Over the rushing in his ears, Draco can hear they’re both panting now, and the sounds are loud, reflected back as they are. Somehow louder than they were ten minutes ago, when it was about the panting and not about... whatever this is. Whatever’s happening in Draco’s stomach and a bit lower that’s catching him even more off guard than Potter’s first strike did.
He raises a hand—it’s not shaking, it isn’t—to his nose and isn’t surprised when it comes back coated in slick red.
He holds up his fingers. “Blood, Potter. You drew blood. I do not remember mentioning blood.”
Potter squints at him; Draco notices he’s missing his glasses and feels a flare of triumph. Though it pales slightly next to his aggravation about the scarlet on his fingers. “Huh. You might’ve done. Maybe I hit you so hard you—”
For the life of him, Draco cannot explain why he goes for Potter again. They’ve done more than the necessary damage by now. But he does, and this time he has the satisfaction of seeing Potter’s startlingly clear but hopelessly blind eyes widen in surprise just a moment before his fist connects. Maybe because they’re tired, what with the Quidditch and the shouting match on the pitch and Madam Hooch subsequently banishing them to the broom shed to tidy it up (without magic) as punishment, the follow through and momentum result in both of them sprawled hard across the dirty floor, the back of Potter’s head landing inches from the wall-length rack of brooms.
“Draco.” The name is in equal parts gasp and groan, and it does nothing to quell that stomach-rolling that Draco is now rather disturbed to find is manifesting as an erection. Again. Already.
Sometimes Draco loathes being eighteen.
Draco’s landed half on top of Potter, and though for the love of Merlin, this is not the time, he cannot stop himself from shifting until he’s all the way covering him. Potter mumbles his name again, far more groan than gasp, and his hands curl around Draco’s shoulders. He feels one of Potter’s feet start to slide up the back of his thigh. When a drop of his blood lands on Potter’s chin, Draco wipes at it, and when it smears more than anything, it seems like the best idea he’s had all day to press his lips to that place, to dart out his tongue and taste the coppery tang, before dragging his mouth to the corner of Potter’s.
“Draco, what are you doing?”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s been hit too hard if you need an explanation.” He tilts his head enough to assure their mouths come together just right.
Potter, ever the obstinate git, rolls his head to the side. “That’s not what I meant, you arse.” He struggles a little, though it feels more like squirming. It’s wholly unignorable either way. Where their bare skin wasn’t already pressed together, it is now. “It near on three. The others’ll be here any moment.”
Draco’s lips brush the rising red welt on Potter’s cheek. “Probably.”
Potter turns his head back, and at the same time, gets a hand just below Draco’s neck and pushes up. “Any moment,” he repeats.
“I heard you the first time, Potter. I haven’t suddenly gone deaf.”
“Have you suddenly gone daft? ‘Potter,’” Potter starts in that terrible would-be Draco impression he and the other Gryffindorks find so unaccountably hilarious, “‘how are we supposed to explain why the room’s an even bigger disaster now? Potter, you look a right mess, even worse than usual. Potter, we need an excuse or all my friends will know what we’re doing because Slytherins are the brightest and smartest and cunningest and—”
Draco pulls his mouth from Potter’s neck. “Most cunning.”
“What?” Potter momentarily stops struggling. Writhing. His heel has made it all the way up to the top of Draco’s thigh.
“It’s most cunning, not cunningest, you ignorant twat.”
Potter blinks and frowns. “Is not. It’s cunningest.”
Re: The Indignity of It All - Light R, the most minor of bloodplay, 2/3
He raises a hand—it’s not shaking, it isn’t—to his nose and isn’t surprised when it comes back coated in slick red.
He holds up his fingers. “Blood, Potter. You drew blood. I do not remember mentioning blood.”
Potter squints at him; Draco notices he’s missing his glasses and feels a flare of triumph. Though it pales slightly next to his aggravation about the scarlet on his fingers. “Huh. You might’ve done. Maybe I hit you so hard you—”
For the life of him, Draco cannot explain why he goes for Potter again. They’ve done more than the necessary damage by now. But he does, and this time he has the satisfaction of seeing Potter’s startlingly clear but hopelessly blind eyes widen in surprise just a moment before his fist connects. Maybe because they’re tired, what with the Quidditch and the shouting match on the pitch and Madam Hooch subsequently banishing them to the broom shed to tidy it up (without magic) as punishment, the follow through and momentum result in both of them sprawled hard across the dirty floor, the back of Potter’s head landing inches from the wall-length rack of brooms.
“Draco.” The name is in equal parts gasp and groan, and it does nothing to quell that stomach-rolling that Draco is now rather disturbed to find is manifesting as an erection. Again. Already.
Sometimes Draco loathes being eighteen.
Draco’s landed half on top of Potter, and though for the love of Merlin, this is not the time, he cannot stop himself from shifting until he’s all the way covering him. Potter mumbles his name again, far more groan than gasp, and his hands curl around Draco’s shoulders. He feels one of Potter’s feet start to slide up the back of his thigh. When a drop of his blood lands on Potter’s chin, Draco wipes at it, and when it smears more than anything, it seems like the best idea he’s had all day to press his lips to that place, to dart out his tongue and taste the coppery tang, before dragging his mouth to the corner of Potter’s.
“Draco, what are you doing?”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s been hit too hard if you need an explanation.” He tilts his head enough to assure their mouths come together just right.
Potter, ever the obstinate git, rolls his head to the side. “That’s not what I meant, you arse.” He struggles a little, though it feels more like squirming. It’s wholly unignorable either way. Where their bare skin wasn’t already pressed together, it is now. “It near on three. The others’ll be here any moment.”
Draco’s lips brush the rising red welt on Potter’s cheek. “Probably.”
Potter turns his head back, and at the same time, gets a hand just below Draco’s neck and pushes up. “Any moment,” he repeats.
“I heard you the first time, Potter. I haven’t suddenly gone deaf.”
“Have you suddenly gone daft? ‘Potter,’” Potter starts in that terrible would-be Draco impression he and the other Gryffindorks find so unaccountably hilarious, “‘how are we supposed to explain why the room’s an even bigger disaster now? Potter, you look a right mess, even worse than usual. Potter, we need an excuse or all my friends will know what we’re doing because Slytherins are the brightest and smartest and cunningest and—”
Draco pulls his mouth from Potter’s neck. “Most cunning.”
“What?” Potter momentarily stops struggling. Writhing. His heel has made it all the way up to the top of Draco’s thigh.
“It’s most cunning, not cunningest, you ignorant twat.”
Potter blinks and frowns. “Is not. It’s cunningest.”