I have committed pornage. I have committed pornage that is under 4,000 words. !!!! (No really! I wrote a short PWP! I'm just as stunned as you are.) I have also committed pornage that involves adultery. Don't look at me like that; I'm evidently in a Harry-as-cheating-bastard mood lately. \0/ I can't help myself. I don't even know.

Anyway. Should you feel the urge to indulge in a little adulterous porn, I'm your girl today. Clicketh below. :D And now I go back to writing Snarry for the rest of today.

Title: Cigarettes Will Kill You
Summary: He lights a cigarette across the pub, his hand cupped to his mouth as the tip sparks to life in a faint orange flare, and my breath catches.
Pairing: Harry/Draco, mentions of Harry/Ginny
Rating: NC-17
Warning: adultery
Word count: ~3800
Author's Notes: Written for in two hours for bryoneybrynn's Speed Pronz challenge using this picture prompt. Title cheerfully stolen from Ben Lee. Many thanks to noeon for her quick beta/readthrough.

He lights a cigarette across the pub, his hand cupped to his mouth as the tip sparks to life in a faint orange flare, and my breath catches.

I try to cover by ordering another whisky—Macallan, eighteen year, neat the way Severus had taught me to drink it nearly half a decade ago, and it's taken this long for that particular loss to fade from a twisting pain to a slow, bittersweet ache.

Pansy sees though, with those narrowed eyes of hers that take in everything, and she looks between me and Potter, her suspicions written across her face. If she hadn't guessed before tonight, she knows now, but she won't say anything, I'm certain of that. Instead she kisses my cheek and whispers in my ear that she's found a possible conquest for the evening before she saunters into the throng of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs gathered to celebrate Potter's twenty-second year.

We're the only Slytherins present, she and I, and we've drawn curious glances all evening. I wonder what they'd all say if they knew my invitation came not by owl post as theirs had, but gasped against my throat as Potter and I lay sprawled stickily, breathlessly across the foot of my bed at half two this afternoon, our cocks spent and aching.

Potter laughs at something the Weasel next to him says, and he takes a drag from his cigarette, turning his head just enough for our eyes to meet. He exhales slowly, watching me, his eyes dark, and the smoke curls around the black hood of his Muggle jacket before it dissipates in the shadows above.

I love to watch him smoke. His hands, normally so rough and stubby and awkward, turn graceful with a fag nestled between two fingers. It's a habit of his that his wife hates, he tells me with a grimace and a roll of his eyes, which means I encourage it, obsess over it even. Anything to drive a wedge between the two of them. Not that I should care. Potter and I have no future, I'm fully aware. He has a wife and a home he's all too eager to avoid, and Father's made arrangements for me with a suitable girl—the youngest and least objectionable Greengrass—whom I'll wed next spring at St. Stephen's in Avebury as every generation of Malfoys has for the past four hundred years. I'm fond enough in my own way of Astoria, I suppose. We'll do well by each other. We both know our duty—an heir for both families—and then we can settle into a comfortable existence of companionable friendship and discreetly conducted side affairs as have our parents and their parents before them. Marriage the way it was intended to be.

Potter, however, has an utterly plebian notion of romance, the fool. Two years into his marriage, and they're both miserable. I almost feel sorry at moments for Ginevra, given the number of times in the past six months her husband has slipped away to join me in my bed, and the idiot has no idea he's cuckolding her. Gryffindors. For all their claims of nobility and honour, they're nothing more than liars and cheats, willfully turning an oblivious eye to anything they'd rather ignore. At least Slytherins have the decency to be honest about our liaisons.

Not to mention our sexuality, but that's an entirely different matter.

Still, my sympathy for the bint goes only so far. I want her husband's prick inside of me as many times as I can have him before his conscience belatedly kicks in. And it will. I'm not so much of a fool to think my arse, lovely though it is, will hold Potter's interest for much longer. Sooner or later he'll get Weasley up the duff, if he hasn't already, and that will be that. Not even my sexual wiles will be able to withstand the onslaught of delayed remorse that fatherhood will bring.

For the moment, however, I fully intend to enjoy my power over Potter.

I drain my whisky and set the glass on the bar. Potter's still watching me, and he lifts his cigarette to his mouth and puffs a faint ring of smoke towards me. I snort. Child's play, that. Severus used to curl smoke dragons around my wrists as we lay naked, tangled together on the floor of his quarters during my seventh year. My throat tightens slightly, and I lift my chin as I push my way through the crowd.

"Potter," I say, stopping in front of him, and the Weasel scowls at me.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. None of the Weasleys, might I point out, have ever been known for their percipience. The Weasel still hasn't managed to realise his brother-in-law is fucking my arse raw on a regular basis.

I ignore him. "I suppose," I say to Potter with an appropriately snide curl of my lip, "that I'm forced to wish you a happy birthday."

Potter shrugs and flicks ash off the end of his cigarette before he takes another drag. My belly tightens. "If you want."

"Consider it done." I tilt my head just enough to be polite, then I reach for his cigarette, taking it from him. His eyebrow arches in surprise. "Filthy habit," I say softly, my eyes fixed on him, and my hand barely trembles as I lift the cigarette to my mouth. I can taste him, I'm certain, as I inhale the acrid smoke, then breathe it back out into his stunned face. I drop the cigarette to the floor and grind it out with the toe of my boot.

I can feel his eyes on me as I sidle through the crowd. Pansy's in the corner with Lovegood, a bottle of wine on the table between them, and Luna's round face is pink and rapt as Pansy brushes her fingertips across her wrist. I won't be worrying about how she'll get home now, I suppose.

I push open the pub's back door and step outside.

The air in the alley is warm and damp. It's been raining for days now, and the puddles against the brick wall reek of piss and mildew. I don't care.

I only wait a few minutes before I hear the door click shut behind me, and then he's there, pressing me against the wall as he kisses me desperately. My hair catches on the rough brick. Potter tastes of cheap tobacco and bittersweet beer, and I can't get enough of the soft dryness of his lips, the sour sweep of his tongue against mine.

"I want you," I say into the kiss, breathless and eager, "I want you here, with all of your bastard friends inside wondering where you've gone off—"

Potter grabs my hips and groans. "I can't," he whispers. "Ginny—"

I turn my head, bite his jaw, hard. Potter arches against me with a gasp. He likes it when I get angry. "I really don't give a damn," I say viciously, "if your fucking wife walks through that door and sees me on my knees with you bent over my back and your prick pounding my arse."

He shivers, and I slide my hands up his chest. I pull at the zip of his jacket; the hood falls back. His hair is ridiculously unkempt. I run one hand through it, pushing it off his forehead, before I kiss him again. This is dangerous, I know. Anyone can stumble out at any moment. We've never been this indiscreet.

I've never been this fucking hard.

My hand slips beneath his t-shirt, slides over his taut stomach. I love Potter's body, so lithe and lean from hours of Auror field work. Not that I'd ever tell him, of course. The last thing I need is for Potter to know how much I want him. Still. I flatten my palm against his warm skin and breathe out. I can feel my heart thudding, my blood pooling in the heated stiffness of my prick.

"I shouldn't," Potter says, and then he trails off, his eyes fixed on me. He licks his bottom lip.

"No." My fingers curl around his wrist. I pull his hand to the fly of my trousers. I know he can feel my cock beneath his palm. "You really shouldn't."

I rock my hips forward and he draws in a ragged breath. His thumb smoothes the wool of my trousers against the underside of my prick, pulling the fabric tight against my balls. Christ, I need him to touch me, need his skin against mine.

"Please," I say, and I hate myself for the weakness.

With a groan, Potter catches my mouth with his again, and his glasses press into my cheek as his fingers work open the buttons of my trousers. When his callused hand curls around me, I gasp and grab his hip.

I want them to see us like this, want them all to come pouring out of that battered door covered with graffiti endorsements for Quidditch teams and sexual partners, want them to stop short in shock at the sight of Harry fucking Potter rutting against me, our eager kisses loud in the silent alley.

"Lube," Pottter says, his mouth wet against my jaw. "I know you have--"

I cut him off with another kiss. "Pocket." I arch against him as he shoves a hand into my left pocket, digging for the tiny phial of oil I'd made sure to bring. I'm not a fool, after all.

Potter pulls back, turns me around, and my trousers slip down my thighs, falling to pool in the puddle at my feet. He tugs my pants below the curve of my arse, his fingers warm against my skin. I can barely breathe as I hear him swear softly before the wax seal on the phial pops, and then his finger is in me, blunt and thick and slick, and I cant my hips with a groan.

With a quick sweep of headlights, a Muggle lorry rolls past the alley entrance, its wheels sloshing wetly against the street. Despite the Notice-Me-Not spells around the pub, we still for a moment until the shadows return, tinged only by the damp orange glow of the streetlamps. Potter's breath is a warm huff against the back of my neck when he laughs.

"Shut it," I say crossly, and I press my hips back.

"Bossy prat." Potter nips at my earlobe, but he pushes his finger in me again and twists just the way he knows I like. I grunt, and he kisses the curve of my jaw. "Like that?"

My fingers flex against the wall. "Well enough."

I feel oil trickle warmly down the crease of my arse. Potter whispers a spell against my hair, and a tingle spreads through the oil across my skin. I groan and jerk in his hands; my cock bobs thick and hard against my stomach. The head catches on my shirt. A button slides over my stretched foreskin and I shudder.

"Bastard," I snap, a flush warming my cheeks at my obvious reaction. Potter just laughs and presses another finger into me and drags his open mouth over the stretch of my throat. I let my head fall back; he laps lightly at my skin.

"Tell me you want my prick in you."

I turn my head and catch his mouth, kissing him slowly, deeply. "Don't be vulgar," I murmur after a moment, and I bite his bottom lip.

Potter pulls back. "Tell me." His breath gusts lightly against my ear.

"No." I'm nothing if not perverse, I'm afraid.

His fingers twist deeper into me. He slides his other hand across my stomach, ruching up my shirt and holding me still as he finger-fucks my arse, his fingertips just barely brushing over my prostate. I'm shaking, as much as I'm trying not to, and my pulse is drumming in staccato beats against my throat. My cock aches. My own mother could walk out right now and I'd beg Potter not to stop.

Potter pulls his hand away and I cry out in protest. My head falls forward. I'm breathing hard. I stare down at my feet, my hair hanging in my eyes. My prick bobs in front of me, red and hard and sticky-damp.

And then Potter's fingers brush against it and I groan his name as they skim along its length before sliding beneath to cup my balls. I close my eyes, almost overcome. I'm throbbing. Aching. Desperate.

"Tell me," he says again against the nape of my neck.

It takes a moment before I can speak. I open my mouth, close it again, swallowing. "Please," I say finally, and my voice is thick and raw. "Please, Harry."

Potter swears behind me, a sotto voce fucking hell that sends a shudder of want down my spine, and I can hear him as he jerks at the zip of his jeans. He nudges my legs wider, tilts my hips further back. The blunt head of his cock is hot against my arse, and I can barely keep myself from trembling.

It hurts when he pushes into me, a quick flare of pain and tension that fades slowly. Potter's arm is around my waist, holding me up, and I press my palms against the brick wall in front of me, not caring that my skin will be roughened and scraped.

We hold still for a moment, the only sounds in the alley the sharp pants of our breath, and then Potter moves, carefully at first, pressing deeper into my arse. I can feel his balls brush my skin, feel the scratch of his jeans against the backs of my thighs.

"More," I say, and then he's thrusting into me, his dull fingernails scraping my hips. I can hear him gasping behind me and I reach down to pull my shirt higher, to give him a better view of my arse and his cock sliding into it.

"Oh, fuck," Potter chokes out. He grabs my hips, jerks me back into his next thrust and it burns, Christ, but I don't care because Potter's fucking me in quick, rough strokes just the way I like. I arch my back, pressing my arse against his cock, tightening myself around him until he groans. He slides one hand up my spine, and his fingers are gentle on my skin as he pushes the bunched cotton of my shirt up to my shoulder blades.

Potter's grunting, and I know his teeth are clenched; I can feel the flex of his stomach as he bends over my arse to press his mouth against my shoulder, just beneath my shirt. He's so fucking deep in me, and I don't give a fuck how much it aches being stretched like this because Potter's hand slips down to my cock and strokes it lightly and God, I could fucking come right here. Right now.

It takes every bit of control I have not to.

Instead I hold still, my fingers twisted in my shirt, one hand splayed against the wall. I watch his hand on my prick, moving slowly, barely touching me, and I only shudder when his thumb sweeps over the wet head, rubs across the slit.

Potter rocks into me; he presses his mouth against my hair. "So tight," he murmurs, and his fingers slide down my cock, brush over the furred skin of my balls, then back up again. I can't breathe. All I want is the steady press of his cock in my arse. I shift, spread my legs wider, eliciting a ragged fuck yes from Potter as his hand smoothes over my hip. The button on the waistband of his jeans scrapes my thigh with his next thrust, which is hard enough to lift me onto the balls of my feet. The head of my cock bumps the brick, and I hiss.

"Sorry," Potter says, but he doesn't sound contrite, and I don't fucking care. I reach back, letting my shirt drop, and I grab his hip, pressing harder against his prick. Potter groans.

He's bent over my back now, chin on my shoulder, and we must look ridiculous moving together in the shadows like this but it doesn't matter because Potter's hand is tight on my cock, pulling roughly, and my thighs clench as I shove back against him, meeting each thrust with a gasp and a moan.

And then his palm curls over the head of my prick, hot and tight, and I can't stop myself. I come with a cry, shaking, strings of ropy white splattering across the wet brick, dripping onto a pile of rotting potato peelings and soaked Prophets. I slump against the wall, my forehead resting against it, breathing hard. I barely notice Potter's pulled back until his cock slides free of my arse.

"No," I say, voice weak, and I reach for him to pull him back, but Potter turns me around, presses me against the wall, kissing me roughly, eagerly. His prick rubs against my hip and it's sticky and hot on my skin. My hands are on his cheeks, holding him as my tongue mashes against his, desperate, hungry. He sucks my lip, his fingers are tangled in my hair, pushing it back from my face. I need this, need him. It's more than want, I know, as much as I loathe that realisation.

I can never have Potter. I'm a fool for loving him.

"On your knees, baby," Potter whispers against my mouth, and I don't hesitate. The alley is wet and uneven beneath my knees, the pavement slimy on my skin. I can smell the stench of rats and piss. Potter's hand is on his prick, stroking it hard and fast. I want to taste him, want to suck him, but when I lean forward he catches my shoulder, pushes me back. "No."

I look up at him. He's beautiful, leaning over me like this, one hand on his cock, one hand on the wall behind me. "Harry," I say, and he shudders, his fingers faltering for the briefest moment.

"I want," he says breathlessly, and his palm curls over the head of his prick, smoothing back the foreskin in one quick sweep. "I want to come on you…"

Christ. I lean back, staring up at him. I swallow. He tugs hard on his cock, and it slides red and thick and slick through his fingers. One of his balls hangs over the scrunched waistband of his pants and jeans, and I touch it lightly.

"Fuck," Potter chokes out. His hand moves faster. His hips jerk. I cup his ball in my palm, rub my thumb across the soft skin. Potter's shaking. The muscles in his stomach clench. "I—"

He breaks off in a muffled groan, and come hits my cheek. I close my eyes, turning towards his prick as he spurts across my face. He's mine now, for this moment at least, and it's my name he's whispering as he shudders over me.

I open my eyes and look up at him. Potter's mouth is open, pink, and his cock hangs free. He's holding himself up with both hands against the wall. I lean in and suck the head of his prick into my mouth, lapping at the smeared stickiness on his skin. He tastes salty-sweet-sour, and he gasps as my tongue slides beneath his foreskin.

"Draco," he murmurs.

I pull back. I drag my fingers through the come on my cheek and lift them to my mouth. Potter draws in a ragged breath as I lick them clean.

He wants me. He needs me. Perhaps he even loves me in some foolishly stupid Gryffindor way.

He'll never leave her for me, though. He's too much to lose. Family. Friends. The safety of a settled, miserable life.

One day he'll walk away, and I'll be alone, lost in my own civil, proper marriage. It's only at moments like this when Potter—when Harry's looking down at me like this, eyes bright and soft and gentle, that I let myself admit how much that will hurt. How much it hurts every time he leaves my bed to return to hers. It shouldn't. I knew from the beginning what I was agreeing to. I seduced him, after all. No sense playing the wounded other woman.

"We should go back in," Potter says quietly. I nod and he helps me to my feet. It takes a moment for us to gather ourselves, to spell our clothes and our skin clean.

He hesitates at the door. I shrug. "You first," I say, then I stop him just before he turns the handle. I kiss him slowly, lingeringly. "Light me a fag."

Potter smiles faintly and digs into his pocket for the packet of cigarettes. He holds it out; I pull one free and lift it to my mouth. He lights it wordlessly, his fingers barely hovering over the tip before a curl of smoke rises from the rolled paper. I inhale, holding the bitter smoke in for a moment before sending it out in a perfectly curled dragon that wraps around Potter's shoulders before drifting away.

He touches my mouth with his blunt fingertips. "I'll firecall," he says softly, and then, with a gentle kiss that's nearly my undoing, he's gone, back to the wife who probably hasn't even noticed his absence.

And I'm alone.

I lean against the wall, smoke curling from my cigarette, and close my eyes, hating myself for what I've become. Hating myself for not walking away.

Hating myself for falling in love.

I can't go back in. Can't watch him with her. Can't see her touch him, see him smile down at her. Can't endure it. Not any longer.

And yet when he firecalls—and he will, I'm certain—I'll answer. I'll meet him again, for a beer or for wine in a Muggle place tucked away in some godforsaken corner of London no wizard or witch would ever find, and we'll kiss in the shadows and fall into my bed for an hour or two or three, however long he can sneak away. And I'll tell myself it means nothing, that it's only sex. And I'll know I'm lying.

I always lie.

I take another ragged drag, opening my eyes and staring dully into the shadows, watching the smoke dissipate into the darkness before I drop the cigarette and grind it out with my boot.

He's in my blood, as much as I hate the fact. I need him. I want him. I love him. But for tonight, I'm done. I can't bear anymore. I wonder if he'll even care that I'm missing. I know he will.

I don't look back at the door as I Apparate away.