Title: More Than One Way to Polish a Broom
Author: lq_traintracks
Pairing: Harry/Draco, Draco/Harry's broom, Harry/Draco's broom, (Goyle/various inanimate objects)
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: objectum sexual/objectophilia: romantic desire and/or developing romantic "relationships" with specific inanimate objects (e.g. a car, building, or broomstick)
Other Warnings: potions-related dub-con
Word Count: ~4,450
Summary/Description: Draco's been hexed to want to get it on with Potter's broom. He takes his comeuppance very seriously.
Author's Notes: Oh beloved capitu! <3 I wrote this ridiculous, ridiculous thing for your birthday! I hope you enjoy it and have a marvelous day and year, bb! *HUGS* Thanks so much to sdk for the beta and title help! *squeeze*








There's only one good explanation for this. This being that Draco is, right now, at this moment, dropping his trousers in a dusty broom shed, taking Harry Potter's broom in unsteady hands, and pressing it against his desperate groin with a whimper.

Oh it's not that Draco doesn't have certain… … let's just call them proclivities. And yes, his proclivities can often be what he would term annoying and sometimes odd. Not this odd, but you know… a bit.

Wanking over Men of Quidditch, 1999 isn't odd. The other poof boys do the same thing – in the loo, in their beds – and Draco counts himself among the lot and without undue angst.

Sometimes what flashes over his closed eyelids, though, isn't the smirking bloke on page fifteen, but Harry Potter in jeans and a t-shirt. Sometimes it's Harry Potter in open jeans and pulled-up t-shirt. Sometimes it's Harry Potter with pushed down jeans, pants straining with a cruelly impressive erection and no threat of a t-shirt at all.

Sometimes it's not even Harry Potter; it's just his pants, discarded on a shower room floor. When it's late and Draco's in bed and his eyes are closed tight against the real world and his hand is down there working himself in a frenzy of fist-heat, it's just knowing Potter's in there, under the water. Pantsless.

But that's not really all that odd, is it, aside from the blazing, uncontainable hatred Draco still feels for the incredible plonker that is Harry Potter? Plenty of wizards get randy staring at a fit bloke's pants on the floor. It may sicken him that it tends to be Potter's pants. Tends to be, mind. It's not always. It's maybe sixty per cent Potter's pants. He can get an erection over other boys' pants, for Merlin's sake!

All right, maybe seventy-five per cent.

Eighty tops.

And it's not the pants per se; it's that Potter's no longer in them, and Draco knows Potter's no longer in them, which means Potter is naked and wet and soaped up and glistening and running his hands all over his pantsless arse; his heavy, hairy bollocks; his big, thick, mouth-watering, arse-plundering, bliss-inducing nine and a half hard inches of c—

Draco hears the snap of a twig underfoot and freezes. True, he's in the broom cupboard, humping Harry Potter's broom, and it would be a grisly, slow, humiliating death to be caught like this, but frankly, it's too good to stop unless he absolutely has to. So Draco waits, broom between his naked thighs, the polished shaft of it pressed firmly to his cottoned erection, body thrumming with silent lust, as he finally hears the stupid gay tweet of a bird taking flight from a tree and lets all his breath out.

He resituates his grip on the broom, licks his lips, shudders, and then goes back to his humping.

There's only one good explanation for this, and Draco, though mindless with broom lust at the moment (and, if he's honest, a certain quirky fondness as well, as he strokes his hand over the top of the handle and gazes at its beautifully stained finish), knows full well what that explanation must be: that Potter himself is responsible. A subtly flung hex during Defence class perhaps. All Draco knows is that shortly thereafter, it was fondle this very broom or die trying.

Who else would wish this on him? Merlin's bloody balls! His heart may be full of tender feelings for the broom between his legs, but it is dark with murderous rage for its owner!

"Take it," he finds himself seething at the broom itself, though guilt assails him. "Take it, broom." He starts rubbing himself faster on its sturdy girth. "Fuck yes," he growls, digging his cock out of his pants and letting his pre-come dribble down the wood. "Gonna come all over you. Beautiful bloody broom…"

The door to the shed flies open, and Draco's head whips around nearly as quickly as his hips are jerking.

It's him. Him. The arsehole who did this to him. The arsehole whose broom Draco currently straddles. Potter just stands there, motionless in the doorway, his eyes steadily growing wider as he stares.

"Bastard," Draco seethes.

Potter's lips part, and his mouth hangs open as he watches Draco hump his broom.

"You did this, you fucker!" Draco shouts. Then, "Oh God…" as his balls draw up. Because it's become unstoppable now. It's going to happen. The hard wood against his cock feels so heinously good. "You sick, filthy pervert!"

At this, one of Potter's eyebrows goes up a touch.

But then it crashes through Draco, overtaking him. He's soaring with his feet on his ground, naked thighs juddering, his come spurting over the broom in great, victorious arcs. Draco knows he'll feel the humiliation set in any moment, but for right now, this second…

"Oh Merlin, yes yes yes FUCK YES!" He shivers, shooting the last of it, and he whines, tight and high and soft, "Yes."

He finishes, exhausted, panting. Potter stands there in the doorway, watching. He stands there watching as Draco shakes and the humiliation builds in the aftermath. Draco feels like any moment he'll sick up. And then Potter – before Draco can even think to draw his wand and Crucio him where he stands – blinks at Draco, backs out of the shed slowly, and shuts the door.

There's but one thought in Draco's head as his dick droops against the come-sticky Comet Classic and his skinny legs begin to tremble.

Draco firms his jaw. "I'll get you, Harry Potter," he whispers to a room full of unmolested brooms. "For this above all else, I'll get you."


~



It takes weeks of trying, and school is almost out – for summer, for good – when Draco finally accomplishes it. His mistake had been in starting with hexes. His strength has never been with his wand. It was only when he began messing with potions that Draco saw results.

It still took a few tries, but he'd got Goyle to fall in love with a cauldron and then, with his next brew, have inappropriate relations with a suit of armour on the fourth floor. Goyle got a week of detention for that, but it was worth it. In the end, Draco concocted the perfect Lustful Love potion. He added a crushed twig from his own broom, and now he's just biding his time to find the right moment to slip it into Potter's pumpkin juice.

The moment hasn't presented itself yet, though, and Draco blames that on the fact that ever since Potter caught him in flagrante delicto with his broom in the shed, he's been giving Draco sidelong glances. He's caught Potter staring multiple times, and Draco has disguised his blush of embarrassment as… well, you can't exactly disguise blushes of embarrassment as much as just try to ignore them until they fade. He's left a lot of rooms in haste, no doubt with Potter's avid gaze following him out.

It's been horrifying and infuriating, and he would have gone ahead and cursed the every-loving fuck out of the git, except that he's been determined that his plan succeed. It's the only thing that's kept Draco's head on straight all these weeks.

And now…

It's a bright sunny spring morning when the proper moment he's been waiting for arises. Weasley, the imbecile, chokes on a pancake at breakfast. Potter and Granger leap to the rescue – stupid, Gryffindor tossers that they are – and Draco seizes his opportunity, making a hasty pass by their table and spilling the contents of the phial up his sleeve into Potter's drink. He takes a seat at the Slytherin table and watches to make sure Potter drinks it, and then when he has, Draco sneaks off to the broom cupboard to hide in wait, his smile barely containable.

The shed's uncomfortably warm, so he doffs his robes and jumper, loosening his tie as well. He casts a softening charm on the floor where he crouches and sighs. He casts a Tempus charm and sighs again. The potion should be working by now. With Goyle, it had only taken minutes, not the hour and a half Draco has now been waiting. Of course Goyle has the self-control of a box of Cornish Pixies, whereas Potter withstands Imperius curses. The prick.

Draco's about to get up and check the pitch to see if Potter's in the vicinity yet, when he hears the doorknob turn and quickly ducks back down behind a row of parked brooms. His heart soars to racing, and he's half afraid Potter might hear it. Draco gulps and waits as a shaft of light drenches the floor before the door shuts again, throwing the room into near darkness. Footsteps shuffle across the floorboards, and Draco hears the shuddering breaths of someone who can be none other than the Chosen One himself.

"Where is it?" Potter whispers. He starts manhandling broom after broom along the wall.

Draco silently and unobtrusively erupts with glee. It's working! It's really working! And as soon as Potter is in the same desperate throes as he had found Draco… well, Draco will spring from his hiding place and mock him endlessly. It's a foolproof plan.

Draco knows exactly when Potter finds the right broom because something resembling "Ggguusshhffnnn, comes guttural and helpless from Potter's throat.

"Yes," Draco can't help but whisper.

For a moment, everything stops. Potter freezes, and Draco stops breathing. But then a few seconds later, time starts back up again, and Draco can hear Potter undressing.

Merlin, he's undressing.

A thousand old fantasies flood Draco's mind then: the definition in the muscles of his arms as Potter strips off his shirt, the dark nipples that Draco wants to lick and bite, the strain of that tendon in his neck, the black hair trailing into his trousers. Oh yes, definitely that. The bulge in his well-worn jeans, those battered old things Draco wouldn't dain to touch much less wear, and yet on Potter they look both dangerously rugged and soft as butter. Oh how Draco's pureblood fingers have itched to grab the arse inside those jeans! To kneed and to trace a hand around front and cup the length of his cock inside them. Draco's mouth fills with saliva.

But oh, this is better. Loads better! Potter, right here, right under Draco's gaze and about to take off his clothes and show Draco everything he's ever wanted— Except, no. That's not why he's here. That isn't what this is about. This is about humiliation. This is about comeuppance. Draco will keep it in his pants. He can always wank off to the memory later. But this, this, is about revenge, sweet and horrible.

Still, Draco can't help but want to see it. His vantage point isn't the best here. So he stays in a crouch and waddles, duck-like, around to the edge of the broom stand. Holding his breath, Draco peers around the side. And oh, Merlin's pants, Potter's got Draco's broom in one hand, and he's unbuckling his belt with the other. Draco swallows before the drool can escape his mouth.

Potter's belt jingles open, and his shaking fingers work open his trousers. He grips the broom in his strong fist. Wiry dark hair springs from his knuckles, from where wrist meets hand. And then…

"Oh fuck," Potter moans as his erection jumps into his palm, and he closes his fingers around it expertly. Draco's breath catches on itself before he can do something to reveal his whereabouts – like squeak.

Potter's cock is brilliant. It's simply brilliant. It's perhaps not quite as large as in Draco's fantasies, but it's close. It's very, very close. And it's strangely… handsome. Draco has seen a few ugly penises in his dormitory days, and this is not one of them. Potter has a cock you'd like to kneel in front of. It's a cock that, as Potter's hand slides up over the head and then back down, pulling the foreskin from the glistening pink flesh… well, it's a cock Draco thinks he might do anything to, do anything for.

"Lovely," Draco cannot help but sigh. He'd imagine that beautiful, thick cock entering him swiftly from behind, he'd imagine the aching, wonderful stretch of it, but that's not why he's here, he reminds himself again. He's rock hard in his own trousers, but that is not at all the point.

No. Draco is here for one thing only, and he firms his lips and his resolve as Potter gets closer to giving it to him.

The moment Potter's cock touches Draco's broom is divine. Potter shudders, groaning, and Draco bites his lip to keep an answering sound silenced. When Potter begins thrusting and frotting against Draco's broom, it's everything Draco can do not to reach down and give his aching prick a squeeze. Merlin, it's torture. And this is not supposed to be torture for Draco. It's supposed to be torture for Potter, damn him! Yet Potter's eyes are closed, and as he slowly humps Draco's broom handle, a small, happy smile lifts the corners of his lips.

Suddenly, Draco is filled with rage. This is not how he saw it going. Potter's supposed to feel ashamed. He's supposed to be wildly conflicted. He's supposed to hate himself for this.

"Oh yeah," Potter murmurs instead. He opens heavy-lidded eyes and gazes down at Draco's Vector 5000, the latest off the line and only one of ten currently made available. His hand slides up the shaft of it, and he whispers reverently, "What a broom…"

Before he knows what he's doing, Draco stands abruptly, knocking a couple of brooms over in his angry haste. "HA!" he shouts.

And no, it's not one of the dozen cutting barbs he'd practised in the mirror over and over, that's for sure, but he mustn't let that deter him.

"The tables are turned now, aren't they Potter?" Draco sneers.

But Potter doesn't look devastated yet. In fact, he doesn't even look all that surprised to see Draco. He continues to pump his hips into his own hand, the shiny head of his cock nudging and kissing Draco's broom.

"I said, the tables are turned, Pot—"

"I heard you the first time. I'm busy here, Malfoy."

"You… what?"

"Merlin, your broom's hot."

Draco blinks, speechless.

"I mean, I get that you did something to me," Potter pants out. "I'm just having a hard time bringing myself to care at the moment. You know? I mean, you must know, since I found you in a similar state with my broom, yes? What is it, Malfoy? You just have a hard-on for it or something?"

Draco stares, mouth dry, as Potter encircles the broom and his own cock in one hand and begins to stroke them together.

"I don't have a—! I didn't—! You hexed me, you filthy plonker!"

"Shut up and get over here."

"Wh-what?"

"Well, you're not bad looking." Potter drags his adoring gaze from the broom to give Draco a cursory once over. "You're already here, and you're already staring. And you look like you're about to burst out of your trousers, so… Get over here, Malfoy."

The nerve! The bastard! And though Draco's trembling with anger, he's also ridiculously hard.

Fine. That's just fine. Potter's not so embarrassed to be caught getting it on with Draco's broom? No problem. Draco can just up the ante. He'll break Potter yet.

Toward that end – not because Potter asked him to! – Draco walks straight over on trembling legs. The trembling is all anger, mind! Potter's breath goes short as Draco drops his hands and fumbles with his trousers, getting them open and pulling his own prick free.

His skin flares with heat as he strokes himself in front of Potter, as he lets Potter see. But Potter doesn't back away. Instead, he licks his lips.

Draco's cock responds in his hand, and he gives it a reflexive squeeze. He steps in even closer, their pricks only inches from touching. Draco tells himself it's so that he can wrench the broom away and make Potter suffer with wanting it back. Yes, that seems like a splendid Plan B. Draco drops his gaze, letting it rove over Potter's hairy stomach where his shirt's ridden up, his angular hips, that thatch of black hair at the base of his cock, his beautiful hand stroking himself, his big, beautiful cock pressed intimately against the sleek shaft of…

Yes, the broom. Draco gets himself back on track, grabbing hold of it, wrenching it from Potter's grip, and tossing it aside with force.

"Did you think I'd let you smear your filthy spunk all over my broom, Potter?"

Potter doesn't take the bait, though. Instead he reaches out and wraps his free hand around the back of Draco's neck, his other still grasping his cock and stroking. Draco thinks Potter's going to kiss him, but he just presses their foreheads together. Their cocks touch, and the lust that rocks through Draco nearly hurts. He feels it through his toes. Potter's hand works faster at his own cock, his knuckles brushing Draco's. His fingers sporadically tighten in Draco's hair, sending a strong shiver of desire down Draco's spine.

Draco's right there. He's close enough that he can smell Potter's soap, his sweat, the pre-ejaculate clinging to the tip of his cock. Draco lets all his breath out in a rush.

But Potter's matter-of-fact voice yanks him out of his bliss. "No, no, the broom needs to be there."

Draco lifts his head sharply and looks at him aghast. "Arsehole."

Potter shrugs and Accios the broom back with a wandless reach of his hand, letting his cock bounce momentarily free.

"Fucker," Draco spits as Potter brings Draco's broom back between them.

"You did this to me. What did you expect?"

"I—"

"Shut it." Potter takes Draco's hand, his touch hot and surprising such that Draco's heart flips for it.

Potter wraps Draco's hand around his cock and the broom. "Oh fuck yeah," Potter sighs.

Draco should mock him for wanting this. But he just bites his lip, stepping even closer. Potter's cock is so velvety smooth and hot against his palm. His own prick twitches for touch. Potter slants him a smirk, and then he wraps his own hand around Draco's cock and the broom, so that it's… well, all three of them.

"Oh," Draco says. Except that he doesn't as much say it as breathe it, and he doesn't so much breathe it as exhale and nearly choke on it.

Draco jolts with pleasure as Potter strokes his hand up and down.

This is not, not, not how this was supposed to go. Not at all. And as much as he wishes he weren't, Draco's harder than perhaps he's ever been. He's unflaggingly aroused by this whole perverted, ridiculous thing. Potter glances up at his face, and his eyes are so dark with arousal, the green's nearly gone. His cheeks are flushed, and he's sweating a little, and the bastard's beautiful. Just beautiful.

Draco makes himself roll his eyes. "Let's just get this over with."

He starts to thrust into Potter's hand, and truly the last thing he wants is for this to be over with. He closes his eyes as his prick slides against Potter's, warm and a little slick, the broom a stiff and ungiving counterpoint. Potter groans, squeezing. His thumb strokes up and over the head of Draco's cock, spreading the wet around the tip. Draco opens his eyes to see Potter watching his face. They look at each other for a long moment, but it feels too good and too terrible, so Draco blinks his gaze back down, only to see Potter's thumb rub circles over his own crown and then come back, pressing in at Draco's slit until Draco whimpers.

Draco shuffles his feet, getting a little closer. He moves his hand faster on Potter's cock.

Potter licks his lips. "Fuck yes, like that."

Draco lifts a brow. "Are you speaking to me or the broom?"

Potter gives him another slanted smile, and that funny little leap happens in Draco's chest again. They shuffle even closer. As they watch what's happening between them, Potter's hair brushes Draco's. Draco can feel Potter's warm, fast breath. He lifts his other hand and grasps Potter's hip. Potter doesn't move, doesn't bat his hand away, and his stomach flexes under Draco's thumb.

Draco squeezes under the crown of Potter's cock, and a little bead of pre-come rolls down and over his own knuckles. Potter's sudden exhale moves a lock of Draco's hair. It's awkward, the both of them doing this; they end up touching each other's hands a lot, which neither of them acknowledges. It's not easy, but it's also brilliant. When Draco strokes him, Potter gasps. When he tries the same thumb thing that Potter did with him, Potter groans.

They start to wank faster, getting in each other's way, resituating. Potter suddenly leans his forehead against Draco's again, panting.

"I'm close…" he gasps. "I'm close…" His lips are right there. So very near.

Draco speeds up the pumping of his fist. Potter's mouth drops open, and Draco feels the warm wet in his hand before Potter openly and raggedly cries out. The broom suddenly clatters to the floor. Potter's hands sink into Draco's hair. He walks him backward until Draco's back hits a wall, and then Potter's kissing him.

It all happens so fast. One minute, they're wanking with the broom and now… Potter sweeps in with his tongue, and Draco whines into his mouth. Draco tentatively touches Potter's tongue with his own, and Potter moans. One of Potter's hands drops and encircles Draco's cock. He pulls gently, strokes over the head, does that blasted thumb thing that has Draco quivering with wanting him.

Draco doesn't think. He runs his hand up under Potter's shirt, up his stomach with its springy hair and onto his chest as it rises and falls with his heavy breath, wrapping his other arm around Potter and hauling him as close as he can get. Draco pumps his hips, fucking into Potter's fist. Their kiss breaks. Potter's hand flies on him. Draco's breath catches, his whole body fills with effervescent heat, and then he comes in Potter's hand, taking sharp, abortive thrusts as Potter's fist twists and tenderly urges it out of him.

Draco's coming. With another boy. He's in a dark broom shed and he's coming. With Harry Potter.

They stand there panting. Potter's hand slowly slips away. Draco's hands slide down to Potter's waist, and then, when he realises, fall to his sides altogether. Potter doesn't step back, though.

"You're bloody twisted, you know that." It doesn't sound cruel. Instead, it comes out soft, amused.

Still, it's not something Draco can just ignore the fallacy of.

"Potter, you hexed me first."

Potter frowns. "No, I didn't. I found you in here, messing about with my broom, Malfoy."

"Because you hexed me to do it!"

Potter laughs. "No. I didn't."

"Yes, you did!"

"No, I didn't!"

They stand there, glaring at each other, dicks hanging out. It's absurd. And it's confusing and embarrassing and Merlin, Potter looks fit.

"You didn't?"

Potter shakes his head.

"Well…" Draco frowns. "Someone did, for fuck's sake!"

"So, you don't just have some sort of mad thing for my broom?"

"What? No!"

"Well, what am I supposed to think?" Potter laughs. "Especially now, after..." He gestures between them.

"Well, that's different. I thought you'd…"

"Yeah, I'm realising." Potter runs a hand over his head. "Merlin, this is pretty cocked up." But just when Draco expects him to come to his senses and go for his wand, he just starts straightening his clothes, a snort of a laugh on his lips. "Bloody hell, Malfoy."

Draco takes his cue on the clothing at least and pulls up his pants. "It was revenge," he says.

Potter sighs. "It was something." He zips his trousers and buckles his belt. He looks really good buckling his belt. Nearly as good as when he's unbuckling it. Potter glances up and catches Draco looking.

Draco clears his throat. "Clearly there was a severe misunderstanding, and I… I trust that… I hope… Merlin, Potter, don't tell anyone."

Potter plants his hands on his hips. "Who do you think I want to tell this to exactly? 'Hey, Hermione, I just had the time of my life riding Draco Malfoy's broom if you know what I mean.'"

Draco swallows. "Right."

Their clothes are straightened. There's no reason to stay anymore. Draco would flee but his bruised ego demands that Potter move first. Except Potter's not moving.

"What?" Draco spits.

"Do you—?" Potter sighs and starts again. "Would you maybe want to get a pint? Sometime. Not now, of course."

"Excuse me?" Draco's eyes have widened so drastically they burn.

Potter shrugs. "If you don't want to—"

"No! I… I mean, I don't not want to." Draco frowns at the vicinity of Potter's knees, a flush blooming over his entire body.

Draco glances up to see Potter nodding. "Okay then. Maybe at the weekend?"

Draco shoves his hands into his pockets for something to do. He shrugs, too. It works on Potter; why not try it himself? "Yeah. Okay." Then he snorts. "I suppose you'll want me to bring the broom." He regrets it as soon as it's out. He doesn't even know what Potter's suggesting after all. Maybe he just wants to dose Draco back again for all he knows.

But Potter laughs a little. "No, no that's all right. It's not normally my thing."

Draco chances a look at him. "I, er, I'm… I'm sor—"

"No you're not." Something dark and hot has come into Potter's eyes.

Draco blinks at him.

Potter turns on his heel and heads to the door. "I'll see you, Malfoy."

"Saturday?" Draco calls after him, because maybe he's read Potter all wrong and the fact that Draco isn't, in fact, sorry they had sex is something that's a problem for Potter now that he's realised it and their pint or date or whatever the fuck it was is now implicitly off.

But Potter turns and throws a smirk over his shoulder. "Saturday." Then at the door, "And Malfoy, if you mess about with my broom again, do me a favour and clean it up after, all right?"

Draco opens his mouth to protest that he did a very fine job of cleaning it up the first time, but the door is already closed between them. The door is closed. But something else feels very strangely open.