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The firewhisky swished in the crystal tumblers yet again.
They must’ve been his family’s old relics since they didn’t seem to be Potter’s style. The blow of glass was too intricate; details Potter wouldn’t bother to take note of, the weight of it on their hand.
Potter’s attention likely laid on the liquid inside, hot and ready, burning from inside out.
Much like Draco’s attention laid on Potter as he raised the tumbler to his lips, soft and red, gulping down fire. Like the fire licking Draco’s insides, burning him inside and out.
Much like Potter’s hands by Draco’s side, golden and steady, fumbling from his thighs to his hip. Everywhere Harry touched, through the fabric and his skin, down to the marrow of his bones and his soul, was burning.
Potter’s lips on Draco’s, red and ready, engulfing them in fire. Harry was swallowing every tangled detail of Draco’s, imprinting them on his tongue. The taste of him was all consuming like Fiendfyre in secret rooms. Like firewhisky in living rooms. Like the heat burning inside Draco.
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