Title: Bolt in the Darkness
Author: keyflight790
Characters/Pairings: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: ceraunophilia, lightning, mutual voyeurism, mutual masturbation
Other Warnings/Content: hints of shame
Word Count: 1,167
Summary/Description: Harry hates storms.
Author's Notes: Thank you so much for inviting me to be a part of this community! I saw this theme, and couldn't resist.


The beauty of lightning lies in itself. It is both constructive, and destructive.
It gives both life and death. It brings energy and also halts it in its path.

---

A flash of light filled the room and Harry stirred, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand. He couldn’t help but pull the scarlet sheets high up on his chest, wrapping them around like a safe cocoon as the storm brewed angrily outside.

Harry hated storms.

It had been pouring, the day the sky lit up and the Dementors chased him around the pitch; the day he heard his mother scream as he slipped, falling through the air, eventually colliding with the cold, damp earth.

The same bright streaks had been outside his nursery window the day his father’s friend betrayed him, the day his parents died, the day Voldemort branded him.

The day he was marked with a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.

Harry tried to close his eyes, but the flashes kept coming. No matter how he tossed and turned, he couldn’t escape their hot glow, their sear across the black sky. He reached for his wand, ready to cast the drapes closed and hopefully mask the storm outside when he heard it.

The smallest of moans followed quickly by a crash of thunder.

Harry froze, his arm sticking outside of his covers, reaching for the stick of holly that always made him feel safe; even as the storm rumbled in warning outside; even in the castle that was still covered in dark magic; even in the room that he was sharing with his arch-enemy/possible friend.

Even as that enemy/friend was moaning from his four-poster.

A bolt struck again, and the room lit up in its brightness. Harry caught a quick glance of Malfoy, sitting rod-straight in his bed, fixated on the window.

He bit his lip to stop himself from asking what in the bloody hell Malfoy was doing staring at the window like that, like its panes held something beautiful as opposed to something so sinister, when he heard it again.

“Yes.” Another moan broke the silence as the lightning crackled again. And while Harry’s ears were focused on the small sounds that Malfoy was making, his eyes were focused much lower.

So low that when light blazed into their room once more, Harry caught a glimpse of pale fingers wrapped around a rigid cock. The most perfect cock Harry had seen. Not that he’d seen many, but living in a room full of teenage boys tended to expose more than poor cleanliness.

Of course, Harry had heard his fellow roommates wanking before. Sometimes, they had even wanked together, passing moving photos back and forth, swapping stories about the girls they’d snogged, the ones that had let them get in their knickers. Harry would always laugh and pass the pictures off quickly, focusing instead on some of the men who graced the covers of Quidditch Quarterly, hoping no one would notice.

In a room full of horny teenagers, it felt safe to give yourself a pull before tucking in for the night, but in a room with just one other boy, he couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. He always wanked in the shower, stifling his own groans, hoping that Malfoy wouldn’t hear and tease him relentlessly.

Thunder shook and was quickly followed by another bolt and a hitch of breath from Malfoy’s bed.

The storm must be traveling fast, as the rumbles and shots of light were increasing, brightening up the sky and their shared room. Instead of cowering under the covers, Harry’s eyes were alight and focused on Malfoy’s lithe body and his smooth skin and his hand twisting rapidly along the length of his beautiful cock and—

Harry palmed the front of his pyjamas, suddenly so hard, and he ached to draw it out, to expose it to the elements. He tried to adjust without disturbing his sheets and shifting his duvet. The last thing he wanted was to alert Malfoy that he was awake. That he was watching. That he was tugging on himself, listening to him moan as the lightning crackled outside.

He waited anxiously for the next clap of thunder to whip his cock out, hoping the pounding would drown out the noise of rustling fabric. Sighing slightly, Harry wrapped his fingers around his hard length and began to pull, adding a small twist at the end that always made his toes curl. His head was still turned on his pillow and he watched as Mother Nature provided him tiny glimpses of the boy in the next bed.

Malfoy’s breath hitched each time the sky lit up, and it seemed he was no longer able to hold back the noises in his throat. His moans were filling the room with abandon, and it made Harry want to leap out of his cocoon of sheets and cover Malfoy’s mouth with his own, his rapidly jerking hand with his own.

The thought of that made Harry growl, a loud needy sound, just as the room filled with light, and Draco’s head jolted in his direction, his eyes wide, his lips plump.

Harry tugged at his length, arching his back, his earlier embarrassment washed away completely, drowned out in the gaze of storm-grey eyes as they stared back into his earth-green. His moaning continued, stronger, louder, as his wrist moved rapidly, bringing him closer and closer towards that razor-sharp edge.

A litany of sighs and moans was escaping Malfoy’s throat as he pulled along his own length, the brightness from the bolts filling the room, exposing their cocks and the heat in their eyes. Harry was so close, he could practically feel the tendrils of electricity engulfing his toes, cascading through his spine, and the thought that maybe Malfoy was also feeling those sparks was enough to drive him over the edge. He filled his hand and his sheets with hot, white ropes, never breaking contact from Malfoy’s observation.

He was still shivering with the aftershocks of pleasure when Malfoy’s face was lit up once more, and Harry couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were no longer locked on Harry’s own, but on his forehead. On his scar.

Malfoy came with a thunderous shout, spilling over his fist, the angles of his body bowed in pleasure. Harry wanted to lick, wanted to taste every inch of paleness that Malfoy had to offer.

They silently cleaned up, both avoiding each other's glares, and Malfoy drew the curtains around his bed frame closed. Harry tried to settle in his sheets as the storm continued to pass over their heads, the low sound of rumbling and tiny slivers of light still making their way to his window. The glow almost seemed comforting, like a searching beam from a lighthouse, and less like the angered bolts of warnings ignored.

The next morning, Harry checked the Daily Prophet for the upcoming forecast. He suddenly couldn’t wait for another storm to brew.