He had completely forgotten the fact that all the teachers were watching: All he wanted to do was cause Malfoy as much pain as possible. With no time to draw out his wand, he merely drew back the fist clutching the Snitch and sank it as hard as he could into Malfoy's stomach—
- Order of the Phoenix, pg. 412, American edition
The bruises were everywhere. The first punch had hit his torso and left a mottled black and blue mark the size of an apple right in the middle of his stomach. A network of thin veins ringed the edges of the bruise, dark and spidery and harsh against his pale skin.
Critically, Draco examined himself in the mirror, twisting right and left, ignoring the twinges of pain. He'd slunk quietly back to his room after the match, bypassing the infirmary despite Pansy's plea that he get himself healed.
He hadn't been able to explain to her exactly why he wanted to keep the bruises; he couldn't even explain it to himself.
He’d barely fought back. The force of Harry’s aggression had knocked them both to the ground, rendering Draco temporarily breathless and for those few moments, completely unable to act.
Gingerly, he touched the back of his head, wincing at the tenderness. His fingers came back stained green and smelling of grass.
It had only been for a second, maybe two. Potter had been on top of him, heavy and rough and angular, even through the many layers of fabric. Up close, his eyes were startlingly green, and his lips were warm and dry where they’d pressed to Draco’s neck for just a moment. His hair had tickled Draco’s forehead, and when Draco breathed in sharply he could smell dirt and grass and wet metal, faintly salty with sweat. Those two seconds were imprinted in his mind and stamped in his veins, a pure overwhelming sense memory that he relived every time he closed his eyes.
The fall had caught Potter off guard, and he’d landed hard on top of Draco before pushing himself back up and commencing with the violence. There was a thin red line across Draco’s cheekbone where Potter’s glasses had dug into his skin.
Carefully, Draco bit his lip, relishing the sting as the cut on his mouth reopened. A bright drop of blood welled at the corner of his mouth, glossy and red as it slid over his swollen lower lip. His flicked his tongue out, catching it before it spilled over his lip, probing at the split skin.
Draco’s fingers shook as he ran them over his sides, down the knuckle shaped bruises on his ribs, over the fingerprint sized marks where Potter had gripped him as they collided with the ground. Sixteen, seventeen he counted before they all began to blend together like Weasley’s freckles.
He hadn’t expected Potter to react the way he did; usually Potter limited his responses to casual disdain paired with a rather unintimidating glare. Of course, he usually didn’t bother to push that far. But he’d been so furious, that he’d been so painfully close to finally winning, and he’d worked on those song lyrics for ages, but no. Potter just couldn’t lose, couldn’t be the one that was a second too late. It was nothing but another victory that Potter didn’t need and didn’t deserve.
It was nothing to Potter. Nothing.
Draco scowled, examining his knuckles. He’d gotten at least one shot in, cracking the Weasley’s freckled jaw right before Potter knocked him to the ground. There was a slight indent in his middle knuckle; he hoped it wasn’t from Weasley’s tooth, or something equally horrifying. He resisted the urge to wipe his hand off on his trousers. Weasel germs. Ick.
A tiny cut marred the smooth line of his chin. He remembered the feel of Potter’s fist, the sharp knuckles and awkward curve of his fingers curled around the Snitch. The wings had been crushed between Potter’s fingers, one slightly bent and fluttering weakly; the other had edged out from Potter’s grip, beating furiously and rapidly enough to slice neatly through Draco’s skin when he’d punched Draco hard enough to split his lip.
He felt like he’d been beaten with a sackful of rocks, and then maybe pushed down a flight of stairs. It hurt so badly that it almost felt good. Satisfying. Almost.
Draco ran his hands down his chest, raising goosebumps on the bruised flesh. The bruises faded slightly at his waist, dissolving into slightly reddened pale skin where he’d tugged his Quidditch corduroys low to assess the damage.
With slightly shaking fingers, Draco unbuttoned his trousers and slid them down. He blinked at himself in the mirror. It was no shock that he was half-hard, in fact, he was surprised that he was no longer completely hard. He wondered if Potter had noticed his erection as they’d fought (or really, as Potter had beaten him). He somehow doubted it.
It was with a kind of calm, quiet acceptance that Draco wrapped a hand around his cock and began stroking it slowly. There had been a point where he found himself horrified by his desire for Potter; that point had long since passed. It was familiar now, the descent into fantasy inevitably followed by wanking, sometimes slow and leisurely, other times desperate and furious.
He discarded the images that automatically popped into his mind: his favorite fantasies of torturing Potter until he cried, or fucking him over the table in the middle of Potions class, or tangling with him on the Quidditch field in a situation not dissimilar to the one he’d just experienced. That last no longer seemed very relevant in light of its coming true. He’d honed that fantasy to detailed perfection, until he knew every last punch, every reaction, every unwilling thrust, every horrified and aroused face in the crowd of bystanders.
He always thought he would fight back, given the chance. He had wanted so badly to get his hands on Potter in whatever way possible that it seemed ludicrous now that he hadn’t taken the opportunity to give as good as he got. Still, he couldn’t dredge up too much disappointment over his inaction. The experience had been too satisfying for that.
Closing his eyes, Draco bit his lip, trying not to moan aloud as he stroked himself faster. Yes, it had been satisfying. His masochistic streak was a fairly recent discovery, and he was surprised to find out just how deep it ran. He almost wished Potter had hit him harder, marked him further, scarred him, even. Shuddering, he recalled that delicious feeling of fear, that deep thrilling need to be hurt, beaten, used. Taken.
Taken hard.
Draco’s hand struck the wall as he swayed forward, steadying himself. That was it, that was the thread to follow. He ran through the scene in his mind: the first hit, the second, falling to the ground, the Snitch clutched in Potter’s fist, that murderous gleam in Potter’s eyes. Faster and faster, his hand moved, fisting up and down his cock, his nails scoring the wallpaper as his free hand clenched and unclenched against the wall. And in his mind, little details changed. The murderous gleam turned lustful. Potter’s knees gripped his thighs, grinding against his erection. Potter’s hand fisted into Draco’s hair, jerking his head roughly upward as he unzipped his corduroys and forced his cock down Draco’s throat, past his split and bleeding lips and aching jaw.
No, that wasn’t working. Too immediate, too wrong. It would have to happen later. After the match, as Draco was on his way back to his room. Potter intercepting him in the hallway, dragging him into an empty classroom and shoving him against the wall, cracking his already bruised body against the stone.
“Can’t even fight back, can you, Malfoy?” Potter would hiss, digging his fingers cruelly into Draco’s bruised sides.
Draco would say nothing, simply staring at the ground and wincing through the pain.
Potter would take hold of Draco’s abused jaw, forcing his head up to meet his eyes. “Don’t even want to, do you?” he’d muse aloud, and then press his lips against Draco’s, kissing him so hard that it was nothing but heat and pain, the aching of fresh bruises and sting of furious terrified sweat beading on his forehead. He’d pull his shirt off, pushing Draco’s head down to suck and bite at his nipples, which Draco would do a little too fiercely for his liking. “Fine, enough foreplay,” Potter would growl, and tug Draco’s pants down, and then his own.
Maybe Draco would try and put up a fight, struggle a little. This would only excite Potter further, and he’d slam Draco against the wall until Draco’s lips hit the cold, bitter-tasting stone. A brief pause before Potter’s finger shoved into him, wet and slick and then joined by another, pushing in and out. Draco would writhe against his fingers, whimpering at the rough treatment.
“You love it, you little whore,” Potter would spit at him, withdrawing his fingers and positioning his cock against Draco’s entrance, “but not as much you’ll love this.” And he’d thrust inside, sliding his full length into Draco, barely pausing before pulling out and doing it again. And again, and again, laughing at Draco’s choked cries, raising Draco to his tiptoes with the force of each thrust.
“Please,” Draco would cry, please stop, please take me, please fuck me harder, please, please. Tears would run down his cheeks from the pain of it, from every thrust meant to break, meant to scar. Potter would do everything but stop, and just when the burn of it became too much he would shift slightly, change his angle to hit Draco’s prostate and then Draco would do nothing but beg for more.
Potter would give it to him, holding Draco’s wrists to keep his palms flat against the stone. Draco would be pushing back frantically, his hips bowed away from the wall, slapping roughly against Potter’s skin, pulling him further inside. Potter would run his teeth over the back of Draco’s neck, causing Draco to spread his legs further and rest his burning forehead against the cool stone wall.
His pleas for salvation turned to moans, Draco would be reduced to begging for more, faster, deeper, harder. Potter would oblige, pounding him into the wall like he wanted to push him through it and down on his knees into the dust, stones, and rubble, taking him brutally from behind until Draco collapsed limply into a pile of broken stones.
They’d fuck furiously until Draco could feel nothing but blinding pain and overwhelming pleasure, the two sensations colliding in a fury of scraped palms and raw skin inside and out. Draco would come crying and howling against the wall, thrusting hard into Potter’s grip. He’d hear Potter’s triumphant snicker behind him, and then Potter would tense and push into him one last time, shudders wracking his body, and by extension, Draco’s, as he came. A few moments would pass as they panted against each other, and then Potter would speak.
“You’ll always be beneath me, Malfoy,” Potter would whisper, “because you love it there.” And he’d bite Draco’s earlobe hard, his palms coming up to shove Draco against the wall and bruise his jaw even further. Draco would slump down against the floor and ignore the sounds of Potter leaving.
With a great, shuddering gasp, Draco came, pumping his cock furiously to the imagined feel of Potter pounding into him, the stone scraping his palms, Potter’s rough hot tongue tracing his shoulder blades. His free hand was now pressed to his side against the brightest bruises, and his vision flashed black and red from the combined force of the pain and pleasure. In his head, Potter fucked him, beat him, possessed him, discarded him. Draco crumpled to the floor, regaining his breath slowly, wanting it so badly he could almost taste the dusty stone. And not wanting it. And fearing it.
Draco swallowed, forcing himself back to reality. He wiped his forehead with his equally sweaty forearm and wondered when his roommates would return. Shakily, he buttoned up his trousers.
It wouldn’t be so hard to heal up day-old bruises, he figured. It would probably be better to go to the infirmary now and get it handled, but something in him rebelled at the idea of giving up his marks so soon, of destroying the evidence of Potter’s touch. He’d give himself one more night with them, make excuses to everyone, and get healed up tomorrow. At least, mostly healed up.
Sighing, Draco crawled into bed. He could get away with a nap, he was sure.
Maybe he would dream about Potter. He rolled onto his side, appreciating the twinges of pain. That whole blowjob on the Quidditch field idea had merit.
Draco slipped a hand into his trousers and tugged the bed curtains closed.
-end-