Sinope's Fiction: Wind Dreams

Title: Wind Dreams
Author: Sinope at (no spam!) gmail dot com
Rating: R
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: Draco dreams of flight and of victory.
Author's notes: Written for Lunulet's birthday, inspired by the pornish_pixies "Porn in Motion" challenge. Thanks to Nancyrose and Switchknife for helpful betas and encouraging words.
Disclaimer: This is an unofficial fan work. No profit was made; no ownership is implied.

In your dreams, you beat Gryffindor fair and square. You circle the Quidditch field holding the Snitch high - your father is watching from the stands, nodding in approval - and Potter's so jealous that he runs himself straight into the goalpost with an audible thump. You're feeling awfully heroic, though, so you gallantly dart over to that side of the field, swooping underneath him to catch him to roars of applause. Everyone loves you now, even Potter, who looks up at you with a grateful, adoring smile.

In your dreams, the field plunges into a deep, black fog. You're flying high now, so high that the air in your nostrils is sharp and icy, and above you can see the faintest glimmer of stars. Potter is still riding on the front of your broom, angry and scared, and he yells, "Let me go, Malfoy!", pushing as if to jump off, so you grab him irritably with one arm and press him against you. The only part of you that's warm any more is where his back leans against your chest. He keeps struggling, though, rubbing against you, and suddenly you're strangely hard.

"Aren't you going to take us back to Hogwarts?" he asks, so you point your Nimbus 3000 in a random direction and start flying, and for a while, that works. The broomstick only quavers a little bit under your combined weight, and his hair whisks sharply over your face (you can't quite catch its scent). He's still rubbing against you there, though, and after ten minutes the strain is too much. Quietly, closing your eyes against the opaque black fog, you slip your other hand into your pants and start to stroke, just a little bit.

And oh, but it feels good. You're still flying fast, jerking yourself off just a hairsbreadth from the curve of his arse; you're so intent on gritting your teeth shut that you almost miss the high little gasp flickering past you on the wind. He's doing it too, you realize, and sweet Salazar, I'm coming.

Now you can hear Potter's jagged breath more clearly, the quick inhale and the deep, desperate exhale. He's trembling, the same way you do when you're almost over the edge, and you can't resist: you slip your hand between his legs. (He feels longer and thinner than you, but terribly hard and just barely damp.) You nudge away his hand and start to stroke him in a quick rhythm. Potter struggles harder against your restraining arm, his heartbeat staccatto against your fingers, but somehow his thrashing turns into thrusting, faster and harder into your palm, until he lets out a stifled groan and comes in a mess all over your hand.

You lean against each other limply as the wind cools the sweat from your skin.

In your dreams, the fog clears, and the two of you drift down to earth at night, bathed in warm moonbeams. Somewhere between the treetops and the earth, Potter brushes your neck with a kiss. But you never remember your dreams when you wake up.

finis.