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Catch the Snitch (No, Catch My Heart)

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Draco secretly loved when Harry lost a match.

He shouldn’t. Not when they’ve been closer to lovers than enemies for the past few months, but it's hard not to, really. Harry’s the sorest loser he’s ever met, and whenever his fingers fail to close around the snitch for the Appleby Arrows, he comes to Draco’s flat and fucks him. Draco loves it, craves the feeling of being split open by Harry's huge cock, watching the tension bleed out of him with each earth-shattering thrust. He also cannot help but adore the way Harry always comes back to him—to his flat, to fuck him, of all people. It’s a high that leaves Draco feeling luckier than Felix Felicis.

Draco likes to think of these nights as celebrating a loss, and tonight, if he’d heard the Wireless correctly, they’d be throwing a goddamn party for the massive upset that would have the Arrows out for the season.

Harry heads straight for the bath once he’s apparated into Draco’s flat. He’s just come back from the match, mud-streaked and dripping in sweat. He doesn’t bother to say hello to Draco, or perhaps he doesn't even notice him—too caught up in his head to bother. Harry’s always in a huge strop when he’s just lost.

He follows him into the bedroom, allowing his eyes to snag on the way the other man’s back muscles shift with every step, pulling his Quidditch uniform tight against the broad expanse of his shoulders. His eyes can’t help but drift down towards the deliciously round curve of Harry’s arse, fixating on the hypnotic sway of his hips as he makes his way towards the other room.

Draco lingers in the doorway and watches as Harry runs a bath. The other man spells the hot water to flow wandlessly, a powerful flick-of-the-wrist that has billows of steam blurring the bathroom’s clean-cut marble edges and a shiver running down Draco’s spine. Another wave of his hand has all of the candles casting the room in a dim, flickering gold.

He begins to undress, his back to Draco, movements short and pragmatic and unbearably slow. Draco, tortured within time’s grasp, merely watches as Harry takes off his clothes with an excruciating slowness. First, he unlaces his boots, slips out of his socks, bending at the hips and allowing the swell of his arse to strain obscenely against the supple leather of his trousers. Then, he’s lifting off his jersey, arms flexing as they reveal a vast expanse of skin, solid abs and muscled shoulders. His Quidditch leathers are next. They're so tight that he has to inch them down, exposing the light that gleams off the jut of his hip bone, the thick bulge of his cock, the light dusting of dark hair that runs down his toned thighs.

He gets in, finally, and Draco, now ripe with searing arousal, lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, eyes caught on sinewy limbs, watching the way the water makes them glisten. Harry’s eyes flutter closed, the stiffness written into the line of his jaw and fury pressed into the furrow of his brow slipping away under the balm of scalding water. His gaze slides over the swell of Harry’s arms, the thickness of his thighs, the shadows that gather in the contours of his abs. He’s particularly transfixed by Harry’s cock: curved against his thigh and half-hard, its rosy head peeking out of its foreskin.

One of Harry’s hands sneaks downward toward his cock, long fingers curling around his length under the water. It is at this moment that Draco can no longer help himself. He steps forward into the room, allowing his shoes to echo loudly on the tiled floor. Harry’s eyes slant over to his for a moment, sharp green paralyzing him in place with its gaze, but says nothing.

"Well, well,” says Draco, eyes pointedly staring at Harry’s prick, now fully hard in the clutch of his hand, “look what we have here.”

"We lost," grouses Harry, his only explanation.

"I heard," he murmurs, kneeling at Harry’s side outside the tub. He sinks his fingers into Harry’s hair, soaking the dark strands with hot water. His fingers slide against the other man’s scalp, blunt fingernails dragging gently across its surface. The motion has Harry’s head falling back, has him leaning into Draco’s touch, a groan parting his lips. The sound spurs him on, and soon Draco is working diligently, allowing his fingers to catch on the knots of Harry’s shoulder-length hair and untangling them, strand by strand. He lets the tips of his fingers slip over the nape of Harry’s neck, map out the space behind his ears, learns the curve of Harry’s skull better than he knows his own.

The room, in all of its hot, hazy, humid glory, has him feeling too warm. Or, maybe it isn’t the room at all. Maybe it’s this tender thing that’s been growing inside Draco for months now, ready to burst out of his chest at any given moment, but especially now, here, with Harry melting under his hands.

He’s not entirely sure what they are to each other; they’re still free-falling in the midst of it all, caught in the epinephrine rush of enemies-turned-friends-turned-lovers. Draco likes to think that this, whatever it is, has to mean something. Harry wouldn’t be here if it didn’t mean something.

Draco begins to circle his nimble fingers back and forth, pressing into his temples in a way that has Harry spreading his legs just a little wider, palming his cock a little more feverently. Draco finds him gorgeous like this: unashamedly wanton and mewling under his ministrations. Then, his hands wander, tracing down the slope of Harry’s neck towards the rippling muscles in his arms. His fingers are spread wide over the other man’s sinews, trying to have as much of Harry as he can under his grasp (it would never be enough, would it?).

His hands start to drift lower when Harry’s hand shoots up, an abrupt movement that has droplets of water spraying onto Draco’s face. It’s the one that had been tugging at his cock, now dripping wet and fingertips sticky with precome. He catches one of Draco’s wrists, holds it in place over his heart—Draco can feel it thundering in his chest, an echo of his own—and pulls. Harry turns his head, hooded eyes and blown pupils meeting his own for a split second before Draco is dragged into a searing kiss.

Draco feels rooted in place by more than just the anchor of Harry’s hand. Harry’s mouth moving against his own, seduced open by the coy swipe of tongue, leaves him intoxicated. The kiss is messy, wet, all gasps for air traded between split-slick lips and the addictive feeling of tongue against teeth. He wants to swallow Harry whole. The big wins, the hard losses—Draco wants it all.

They part, strings of saliva creating a path Draco would die to follow, but Harry stands, and they break apart. Draco rises up alongside him, chasing the wave of lust that has him drawn back into the other man, warm body pressing against his own. Draco’s clothes are soaked at this point but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when his lover’s lips are so near. Their lips remain locked as Draco manages to maneuver Harry out of the bath. When he steps back for a moment to cast a drying spell, his eyes follow the rivulets of water that run down Harry in streams, through the labyrinth of ridges that define his build. Draco vows to himself that by the end of the night he will trace their path with his lips but, for now, he settles for drying Harry off with his wand and stepping back into his arms, where he belongs.

Draco takes Harry’s face into his hands, the pads of his fingertips stroking over the arch of his cheekbones, the ridge of his brow, the edge of his jaw. He’s stunning, his face a cacophony of features that shouldn’t go together but somehow do. When he gets to see Harry like this, up close, it’s hard to convince himself that this man really wants him. That he’s here, in Draco’s bathroom, naked, for him.

“Alright?” asks Harry, lips stretched into a small smile.

“Yeah,” is all Draco can manage before surging forward once more, capturing Harry’s lips with his own.

Harry walks him backwards out of the room, into his adjacent bedroom. Draco’s fingers end up tangled in Harry’s hair, still a bit damp from Draco’s distracted casting earlier. Harry’s hands are at his throat, then his hips, unbuttoning his shirt with a whisper of a spell that leaves Draco gasping for more. Somewhere in between Harry gliding his lips over Draco’s jaw and Draco rolling his hips into Harry’s hard cock, he slips out of his trousers, and then his pants. And, finally, he’s treated to the sensation of hot, bare skin against his own.

They make it to his bed, and Harry falls back onto it, limbs luxuriously sprawled out across the sheets as though he owns them. He takes a second to admire the stark contrast of dark skin on creamy fabric, to admit to himself that he’s never seen a man more beautiful than the one laid out before him.

“You’re gorgeous, Harry.”

The words slip out on accident, too tender, too revealing for Draco’s comfort. But any residual embarrassment slips away as he gets to watch the words take effect, trickling over Harry’s skin and sinking into its surface. Harry moans, an unguarded sound mirrored in the darkening of his eyes and the flush of his cheeks. Somehow, the sight makes Draco even harder. Somehow, the sight makes it worth it.

So he says it again, and again, and again. You’re beautiful, you are, you are, whispered over and over into the curve of Harry’s collarbone, down the toned plane of his pectoral, around the pebbled whorl of his nipple. Draco worships the surface of Harry’s body, finding refuge in the warm flush that blooms over Harry’s chest, religion in the low moans that erupt from his throat. His tongue maps out every crevice of the man before him, laving over old Quidditch scars and sucking love-bites into his sternum.

He makes his way down Harry’s body—Harry’s hands knotted in his hair, Draco’s hands clutching at Harry’s skin. He ignores the other man’s cock, which lays flushed and hard and aching against his stomach, and instead focuses on Harry’s thighs. This draws a beseeching whine from Harry, a few futile tugs to his hair in an attempt to urge him back upwards, but Draco ignores him. Harry’s thighs are a self-indulgence Draco simply cannot forgo.

Draco hooks his hands under Harry’s knees, bending them so that Harry’s thighs bracket his head. He can barely get his hands around them, as thick as they are, and they rest heavy in his palms. He kisses his way up the inside of Harry’s thigh, lips brushing over the soft, sensitive skin there, a motion that has Harry writhing in his grasp. One well-placed nip in the crease of his groin, and Harry is jerking beneath him, hips thrusting fruitlessly into empty air, begging for friction.

Draco himself cannot help but take pleasure in the power he has over Harry now, finds himself undulating into the mattress as he begins to nose around Harry’s cock. His hands climb up Harry’s thighs. Harry’s heels come around to rest between Draco’s shoulder blades. He’s silent now, watching, green eyes trained on Draco like a predator might their prey. But Draco is the real predator here. He knows it. Sees it in the way Harry’s breath catches when Draco hovers over the head of his prick. Feels it in the way his thighs—his strong, sculpted, gorgeous thighs—begin to tremble around his shoulders when Draco lowers his head a millimeter, allows his warm breaths to coast over Harry’s cock. Hears it in the way Harry begins to plead, a siren’s song Draco has never been able to fully resist.

Harry, words so drenched in desperation that they’re slurring together, begs, “Draco, please. Suck me off. That’s all I want, darling, sweetheart, please. All I want is my cock in your—”

It’s enough. Harry’s words turn into a high keen as Draco’s mouth closes over him. He begins the long slide down, engulfing Harry in the heat of his mouth with the firm press of his lips. His tongue wraps around his length, molds itself to the curve of his prick. His cock is a delicious, weighty thing in Draco’s mouth. It’s long enough to make Draco feel filthy, his lips widened into an obscene stretch around the member’s girth, the back of his throat battered by its head.

He starts out messy, fast and wet. His tongue swirls around the head, prods at its weeping slit. Harry’s hips snap into his mouth, begging for more pressure, more friction. Draco cannot help but let out a long moan around Harry’s cock, unbelievably turned on by the way Harry grinds into his mouth. The vibrations have Harry crying out shamelessly, the sound so loud that it makes Draco’s ears ring. He adores the way the head of Harry’s prick hits the back of his throat, makes him gag before receding. His cock slips out for a moment or two, smears precum over the corner of Draco’s lip before Draco guides it back in.

He begins to suck in earnest then, his head bobbing up and down with a relentless intensity, as if he were trying to commit every ridge of Harry’s cock to memory (he thinks he already has). One of his hands lays splayed out over Harry’s abs, pinning him down, leaving him helpless to the assault he leads on Harry’s cock. The other hand drifts down to fondle the other man’s balls, a thumb’s pressure reducing Harry to near-sobs.

Draco pulls off from Harry’s cock—drawing a garbled, planitive noise from Harry— and moves to rest his cheek on the flesh of Harry’s hip. His breaths rasp against his throat, escaping through his abused lips. Quiet stretches between them, long and languid. The break in their activities feel strangely intimate, domestic, even. Draco feels comforted, somehow, by his place at Harry’s hip, merely a hair's breadth away from Harry’s cock, which lays abandoned, inflamed and red. His lips are just as swollen, thin strands of fast-drying spit connecting them to where they had been. Harry’s breath comes out in fast pants; Draco can feel the quick rise and fall of his chest from his place at his hip. The connection between them feels more prominent here, less like something from one of Draco’s dreams and more like something fated, something inevitable.

The feeling overwhelms him, suddenly, and so he asks, “What do you want, Harry?”

“Let me do something for you,” starts Harry in response, craning his neck to meet Draco’s eyes. One hand is already untangling itself from Draco’s hair, reaching forward to skim over Draco’s cheek.

And Draco wants him to, of course he does, but he wants to see Harry relax just a bit more. The other man, though more pliant than he had been when he first arrived at Draco’s flat, still has something darker hanging behind his eyes. A shadow of self-loathing that would keep him from relief for the rest of the night.

Draco catches his hand by the wrist, pulling it towards him and letting his lips brush the sharp bone of Harry’s knuckles. He speaks, words soft yet unwavering, confident that his only purpose now is to give Harry what he needs, “Let me take care of you.”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. Draco feels it, rather than sees it, the stalling of movement under his cheek. Draco’s heart stutters a bit in his chest, caught in a freefall into the abyss of his feelings. He knows what this means to Harry, knows that, to him, to this boy who had been left without someone to care for him more often than not, these words hold more weight than any declaration of love ever would.

There was nothing, not a single hesitation or internal plea for self-preservation, holding Draco back now.

He prowls up the other man’s body with a sudden burst of energy, wanting nothing more than to devour Harry in his entirety. Harry’s hands come up to curl around his back, drawing him closer and kissing him soundly, a moan tethered to his throat. Draco cannot help but thrust his hips against him once, twice, three times until Harry is gasping into his jaw and rolling his pelvis right back into Draco’s own.

He pulls back and nudges Harry over onto his stomach. Harry’s on his knees, bent in half, arse in the air and chest flat against the sheets. Draco presses in close, swollen lips at the shell of Harry’s ear and whispers, “Don’t you wish you could see yourself like this?”

Harry lets out a low whine in response, a dusky flush coloring his cheeks, and Draco continues, “Stretched out before me, your gorgeous arse waiting for me. You know what I’m going to do already, don’t you?”

This time Harry can’t stop the groan that falls from his lips. He presses back into Draco, his arse rubbing against Draco’s cock with his impatience, aching for friction, for more. Draco’s not going to fuck him with his cock, not tonight, but he’s already salivating at the thought of what he’s about to do with his tongue.

“You’re so strong, Harry,” says Draco, hands reverently traveling over the other man’s back, “Do you know how hot it makes me? Feeling the muscles tense up under your skin, so big, so toned—god, Harry, you’re so fucking fit.”

Harry turns his head back at the praise, the cords in his neck flexing and creating shadows that make him look like a Renaissance painting. He captures Draco’s mouth with his own, tongue sweeping in, hot and aggressive, a silent plea for more. Draco continues to move his hands up and down Harry’s back, palms digging into the muscles there, massaging them, drawing out lush moans.

Draco slides down Harry’s body, unable to help himself from pressing chaste kisses down his spine. He’s at Harry’s arse, then, spreading his cheeks apart and gazing at the small, furrowed hole there. It seems to twitch in anticipation. He moves his head closer and allows a warm huff of air to coast over the exposed skin. Harry tenses up, the handfuls Draco has of his arse firming up under his fingertips.

“Draco,” cries out Harry, and Draco ignores him. He takes his time, his thumb tracing around Harry’s rim, knuckles brushing over the sensitive skin of his perineum. He casts a cleaning charm, the only wandless spell he can manage, and licks a broad stripe into Harry’s crease.

“Fuck, Draco, yes.”

Spurred on by Harry’s words, Draco dives in. He sucks at Harry’s rim, teasing the edges with the pointed tip of his tongue. Harry thrusts back into him, unabashedly begging for more, and Draco gives it to him. He laps at Harry’s arse with an enthusiasm he can’t contain, moaning into the sensitive, wrinkled flesh there and grinding his own rock-hard cock into the mattress.

Finally, Draco breaches his hole with his tongue. Harry howls at the intrusion, body jerking back into the sensation. Harry’s hole clenches and unclenches around him, begging for more. Draco thrusts in and out with his tongue, fucking him until Harry’s almost crying, overwhelmed with sensation. His body is wracked by shivers, head tossed back as he tries to further impale himself on Draco’s tongue.

Draco thinks he could make Harry cum like this alone, but he won’t. Not tonight. Not when he craves the addictive burn and stretch of Harry’s long cock in him. He draws away from Harry’s arsehole. He lingers there for a few moments, unable to tear himself away just yet. His lips slip down to mouth at Harry’s bollocks, and a couple of fingers mindlessly return to the other man’s loose opening, prodding into the glistening, saliva-soaked heat.

He pulls back after what feels like an infinite moment of time, mind hazy with lust. He’s too impatient to do anything more; he needs to be fucked, now, and tells Harry just as much. Harry turns over, sea-glass eyes—edges warm and weathered by desire—meeting his, and pulls him up towards him. Draco relishes in the feeling of Harry’s strong arms at his side, bringing him forward until Draco’s so close that Harry must be able to hear his heart pounding in his chest.

Quidditch was his release, Harry had tried to explain to him once, voice low and meandering in the aftermath of one of these loss-fueled sex marathons. Whenever he lost a match, it left him feeling utterly unsatisfied. He would spend hours afterwards going over what he had done wrong, what he could do better. Over and over again, year after year, until he ended up with Draco, who promptly called him out on his self-pitying bullshit and did everything he could to get Harry to calm down. To let go. It was a self-indulgent, yes, he would be the first to admit that, but Harry deserved all that Draco could give him. Merlin knows he hadn’t always been given enough.

Harry sits up, pulling Draco up alongside him so that he’s straddling Harry’s thighs. They move in tandem, like cogs in a well-oiled machine. Harry conjures the lube. Draco uses it to slick his fingers, to reach behind and start stretching himself open. Harry takes this time to encircle their cocks, his drenched hand wanking them together in a way he must know drives Draco wild.

After preparing himself, Draco lifts himself up, hovering over Harry’s cock. “What do you want?”

“Draco-”

Harry’s protest is cut off with a choked moan as Draco lowers himself a fraction of an inch. He allows the blunt head of Harry’s cock to drag over his crease, spread the lube there, catch on his rim.

“Ah, ah,” tuts Draco softly, the crook of his finger at Harry’s chin, holding him in place, “tell me.”

“I-I want you.” Draco feels a surge of triumph at the words that come so willingly from Harry. They used to take ages to coax out of him but now they rush out without even the barest hint of hesitation.

“You do, don’t you?” Draco allows an inch of Harry’s cock to sink into him in reward, but doesn’t move any further. He dips his head closer to Harry’s ear, “I’m sure you want to pound your cock into me, don’t you, Harry? You want to watch your hard cock disappear into me, want to ruin me.”

Harry lets out a strangled sound and tries to buck into him. He loses an inch. He wants nothing more than to sink down fully onto Harry’s cock, but he holds back. Not until he gets what he wants. His mouth is practically kissing the cartilage of Harry’s ear, “Tell me, Harry, is that what you want? To fuck me, to ruin me?”

“Yes! Draco, please, I want you. To fuck you. To ruin you.”

At the sound of Harry’s words, he finally sinks down. It’s a long slide down that has him feeling full to the brim. Harry doesn’t move, letting Draco adjust to the cock in his arse, to the satisfying ache of being stretched beyond belief. Draco takes a breath, then another, and another, and then finally clutches at Harry’s shoulder and rocks his hips forward.

“Fuck! Draco, darling, yeah, just like that.”

He sets a furious pace, moving up and down on Harry’s cock as if his life depended on it. His arse clenches around Harry’s thick cock on each downstroke, and he loses himself in the feeling. He leans forward, burying his head in the taut tendons of Harry’s neck, letting the other man’s rapid pulse guide the rhythm of his movements. The change in angle has Harry’s cock battering at Draco’s prostate, the almost overwhelming sensation of which has expletives falling from his lips.

Right when Draco’s thighs start to burn, Harry grabs him by the hips and rolls them over, leaving Draco flat on his back, breathless and panting. Harry continues to fuck into him, hips snapping against Draco’s arse and filling the room with the loud, filthy noises of skin against skin. Harry presses his body forward, bending Draco’s body nearly in two and just obliterates him. He slams into Draco with an unrestrained ferocity, splitting him open, ruining him. Every point of contact between Harry and himself has him on fire, sensation narrowing down to the underside of thighs against Harry’s chest, the press of his chin into Harry’s shoulder, the throbbing of Harry’s cock sliding and out of his arse.

Draco feels his orgasm building, his bollocks drawing near and warmth gathering at the base of his spine. Harry must be close too, his thrusts less synchronized and more reckless. Draco focuses on canting his hips, on drawing the simmering heat that's been building within himself up to a boil. One of his hands moves to curl around his erection, to wank himself to completion, and Harry’s hand joins him there.

“You’re stunning like this,” Draco breathes out between thrusts, “fucking me like you were born to do it. Like it’s where you belong.”

And that’s all it takes for Harry to push into him with one final, earth-shattering thrust that has his hips wedged flush against Draco’s and hot cum filling him in streams. Their hands are a blur over his cock until he’s cumming too, hot and creamy streaks that find their place on both Harry and himself. Harry’s eyes are wide, face overtaken with something euphoric, and Draco feels the same, lost in the waves of bliss that crash over him like waves.

He comes down from his high slowly, all that searing arousal slipping from his grasp as fast as it had swallowed him whole. Harry pulls out, casts a gentle cleaning charm that has him quivering still, his spent cock twitching at the sensation of Harry’s magic flowing over his skin.

Harry lay next to him, pliant in his arms, strands of hair tickling the skin at Draco’s neck. Draco finds himself curling into him. He tosses a leg haphazardly over the flare of the other man’s hips, an arm over the muscled swell of his shoulder.

Draco basks in their post-orgasmic haze for a few moments before the question bubbles up inside him, escapes him before he can stop it. “Still upset about the loss?”

He almost thinks Harry hasn’t heard him, the man too engrossed in tracing lazy circles onto Draco’s thigh, but then he replies. His words drip from him slowly, quiet and sated. “I think I’ve won something much better.”