Title: Magic and Light
Author: tryslora
Characters/Pairings: Draco/Albus Severus, implied Draco/Harry, implied background Harry/Ginny
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: AU
Other Warnings: first time, oral sex, rimming, fantasy
Word Count: 3,156
Summary/Description: James says the holodeck will fill any fantasy Albus has, which would be perfect, if Albus could control the programming of the holodeck. Instead, he falls headlong into one of the programs his father left behind.
Author's Notes: I thought this was going to be an easy month! I love AUs! I had SO MANY ideas (and honestly, why did I not write an Amber AU? REALLY?). Then this idea hit me and spilled out, and well, there you go. I had so damned much fun with this story once it got going. Thank you SO MUCH to M & M for your alpha and beta help and hand holding; you guys are always so incredible.


Just go into the holodeck and deal with it.

As if it’s that simple. As if Albus can simply walk into the room and request exactly what he wants as a fantasy. That might be easy if Albus knew how to program the holodeck. If he had any skill whatsoever in controlling the holographic adventures. But no, he’s just Albus and this isn’t something he’s good at.

But he is horny, and he’s seventeen, and James had said this is what he did the last time he was stuck at home with nothing but his right hand.

So Albus stands there in the middle of the white room, both thankful that they have the latest in holographic magical technology and wishing he knew what to ask for. “Um,” he says, and his voice bounces back off the walls to echo back at him.

It’s a pretty smart system. If you’re not sure, just ask for what you want to get out of it.

Because it’s a wish-fulfillment system, except it’s not. Albus knows that Lily Luna has her own set scripts that she comes in to enjoy, these ridiculous Victorian fantasies that involve corsets and swooning and things he probably doesn’t want to think about because she’s his little sister.

He clears his throat, and thinks about it.

“Um,” he tries again. “I want someone to fuck me.”

“Would you prefer male or female today, Mr. Potter?” The tinny voice seems to come from everywhere, and Albus turns in place, trying to spot the speakers.

“Male,” he says, not realizing until after he responds that it addressed him as Mr. Potter, and while he is a Mr. Potter, he is not the Mr. Potter that lives at this address. He’s Albus. Just Albus.

He wonders if it thinks he’s his father, but it’s too late to correct the system because the world is already changing around him, resolving into something that looks remarkably like a Muggle night club, complete with pounding music, bubbles streaming from little spouts in the ceiling, and sweaty, gleaming half-naked men gyrating to the beat.

Yeah, he could find someone to fuck him here. Definitely.

He doesn’t want to think about how this is may be his father’s fantasy, because it’s still hot and so hey, maybe they have the same taste in guys.

Not that he knew his dad had any taste in guys.

Oh, gross… if he’d asked for female would it have supplied someone like his mother?

Albus shudders; thankfully his tastes don’t go in that direction. At all.

He leans on the stool near the bar and holds up a hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Firewhiskey,” he calls out, and a moment later one glass slides down the bar to him and he catches it, the liquid inside only sloshing a little.

It’s real, he knows. The system is hooked into the house and it will summon anything he requires that is there, and conjure anything that’s not. The wood of the bar beneath his hands is smooth and hard, the stool solid when he decides to sit.

The hand that touches his shoulder feels warm, even in the heat of the club.

“Aren’t you going to buy me one of those?”

Someone settles onto the stool next to him, pale skin gleaming bright under the flashing lights. He is covered with a faint sheen of sweat, his chest rising and falling with the rapid breaths of someone who has just come from the dance floor. Albus can’t stop looking at this chest, at the delicate pattern of scars across his skin, and the way his jeans are painted on, dipping so low that Albus can see the faint curls of hair above the edge. Blond, a dark golden blond.

He raises his gaze, meets the look from the man sitting beside him, one pale eyebrow arched. For a moment Albus thinks it’s Scorpius, but no, the chin is too pointed, the hair a bit too pale. And Scorpius has dusky blue eyes, not this pale grey that stares at him.

“Well?” the other man inquires and Albus obediently raises two fingers and whistles sharply; a moment later two drinks are delivered.

“That’s more like it.” The stranger smirks. “Treat me well, and I’ll treat you even better later.” He raises the glass, tongue darting out to lick a drop of liquid from the edge of the glass. Albus follows the path of that tongue, heat pooling in his stomach, breath starting to go a little quicker than before.

“Are we pretending we don’t know each other tonight? A little bit of stranger fantasy, that you don’t know whose name to scream when I’m eating your arse in the back room?” His voice drops low, and Albus groans softly. In a way, it sounds lovely, but Albus has never been one for anonymous hookups, so he shakes his head.

Obviously his father knows this man, or knew him once upon a time, and the resemblance is equally obvious… there is only one person it could be. “Of course not, Draco.”

One eyebrow goes even higher. “Have we reached a level of emotional entanglement where we are intimate, Potter? I expect an expensive dinner then, and possibly for you to admit our involvement to your friends.”

Albus hears the hurt behind the sharp words, and he is suddenly, swiftly furious at his father for doing this to someone. It is only a fantasy, but it sounds as if the pain is real, and he wonders why the hologram says that. Why his father would want to hear that. Is his father trying to atone for some damages done, real or imagined? Albus bites his lip and tries to fall into the pattern that was obviously set. He shakes his head. “Of course not, Malfoy. It’s just sex, and you know it.”

Draco relaxes, and it’s strange how different he looks like this. So young, and so easily damaged. Perhaps still damaged from the war. When Draco holds out his hand, it is with a mix of sharp order and hope. “Dance with me?”

Albus doesn’t answer, just strips off his shirt and drops it on the top of the bar, then lets Draco lead him into the heat and crush of swaying bodies.

He’s never been to a club before, never danced this close to another bloke. He lets Draco yank him back, fitting them arse to crotch, Draco’s hand across his belly. When Draco sways, Albus does too, closing his eyes and letting the beat slip under his skin. It feels good to be close, so sodding good. And the way Draco touches him, as if this is all just foreplay, a prelude to whatever’s coming next. Fingers trail over his skin, teasing at his nipples until Albus aches to be touched. He grinds backwards, finding the hard ridge in Draco’s jeans and pushing against it, satisfied when Draco palms Albus’s crotch and squeezes gently.

Oh fuck. Who needs sex? If they keep doing this, Albus could get off right here and it would be messy and good and Draco is stroking him through his jeans like he knows that all it could take is one more touch.

Draco pulls back, turns Albus around and yanks him close again. They fit hip to hip, and Albus groans right into Draco’s mouth when he kisses him.

“Are you that hot for me, Potter?” Draco whispers into his ear, teeth catching at the lobe and tugging lightly. “Are you so desperate that you’d let me get you off right here? What about me, Potter? What are you going to do for me?”

Give and take. The program must be set that Draco won’t fuck him until Albus gives him something. Does something for him. His heart is beating so hard that he can barely speak. Albus licks his lips, slides his hand between them to push at the fly of Draco’s jeans, opening him to brazenly palm him right there on the dance floor. “You want my mouth, right, Malfoy?” he finds his ear and whispers in return. “You want me to suck you until you’re desperate to fuck me. Because you like having me on my knees. You like it when I’d do anything for you.”

Draco shudders, and it’s so easy to forget that he’s nothing more than magic and light. “Yeah,” he says roughly. “Back room, now.”

Draco grips his hand and yanks and Albus follows, threading through the crowd until the push into a dark hallway. Draco taps on doors along the way until he finds one that nudges open and he shoves Albus into it. It’s dimly lit, but he can see that they’re alone when Draco pushes the door closed.

There’s nothing there, just walls and a floor, and Draco, who is shoving his jeans down below his long, thin prick as he leans against the door. “Suck it, Potter,” he orders, and Albus is only too happy to go to his knees.

He has to be impressed with the magic of the holodeck, the strength of the scent and taste. His tongue darts out to lick the bitter, salty drop from the tip of Draco’s prick, while he inhales his musk. It seems so real, and it makes Albus ache, his own prick heavy and trapped inside his jeans.

He laps at the tip, teasing Draco and taking his time, learning what works for him. He takes him in slowly, licking along his length, then pressing with his tongue and lips before pulling back again. He tries to add suction, to give Draco all the pressure so he has something to fuck into, but Draco doesn’t thrust. Albus whines softly, not sure what he’s doing wrong.

“If you want me to do something for you, work for it,” Draco demands, fingers sifting through Albus’s hair lightly. “I’m not going to do it for you, Potter.”

Albus blinks up at him, grips the bottom of his prick with a tight ring of his fingers. He watches Draco, keeps his gaze upon him as he slowly takes him in, feels the heaviness upon his tongue. He swallows him as far as he can go, until his eyes water from it being just too much, then pulls back. If Draco wants him to work, then he’ll work, twisting his hand at the base, helping his mouth by adding more friction. He reaches under with his other hand, cups Draco’s balls and feels the weight of them, strokes behind them until he hears him groan softly and feels fingers tighten in his hair.

“Stop,” Draco murmurs, and Albus does, immediately, looking up at him with his prick still in his mouth, tongue pressed against the slit. Draco shakes under his touch, struggles to keep his composure. “If you want me to fuck you, Potter, turn over and get on your hands and knees.” Draco’s voice quavers, the order shivering in the air.

Albus could make him come right now. It’s a heady feeling to know that he’s done this, brought Draco the edge, to the point where he can’t control himself anymore. To know that Draco is going to fuck him here and now.

He wants this.

Albus stands up long enough to shove his jeans down, shimmying out of them and his pants at the same time, his erection bobbing free. He doesn’t even touch it as he drops back to his knees, hands against the cold floor, bum in the air. He feels open and exposed like this, slightly awkward as his prick hangs and he sways. His arse is cold as well, vaguely uncomfortable now that there’s a low rush of air over it, and just a little sticky. He isn’t sure how practical physical things like lubrication work in the world of magic and light, so he prepared himself before he came. Not well, he thinks, not nearly well enough, but hopefully it’ll help.

Draco’s fingertips drift over the sharp curve of his hip. “Is that lube, Potter? Did you come here knowing I was going to fuck you? Or would you have gone arse up for any bloke in that bar?”

“Only you, Malfoy.” Albus speaks to the floor, his head down and eyes closed. “I came here for you.”

He can hear the smile in Draco’s voice, imagines how sharp it is. “Of course you did, Potter. Because no one can fuck you like I can. You love it, don’t you? You love the feel of my cock in your arse. You dream about it. You probably wank yourself blind thinking about me, about the feel of my tongue opening you up, getting you slick and ready and hungry for me. Do you want that now?”

“Yeah. Yes.” Albus sucks air into lungs that feel too tight to hold it. Fuck yes, he wants it.

Hands stop on his arse, fingers spread across his skin, thumbs just barely pressing against his hole. “What is it that you want, Potter?”

“Lick me,” Albus whispers, barely able to put it into words. “Lick me until I’m begging for it, then fuck me.”

“I can’t hear you.” Malfoy’s voice is low, almost conversational, his thumbs teasing at Albus’s hole. He’s just wet enough that Malfoy can push against the rim, but he doesn’t push in and it drives Albus mad. He tries to sway back, to ask for more, but Malfoy doesn’t respond.

“Lick me,” Albus orders. He clears his throat with a soft harrumph and tries again. “Lick me. I want you to fuck me with your tongue, Malfoy, then I want you to fuck me with your prick. I know you want to, so bloody well get on with it already.”

“Is that an order, Potter, or are you begging me?”

“Both,” he admits. “Please.”

He’s managed to shove two fingers up his own arse before, but that is nothing like the feeling of a tongue sweeping across his furled hole. Slick and warm, Draco teases at his opening until Albus cries out, pushing back. He feels sloppy and wet, soaked by spit and lubricant, and Draco uses it to push a finger into him, further than Albus has ever managed before. It feels odd from that angle, then even stranger when Draco pushes a second finger, and somehow manages to wedge the tip of his tongue in as well.

And the noises… oh Merlin, the noises that Draco makes, little happy hums and sighs as he licks and nibbles at Albus’s arse, as if it’s the best thing he’s had all day. Albus squirms under his ministrations, wordless sounds coming out until he can find his voice, pushing his hips up and back. “Oh fuck, Draco, please.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, then a soft whisper of, “I worry that you think that perhaps we are that intimate, Potter.”

Albus doesn’t understand what he means, but it doesn’t matter because Draco is pushing into him. Firm but slow, stretching him achingly wide with his prick and it’s nothing like fingers. Nothing like wanking. It doesn’t hurt, but it burns, and it fills him so much. He pushes back and Draco obliges, thrusting harder, pushing in by inches until he is seated all the way in.

“Is this what you wanted?” Draco whispers. “To have me inside of you, Potter? Fucking into you until I can’t hold back, until you spill all over the floor because you want me?”

“Yes.” Albus breathes into the cool air. “Fuck yes. Do it, Malfoy.”

He closes his eyes tight, gives himself over to sensation. It may only be light and magic, but he can feel Draco even when he cannot see him. He is absolutely aware of his presence, touching him, inside of him, fucking him so hard that he sways and his knees ache and shoulders burn from holding himself up.

And Albus is hard, his prick swaying in the air. He wants to touch himself, knows that it won’t take much to bring himself off, but he can’t move, not like this. “Malfoy,” he whispers. “Touch me.”

It’s almost a ghost of a touch, wrapping around him so lightly that at first he thinks he might imagine it. He opens his eyes, looks down to see Draco caressing him teasingly before he starts to pull from root to tip, hand rolling over the head just like Albus likes it. He closes his eyes again, body clenching as he comes, orgasm shaking his body.

Draco strokes him through it, then moves his hand to his hip, holding on as he slams into him… once… twice more, then he groans and Albus feels warmth inside his body, fingers digging into his hip.

They both breathe rough, harsh sounds into the still air.

“You are always so fucking needy, Potter,” Draco mutters, slapping his hip lightly.

“And you are always so fucking good, Malfoy,” Albus responds.

He should move, he knows. The program will end after this, and he will need to unlock the holodeck and go back out into the world that is his life, with his brother’s knowing smirk, and his sister’s oblivious questions about how he spent his afternoon. And wondering exactly what it is that his father has programmed here, and why.

A low rustle catches his attention, and there are blankets on the floor and a pillow as well. Draco tugs, and Albus goes with him, curling into the soft warmth, Draco’s arm wrapped around his body. Light kisses pepper his shoulder, and Albus covers Draco’s hand with his own, interlacing their fingers. “Cuddling?” he asks.

“Sod off,” Draco murmurs, kissing his back. “And close your eyes. You don’t have to be anywhere right now, and neither do I. And remember, tell one person about this, and I will bloody well ruin you.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Albus presses back into him, tries not to think about how if he lets himself sleep, in time he will wake into a white room and cold air, and wish to be back in the fantasy again. He tries not to think about how much of this is fantasy, and what might be truth, and where the information came from in the first place.

None of that matters, not here and not now. This is a program after all, nothing more than magic and light. And Albus can return any time he wants. “Tomorrow?” he asks quietly.

Draco snorts. “Think your arse can handle it, Potter?”

“Scared you might start to feel intimate?” Albus retorts.

“Nothing you do could scare me,” Draco snaps, and Albus hears the lie in his voice. He doesn’t examine it, simply presses back, pulling Draco’s hand up to his heart and presses it there.

“Perhaps not tomorrow,” he says. “And you’ll be here when I want you. Because you want it as much as I do.”