The Ties That Bind Us

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Draco closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. His breath ghosted over Potter's ear, making Potter gasp quietly.

"A wise choice," Draco praised.

He waited for Potter to turn his head around, which Potter did, slowly. Their faces were perfectly aligned — eyes staring at eyes, noses almost touching, their lips a breath away.

"You can kiss me now," Draco whispered, waiting.

He feared Potter would change his mind; he looked indecisive for a moment, but then he leaned closer and his lips pressed against Draco's lightly.

Draco held his breath, expecting Potter would close his eyes and move his lips, but Potter was frozen, staring at Draco without blinking. Draco could no longer bear to look at him, so he let his eyelashes touch his cheeks, then tilted his head and parted his lips in invitation.

Potter made a sound, a beautiful tortured sound, as though something broke inside him. His hands flew upwards and trapped Draco's face, warm palms pressing against his cheeks as the pressure of Potter's lips on his intensified and a tongue invaded Draco's mouth.

It wasn't a kiss; it was an attack. An attack meant to disorient Draco and make him forget he didn't really want to kiss Potter. It was working, too.

Potter kissed with the determination and passion Draco saw him employ on the Quidditch pitch. He always gave everything he had, even when he knew he wouldn't catch the Snitch.

Draco felt caught. Captured not only by Potter's hands, but by the persistent tongue that caressed the inside of Draco's mouth, taking his breath away. It slid over the backs of his teeth, the roof of his mouth, exploring ceaselessly, not seeking dominance but demanding a fight. And Draco gave it to him, as soon as he snapped out of his daze and remembered to breathe through his nose. He slid his tongue against Potter's, giving as good as he got, for once not caring if he won or lost as long, as the game lasted as long as possible.

How could he have ever thought that kissing Potter was terrible? Surely, he had forgotten the true definition of the word. And how ridiculous was his offer to teach Potter something? Potter needed no lessons.

Potter pulled back, gasping, and Draco opened his mouth to say the thing he'd been dying to say; to remind Potter that he had claimed he would never kiss Draco on purpose. But Potter's teeth closed around Draco's bottom lip, nibbling as Potter unnecessarily, but pleasantly, soothed the nibbles with small wet licks. Coherent words abandoned Draco, leaving him free to gasp and moan without any sense or logic.

"You don't taste like vanilla," Potter said randomly.

Draco wanted to ask how he tasted, then, and find out whether not tasting like vanilla was a good or a bad thing, but Potter groaned loudly and attacked his face with hot, desperate kisses and Draco figured he had his answer.

Potter wondered how I would taste, he thought, pleasure pooling in his stomach, warming him more than Potter's scorching lips.

He couldn't do much but clutch Potter's hip as Potter kissed every part of his face, clearly not caring where the kisses landed. He pressed his mouth to Draco's cheeks and jaw, trailed his lips over his chin, pressed them against his eyelids and even kissed the tip of Draco's nose, something that stretched Draco's lips into a smile against his will.