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The worst thing is that it's impossible to draw back from Draco's mouth. It's been too much the focus of hundreds of solid seconds, one bleeding into the next, each increasing the eclipse of all other thoughts, for you to pull away. It's awkward anyway, with you sat on their too-low bed, him chastely in the adjacent desk chair, guest and host respectively. You were here to relay Ministry demands, to get his elusive spidery signature on the contract from Percy. He's signing because Harry's told him he has to listen to you, and because you do, these days, put forth a convincing case. You've been dreading this meeting for weeks, and now you're here, it's as bad as you ever dreamed. Well, almost. There was a horrible dream where you were both back in school and, instead of pushing you against the mossy stonework to cop a customary post-quidditch feel, Draco shoved past and started up with Percy instead... Stupid, to feel so awful when you weren't even having a proper Thing to begin with. Stupid and embarrassing. The worst dream you had about it, Draco was reclining in the bat-silk hammock on his patio, and you were missing the lower parts of your legs. You had to hobble on knee-stumps to hand him the contract, balancing his inkwell on your head, and he mistook you for the gardener's boy. It's not quite that bad. Draco's antique chair is now leaning on two legs as his hand steals onto your shoulder and his mouth presses firmly, warm, not wet. You don't resist. To draw back would explode the awkwardness into horrible splinters. You don't want that. The consequences drift, cobwebs in someone else's world. Even now, Harry is downstairs, melting cocoa and sugar and vanilla and butter for a fondue. Your hands become hot fists on your knees, and you keep your eyes closed. The glasses that Harry will be setting out for brandy are etched with the Malfoy crest and edged in Gryffindor gold; Hermione checked with you before she had them customised, and you said yes, good choice, nice touch, they'll love it. You signed the card she passed you. Later, Draco met your gaze steadily, smiling politely as Harry's fingers made short work of Hermione's pristine wrapping. It was strange, seeing him in the flesh after months apart, and you itched to touch him again, hoped uselessly for even just the brush of his mouth across your palm. Harry enthused, "Thanks - Ron, Hermione - that'll keep off the winter chill," and Draco just smiled and murmured, his eyes vague and handsome, his hand at the base of Harry's back. That was just over two years ago. Draco's lips now feel exactly as you imagined them then, and the itch has not subsided at all. You want - more. You want to open your mouth, at the very least, taste him - but you don't dare. You want to draw Draco onto his bed, down heavily on top of you, stiff-suited angles of his legs pushing yours apart, his hand growing more confident as the momentum of this moment between you grows. But - that would lead to sex. You cannot get him horizontal and not finish it - handjobs, at the very least. You want to know if his stomach still clenches in that particular way before he comes. You won't be able to deny yourself the discovery, if you have the chance. You're holding your breath, and some of it scrapes out of you as a little noise when his thumb brushes over the crumpled collar of your shirt and onto the bare skin of your neck. He opens his mouth - at last! oh, at last! - and he does kiss like he used to, tongue light and cautious, tasting chamomile-mild. It still flutters shallow, putting you back in mind of a sly-silent stingray, glide-rippling close to a golden shore. You make that noise again, and shiver out your tongue's reply. "Mmh." That's him, and you exhale unsteadily in acknowledgement, and he tightens his hand on your shoulder, tilting his head delicately in the other direction. You're close to reeling. He kisses as if he could kiss for hours and hours but would very much appreciate you naked right fucking now. Bed, you think, the chaos of frustration rising spikily back out of its temporary dormancy; bed but no sex, you think swiftly, earnestly, pretending that that's what it will be. Bed and snogging but no orgasms, no skin (no crime). His breathing is coming shallower, and he presses on your shoulder. The kiss is growing ragged - slick and dirty and blending into foreplay - and you know that if you were to lay your hand against the side of his throat, he would press harder still. Your hand starts up from your thigh, and in quelling its rise you lean into his hold of your shoulder. He squeezes and then, with the ease of memory, slides his whole bare palm onto your throat-- you almost grunt with the excitement that seizes you, and then he mutters against your tongue and makes a cross noise and draws back. You think, no no no no no. The overhead light's incongruously still on, and it's just their bedroom. You're blinking stupidly at him, and only now hearing the hurry of your own breathing. "Bad idea," you say faintly, before he can, and he's watching your mouth, and your cock's full against your thighs. Come back, you think. Come back, now now now.
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code to link to this page: <a href="http://www.yearningvoid.net/stories/calico/000077.html">Stray</a> by Calico