Title: Room with a View
Author: florahart
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Snape/Sirius
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1325
Kinks: Please the mods: first time, desk sex
Warnings: Given the setting, Harry is just shy of 18.
A/N: Augh, sorry, it has been a week of doom and I totally lost the date. Came close, though.

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Room with a View

Harry isn't sure how he got into the room--it's a room, isn't it? It's like the walls are fog, and he wonders whether it's a dream, and wonders whether he would notice a dream from within by noticing the swirltwisting walls, and wonders how it's possible to be thinking all of this while his cock is root-deep in the angry wet mouth of his enemy.

Shouldn't he be more concerned about the fact he meant to go up to find a sandwich and a bed, and instead managed to get sucked into... well, into Draco's mouth, evidently? Why isn't he worried?

Maybe there's dark magic at play, after all. It feels possible, with the misted walls and the way everything is skewed. The sensation of movement reminds him of the curtain in the Department of Mysteries, and isn't that a reason to shudder and pull back, but he can't. He doesn't want to.

He looks around at the shadows of images on the walls, like someone's taken away the family photographs after decades in place, and they've left imprints behind. Even after he squints and pushes his glasses back into place from where they've slid further down his nose with every grapple and push into place, he can't make out the forms with any clarity. There's a flash of dark hair, a moment of pale skin, and then the moment melts, and he's left with only the here and now, only his cock and his quivering thighs as he refuses to allow his knees to buckle, and his fingers tightening in Draco's hair because he doesn't feel gentle or soft, and he wants Draco to know it.

Of course, he's pretty sure that was a given, though; the sensation of heat along one cheekbone reminds him there was no easy agreement in the matter of who would wind up on his knees, and while he can't quite place where he is, he knows they tumbled in here together in a busy tangle of hips and thighs and harsh breath with no discussion and no agreement, with everyone in the Great Hall celebrating and mourning and sitting silent in shock.

And now his cock is pressing moist against the back of Draco's throat like a mother's kiss on the forehead (and where did that come from and how can he have thought it and still, it's not untrue), and Draco's nostrils flare as he struggles to breathe and Harry's watching and only tugging him closer and tighter as his eyes widen in panic.

Yes, he should be worried.

He should really be worried that this is how he comes, watching spit dribble from the corner of Draco's mouth as he tries to keep up, coughing and sputtering when Harry finally lets go.

He's never come with anyone else before. It's not... it's not entirely new ground, in that a boys' dormitory is certainly sometimes the site of unspoken shared masturbation, but now he's looking at Draco gasping, blinking back sharp tears he won't shed, and all he can see is how the dribble is now part spit and part come, and how Draco is furious on his knees. He wonders if sex is always like this.

He considers saying something. Offering a hand. Pulling Draco up and dropping down to return the favor, but something in the corner of his eye distracts him and he glances again toward the wall. An image resolves, like it's being pulled unwillingly into focus through a dirty lens--dirty, that's what this room is, he decides--and then, well.

It has his attention.

–

The wall pulls apart from the center like the iris of an eye, and Sirius grips the ends of the ...desk? The surface against which he's leaning; they haven't established that this is a desk, nor that this room exists, nor that anything in this dreamspace makes any sense.

None of it can; it feels like he feels when he's Padfoot, all feeling, all in the moment and only vaguely aware of the notion that others have abstractions like selves and ideas.

Except that while Padfoot has got into plenty of fights before, rolling and growling and snapping on the ground, none of them have ended here, with Snivellus leaning in close, his awful beak of a nose brushing Sirius's cheek as he rasps hot damp air against his chin. They're closer than they've ever willingly been, and Snivellus has Sirius's robe pulled up, his pants pulled down just enough to get what he wants, and any minute he's going to spill, because he likes the precision of Snape's squeeze, his hands deliberate as they are in mincing and mashing fine ingredients.

The iris in the wall remains muddy, and Sirius isn't entirely sure what it's doing there, but does it matter? Snape is pushing against him and he's pushing back, awkward and awful and impossible to stop now, and when Snape comes--not a single snivel, Sirius notes in a corner of his mind; merely a frozen silence in contrast to the force of hot semen splashing on Sirius's stomach--Sirius lets Padfoot's growl echo in his throat; Snivellus wins.

He steps back, leaving Sirius hot and dripping and desperate, then narrows his eyes and drops down. He doesn't say a word, but Sirius sees the protest, the assertion that if he doesn't finish this, Sirius will believe him a cheat of some sort.

Sirius is a little less petty than that; the game was hardly one with rules.

But fuck if he's going to turn down a wet tongue on his slit.

The iris clears just as he fills Snape's mouth, and he stares. "Jame...s?"

–

Harry watches the young face of his late godfather mouth a single word, and turns away, then looks down at Draco and offers a hand up.

There must be a desk in here, if... he assumes it's the same room, like, a Room of, what, Hatesex Requirement? He refuses to make a mental note to tell Hermione the founders were complete freaks, and pushes Draco onto his back on the heretofore unknown surface, leaning over him on one hand and stroking with the other.

Draco is not the least bit silent, and not the least bit cooperative, pushing at Harry and blushing hotly pink, but for every push there's a pull, and the blush is more eager than angry.

More appealing than repulsive.

On a whim, Harry crawls up on the desk too, straddling Draco and letting his thumb tease his own cock into partial hardness again as he jerks Draco off.

Draco smirks and shoves a hand into the mix, grasping and tugging until Harry's wrecked all over again.

Another whirlwind opens in another immaterial wall, and Harry considers trying hard enough to see, but all he gets is a flash of bubblegum pink and a freckled shoulder, and then the walls recede entirely, leaving them sprawled in an out-of-the-way fifth-floor corridor, trousers twisted and open, flesh sweaty and sticky and damp.

Draco stares at him for a long moment. "Did you see..."

"Had to be hallucination, right?"

"Because Snape would never..."

"Oh, I think it's probably safe to say that goes for everyone involved." Harry tries to figure out how to fasten back up without awkwardness and immediately gives it up as a lost cause. "Um. So--"

"I expect we'll both be involved in whatever rebuilding there's to be?" Draco is apparently considerably better at coping with awkwardness without it being noticeably awful, and Harry pushes up his glasses again.

"Right." He turns to go, then stops. "So, I expect there must be some damage this corridor?"

Draco offers his best impression of Lucius, all properly corrupt, and replies, "There might be if we were to get into another unfortunate brawl, I suppose."

Harry has nothing to add, and no sense of the polite response, so he heads for his original sandwich and nap destination.

And wonders who else knows about the room.