Title: Deliciously Devious

Kink Series: Part 1

Author: KateKintail

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Rating: R/NC-17

Warnings/Kinks: urophilia(watersports), desperation, announcements

Summary: In which Harry plans a surprise and Draco has a thing for control.

Notes: This is my first ever attempt at Harry/Draco. Strangely, I seem to only really like them in WS fics, and a few bunnies seized me, so I thought it would be fun to play with them in a short series of some of my favorite kinks paired with WS.

Deliciously Devious

            I wake in the morning to the blessed relaxation that is a Sunday. There is no reason to get out of bed and nowhere to be. On weekdays I wake up to the jarring sound of his alarm clock or, worse than that, a completely empty bed. But today he’s there in bed with me. The daylight streams in through translucent green curtains, washing over me.

            I roll over to my side, intending to slip my arms around him, when two sights stop me. First, is the way he looks. Tousled black hair, lips slightly parted, green eyes peacefully closed. But what gets to me is how handsome he is. That strong face I’ve kissed every bit of. That morning stubble showing only a hint of the roughness hidden beneath him. He is irresistible, and I should know considering how many years I’d spent trying my best to resist him. The second thing I notice is the empty pitcher on his nightstand.

            While it’s not unusual to wake up in the night slightly parched and require a quick sip of water, there are only two reasons why there would be a whole, empty pitcher. Either Harry was nursing an awful head cold and sore throat, or he planned to have fun with me in the morning.

            It was the morning now. I’d soon find out which it was, though I had a sneaking suspicion already. Because it wasn’t cold and flu season. And my man is deliciously devious.

            But I don’t want to wake him up. No. Part of the fun is the unexpected. I want to wait until he’s ready for it, until his body’s ready for it. Until his body takes over him, even unconscious as he is, and controls him. Until realization and desperation do the job of waking him. And even though I don’t want to wake him, I cannot stand the wait.

            Lazily, I take advantage of the Sunday morning and doze on and off for a while. Practically an hour. I refuse to look at that damned annoying alarm clock, so I can’t be sure how long. But I do know that the light which had been on my side of the bed earlier is now on my side. The point is, he stirs in the bed next to me, and once again I’m wide awake. And twitchingly eager.

            I watch him squirm in his sleep. His hand snakes down under the sheet. Under any other circumstances, I’d assume he has morning wood and is taking care of himself. Naughty boy, because he knows that’s what I’m here for. But this morning I know what he’s reaching for, what he’s doing. I watch him. He’s fighting it. He wants to go back to sleep. But he’s probably having dreams about waterfalls or rainstorms and he won’t be able to fight this long. The strong, valiant Harry Potter will succumb. It’s only a matter of time.

            I kick my feet, and the sheet slips down a little. Another kick brings it all the way down to our calves, and reveals him in all his splendor. It’s happening. Happening now. His hand takes hold of his dick and squeezes hard. I’m captivated by the sight of his fingers around the base, then the head of his cock. But my eyes flicker upwards to see his face. He winces briefly, and in that moment I know he’s realizing he must wake up or he’s finished.

            His eyes open and meet mine. The expression behind them is one of terror. Not the sort of terror one would feel from facing a Death Eater or a Dementor or a Dark Lord, because The-Boy-Who-Lived never felt the normal sort of terror from normal terrible things like those. It took something much different for those sorts of feelings to fill Harry. It wasn’t even the personal sort of terror, born of humiliation. It was because of me. If I hadn’t been there, he still would have tried to fight it, but in the end he wouldn’t have been afraid of wetting the bed. What he was afraid of was wetting our bed. Harry could stand up against the forces of darkness, and he could handle embarrassment, but what really got to him was the thought of hurting his friends.

            Of course, he knows it won’t hurt me. In fact, he knows how very much I love it. But somewhere, deep down, he thinks it will be unpleasant for me to some degree. And he hesitates. It was never his idea to begin with. Sure, he’d been up for it, just like with the ropes and the sex spells and the edible shorts. But it still made him nervous, when he thought about it.

            But, in these few instants after waking up, he doesn’t have room for thinking. All that is real is the urge. His legs are crossed, his hand is squeezing, and his breathing comes in short gasps. He closes his eyes just long enough to regain control of his bodily functions.

            His breathing slows. His body relaxes. His eyes open. And, slowly, he smiles. Smiles at me. “Good morning.”

            “Morning,” I reply. I slide my hand under his neck, my thumb against his jaw. My lips touch his for a light kiss. Then I nod towards the nightstand and the pitcher thereon.

            He obliges me with an explanation, albeit a coy one. “Last night I guess I got a little thirsty.”

            A little thirsty. That’s rich. That pitcher is larger than his head, let alone his bladder. His libido, however, is bigger than both. And so is mine. “Did you have just a little too much to drink?” I asked.

            “Must have.” He nods. “Must have done. Because I think I need to pee.”

            “Oh, you think so, do you?” My hand slides down. Down his front, down his chest, down his stomach. It presses knowingly upon his pelvis. He gapes and his hand overtakes his cock again, squeezing tightly. He squirms so attractively with need and desperation. It seems almost torturous to keep him like this, to play with him and tease him. But it’s the sort of torture I like. And the sort he likes.

            In fact, he loves it. His body trembles, but he’s wearing a wide, unstoppable grin. He wants me. I want him. He wants this. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t and snuck out of bed in the middle of the night, filled up the water pitcher, and downed the whole thing.

            “Need some help?” I ask, my hand diving under my pillow and grabbing a hold of my wand. All I need is a tap to protect the sheets and mattress. And all I need is a nod from him to make me move closer. I scoot over and he urgently presses his crotch into my thigh. He holds his breath and we wait. One… two… I can see him counting, moving his lips. Then he sighs and kisses me again. Morning breath, but neither of us care since neither of us has it bad and the kisses are so worth it.

            We’re lying on our sides, facing each other. We’re so close I can feel his chest against mine when he breathes in and out. His cock is smashed into my thigh. And, a moment later when the urge grabs at him again, he grips my leg between his. Tightly. He presses hard, squeezes hard. His crotch is against my thigh and, in doing so, his thigh pushes into my crotch.

            The sensation is nearly too much for me. It is not that I have less willpower than Harry Potter. It is just that he is exquisite like this, and the physical contact drives me crazy. He is irresistible and I am hard. Hard and rubbing. Hips jerking just a little, instinctively. A few moments after we begin like this, I can feel myself leaking just a little.

            Miraculously, he does the same. Only it’s not cum. It’s hotter and more intimate than even that. Just in the way he moves, squirms, I can tell he’s clenching hard, trying to resist, trying to maintain his control over the situation. His breathing is shallow and ragged. My forehead and nose brush his, damp with perspiration. “Don’t you fucking wet the bed again, Potter,” I murmur.

            “M’not sure I’ll have a choice,” he says to that. “I have to go. I really have to piss. So bad.” He bites his lip. I especially love when he does that. So worried, just for me. “Soooooo bad, Malfoy.” He tightens his grip around my leg. I don’t even care if he’s cutting off my circulation a little because any movement only makes me harder.

            I’m desperate for it, and he’s just desperate. He’s bouncing a little in place, and I can’t resist bucking my hips, rubbing and grinding. My arms sweep up around him, and he holds me likewise, clinging. The contact is intense, brining me close, and I know the movement and time are weakening his muscles. If the urge was enough to wake him out of a deep sleep, I know he’s not going to last much longer before he bursts.

            His cheeks are flushed, not with embarrassment but with concentration. “Draco,” he says, urgency and alarm in his voice. “Watch out…” I feel warmth again, suddenly. I crave it, I do, and I revel in the sensation, but I’m almost sad that it’s happening. Because once it happens, and he lets lose, it won’t be long before it’s over. There’s that pressure to orgasm as he’s urinating, and even a whole pitcher full of water isn’t enough to guarantee anything.

            I push those thoughts right into the back of my mind. If he’s finally starting to piss, I don’t want to waste a minute. I don’t want to waste a drop. I bask in the heat of the wetness against my leg. It spreads around the whole area, soaking my shorts at my crotch. I look at his face again, that look of surprise, though he announced it to me so it can’t be a surprise. And that look of shock, his mouth forming a recognizable ‘O’ shape. And then, as quickly as it had started, it stops again.

            I moan with need, thrusting forward into him, trying to convince him to keep going. How had he stopped, anyway? What incredible amount of control it must have taken. Incredible. I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Oh, Harry!” I claw at his back, trying to bring him closer when we were already pressed hard against each other in bare chests and pajama bottoms. I kiss his cheek imprecisely and bite into his earlobe, tugging pleadingly. “I can’t… I’m going to… going to…!”

            Instead of trying to match his timing, he matches mine. “Me too,” he cries. And then he lets out a groan as his hold releases and relief takes hold of him. In full this time. The heat is not just warmth, it’s burning. It’s not just a stream but a flood. It washes over me with pure bliss. I take hold of his mouth, kissing to take his relief and pleasure into me.

            He spreads his legs then locks the top one around my thigh. Our wet crotches meet and he’s pissing directly on me, through two soaked layers of flannel. He’s gushing powerfully, and there’s absolutely no end in sight. With a groan, I come. He keeps on pissing. Yellow starbusts explode before my eyes and relief flows through me, as well. I give it all I’ve got, and when I finish, he’s still urinating. I sigh and smile and reach down to hold my hand in the warmth until he stops.

            I know I should clean up, wash up. We’ll both itch dreadfully if I don’t. But I just want to enjoy the feeling for a little longer. I hold him tightly and kiss him gratefully. “To what did I owe this pleasant surprise?”

            “No reason in particular. I just thought it might be a nice way to wake up. Was I wrong?”

            I rubbed my face into his neck. I was soft and spent but always interested. “Sure you don’t have any more in you?” I help myself to his cock, sliding my hand down his pants. Wet and warm and just a little sticky. He shakes out a few final drops as I circle my thumb around the tip. I stoke and he hardens. He has more in him, all right, just not of the golden sort. “Lazy Sunday mornings in bed,” I whisper as I grind myself into him again. He grins and begins thrusting.