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“Mine,” Harry growls into the nape of Draco’s neck. “Mine…”
Draco knows they shouldn’t have tried to have sex tonight, not when the moon was the barest sliver off the full and Draco could feel the heat in Harry’s veins. When he was like this, there was no stopping him - it was get out, or grit your teeth through the pain of minimal prep and a massive knot.
Draco has work tomorrow, he cannot be unable to sit, barely able to walk. He has potions to make.
But more than that. Harry will hate himself.
“Harry…” Draco tries, pushing at the bed to press himself up. “Do you want me to suck you off first?” Anything to get a bit of space between them.
“No.”
“Come on, let me-”
“No, you smell good.”
“Harry,” Draco tries again, but Harry is having none of it. A hand, hot and immoveable with the power of the moon pushes him down onto the bed. “Please, Harry…”
It is as if the wolf can sense that Draco is trying to escape, as Harry gathers his hands against his lower back, holding them there with one strong hand. All Draco can do is squirm, desperate to get away, but also wanting to stay, loving the thrill of being the centre of Harry’s world.
“You smell good,” is all Harry says, his tongue hot, wet velvet down Draco’s back, his breath like the fiendfyre that had forged them.
Draco stares out of the window at the moon in the cloudless sky, hoping that a shadow might cover her face, bringing his sweet Harry back for a moment. He spreads his legs, knees digging in for better grip as Harry noses down his crack.
The first lick is so rough Draco jumps, springing away from the assault, but Harry’s hand on his wrists pulls him back down. He eats like a starving man, all teeth and tongue and spit everywhere, and Draco is caught between using the distraction to free his hands, and rolling his hips back like a desperate whore, his cock rubbing against the sheets.
He indulges himself. Just for a minute. Letting his head fall forwards as he rolls his hips into the pleasure-pain of nips and bites soothed by spit and desperation.
Harry’s hands loosen, just a fraction, and Draco takes his chance, ripping his hands free and pushing Harry away with his feet, scrambling for the door to put something between himself and his boyfriend, mad with the moon and the taste of Draco’s arse.
He reckons without the reactions of the wolf, the way Harry moves quicker, sharper than a human should, one moment lying on the bed, the next between Draco and the door, eyes dark, chin dripping, hands reaching out for Draco. His cock bobbed, the knot just a slight thickening around the base.
“Mine.”
It’s just one word but it freezes Draco to the spot. He is Harry’s. He always has been. That word calls to him, but he must resist. Harry is not himself, he will hurt Draco, and hate himself for it the moment the moon sets.
“Harry, please…”
He doesn’t move, but his shoulders shift, ready to pounce, and Draco’s heart kicks wildly.
“Harry…” he tries again.
Harry hits him like a train, his shoulder in Draco’s belly as the room spins upside down, nails digging into Draco’s naked arse, his cock, still leaking and throbbing, pressed against Harry’s chest.
The bed hits his back, and Harry flips him over with the ease of a doll, climbing over him, settling thick thighs on either side of Draco’s own. His cock, heavy and hot, falls between Draco’s cheeks, and Draco shivers and whimpers before he can stop himself.
Above him, Harry growls low in his throat, and Draco can feel the vibration in his chest.
“You’ll hate yourself in the morning,” he tries one final time, pushing himself up to look at Harry. “Even if I love every second you will blame yourself, you dear, silly man.”
“Mine.” Harry’s hand is back on the curve of his spine, holding him down as the other pushes his cheeks apart. The air is cold on the spit that still clings around Draco’s hole, not enough to save him from the girth of Harry’s cock.
Draco closes his eyes, the fog of arousal making it hard to think clearly as he speaks the word that all boys learn in the safety of a Hogwarts four poster. He feels the change immediately, the cooling drip between his thighs. Harry rumbles in approval above him.
Harry’s face in the morning floats before Draco’s eyes, the disgust on his face, the self loathing in his eyes, as he tries to convince Draco that he is truly a monster for what he has done. Draco could enjoy it immensely, but it will be Harry himself who will feel violated.
Gathering the remaining strength of a summer of Quidditch long gone, Draco throws himself to one side, trying to unseat Harry, trying to free himself to get to his wand, anything…
But the wolf makes Harry strong, study as an oak, and unbothered by any storm Draco can conjure up.
He just growls and grabs Draco’s hand, pinning them to the bed above his head, covering Draco’s body with his own in one hot, heavy line that Draco cannot escape.
He fumbles for a moment, and Draco is caught between despair and anticipation, before his cock is there, pressing in with a vicious thrust into Draco’s half prepared hole. The burning stretch is almost too much, and Draco sobs into the sheets, trying to scramble away. His legs slip uselessly as Harry’s weight sinks into Draco’s hips, his whole body behind the thrust.
With his legs sandwiched between Harry’s thighs, he feels even bigger than usual. His knot, still just a thickened band at the base, presses into Draco’s prostate - a promise and a threat - as Harry begins to move.
He moves with his whole body, every muscle and tendon taut with the intention of reducing Draco to a puddle of come and tears. His balls slap against Draco’s arse as he sinks deeply again and again. Still Draco tries to escape the trouble that will come in the morning and the inescapable burn of thick cock in under prepared hole.
“Mine.” Harry says again, and this time his teeth sink into the nape of Draco’s neck, and his limbs stop responding, going limp and feeble. Pleasure and pain roll over him in equal measure, and the weight of Harry presses his cock into the sheets.
It’s all too much. Too much sensation, too much pressure, too much to think about.
Draco’s first orgasm washes him clean.
But Harry doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even seem to notice Draco has come.
Draco can feel the sensitivity in his teeth, but he can’t move, he can’t do anything but gasp and whimper, and take it.
Harry’s cock slides in and out easier now, slick with lube and stretched with use, but the relentless rhythm keeps going. The curl of Harry’s hips buries him so far inside Draco that he is half convinced that when Harry finally comes he will be able to taste it. Between Harry’s weight and his cock, there is no room left in Draco’s body for anything except the pressure that begins to build again.
It’s been too soon, Draco can still feel the nervy shine of pain at the edges of his awareness, but Harry’s knot is beginning to pop, pulling on Draco’s rim so deliciously on each out stroke, and grinding past his prostate on the return.
He is nothing but feeling, held down and fucked with the raw passion of the animal.
At some point, Harry let go of Draco’s hands - when, he had no idea - but now those hands were on his hips, pulling him up and back into that driving cock, each thrust pushing him further up the bed.
His next orgasm took Draco by surprise - his cock, bobbing against the curve of his belly, throbbing, and dribbles white into the sheets as his breath refuses to come and the world darkens around him.
And still Harry doesn’t stop.
Draco’s breath returns with a sob that feels like ascension, the headboard of the bed bumping his head with every thrust.
He can feel Harry’s knot pulling and pushing at him, growing with every thrust. His prostate is so sensitive that every touch is a shock, his limbs jumping of their own accord, like a marionette whose strings are pleasure, pain, desire, and sensation.
Harry’s breath is heavy in Draco’s ear, but it fades to nothing beyond the frantic pounding of Draco’s heart.
He can feel it looming, already, something huge and terrifying. His heart seems to be running from it, a trapped bird in the sights of the lion. He can feel it in the tension of Harry’s arms, in the cadence of his breath, and the desperate jerk of his hips.
Nothing exists beyond Harry and the awful thing growing inside Draco. He wants to run, he wants to hide, he wants to press into it and ride the destructive wave of pleasure until his body gives in.
The sheet creaks in his grip, and he can feel the bruises forming on his own skin from Harry’s greedy hands.
He hears it before he feels it. The rush of Harry’s breath, the moan that sounds almost like a howl. The knot swells, tying them close, and the wave breaks.
All Draco can do is breathe, and even then, it won’t come. His whole body is full, the pressure overwhelming, and he sobs with it. His cock is soft, but he’s still coming, with great shakes and shivers.
“Mine,” Harry whispers in his ear as he is rolled onto his side. Draco nods tiredly, a shaky gasp falling from his lips as Harry’s knot presses against his prostate. “More.”
“No…” Draco whispers. Another will kill him, he is sure. His heart feels as though it will explode, and he can’t feel his legs. “No more…”
“One more…” Harry whispers, the growl of the wolf barely there. His hand is low on Draco’s belly, pulling him tight, as though he is trying to feel his own cock through layers of muscle and fat and viscera.
It won’t take much. That is the worst part. Draco sobs, and his tears fall as he shakes his head.
“No, Harry, no…”
He can’t stop it. His body is so tightly strung, like a harp string, and all Harry has to do is brush a finger across the break Draco into shattering music.
For now, all he can do is grip the muscular forearm around his waist in the vain hope that it will keep him in one piece as the pressure builds. Draco’s cock, soft and wet against his thigh, twitches weakly, and his head spins. He sobs, but Harry doesn’t stop the grinding of his hips or the pressure of his hand.
When he finally comes, it is a second of blinding light, before it all fades to blackness and silence.