Drarry Fanfiction

Grind

Drarry, Smut, 2,231 words
By: Snegurochka

He's only been there ten minutes, but the heat is already crawling over Harry's body, seeping in through his thin t-shirt and trickling down his back. He swallows, pinching the shirt in the middle of his chest and tugging at it, trying to free it from the sticky skin. Christ, it's hot. He drags the back of one wrist over his eyebrow, soaking up the moisture threatening to drip into his eyes and fog up his glasses, and then he forces himself to pull it together, scanning the crowd.

There is only one reason he's here, after all.

It's not because of the gaudy strobe lighting or the pulsing bass music that pounds through his skull. It's not because of the slick dance floor or the gyrating bodies that push into him, stray hands sliding over his arse and up his chest. It's not because of the anonymity, even, although that helps – the way he can jog down the piss-soaked steps, elbow his way through the door of this place and lose himself completely, hard bodies swallowing him up and no one caring who he is or counting all the reasons he shouldn't be here.

There is only one reason he shouldn't be here.

Pulled like a magnet, his entire body shifts, turns, his head swivelling and his eyes locking on the body across the room similarly in the process of turning towards him. It's old school, a bad film, really, the way they do this as though they're the first to think of it, the only pair in the world that has ever been drawn to each other this way, but Harry doesn't care. He blocks out everything else in his life, all his friends and allies and the people who have awarded him medals for bravery and honour, the people who would be appalled to discover that all he wants on nights like tonight is to find the one body that has ever made him grind like this, leaving sated and stained and desperate to do it all again. He shoves all thoughts of those people aside and pushes through the crowd with only one goal in mind.

He meets Malfoy near the edge of the pulsing, high-ceilinged room but keeps pushing, hooking his fingers into the waist of Malfoy's trousers and manoeuvering him backwards, his jaw pressed to Malfoy's ear and his breath hot over the straining cords of his neck. Their knees bump and he doesn't care; he just keeps pushing, Malfoy's body already hard against him and his hands pulling at Harry's shirt, until they reach the back wall and Harry stops, shoving Malfoy against it and grinding his entire body in hard. Muscled chests align and thighs tense and hips press, and Harry can't help himself, God, he's never been able to help himself on nights like these; he chokes out a moan against Malfoy's smooth jaw, his face buried and the frame of his glasses catching on thin blond hair. He'll find the strands in the morning and pull them out, winding them around his index finger and remembering the feel, the sounds, the taste of Malfoy losing control against the wall of a dirty club in the black of night.

"Potter," spits Malfoy, the sound of venom and want in that voice sliding down Harry's spine, and he's already got a hand down Malfoy's trousers, cupping him and continuing to push his own groin up against the hand, pinning Malfoy to the wall until he lets his head fall back and his eyes fall closed.

"Malfoy," whispers Harry, smiling to himself at the shiver that rips through Malfoy's body at the word, his reddened lips parted and his fingers digging into Harry's back a bit too hard, at once bruising him and drawing him in closer. "What's a nice bloke like you doing in a shit hole like this?" he continues, knowing he shouldn't push it but unable to resist the temptation. Riling Malfoy up is just habit, and anyway, if he's angry he'll come harder, he always does, and Harry can't ignore the appeal of that.

But he should know better than to bring up shit like that, because Malfoy can always beat him at that game, and tonight is no different. He murmurs, "Could ask you the same question, Potter. Isn't there a Weasel with a cunt you should be fucking tonight instead of me?" and Harry knows it's all done to rile him up, to make him come his fucking brains out five minutes from now, furious and guilty and nearly choking on the groan that pushes him through his shuddering orgasm every single time, but the words still feel like a sharp knife carving him open.