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nixcloud · 5 months ago

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EWE single father/surprise fatherhood AU

It's 10 years after the war when Harry, whose life was just starting to get better and to move on, gets a call that Dudley Dursley has died, along with his wife in a horrible accident leaving behind a daughter. Whom to everyone's surprise, though they were survived by his parents, Dudley has her guardianship willed to a Mr. Harry J Potter. He has been requested to take custody following the burial.

And so Harry finds himself putting on a suit, and trying to calm the rising panic of having to attend a funeral. A lot of things were hard after the war, at Hermione's behest he had been seeing a mind healer to deal with what muggles would describe as PTSD. And things were getting better, truly better. But he would be lying if he didn’t admit that some things he had never truly been able to deal with. Funerals being one of them.

He had seen too many deaths in the war, too many bodies whose souls were magically striped from them, too many who were buried in haste without proper goodbye, to many who were buried with their whole family watching. There was something about seeing a body lowered into the ground, or encased in marble that shook Harry to his core, that left him gasping for air.

When he entered to wake he walked slowly up to the open casket, could feel Petunia and Vernon's eyes on him as they wept loudly for the room to hear. Harry never saw Dudley at this age until now, he still had that same round Dursley face and short black hair. And he looked wrong, so wrong. This man… this boy who had tormented him his whole life looked wrong, and harry could feel his hands shake. He sat in the back pew for the remainder of the service walking slowly behind the crowd as they moved the body into the cemetery.

That's the thing about freak accidents, you can't prepare, you can't leave a note explaining your crazy decisions or why of all people, you want your child to live with a man who is a stranger, to live with the grown up child you tortured. And Harry doesn't know why he's here, he knows he shouldn't have come. But this was also literally the last chance at closure he was ever going to get with dudley and so he followed the precession.

It was the worst out on the lawn. The gaping hole in the ground waiting for them all. Casket closed, people huddled close, weeping mixing with the call of the crows. He couldn't breath, his vision was swimming. He could feel his magic threatening to burst out and protect him from this too familiar threat, from this too familiar ending. He knew a panic attack when he felt one and he was desperately trying to keep it to himself. And so he barely even noticed when Petunia was walking up to him holding the hand of a 6 year old girl dressed in a matching black gown.

“This is Aedelle Petunia Dursley.” She clung tightly to the child's hand, unwilling to relinquish her. Harry could only stare at her. Petunia was right to cling, it made no sense for Harry, a stranger at best, to take this child from her grandparents as awful as they were, they loved their son, and they would love his daughter. She deserved her family, she deserved to be loved. He would give up his guardianship, he wouldn't take the last thing she knew from her.

“I don't know why Dudley willed her to you but we will not stand for it.” Petunia whispered sharply. Many faces turned to look at him accusatorily as if Harry had any say in it at all. He wanted to apologize, tell her he didn't understand either. But then the priest was there, and the casket was moving. Harry couldn't hear anything over the blood rush behind his ears. His legs trembling as they lined it up over the great gaping hole in the earth. The dark shadows stretching to reach up and wrap around the wooden box. It was too much. Harry could picture to many faces trapped inside there. To many limp bodies and broken promises. And now he could imagine Dudley in there too.

And then the screaming started. Loud shrieks, and for a few moments harry thought it all in his own head yet it grew in volume, and the weeping grew in volume, and he knew then that it was real. Dudley's daughter screamed and screamed as his casket was lowered into the earth. Aedelle is old enough to know what is happening and yet still too young to understand. Though Harry supposes no one ever truly gets old enough to understand why their loved ones die.

A great wind picked up then, pushing flowers from their arrangements. Pulling peoples jackets off their shoulders and empty chairs to the ground. It blew so hard the men holding the coffin stumbled, sending it a little too loudly to the deep earth below.

The wind was strong, not just in the way it moved the world but in its pressure. That familiar glittering sweep of magic washing over the whole venue. And Harry looked at the girl in front of him whose pain was now washing over the earth, washing over her fathers casket in a great sweep of magic. Pouring out of her like blood from an open wound. And Harry knew then why he was asked here. Knew what Petunia seemed blind too. Dudley had a magical child, and Harry was the only one who he knew could help her.

And his tears began falling all at once, for the child of magic who had lost their parents, whose closest family couldn't be trusted to love them, for a child with nothing now being thrown into the great unknown. Wept for a child who had seen too much, given more responsibility yet again.

He crouched to his knees in front of her. Looking at her reddening face and doing nothing to quiet the painful wailing. But he took her empty hand in both of his own, tinier than his own godsons had been at her age. And he whispered “hi Aedelle I'm Harry, I am your dads cousin.”

And he sobbed openly in the grass, the sound only muffled by the great roar of wind.

Across the cemetery, a groundskeeper in a long black coat stopped short. He had been lugging great rolls of grass which he would lay over the burial sight once the family left. A burst of wind swept at him, begging him to keep his distance; this happened occasionally when a wizard found themselves at the muggle funeral home. But Draco just walked on, drawing closer and closer to the grave, looking to see who was causing such a great magical disturbance in the presence of muggles.

Draco had been working here for a good 5 years now, and found a somewhat tortuous path to healing by providing peace and calm for deceased muggles and their surviving loved ones. It had seemed a fitting role for him after all the deaths he encouraged, that he should be able to at least respect their lives enough to keep the grass green and their headstones polished. It was hard work, lonely work, but it worked for him.

And from a few yards away he could see the small child wailing as he made eye contact with a man crouched in the grass, green eyes dim, face streaked with tears. Who looked just as desperate and scared as the child in front of him. Harry potter, in the place he deserved to never be again, a cemetery.

#drarry #draco malfoy #harry potter #hp #hpdm #drarry fic #look idk if i will ever write this but here is the idea that has been swiming in my head all day #nix writes #nixcloud #my fic

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nixcloud · 2 months ago

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Jiang Cheng x Lan Xichen ABO drabble

just a little scene from a fic im drafting ~

He could hear the threads cracking beneath his fist as he yanked Wei Wuxian higher off the ground. Two tanned hands tapped at his own where he gripped the collar of those black robes. His brother had always had a talent for provoking him, and he couldn’t even remember how this argument started. Still, rage coiled hot in his gut. Zidian crackled at his wrist. His jaw ached from how tightly his teeth were clenched, barely holding back the vitriol he so desperately wanted to spit out.

The red anger clouding his vision only beginning to clear when he saw the semi glassy look of Wei Wuxian’s eyes. Jiang cheng took in the face of his brother, he had noticed too late the way his cheeks were slightly too pale, and the way redness was starting to tinge his under eyes. Too late, he realized this fight had long since veered from an argument between brothers.

When they were younger, Jiang Cheng was excellent at recognizing this look. Even when he pushed too hard, even when he refused to stop yelling, he knew when his brother was actually hurting. Sad. Never quite able to hide this from his shidi.

But in this new body, he was slow to pick up on it, Jiang cheng released Wei Wuxian’s robes like he had been burned.

Watching as he dropped onto the ground awkwardly. A pit growing in his stomach as he looked down at the man he had spent his whole childhood looking up at to yell.

Suddenly Jiang Cheng felt small again. And all that irritated rage that had been bubbling up boiled over into a new rage. The hurt rage, the painful rage that was attached to blood and family.

None of this would’ve happened if Wei Wuxian hadn’t invited him to Gusu.

The letter had arrived a week ago, scrawled in that messy handwriting. Jiang Cheng couldn't fault the man for at least attempting the impossible. Wei Wuxian wrote almost weekly since returning from the dead. Usually fickle stories of night hunts, or rules he broke in Gusu. Occasionally he would include a nostalgic paragraph or two. Or ask after the Jiang clan.

But this letter had been different. A request to come to Gusu. Not for a day or two like they'd attempted in the past, but for an entire month.

A joint night hunt conference. To be co-hosted by the Lan clan and the Jiang clan. A project designed, apparently, to "strengthen inter-sect bonds" after everything that had happened at Guanyin Temple. (Lan Wangji's words, no doubt.)

It made sense on paper. In the 2 years since the fall of Jin Guangyao the sects had been unstable. Trust was in short supply. Every alliance frayed thin, each one questioning which seemingly docile omega or outspoken alpha was hiding darker intentions.

But logic didn’t account for emotion. And Jiang Cheng had written back immediately: No. That the Lan sect could deal with a conference themselves.

But in the coming days mail carriers from Gusu rained down on lotus pier, each with more letters then the last. And in a moment of weakness… here they were.

The deal had been: Gusu this year, Lotus Pier the next. If, of course, they didn’t kill each other first.

“Jiang Cheng, look, why don’t you just—”

His voice grated against him. Of course his idiot brother couldn't shut his mouth even when he was already upset. Trying to smooth things over as if he wasn't the one that started this whole thing.

Jiang cheng was trying not to completely lose his temper, he had always been quick to anger. But ever since he started raising Jin Ling he had made at least an effort to rein the worst of his outbursts in. Sometimes more successful than others. But in the last few months he was uncalmable, and now he could feel his throat straining as he yelled back

“Don’t look at me like that!” he snapped, voice sharp enough to cut. “Don’t stand there pretending you're so calm, so fucking reasonable! You don’t know anything about—”

The redness under his brother's eyes only intensified but he stood still, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

And that made it worse.

Because somehow, somehow, his impulsive once alpha brother, revived as an omega for fuck’s sake, was still calmer than him. More controlled. More stable. Able to keep a better handle on his emotions and omega instincts then Jiang Cheng ever could and he's been an omega his whole life!

Though he supposed (from what he's been taught) that mated omegas, especially those who were blessed enough to find their fated mate, had a much easier time regulating their instincts. And his brother, his brother whose fate is of the utmost convoluted nature ended up with both. While Jiang Cheng, was struggling with his suppressant regime as the last barrier between himself and the cultivation world.

It's not that omegas couldn't be cultivators, in fact omegas had potential to be some of the strongest cultivators, much more so then a common beta, whose senses were so much weaker it made most nighthunts, and connections with the spiritual world twice as difficult. But omega’s were rarely allowed the dignity of authority. Omegas were those who bore legacy, those who kept morale high, those whose life cumulated with serving and soothing those more dominant then them.

So when the Jiang’s had their first son, they’d hoped for an alpha. After their beta daughter, they’d prayed for a leader. But Jiang Cheng had presented early at fourteen, just after his brother, and his father had never looked at him the same again.

His mother, in her attempt at his best interest, had wasted no time. She locked him in his room with a jar of suppressants and strict instructions: Take it with a meal each morning. No exceptions, no missed days, no mistakes.

And he obeyed. Every day, for well over a decade. Long past when anyone said it was safe. A medication frowned upon by the cultivation world. He obeyed and he pushed down every omegan instinct until everything inside him went silent.

And it was for this reason that he couldn’t be surprised that after so much medicinal abuse of his instincts, all his hormones were out of sorts. His inner omega clawing out of its cage.

It was rage, it was volatile mood swings, exstream territorial tendencies, it was textbook feral omega. He had grown up with children teasing each other about it, or claiming an omega was so unwanted that they'd go feral, that no one could ever want a feral omega. And here he was actively creating one in the privacy of his own body.

He never resented this choice, knew it would give him the life his parents wanted. It had allowed him to be an unquestioned sect leader, even if he was underestimated as a beta and not an alpha. So then why, why had he been feeling so damn lonely lately?

His brother came back, his pack alive again, and all he felt was lonely.

That first year, he’d ignored every letter out of spite. Lan Wangji hated him, and he hadn’t trusted Wei Wuxian not to leave again. But over time, he responded. Small missives. A visit or two. The beginnings of something like family again.

But no matter how angry he was, or how guilty he felt, Wei Wuxian kept reaching out to him. Trying desperately to make a spot for one and other in their lives.

And fate might have other plans for them both but he could try, and so he was feeling particularly lonely when that ridiculous night hunt proposal arrived, and he came to Gusu

And all that came of it was this bullshit.

The dust swirled beneath his boots as Jiang Cheng surged forward, shoving Wei Wuxian hard. He watched his brother stumble back. A frustrating wetness started to gather at the corner of his purple eyes.

And then, a growl.

The commanding, cold, terrifying growl of an alpha who's been wronged.

Suddenly a large hand wrapped around Jiang Cheng’s arm and yanked him backward.

“Sect leader Jiang.” Lan Wangji’s voice was deceptively calm. If it weren't for the way his eyes glowed gold, the way all lan alphas did when their instincts were taking charge, Jiang Cheng might have mistook it for his regular speaking voice.

Something in the back of his mind wanted to cower, but Jiang Cheng is one of the strongest sect leaders, he is a proud beta, the purple lightning protecting his people, and he will not bow to any Lan. Zidan crackled defensively at his wrist.

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan!”

Wei Wuxian’s light hearted calling broke the static, the way his voice shook on the last word the only thing that gave away their reality.

“It’s okay! Don’t get so upset, it’s just my little shidi. I teased him too much, that’s all! Just let him go!”

His little act of talking down his husband should have soothed him, and yet it only added more fuel to the fire. Jiang Cheng wanted to scream, and cry and stomp his feet like a petulant child. Because his once dead brother was still doing everything to protect him. Even when he knew that Jiang Cheng was the one to start this fight.

On top of it all, for anyone, even a betta, to put their hands on a mated omega, that was grounds for a duel. At minimum.

An apology wasn't on his tongue, but whatever was was beginning to taste like regret. He met Lan Wangji’s gaze, intent to speak, when—

“Enough.”

A new voice. Calm. Commanding. Soothing.

Lan Xichen.

Unlike his younger brother who moved with near deadly silence, most of the time one knew when Lan Xichen was coming. His clothes rustled like the wind stirring grass. And the jade token tied at his waist chiming softly with the few beads strung below it, so delicate it was almost as soothing as Jiang Cheng’s own clarity bell.

Still Jiang cheng startled, blinking in disbelief at the looming ethereal presence before him. Of course, this was the Lan compound. And Lan Xichen was still their sect leader, technically. But as far as Jiang Cheng knew the older Lan had been in seclusion. For years. And yet here he was luminous, and composed, and incharge.

The iron grip on Jiang Cheng’s arm finally loosened, and he yanked it free, clenching his fists.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Wangji said, voice sharp as a blade, “It would be best if you joined Xiongzhang in the library.”

“Fine.” Jiang Cheng grit out, before storming past him, barely missing knocking shoulders with the taller man. And he didn't stop to look at Lan Xichen as he passed him either. He didn't have any patience left for niceties.

His boots struck the ground hard, each step disturbing the tranquil Gusu afternoon. But he wasn’t walking alone. Every one of his steps was being punctuated with that quiet chime of Lan Xichen in the distance.

Slowly allowing the noise to settle his riled omega instincts until he finally reached the library pavilion.

“Allow me, Jiang Zongzhu,” came that voice again, deep and calm like heavy snowfall. Refreshing in the afternoon heat.

And he finds himself stepping aside without protest. The larger man opened the door, welcoming him into the cool quiet library. It had been a long time since he was here, and it had changed so much since he was a child, both the building and what it contained. But it still smelled like sandalwood, and it still dwarfed any library Lotus Pier had ever built.

Lan Xichen led them to a low table at the center of the room and gestured for Jiang Cheng to sit across from him. Watching carefully as those large hands began to pour him a cup of tea.

He hadn't seen the older man in nearly two years and yet he looked much the same. His robes hung in soft layers over his broad shoulders. Carefully continuing their slope into muscular forearms. He kept his posture perfectly straight emphasising how tall he was even among the Lan’s. His silky black hair had been brushed into a simpler hairstyle then Jiang Cheng remembered of him, but it still cascaded carefully around him, framing his form in all its Lan perfection.

And yet something was different.

His beautiful face graced by his sharp jaw, soft lips and surprisingly gentle eyes, was drawn thinner than Jiang Cheng remembered. Lan Xichen looked so much more tired than the man he had grown familiar with over the years. It aged him slightly, and yet reminded Jiang Cheng too much of his face during the reign of the Wen. Slightly too hollow. Slightly… unsettling.

Jiang Cheng chewed the inside of his cheek to keep his opinions on this to himself. He didn't like it. But after everything that had happened, what else could he have expected? He hadn’t even expected to lay eyes on the man.

“I was surprised,” Lan Xichen finally spoke, “to hear you agreed to co-plan this night hunt with us.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes snapped back to the soft gold ones, embarrassed to realize he’d definitely been caught letting his gaze roam over every inch of the older man.

“Obviously I didn’t easily agree so much as get pestered into it,” he said sharply, chin lifting.

Lan Xichen chuckled softly. “Don’t take it the wrong way,” he said, an unreadable glint in his eye. “It’s good to see a familiar face. Especially after so long in seclusion.”

“I hadn’t known you left it.”

“I haven’t left it entirely,” Lan Xichen replied, with the ghost of a smile. “Partial seclusion. I can still manage writing invitations, at least. Especially if Jiang-zongzhu is willing to assist me.”

Jiang Cheng’s mouth felt inexplicably dry. “Well. Let’s get it over with, then.”

He stretched a scroll of parchment out in front of himself, dipping his brush into the inkstone while Lan Xichen murmured the phrasing for each letter. They worked in companionable silence, copying names and titles with practiced strokes. Though if it were a competition, Jiang Cheng would have lost because just like all other pristine elements of the lan clan, their writing was obnoxiously perfect.

They scripted out invitation after invitation. And Jiang Cheng couldn't help but let his mind wander, every few words his thoughts turned back to the man across from him, the shock of his presence yet to wear off.

Sometimes when he had nightmares of his past, the face Lan Xichen made that night would linger in his mind too. The pain, the blood on his sword, the way he crumpled into a broken mess when all was said and through. The love of his life murdered at his own hand.

Jiang Cheng had been quietly watching Lan Xichen his whole life, from the respectful distance of allied sects, from across conference halls, from the desks of Cloud Recess's lecture hall. So it would have been hard to miss the way the older man looked so fondly upon the Jin disciple.

Everyone had known, or at least suspected, that Lan Xichen had loved Jin Guangyao. Many whispered that they had been secretly mated, that Jin Guangyao simply hid the mark beneath the high collar of his robes. They always sought each other in a crowd. Leaned close when they spoke. And the great and honorable Zewu-jun would never tolerate a harsh or damning word against his sworn brother.

Jin Guangyao had been an omega. Loyal to his sect. And so, there was never any true way to marry outside his clan and preserve his dignity. Or at least that’s what everyone thought. Still, many expected them to eventually go public. A dominant alpha so clearly enamored with a brilliant, hospitable omega, an ideal mating.

But then everything happened at once. In the blink of an eye, Jin Guangyao was no longer the son of a prostitute but a sect leader. With power came the need for image, and he took a wife. Untraditionally, it was another omega, raising eyebrows but also preventing any power imbalance. They seemed happy together. And to be honest although uncommon for two omegas to be together formally, it was more acceptable then two alphas, or an unmated omega, and so most did not question him too harshly.

And in an even more unconventional show he bonded with her, and she had shown off her mark proudly like any sect leader's wife might. No one ever knew if his wife bit him back as was custom with omegas. He still wore his collars too tight, too high.

A gap between Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao seemed to grow and grow. Still Jin Guangyao looked happy in any public appearance, and Lan Xichen never showed interest in another omega or even beta.

So when Jin Guangyao was exposed as a traitor, a murderer, and, in the end, was killed by the one man he claimed he would never harm… it wasn’t surprising that Lan Xichen retreated into seclusion.

It was said that a broken bond between mates, especially soulmates, was an empty kind of grief. It left one split open and bleeding for one's whole life. There were ancient tales of fated mates dying in succession. It was always a romantic idea, to live and die with your love. But the reality of it was so much more bitter.

Many feared Lan Xichen would waste away after the fall of Lianfang-zun. And in some ways, he had. Yet here he was. Very much alive. Sitting at this low table across him.

Jiang Cheng chose to blame his perseverance on his strong golden core and Lan will power.

Well over an hour passed, and they’d finished the invitations for the major sects. For a while now Lan Xichen had been musing over who else he thought should receive an invite. Weighing pros and cons of different peoples from all over their lands. But to be honest Jiang Cheng hadn't been paying much attention to him since he mentioned the Jin clan maybe half an incessant stick ago. Just nodding and watching the way his lips formed around his words.

“Zewu-jun. It’s good to see you. It’s been a while.” The words spilled out of him unbidden, and he realized too late that he had cut Lan Xichen off mid-sentence. That little surprised “o” of his mouth confirmed it.

A red blush crept up Jiang Cheng’s neck at his own rudeness.They stared at each other awkwardly for a long moment before Lan Xichen’s expression warmed again.

“Thank you. It has been too long, hasn’t it?” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Wangji asked me to help plan this conference. And, ah… I couldn’t say no to my little brother.”

Jiang Cheng huffed and sat back, forcing his eyes onto the half finished scroll in front of him. “Well then it seems we have something in common then. Except my insufferable brother didn’t ask. He sent a dozen damn letters like it was some kind of hostage negotiation.” he slapped his hand down on the table jostling their discarded brushed “And stop smiling like that,” he added, sharper than necessary. “This isn’t some grand reunion. We're working.”

Lan Xichen smiled at him then too, expression out of place with how rude Jiang Cheng knew he came off. But soon they were back to discussing whom to invite, and inking more letters, working together in comfortable quiet as the sun plunged from the sky. Making way for the cold light of the stars.

Only interacting when one passed a complete invitation across the table for the other sect leader to stamp on their official clan insignia before folding it neatly into the pile for couriers.

And maybe it was his imagination, but Jiang Cheng was fairly certain that as he worked those gold eyes were burning holes into him, and began glowing when they passed the other a letter and their hands brushed.

authors note: tried to write a abo smut scene ended up with this character study tragic siblings monstrosity with 16 pages of plot bullet points.... gona try and actually write it all. i have 15 scenes plotted out and this is just the first one so who knows if ill finish but for now. xicheng abo characters study i guess

#mdzs #lan xichen #jiang cheng #xicheng #wangxain #lan wangji #wei wuxian #the untaimed #mo dao zu shi #the grandmaster of demonic cultivation #mdzs fic #fanfic #LOOK ITS SUPOSED TO BE SMUT I SWEAR #CAN YOU BLAME A MAN FOR LOVING EASY ABO TROPES AND GETTING SUCKED INTO THE PLOT GOD #really back on my abo bullshit tho #nix writes #nixcloud

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nixcloud · 1 month ago

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Idk yall i just feel like it was werid when everyone was posting “omg im so glad that Tsubaki’s pole dancing scene wasn’t sexualized, it’s not sexual!!!”

Like… yes pole dancing doesn’t have to be sexual. Yes pole dancing is sport and dance but it also came from and has deep roots in sex work. And both things can be true.

But guess what its weirdo fucking behavior to be this excited to declare that queer characters are non-sexual. It’s weirdo behavior to not be ok with sexual people.

Idk just a lot of weirdo behavior surrounding Tsubaki, like are y’all gonna be ok if we acknowledge that Tsubaki is working in a red light district? Do y’all know what that is?? Are y’all so puritan that your anti sex and anti sex work. What if Tsubaki fucks? What are you gonna do then??

And im not talking about the people who might head-cannon Tsubaki as ace, im talking about the people who only like Tsubaki when they separate the character from sex.

Idk just a lot of people becoming more conservative and only supporting queer people when they are “palatable” and have no connection to “sin” or sex, or idk being whole rounded ppl.

#wind breaker #tasuku tsubakino #windbreaker #wind breaker tsubakino #wbk tsubakino #LOL and if u dont like this yall rlly rnt gona like my opinions on tsubaki def being a trans woman #nixcloud #nix ideas

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nixcloud · 2 months ago

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A Face For Radio: POV Harry

Drarry - Sports Reporter x Star Quidditch Player AU

Ballycastle Bats team | Draco's POV | Authors Note @ end Ballycastle Bats vs. Chudley Cannons – International Cup Qualifier to determine who will represent Britain in the World Cup

“Ooohhhhhh!”

“There he is!”

“So nice of Britain’s MVP to finally grace us with his presence!”

Harry dramatically buried his face in his hands and blindly stumbled toward his locker, thunking his forehead against the metal with a groan.

“Ugh!”

“Oh no,” Seffana gasped, eyes wide and voice dripping with mock horror as she waved around her bat. “I didn’t know the Chosen One was going to be here today! D’you think I could get an autograph?” She held out her heavily tattooed forearm and a marker dramatically.

“Shut it,” Harry mumbled into his locker, throwing his duffle inside without looking.

“You're 20 minutes late, what happened?” Julia asked, arms crossed, punctuating the question with a loud crack of her gum. Eyeing him distastefully.

“Slept through my alarm…”

“What do you mean you slept through your alarm? The rest of us couldn't get a wink because we were too nervous about this big game.” Adelaide chimed in as she stepped out of the lav, tossing her long braid over her shoulder.

Harry shrugged, peeling off his hoodie. “Well, only one thing really keeps me up at night” and he spun around to face his teammates “and that's voldemort's ugly mug!” He used one finger to flatten out the point of his straight nose for emphasis.

But…. No one laughed….

They all just blinked at each other awkwardly, and Harry continued to squish his nose to his face…

”...get it because he doesn't have a…” and he pressed down on his nose again, and still it was met with silence “…not funny?”

“Bro,” came Riordans tired drawl, “No.”

“Yeah… real mood killer, mate.” Dhruv, one of their reserve chasers, called from where he leaned against his locker.

Everyone stood around awkwardly. Harry still squishing his nose.

It wasn’t until Westly, their gangly mischievous beater, let out a snort he tried to disguise as a cough that the entire locker room exploded into laughter.

Harry bent over, holding his stomach as he laughed. His wild hair flopped into his face, stubble still unshaven, bronze cheeks glowing with amusement. He had been a bit nervous at the beginning of pre-season when the Ballyastle Bats had picked him from the draft.

He had missed out on a lot of the training most other pro athletes had gotten in their youth, he had been busy then…

So when he decided to go for quidditch tryouts he was under no illusions, he knew that his name would take him farther than his skill, but still he had been excited when he had been signed to the Appleby Arrows. It had been a long time since their hay day and it seemed to have done a number on his then teammates' confidence. Because none of them invited him out for a pint or joked with him, or mentioned him by anything less than Mr. Potter. Even though he was a decade younger than most.

It wasn't bad. He loved quidditch, and flying with such experienced players gave him a great opportunity to strengthen his own skills. But it hadn't been the life he had hoped for. When he told the Arrows’ coach he wasn’t renewing his contract and was reentering the draft, they’d had an argument.

Harry wasn't proud of his anger…. He had gotten good at managing it, but he struggled with authority even on a good day, and that bastard had a god complex. So who could blame harry for telling him “Just because your Patronus is a bloody whistle doesn’t mean you get to go around demanding people jump at your blow!” and when he started yelling Harry MIGHT have hit him with a hair loss curse. But no one was around. And that was hearsay.

Anyoneone who knew Harry wasn't surprised when he showed up in the draft with absolutely nothing positive on paper from his old team. However he had been surprised when so many teams made a bid for him after 4 years of mediocre seeker showmanship.

And even more surprised when the manager of the Ballycastle Bats had asked him to a private dinner to discuss a contract and what she envisioned for his future. It was kind, it sounded great, and even though his favorite team had also made a bid for him, it was for a reserve position…

It didn't hurt that Harry had always been partial to red uniforms…despite his love of the team, imagining being donned in an orange frock to fly laps gave him a headache.

Ron nearly strangled him when he turned down the cannons, but the Bats, they had a lot to offer.

They weren’t nice, exactly. But they were fiercely loyal. They challenged each other. The worst player each week bought the first round of Friday night drinks. They sent flowers to his parents’ graves when Harry missed practice for their death anniversary. They were... good. And he hadn't been this happy in a while.

For one, he hadn't laughed this hard in ages, the room was filled with laughter and snorting, and people slapping their lockers, and gasping for breath.

“WHAT IN THE WORLD IS GOING ON IN HERE!”

Immediately everyone's mouths shut with an audible clack of teeth. Spines straightened. Their coach's face was already turning redder than her hair as she stalked in.

”Ok to get us started….” Another voice came from around the corner to the locker room entrance, steps getting closer “OH MERLIN WHY ARE NONE OF YOU DRESSED!!! If you’re not in full uniform by the time I drop off this press kit, I swear I’m terminating all of your contracts!” Their manager screamed, and before it could echo off the tiles Lockers flew open. Players scrambled. Flying trousers were yanked on in every direction.

The trousers were easy, soft and smooth fabric. And the color? Red uniforms were classic, nostalgic, romantic even. Harry always felt it was the best uniform color.

He whipped off his shirt and propped one foot on the bench, bending low to strap on his knee and calf guards. Velcro ripped through the room like applause.

He stretched once, deeply arching his back to pop something stiff in his lower spine. His wingspan flexed as he rolled his shoulders, before righting himself.

All his teammates stood in a shirtless circle around the bench. Everyone looking somewhat grim, their muscles and skin on display.

Of course their fearless leader, their team captain Julia, took it on herself to speak up. “Alright. Which Bat’s up first?”

No one volunteered for a long minute so Harry grabbed Westly’s arm and tossed him into the middle of the circle ignoring his indignant yelp, someone had to get the ball rolling on this.

“Bastard!” Westly yelled, reflexively catching the large purple bottle their captain chucked at him.

“You all better be gentle, this is an important game," he grumbled.

Flipping the lid open and pouring a generous amount of lube into his palm, warming it for a second before beginning to spread it over his chest, down onto his stomach and then onto his back and shoulders.

“Assume the position!” Their captain barked, Harry was sure he could hear the huff their coach off in the hallway, but paid her no mind as Westly raised his arms straight above his head and bent at a perfect 90-degree angle, sighing like a martyr.

“Westly don't move, everyone else get ready.”

Riley and Kieu approached him, high ponytails swaying behind them, holding shiny black fabric,

“Ok there we go stretch it wide.”

And then the two bats began to stretch the compression jersey over his arms, tugging it roughly so the spandex wouldn't get stuck. Finally the shirt made it down the tops of his shoulders. Riley and Kieu grabbed Westly’s hands to keep him steady while the 2 other chasers began to pull the shirt slowly down his back, everyone careful not to let it bunch up. There was nothing worse then when the too small shirt got stuck all bunched up suffocating and hard to untangle. It was everyone's worst nightmare, and the shirts were so tight they were nearly impossible to put on on one's own, which is how this team building tradition started.

During the last 2 weeks of their pre-season the manager and coach had presented them with the new tight uniforms, and it had taken literally an hour for everyone to get them on, their manager assured them they would stretch out and the benefit was being more aerodynamic. But after a week none of them could get it on, and at friday night drinks their captain had drunkenly suggested they raid the chosen ones locker for lube and everyone had cackled. But come Monday morning no one could stop thinking about it and well... There were few problems a bit of lube couldn’t solve.

And so, a new pre-game ritual was born. Lubing up and suiting up.

Everyone took turns lubing up and having their compression shirts stretched over them. Occasionally someone would shout “Add more lube!” or complain about someone else’s oversized head, but eventually, everyone was clothed. Gleaming. Slick. United.

“If we’re not the most aerodynamic team in the league, I’ll eat my broom,” muttered Riordan, giving them all a frankly illegal once-over.

Their manager returned, box in hand. “You’re dressed. Good. I was beginning to think I’d have to commit career suicide.”

Everyone chuckled nervously.

The coach joined her and the team crowded onto the locker room benches.

“Ok first things first let's go over our starting lineup, and innital plays.” The coach tucked her long red hair behind her ear, flipping around her black and red clipboard to show a few hand drawn plays. Everyone listened intently, asking relevant questions and confirming their roles.

“OK!” their manager clapped, and all eyes were on her, she smiled wide “I have presents!” she spun around her red robes accentuating her movements and her long dark braids fluttering about. A reverent silence fell as she opened a large box.

“Since this match decides who represents Britain in the Cup, we thought it was time to pull out the big guns.” She smiled slyly. “Not to count our Mandracs before they sprout, but we’d like to remind everyone who they’re cheering for.”

“WOAH!”

“BLOODY HELL THAT'S AWESOME!”

“MERLIN!”

Gasps echoed through the room as she held up their brand new capes. The ones they had only heard about in hushed whispers as their admin was preparing for IF they won today.

They were pure, perfect black. So dark they held no reflection, so dark they made the rest of their uniform look gray. The fabric was cut to mimicked real bat wings, with crimson embroidery tracing the lines of imagined bones. Heavy leather straps hung across the shoulders like harnesses. It was eerie and perfect.

And then their manager flipped it around revealing red block numbers, 16, “Captain come claim your prize!”

Their captain approached mouth agape, and she carefully took the fabric in her hands. “It's so light… stunning!” she whispered in awe. And the manager just smiled, that soft warm smile she had.

One by one, capes were passed out.

Harry’s was last.

The manager approached him quietly, pressing it into his hands like it was something sacred.

Then she leaned in, and spoke low enough so only he could hear.

“You definitely need a shave today”

Harry grinned sheepishly.

She rolled her eyes, fond but exasperated, and tapped her earpiece. “Just got the ping. The Silver Snitch is in the press box.”

“OHHHHHHhhhhhhhh,” Westly drawled behind him.

But Harry didn’t stick around long enough to be teased. His team had wrung every possible joke out of his Silver Snitch obsession weeks ago. He doubted there was a single pun, insinuation, or faux-sultry impression of the man’s voice left to try.

He ducked into the lav, heart beating a little too fast, and stood before the row of mirrors above the sinks.

Right. He wanted to look good today. Great, even.

He splashed a bit of cold water on his face and leaned in, eyeing the stubble he hadn’t managed to shave that morning, slowly beginning to glide his razer over his jaw.

Today was important, he loved Quidditch. Not just playing. But listening to it, obsessing over stats. Collecting the player cards charmed to smell like broom polish.

Of course, most of this fanfare was born from Ron, who’d introduced him to the Chudley Cannons during their first year at Hogwarts like it was a sacred rite. It had been life changing. Not because of the Cannons, though he’s supported them for years out of stubborn loyalty, but because that was how Harry learned to love the sport. Really, properly love it.

His dad had been a great Seeker, sure, but Harry hadn’t known that until after he’d fallen in love with flying. Like most kids from Muggle households, he hadn’t even heard of Quidditch before Hogwarts.

So when Ron started playing radio reruns in their dorm after class, Harry had soaked it in like a sponge. The roar of the crowd. The dry wit of the commentators. The details, lineups, fouls, play styles, rivalries, it was like learning another language, and he’d become fluent overnight.

Even during the war, they’d kept that tiny radio in their tent. Mostly it played music, or grim updates from Potterwatch. But now and again, they'd catch a recording from the Hogwarts pitch or an international match not yet canceled by the Death Eaters. It had kept them sane. Or at least distracted.

And Harry had never stopped listening. To pre-match shows. To post-match breakdowns. To entire broadcasts of games he’d just played in.

He liked hearing how the experts spun things. Liked hearing what he could’ve done better. Liked hearing him.

Because right around the time Harry joined the league, a new broadcast had popped up. It was cleverly titled Post to Post, a live play-by-play for British teams.

He’d tuned in on a whim, and he had never recovered.

It was some match he didn’t even care about. He’d joined halfway through and missed the host’s name entirely. But that voice wasn’t one he’d heard before. It was—

Deep.

Buttery.

And laced with this wicked sort of wit that made Harry laugh even when nothing funny was happening. He could describe a routine throw like it was poetry. Could slow down a play to analyze it and still have time to slip in a perfectly timed dig at a player’s haircut. Harry had found himself on the edge of his seat and anticipation, breath caught, spine tingling.

By the time the game ended, his heart was pounding in his chest.

He asked around, of course. But no one seemed to know who the broadcaster was, or where the show came from. It wasn’t official league programming, that was for sure. No sponsors. No glossy production. Just an anonymous voice and a good microphone.

And so Harry became one of the Silver Snitch’s first regular listeners.

The next time it aired, he made sure to catch it from the start.

“Welcome back to Post to Post with the Silver Snitch,” the voice had purred through the radio.

He couldn’t decide if the pseudonym was arrogant or brilliant. But regardless he knew that there was no way he was putting a face to that radio voice. It painted a very nice mental picture though.

Harry had been obsessed ever since.

He’d listened religiously to every game. Every post-match interview. Every debate show, every throwaway segment where the Silver Snitch broke down plays with precision and charm. It wasn't a rare occasion for him to fall asleep at night to that warm syrupy voice whispering in his ear.

And now… he was here.

At harry’s match.

Harry turned back to the mirror, eyes flicking across his reflection. Jawline decent. Cheeks flushed from adrenaline. He tousled his curls with a little Sleekeazy’s until they framed his face in soft, windswept waves.

Then, carefully, he began to strap on his cape, fastening the harness across his chest, and rejoined his teammates.

“Ohhh, there he is! The handsome, the unstoppable, the Savior of the Wizarding World! Potter himself!” Seffana started up again.

Harry rolled his eyes as he walked back in. “Save it.”

“You got all cleaned up to meet the man, didn’t you?” came Noemie, mockingly affectionate.

“Oh, absolutely,” Dhruv chimed in. “Bet he’s a silver fox. All posh, wears cravats to breakfast. There’s no way that wizard’s under forty.”

Everyone laughed.

“I’m holding out hope shes a hot milf using a voice charm,” Riordan said solemnly. “Plus, Harry would make a good dad. It’d work out perfectly!”

A chorus of hums and grunts followed, everyone nodding along as though imagining it made sense.

“Alright, alright,” Harry groaned, waving them off as his ears turned bright red. “Forget it. Aren’t we supposed to be on the field already?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Kieu smirked. “We’ll see for ourselves soon enough.”

Harry rolled his eyes again, but the fluttering in his chest didn’t stop.

Everyone grabbed their brooms and began lining up. Their team captain strolled down the line, eyeing each of them with mock scrutiny.

“Well,” she said, pausing at the front. “Even if we’re not aerodynamic, I know one thing, we’re the best looking team in the league.”

“What do you mean? With jerseys this tight, we better be getting a speed advantage,” Kieu muttered, tugging at the clingy fabric stretched over her abs.

“Well, for most of us, yeah,” Riley said. “But Potter and Seffana over there? Not so much.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Seffana demanded, disgruntled.

Julia smirked and strolled over. Without warning, she grabbed the harness straps across Harry’s chest and yanked them sharply, cinching them even tighter.

Harry choked out a startled sound as the straps pressed snugly against his pecs.

“For you two,” she said, eyeing the both of them, “these jerseys aren’t helping with aerodynamics. They’re just rubbing it in our faces how flat chested the rest of us are.”

The room exploded with laughter, Harry included, even as he tried to cover his face.

“I swear to Merlin,” Riley wheezed, “I’ve been wearing two bras and I still can’t get this jersey to do me any favors.”

“Meanwhile,” she gestured at Harry’s chest dramatically, “Potter over here’s got Quidditch titty physics working in his favor.”

“Should’ve been the Chosen One for that alone,” Dhruv snorted.

Harry groaned. “You’re all deeply unwell.”

Just then, their coach clapped twice and strode into the locker room. “Alright, alright, save the tit talk for after we win, yeah?”

Everyone scrambled into position, falling into two neat rows facing the tunnel.

Their manager jogged to the front, voice raised over the rumble of the crowd just beyond the stadium walls.

“What are we?”

“BATS!” the team shouted.

“What do we do?”

“CASTLE!”

“How do we win?”

“ECHOLOCATION!”

She grinned at their ridiculously serious chant, raised a fist, then turned on her heel and flung the tunnel doors open.

The roar of the stadium surged in like a tidal wave. And the Ballycastle Bats launched forward in a blur of red and black.

The euphoria was instant, the whole stadium was alive with their colors. Glittering confetti was raining over them. Harry kept his body low to his broom just like they practiced a hundred times. Speeding out as the leader of their sharp pyramid formation. He felt the way his cape thundered behind him, and could tell that the crowd was building on their ambiance.

They messed around alot in the locker room and during practice. But as soon as they set out for a match they sobered up quickly. Each of them slipping into their intense, hyper focused personas. They were bats, they flew fast, they traveled in packs, and were known to be blood thirsty.

The Seeker always flew point. Not just for the drama of it, but for control. He set the route. He controlled the pace. And he never had to look behind to know the rest of the formation was right there with him.

He banked upward, shooting toward the upper stands where the team’s guests were seated.

The wind stung his eyes, but he could still spot the bright orange blob in the front row of Bats fans. Ron, predictably, was still decked out head-to-toe in his tragic Cannons gear, standing tall and shouting like a man possessed. Hermione beside him had conjured an elegant banner with Harry’s name in charmed ink that shimmered when it caught the light.

Luna, Nevil, and Ginny took the row behind them throwing as much red and black confetti as they could manage. Harry even spotted Andromeda tucked among a few of the Weasleys, wrapped in a deep crimson shawl.

But he didn’t see the one person he was most desperate to spot. Until he looked farther down the aisle.

There. Being lifted above the crowd by Arthur Weasley, held aloft like a prized trophy, was Teddy. Hair shifted into the perfect shade of Ballycastle red with a bold streak of black. His little hand stretched as far as it could reach, grinning

Harry slowed them down just enough that everyone could put eyes on their people, remind them who they were playing for.

He reached out and high fived the young boy who squealed with excitement. It was exactly what he needed.

And so with gusto he turned their formation zooming around the arena in a full loop before coming to float in formation near center field.

The sun warmed Harry’s skin through his uniform, but inside, his stomach was a mess of butterflies and liquid nerves. They were minutes away from the quaffle being tossed. But first: Press.

One by one players broke from the wings of their pyramid, and zoomed toward the press box to be formally introduced over the stadium. Got to pose at the box and lock eyes with the man whose voice had lived in his head for months. Meaning Harry, nervous, sweaty-palmed, hopelessly lovestruck Harry, was dead last.

Adelaide took off first, her cape’s bright red twelve gleaming in the sun as she rocketed toward the press box. From formation, Harry could already tell she was milking it, tossing her hair about and striking fun poses. She was reserve only because their starting beaters were top 10 in the league, but don't let her flirtation fool you; she was a terror on a broom.

He could here her introduction boom around the arena, as the non partisan announcer began alternating introducing players from each team.

Adelaide zoomed back toward formation, screaming with laughter.

“YOU WON’T BELIEVE IT, POTTER!” she shrieked, blazing past him too fast for any follow up. She spiraled down to the sidelines, still howling.

His head whipped desperately between her and the press box, but was stuck in his formation till it was his time.

Dhruv Bakshi was up next, and it felt like an eternity before he returned his laugh echoed from the sideline.

“Potter, you’re done for!” he called gleefully.

“OMG HES HOT” Noémie Leveret, shouted as she plummeted towards the reserve bench.

Riordan MacEvenny returned from his introduction, breathless: “I cannot believe.”

Their captain was particularly damning as she shouted, “You’re never hearing the end of this, you know that, right? This is our entire personality for the rest of the season,” before peeling off into her starting position.

Harry wanted to fly away and hide. This was his nightmare.

A beautiful, terrible, sultry-voiced nightmare.

He hovered alone at midfield, white-knuckled on his broom. Sweat prickled at his hairline. Harness pressing a bit too tightly into him on every inhale.

And then, finally, it was Harry’s turn.

He was a Seeker. He had to show off his speed. That’s what he’d tell them later, when they inevitably mocked him for breaking the sound barrier just to get to the press box.

He was moving so fast he could barely see, but when he’d asked their manager to send a personal invitation to the Silver Snitch, he’d begged her to place him dead center in the press box. So there’d be no mistake. No confusion.

Harry did a dramatic flip on his broom, got the crowd going and gave him the perfect stop, meer meters from the reporters. And there he was.

Haloed in sunlight. Sitting impossibly upright in his chair, all long limbs and posh posture. Platinum blond hair gently tousled beneath oversized headphones. A soft blue suit, glowing in the over saturated room.

Draco. Bloody. Malfoy.

Harry barely breathed. His heart went supersonic. Every sense flared, white hot, as their eyes locked across the balcony.

Those grey eyes were wide with recognition, just as stunned as Harry’s. But Draco had known, hadn’t he? He’d accepted the invitation. He was here. Harry froze, unable to speak, unable to look away.

Then Draco leaned into the mic, the pale column of his throat bobbing with a swallow, and without charm or magic, he spoke.

It was like warm honey poured over silver spoons. It was velvet and smoke and old magic and every dream Harry had ever refused to admit out loud.

That voice. That voice. Coming from that mouth, the one Harry knew could be haughty and whinny, and mean, and nervous and clever and so, so kissable.

His past obsession had just collided, violently, with his current one.

His name deep and smooth off those wet pink lips Draco breathed “Harry James Potter.”

Harry licked his dry lips. Let his eyes drag over every inch, suit, headphones, flushed cheeks, the badge on his chest, and god help him, the red and black lanyard around that pale throat. His colors.

And then he took off toward the starting lineup.

Ruined.

Absolutely, gloriously ruined.

He was definitely going to win this game.

#Authors note: this is just a little AU i have been playing with on bluesky! the team is all OC's with no real bg info for now! not sure if ill every really write anything more then HC's for this one tho! - Nix

#harry potter #draco malfoy #hp #drarry #hpdm #dlm #hjp #drarry fic #a face for radio #LOL harrys dumber and more wild POV!!#hehe having fun with this HC but it prolly wont be more then random blurbs... but my actual fic is almost done #so maybe ill focus on a new longer project soon #nix writes #nixcloud

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nixcloud · 3 months ago

Text

I Need The Sound Of Crowds, Or I Can't Fall Asleep At Night

Drarry | M | ch: 5/7

🍏⚡️🪩post war night club AU 🪩⚡️🍏

Draco was being sucked into a wet heat. A flicker of teeth caught his lip, sending a spark of pleasure through him.

The rough tiles of the last stall on the left pressed into his back, grounding him. Lips met lips with an intensity that had Draco's eyes fluttering shut, completely surrendering to it. Their breaths fogged up Harry’s specs, but Harry didn’t seem to notice, not with the way he was pressing forward, chasing more.

Draco clung to his broad shoulders, shuttering when he felt muscles ripple beneath his fingers as Harry adjusted his hold on him. As it turned out, Harry Potter had a thing for manhandling Draco. Nothing seemed to make him kiss more frantically, or moan more, than when he managed to pin Draco against a wall and keep him there.

So, Draco was being pushed up the wall, no magic involved, just pure human strength, and it was rewiring his brain entirely. His fingers dug into Harry’s back, desperate for more.

Harry kissed him with bruising, dizzying force. His tongue bullying his way inside, relentless and warm. He tasted like whiskey and the faintest hint of something sweeter, something Draco had started craving.

He tugged Harry closer, it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough. Harry moaned, low and guttural, deepening the kiss with a confidence that made Draco’s knees weak. He was drowning in it.

Suddenly, Harry’s hand fisted in Draco’s long blond hair, yanking his head back roughly, exposing the smooth column of his throat. His lips left Draco’s, trailing hot, open mouthed kisses down his jawline and onto his neck, sending shocks of pleasure through his spine. Then, with tantalizing slowness, Harry licked a wide stripe down his milky skin, not stopping until he reached his collarbone where he pressed firm kisses into Draco’s flesh.

The pressure of Harry's thigh against him increased, and Draco couldn't help the way he bucked up against him. His desire overwhelming when he could feel Harry's own hardness through his jeans. Saliva pooled in Draco's ignored mouth, Harry’s fingers tightened on his waist encouraging him to grind against him more, moaning in response to every breathy noise that he pulled from Draco. He wished Harry didn't make him whine like this, the embarrassed flush that sat high on his pale cheeks would never dissipate.

Harry’s mouth continued its path, nipping and sucking at his shoulder while his hands slipped beneath Draco’s shirt, mapping every inch of his back. Harry’s touch was firm, steady, soothing the heat radiating from Draco’s body…until he bit down too hard.

“AH!” Draco yelped, scrambling to yank Harry’s head away from the fresh stinging wound on his shoulder.

Harry just stared up at him, looking awed. The bastard. Soaking up Draco’s sounds like always.

“Watch it, Potter!” Draco seethed, still trying to catch his breath.

But Harry was blissed out, pupils blown, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “I am watching.”

Goosebumps rose on Draco’s skin, and a wave of sudden, intense pleasure crashed over him, embarrassing in its ferocity. His pulse hammered as he dove back in, biting down on Harry’s bottom lip in retribution, tugging hard.

It didn’t have the effect he wanted. Harry only looked more pleased, more wrecked. With a growl, Draco kissed him in full again, desperate to wipe that smug look off his face.

It had been another typical day before snogging in the bathroom, Draco had been verbally accosted by no less than three wizards who, though in dire need of medical attention, couldn’t stomach being touched by “the pale hands of a Death Eater.” One had even spat something about “another one of You Know Who’s puppets.” It had done wonders for Draco’s mood.

By the time they’d arrived at the Enchanted Lounge that night, Harry seemed to have had an equally bad day, ranting about some new Ministry disaster that had him grinding his teeth. So by the time they hit the dance floor, both of them were in desperate need of mindless relief.

Draco noticed a tall, skinny man in baggy jeans and a mesh top eyeing him from across the room, practically drooling as he watched them grind together. When Harry went to get another drink, Draco wasn’t surprised when the stranger made his way over.

Draco was plainly uninterested. Nothing beats the thrill of the Chosen One choosing him in this dark anonymous room. But Draco had always loved the game, so he humored the wet noodle of a man just long enough for Harry to come back.

The timing was perfect. The git had just reached out to toy with Draco’s hair when Harry loomed over them, eyes dark with something possessive.

“Potter?” Draco’s voice dripped with amusement as he glanced at Harry. “Ah, you made it back. I was starting to worry the stray dog had gotten lost.” He smirked, relishing the way Harry’s eyes narrowed, irritation flickering across his face. Staring Draco down like he wanted to devour him right there and then.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he ground out, edged with an anger targeted at the strange man.

Draco’s smirk deepened. “Oh, just making new friends,” he drawled, eyes gleaming with mischief.

The stranger huffed a laugh, seemingly oblivious to the way Harry was barely concealing his irritation . “Yeah, I was just trying to figure out who this queen is,” he said, nodding toward Draco with a grin.

Harry turned his head slowly, fixing the man with an icy stare. He smile hollow and eerily malicious. “I don’t know about queen,” he said coolly, “but this princess can be a real pain in the arse.”

Draco stiffened, a small flicker of heat curling in his stomach, princess?? He absolutely did not like that. Not at all. He narrowed his eyes.

“ Excuse you?” Draco scoffed, obviously offended. But his voice traitorously pitched just a little higher. Harry was watching him, saw something there, a vicious smile directed at him now.

Draco bristled, flipping his hair with a dramatic sniff, Harry could be annoying but Draco knew just how to push him. “Potter, this man was just telling me about a great spot in the back of the club. Isn’t that sweet?” His voice was a lazy drawl, eyes gleaming with mischief as he let the stranger’s fingers toy with his hair for a moment longer, purely to provoke Harry.

It worked. Harry’s hand shot out, grabbing Draco’s wrist firmly pulling him back into his orbit. Draco couldn’t help the satisfied grin that spread across his face. He’d won.

They danced for one more song before Harry’s possessive grip became all but a leash, practically dragging Draco toward the back of the club. Most nights ended like this now. They’d claimed the last stall on the left as their own, and Draco wouldn’t have it any other way.

The taste of Harry Potter lingered on his lips, sweeter than any buzz, and better still, it was his to savor.

Harry slammed him against the stall wall, the force of it knocking a gasp from Draco’s throat. He loomed close, breath warm against Draco’s cheek, lips brushing, teasing, hovering .

Draco smirked, turning his head at the last second to narrowly avoid Harry’s lips, feigning his own irritation just to push him further. “Always such a brute, aren’t you, Potter ?”

Harry’s fingers dug into his waist, laughing with a dark amusement. “Isn’t this what you were hoping for earlier, princess ?”

Draco shuddered.

His breath hitched so fast it made his head spin, his body betraying him before he could even begin to think up a response. Heat licked up his spine, a visceral, full-body reaction, and his fingers clenched uselessly at Harry’s shirt.

His silence lasted a beat too long.

Harry grinned. “ Oh , so I was right earlier.” all satisfaction and slow, deliberate teasing. “You like that, don’t you?” He dragged his knuckles up Draco’s side, watching him squirm. “ princess .”

Draco hated how his stomach swooped, how his entire body felt like it had been scoured in fire at the word. His cheeks flared pink, and he knew Harry saw it.

“Fuck off, Potter,” he bit out, scowling, but it didn’t land the way he wanted. His voice lacked its usual bite, breath uneven, too affected.

Harry hummed, like he was considering it, then leaned in, lips brushing Draco’s ear. “Make me.”

And then he was devouring him.

Draco barely had time to register the words before he was kissing back, all thoughts burned away by the heat of Harry’s mouth. Their bodies pressed together, a battle as much as a surrender, hands gripping, tugging, taking.

Harry had learned Draco well. They snogged with an intensity that mirrored all their teenage pent up frustration and raw need. They rutted against each other with desperate, feral energy, but that was all. It was overwhelming in the best possible ways. Needed and unspoken about.

When Draco’s breathing became too erratic, when his legs started to tremble and his arms grew limp, Harry always seemed to know. His movements would slow, his kisses softening as he pressed a few gentle pecks behind Draco’s ear. Then, without a word, Harry would tuck Draco’s pale face into the crook of his neck, holding him close so they could breathe together.

It was enough.

Draco revealed in the attention. When their breathing finally evened out, they would catch one last song, then slip back out into the night, heading for the phone book.

Read the rest of this fic here AO3

#harry potter #draco malfoy #drarry #hpdm #drarry fic #harry x draco #draco x harry #draco lucius malfoy #harry james potter #i need the sound of crowds or i cant fall asleep at night #nix writes #nixcloud

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