time with arachnoids.
Draco couldn’t help but be secretly pleased. It was his arse on show, here, and it was Potter who was shagging it. Could’ve been a bit humiliating if it weren’t that Harry’s mates were so clearly bowled over.
“Love, alright?” came the beloved voice in his ear, breathless. "Draco?"
“Um,” Draco nodded, slumping forwardl. “Um, more,” he begged. “And, er—harder. Show must—show must go on, what?”
Gallantly he raised his chin and then propped himself upon his elbows. Granger and the Weaslebee should see this, him being pummeled by their precious Potter.
If that’s what—“Ah! Ah, Harry!”—it took, he’d do it.
“Oh, love, my love…” Harry whispered sweetly, and thrust like the sodding dickens. “You—you’re just—I fucking well love you!”
“Nhgh! Nghhh! Neep!” Granger was hyperventilating, eyes popped wide and glazed over; Draco’s nipples were so distended they could poke holes through the worn fabric. “Harry? Ma-Malfoy?”
“Um—um, really, mate?!” Weaslebee was redder than any conceivable shade of red. He’d steam from his ears, practically, and he was swallowing hard, so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed like ne of those floats on a fishing pole. “Must—must you?”
“Ronaaaald?” Granger trilled suddenly, her bushy head slewing about to face her seatmate. “Oh….Ronnikins?”
Draco ignored them; he was oblivious by then to pretty much everything other than the length of Potter engorged and moving smoothly within his backside. With an extra jerk and throb the nub of Harry’s willy hit his prostate.
Draco howled, arching his throat, his head lolling.
“Po—Hah! Har-ry!” he panted. “There! Just—just there!”
“Yes, love—yes, there!” And his lover obliged him, never looking away from the sultry picture the firelight painted of one Draco Malfoy, starched white shirttails flapping about his thighs, arsecheeks spread wide, hole pierced and owned by his favourite—his only—his personal Gryffindor.
“Oh-my-Merlin-there….” he moaned, helplessy flopping about on the uncomfy ridge of the sofa back. The tufted buttons dug into his abdomen; Harry’s prick reamed him harder than hard. Draco loved it; adored it—could never not have it in his life. “Harry.”
Re: Exhibitionism/public sex.
“Harry?” Granger finally—finally!—managed to squeak out a response for the shocking actions shortly about to take place before her appalled, befuddled eyeballs. “Are you—will you—I mean, it’s Malfoy you’re…? You’re…?”
“Shagging?” Draco prompted casually. “Why yes, in fact. It would be me. So sorry to burst your bubble. Did you think it was some other bloke?”
“Ma-Ma-Ma--!” Weaselbee stuttered. “Ha-Ha-Ha! Him? It’s true, then? You’re—you’re—“
“Yes, Ron,” Harry cut in at last, wearying of his mate’s failed attempts at articulation. “It is and now we’ll prove it to you. Ready, then?” He incanted the spell that simultaneously stretched and lubed; Draco shivered, his stomach rubbing queasily across the faded plush of the Room’s just-the-right-height sofa.
“Um, Harry…” he muttered, craning his neck to stare up into his lover’s intent visage, second thoughts popping up left and right in his nether brain, “I dunno about thi—ark!” He squawked piteously. “Ack, arsehole—watch the ramming action, damn it! That’s my—“
“Love you, babe; easy,” Harry crooned, his eyes fixed upon Draco’s rolling ones with every indication of ardour. “Breathe in, m’love. Breathe out—that’s it. I’ll take it nice and slow—“
“Ha-ha-hardly slow, Ha-Har-Harry!” Draco squeaked.
Granger also squeaked.
“You—you're really—Merlin!” she panted, shifting her Muggleborn bum on the cushions ‘neath her. “That’s so—my gawd, Harry!”
“Eeep!” Weaslebee had also entered a higher altitude, where there was much less oxygen. "No, no, no," he whimpered. He sounded as though he’d huffed a great lot of the that Muggle element; hydrogen, maybe? Or perhaps had stumbled upon a nest of spiders. Harry, Draco reflected with the part of his brain not actively melting, had mentioned his best mate had a terribly difficult time with arachnoids.
Draco couldn’t help but be secretly pleased. It was his arse on show, here, and it was Potter who was shagging it. Could’ve been a bit humiliating if it weren’t that Harry’s mates were so clearly bowled over.
“Love, alright?” came the beloved voice in his ear, breathless. "Draco?"
“Um,” Draco nodded, slumping forwardl. “Um, more,” he begged. “And, er—harder. Show must—show must go on, what?”
Gallantly he raised his chin and then propped himself upon his elbows. Granger and the Weaslebee should see this, him being pummeled by their precious Potter.
If that’s what—“Ah! Ah, Harry!”—it took, he’d do it.
“Oh, love, my love…” Harry whispered sweetly, and thrust like the sodding dickens. “You—you’re just—I fucking well love you!”
“Nhgh! Nghhh! Neep!” Granger was hyperventilating, eyes popped wide and glazed over; Draco’s nipples were so distended they could poke holes through the worn fabric. “Harry? Ma-Malfoy?”
“Um—um, really, mate?!” Weaslebee was redder than any conceivable shade of red. He’d steam from his ears, practically, and he was swallowing hard, so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed like ne of those floats on a fishing pole. “Must—must you?”
“Ronaaaald?” Granger trilled suddenly, her bushy head slewing about to face her seatmate. “Oh….Ronnikins?”
Draco ignored them; he was oblivious by then to pretty much everything other than the length of Potter engorged and moving smoothly within his backside. With an extra jerk and throb the nub of Harry’s willy hit his prostate.
Draco howled, arching his throat, his head lolling.
“Po—Hah! Har-ry!” he panted. “There! Just—just there!”
“Yes, love—yes, there!” And his lover obliged him, never looking away from the sultry picture the firelight painted of one Draco Malfoy, starched white shirttails flapping about his thighs, arsecheeks spread wide, hole pierced and owned by his favourite—his only—his personal Gryffindor.
“Oh-my-Merlin-there….” he moaned, helplessy flopping about on the uncomfy ridge of the sofa back. The tufted buttons dug into his abdomen; Harry’s prick reamed him harder than hard. Draco loved it; adored it—could never not have it in his life. “Harry.”