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FIC: Five Ways That Draco Malfoy Tops (Harry/Draco, NC-17)
Title: Five Ways Draco Malfoy Tops
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Harry/OMC (sort of)
Summary: Five different Draco Malfoys and five different ways he tops.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Anal sex, rimming, light bondage, bloodplay (not much), threesome (sort of), voyeurism, second person.
Epilogue compliant? Nope.
Word Count: Five parts at 500 words each
A/N: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kjp_013 for the very quick read-through!
This is for you,vaysh11.
vaysh11 beta’ed some stuff for me quick a while back, and I wanted to write her fic to thank her. When I asked her what she wanted, she said, “I’d like to see you write Draco Malfoy topping.” To me . . . well, topping (or bottoming) doesn’t mean any one thing for any person, so I . . . suppose this is how I see Draco Malfoy topping.
I hope you like it anyway,vaysh11, and thanks for all your help.
Five Ways Draco Malfoy Tops
I. From the Bottom
“You want it?” he says, barely glancing up. “Get on your knees.” Naked, you get off the bed; you kneel for him.
He proceeds to read his book on potions, fully clothed in bed; he’s always like this in the early morning. You wait for him on the floor, displayed: patellas in the attitude of prayer. By this you should be humiliated—and yet, humbly, for this you petitioned. Really, you implored him: you are tired of being in a place of primacy; you are not a paragon. (For Malfoy, it has sufficed merely to be human.)
Until your knees go weak, you stay.
“Still waiting, are you?” he says in a cool even tone, without looking from the tome. “Come over, then,” and you crawl. He sprawls, still reading the book, one leg on the floor. Knowing what it means, you shiver. “You may suck,” he drawls, tilts his head, and turns a page.
You deliver.
All you are always falls away: you go mindless when you suck him. Indiscreet, without design: all you long for is his instruction; all you long to be is for his cock.
His hips shift minutely; at last he looks up from the book, marks his place precisely. His fingers alight upon your nape, so cool and clinical that they command. “That’s enough,” he tells you gently; you were getting greedy, weren’t you: swallowing.
Releasing him, you almost whine.
“Come up,” and the way he says it, he sounds like he’s taken pity; he is being kind.
You scramble up on the bed, a needy, nearly desperate thing, lazily mirrored by glacial grace as he slides down. “I suppose you want this,” he says, with little to no emotion, as his hand wraps around his cock in open breeches. Ice moves in the same slow way: with intensity and intention.
“Yes,” you say. Over the years, you have been given little leave to want. You were always meant for more; others always wanted you. It’s that Draco Malfoy doesn’t care at all that makes you such a whore.
“So very desperate,” he says.
You say yes.
“Then you had better get to it,” he says, and lets go his cock. He cants his hips, and you climb on top.
As you sink down the length of his whole prick, he picks up the book. “Do try to take it slow,” he tells you, and opens up Powerful Potions.
You’re so hot, you need to come, because he looks—he sounds—just like snow.
“You rut just like an animal,” he tells you as you thrust your hips; he licks his thumb, turns another page. “I suppose you would. You like it, though, sitting low on cock.”
You’ve never been this kind of vessel, empty, needing to be filled. You’ve never felt more inconsequential; it’s what you’ve always wanted. You have never loved it so; there’s no tension in you; you are free.
“You never could get enough. You always did just want attention.”
II. From the Top
“You want it,” he says. It’s as though he’s drawn you from cool dark places, caves where water rushes, netting you in the dawn of his radiant sky.
His skin is dry with static heat, like lightning; he’s bound you to the bed and opened up the blinds. In the morning light, he holds you down: hot and certain, unyielding. You test your wrists against the ties, your hands gone numb of feeling. His warm dry lips are languid on your cock.
“Please,” you say.
“Do you?” He comes up, his hand gently squeezing where his lips have left. “Do you want my hot, tight arse, wrapped around you—do you want to push it all the way in, where you feel so warm and safe?”
His hair is still sun-bright, his smiles slight: a simple obliquity of lips, and somehow always calm in a way that still seems kind. His hands are warm and leisurely in movement, so easily mistaken for generosity in the warm hot hours of the early morning. This is when the sun wraps him in warm light, and the cotton sheets shine around him: white.
“Malfoy.” You twist; your hands are tied; you writhe.
“Say you haven’t earned it.”
“Please.”
“Say you don’t deserve it.” His hand is languorous, yet still long and like a leash, because you belong to him.
“I,” you say, “please.”
“Think about how tightly you would fit, how snug you would be; think of how you’ve never fit like that before. Think about how safe you feel, how you’re not alone; think about how hot I’d keep your cock, thick and nice and warm inside my—”
“I don’t deserve it,” you say.
His fingernail traces scars of souls, burned into your chest; you think that he would like to put his own there, as testament. Yet his other hand is languorous on your cock, so gentle he seems as though he’s erasing marks of violence; he is washing you clean: to purify. With his crown of golden hair, the pale curve of his cheek and chaos-colored eyes, he could be a conqueror, a saint: someone in whom to confide.
You never make that mistake. Draco Malfoy’s not an angel.
“You don’t; you don’t deserve it.” He’s on his knees; he positions himself so that your prick can push inside of him, slowly. “Have you forgot the souls you never saved?”
“I tried,” you say, “I—” but he’s so warm around you, so slow and safe, just like nights by a hearth you never knew; his eyes are all ablaze. Prophesies are lies; heaven is warm, and hell is cold as ice.
“You weren’t good enough,” he tells you—so sweet and surrounding you, just like you’ve always wanted; you belong. “You were never any good.”
“I was,” you say.
“Say that,” to your godfather, to Dumbledore, to Voldemort and to Ginny, to Lupin, Tonks, and Mum, “again.”
“I was good,” and you wish that you could hold him.
III. From the Side
“Does he want it?”
“Why don’t you try it? See how nice he is? So pliant.”
“Is he always so . . .”
“Malleable in the morning?”
“Mindless.”
“He’s just moody. Take the plug out.”
“Are you sure? He—”
“Look at how he twists when you take it out. Look at that glistening hole. He’s begging for it.”
“But how can you be certain—”
“Tell him if he wants it, he’s got to moan for it.”
“He’s not moaning.”
“Tell him.”
“Look here. Malfoy says, if you want it, you’ve got to—”
You groan because you’re wet and waiting; you feel as though you’re gaping, now that the plug is gone; you’re aching.
“—moan for it.”
“Told you.”
“He really does want . . .”
“Now eat his hole.”
“What?”
“Need him to moan again? Just like a dirty whore? Want him to show you how much he wants you to suck clean that filthy, dirty fuckhole?”
“No . . .”
“Just listen to him; he’s desperate. Such a hungry, needy slut. Make sure to get your tongue all the way in; that little cunt like something to cling to.”
“He really is a whore.”
“Are you surprised?”
“He doesn’t even know who I am.”
“Does he need to? You’re a horny bastard that can use his cock, and you’ll do whatever I say. You think that little comeslut needs any more than that?”
“But he’s—”
“Don’t say his name here.”
“But he killed—”
“Not that one either.” The voice from the shadows sounds the way white smoke tastes, harsh and soft.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
His face is the colour of bone, cast in shadow. “Because here, I am lord.”
“Does he—”
“Ask him.”
“Do you—?”
Always you answer, “I want to serve him.”
“He likes to,” he says, “my good little pet.”
“Why would—”
“He needed someone, didn’t he? Look at him.”
“But you—”
“Look at me.” His face is just like paper, with nothing written on it. “If I can do nothing else, this one thing I will do.” He flicks a hand. “Fuck him.”
“Now—?”
“He’s already loose and wetter than any whore. Make sure the first thrust is solid; he should have no freedom.”
“Right then.”
“Tell me how it feels.”
“Just like you said, he’s a hot little cunt.”
“Tell me more.”
“Tight just like a little virgin. Squeezes you just so. Then again, I assume you know—”
“No.” The answer is flat, yet neither black nor white: just like a grave. “We don’t touch. We never touch.”
“But why—?”
“Who would want to touch me?”
That’s not why at all. There’s cock inside you now, and you feel like flame. Malfoy’s eyes are ashes.
“Then how do you—”
“Because I know him. I know him better than anyone else. I can tell you just how to drive him into ecstasy.”
“You’re missing out.”
“No,” Malfoy says. “Because he knows me.”
IV. At Arm’s Length
“Do you really want it?”
“Yes,” you say, “I want it.”
You want to pay for the things you never did, for lives you never saved, for mercy that was never yours. You’d pay the price to prove you’re not a hero; you’d like to spend enough to show that you are selfish. Your self-sacrifice never cost enough.
Malfoy looks like money, even in the morning, his skin like too-rich cream, his hair just like gold Galleons. He always did appreciate the finer things; his voice is honey-sweet but cultured just like wine; he’s a chardonnay.
Between your legs, he’s adulterated, like rosé: so flushed and sweet he seems expensive. Substanceless, you think, and so completely pink; he’s just a frothy bit of nothing. You never could get drunk on something quite so sweet.
“They might hurt,” he says, pinches skin between his fingers. The clips clamp your nipples, and you groan. “Too much?”
“More,” you say.
Though pain and shame have lived in his life they have not lived in his hands; the palms are still soft as a lap of luxury, and his voice still sounds like silver spoons. “I can give you another cock to suck,” he says, and offers crystal.
He’s brought all his riches: silk and marble, silver clips; he’s brought glitz and glamour with him, willing to admit he’s not enough. He’s too dainty and too fine; he doesn’t want to hurt you; though he planned to kill a man, he shrunk from it. Instead he’ll push a crystal cock inside and hope to make it rough; he’ll try for you to be the killer he never did become.
“It’s so hard,” his teeth near your throat, “it becomes difficult to breathe.” He’s already pushed marbles slowly up with in you, hard and fine and veined like blood.
“It’s not enough.”
He brushes back your hair. “I can make your cock-ring tighter.”
“You know what I want,” you say; you want his family tree, his father’s legacy; you want the shame of it: destroying him and all his faith, everything that has made someone like him feel safe.
“Sweetheart,” he says, kisses your brow.
“Do it.”
Slowly he takes out the dagger that his father gave him, that he has never used. “I could fuck you with the hilt,” he says, and you know what that costs him: his name is engraved there and he would sully it with you; he would give himself with silver script inside you.
“Fuck me with the blade.” You’ve been dead before.
He shakes his head.
“Then the rest,” you say. Since you died, you’ve always needed more.
He places the point upon your chest, for though he could not kill for a kingdom, he would at your behest. Still his sacrifice isn’t worth enough; he’s just a pretty trinket, an offering of coins.
When he penetrates you, you find release as you bleed. You relive Snape; you relive dying; you relive peace. This is what you need.
V. From the Heart
“You want this.”
“Just shut up,” you say. He does; you kiss him.
Malfoy in the morning is just like warm milk and bread: soft and white and filling. You should be ashamed, thinking of Molly Weasley’s kitchen, but you can’t help it: the way the sunlight spills right in, the way the very air tastes like cinnamon. When Hermione brought her cat, it stretched out wanton in the squares that windows made beyond the flowered curtains. Malfoy’s just like that; he extends toward the light of you and settles all around you, content.
“You shut up,” he says, and breaks away; he’s smiling against your cheek.
“I didn’t say anything,” you say, because you didn’t.
“I can hear you thinking.”
You smile in the shallow bowl of his neck; you want to lap him up. “What was I thinking?”
“Probably about how I’m going to fuck you.” His voice is so lazy, still drowsy that it rouses you beyond reason. He’s warm like butter and like pancakes, all round, soft edges before he gets up to the full snark of noon.
“Mm hm,” you say, and lick the hollow of his throat.
“I am,” he says. “I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you so good and hard and fast, you’ll beg me for mercy.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I will, though.”
“Just keep telling yourself that.”
“I am a god among men, if you must know. A sex god. I can make you—oh. Harry—oh.” His throat’s thrown back and exposed; you kiss that too; your other hand has pulled his finger inside you, and you’ve already got ready for him.
“You were saying?”
He’s clingy and so pliant and soft, just like cotton. You should be ashamed thinking of laundry also, but you wish that you could wear him. “I said I’m going to fuck you so long and slow, you’re just going to be a messy puddle by the end.”
“Okay,” you say, and laugh. “I’m ready.”
He does; he takes you slow. He’s just like honey poured on bread; you’re warm and sticky, satisfied. Draco Malfoy is a steady household thing, nothing like your past; he is warm light and family, cool water and the fresh, clean scent of grass.
“I need, I need,” he tells you, as he thrusts above you; you want. You want him hot and slick inside you, nothing between you but the present, without a past to paint you in shadows or in fear.
He is neither ice nor fire, neither a shadow nor symbolic of a serpent-man you once slayed. You are not merely an instrument of his desire, nor his servant, you are not a merchant buying penitence for sins. You are merely mortal, and this is not your punishment. You are normal, what you’ve always dreamed of; you need not repent, for this is your reward.
Perhaps this was always meant for you. This is not the end.
This is where it all begins.
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Harry/OMC (sort of)
Summary: Five different Draco Malfoys and five different ways he tops.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Anal sex, rimming, light bondage, bloodplay (not much), threesome (sort of), voyeurism, second person.
Epilogue compliant? Nope.
Word Count: Five parts at 500 words each
A/N: Thank you to
kjp_013 for the very quick read-through!This is for you,
vaysh11.vaysh11 beta’ed some stuff for me quick a while back, and I wanted to write her fic to thank her. When I asked her what she wanted, she said, “I’d like to see you write Draco Malfoy topping.” To me . . . well, topping (or bottoming) doesn’t mean any one thing for any person, so I . . . suppose this is how I see Draco Malfoy topping. I hope you like it anyway,
vaysh11, and thanks for all your help.Five Ways Draco Malfoy Tops
I. From the Bottom
“You want it?” he says, barely glancing up. “Get on your knees.” Naked, you get off the bed; you kneel for him.
He proceeds to read his book on potions, fully clothed in bed; he’s always like this in the early morning. You wait for him on the floor, displayed: patellas in the attitude of prayer. By this you should be humiliated—and yet, humbly, for this you petitioned. Really, you implored him: you are tired of being in a place of primacy; you are not a paragon. (For Malfoy, it has sufficed merely to be human.)
Until your knees go weak, you stay.
“Still waiting, are you?” he says in a cool even tone, without looking from the tome. “Come over, then,” and you crawl. He sprawls, still reading the book, one leg on the floor. Knowing what it means, you shiver. “You may suck,” he drawls, tilts his head, and turns a page.
You deliver.
All you are always falls away: you go mindless when you suck him. Indiscreet, without design: all you long for is his instruction; all you long to be is for his cock.
His hips shift minutely; at last he looks up from the book, marks his place precisely. His fingers alight upon your nape, so cool and clinical that they command. “That’s enough,” he tells you gently; you were getting greedy, weren’t you: swallowing.
Releasing him, you almost whine.
“Come up,” and the way he says it, he sounds like he’s taken pity; he is being kind.
You scramble up on the bed, a needy, nearly desperate thing, lazily mirrored by glacial grace as he slides down. “I suppose you want this,” he says, with little to no emotion, as his hand wraps around his cock in open breeches. Ice moves in the same slow way: with intensity and intention.
“Yes,” you say. Over the years, you have been given little leave to want. You were always meant for more; others always wanted you. It’s that Draco Malfoy doesn’t care at all that makes you such a whore.
“So very desperate,” he says.
You say yes.
“Then you had better get to it,” he says, and lets go his cock. He cants his hips, and you climb on top.
As you sink down the length of his whole prick, he picks up the book. “Do try to take it slow,” he tells you, and opens up Powerful Potions.
You’re so hot, you need to come, because he looks—he sounds—just like snow.
“You rut just like an animal,” he tells you as you thrust your hips; he licks his thumb, turns another page. “I suppose you would. You like it, though, sitting low on cock.”
You’ve never been this kind of vessel, empty, needing to be filled. You’ve never felt more inconsequential; it’s what you’ve always wanted. You have never loved it so; there’s no tension in you; you are free.
“You never could get enough. You always did just want attention.”
II. From the Top
“You want it,” he says. It’s as though he’s drawn you from cool dark places, caves where water rushes, netting you in the dawn of his radiant sky.
His skin is dry with static heat, like lightning; he’s bound you to the bed and opened up the blinds. In the morning light, he holds you down: hot and certain, unyielding. You test your wrists against the ties, your hands gone numb of feeling. His warm dry lips are languid on your cock.
“Please,” you say.
“Do you?” He comes up, his hand gently squeezing where his lips have left. “Do you want my hot, tight arse, wrapped around you—do you want to push it all the way in, where you feel so warm and safe?”
His hair is still sun-bright, his smiles slight: a simple obliquity of lips, and somehow always calm in a way that still seems kind. His hands are warm and leisurely in movement, so easily mistaken for generosity in the warm hot hours of the early morning. This is when the sun wraps him in warm light, and the cotton sheets shine around him: white.
“Malfoy.” You twist; your hands are tied; you writhe.
“Say you haven’t earned it.”
“Please.”
“Say you don’t deserve it.” His hand is languorous, yet still long and like a leash, because you belong to him.
“I,” you say, “please.”
“Think about how tightly you would fit, how snug you would be; think of how you’ve never fit like that before. Think about how safe you feel, how you’re not alone; think about how hot I’d keep your cock, thick and nice and warm inside my—”
“I don’t deserve it,” you say.
His fingernail traces scars of souls, burned into your chest; you think that he would like to put his own there, as testament. Yet his other hand is languorous on your cock, so gentle he seems as though he’s erasing marks of violence; he is washing you clean: to purify. With his crown of golden hair, the pale curve of his cheek and chaos-colored eyes, he could be a conqueror, a saint: someone in whom to confide.
You never make that mistake. Draco Malfoy’s not an angel.
“You don’t; you don’t deserve it.” He’s on his knees; he positions himself so that your prick can push inside of him, slowly. “Have you forgot the souls you never saved?”
“I tried,” you say, “I—” but he’s so warm around you, so slow and safe, just like nights by a hearth you never knew; his eyes are all ablaze. Prophesies are lies; heaven is warm, and hell is cold as ice.
“You weren’t good enough,” he tells you—so sweet and surrounding you, just like you’ve always wanted; you belong. “You were never any good.”
“I was,” you say.
“Say that,” to your godfather, to Dumbledore, to Voldemort and to Ginny, to Lupin, Tonks, and Mum, “again.”
“I was good,” and you wish that you could hold him.
III. From the Side
“Does he want it?”
“Why don’t you try it? See how nice he is? So pliant.”
“Is he always so . . .”
“Malleable in the morning?”
“Mindless.”
“He’s just moody. Take the plug out.”
“Are you sure? He—”
“Look at how he twists when you take it out. Look at that glistening hole. He’s begging for it.”
“But how can you be certain—”
“Tell him if he wants it, he’s got to moan for it.”
“He’s not moaning.”
“Tell him.”
“Look here. Malfoy says, if you want it, you’ve got to—”
You groan because you’re wet and waiting; you feel as though you’re gaping, now that the plug is gone; you’re aching.
“—moan for it.”
“Told you.”
“He really does want . . .”
“Now eat his hole.”
“What?”
“Need him to moan again? Just like a dirty whore? Want him to show you how much he wants you to suck clean that filthy, dirty fuckhole?”
“No . . .”
“Just listen to him; he’s desperate. Such a hungry, needy slut. Make sure to get your tongue all the way in; that little cunt like something to cling to.”
“He really is a whore.”
“Are you surprised?”
“He doesn’t even know who I am.”
“Does he need to? You’re a horny bastard that can use his cock, and you’ll do whatever I say. You think that little comeslut needs any more than that?”
“But he’s—”
“Don’t say his name here.”
“But he killed—”
“Not that one either.” The voice from the shadows sounds the way white smoke tastes, harsh and soft.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
His face is the colour of bone, cast in shadow. “Because here, I am lord.”
“Does he—”
“Ask him.”
“Do you—?”
Always you answer, “I want to serve him.”
“He likes to,” he says, “my good little pet.”
“Why would—”
“He needed someone, didn’t he? Look at him.”
“But you—”
“Look at me.” His face is just like paper, with nothing written on it. “If I can do nothing else, this one thing I will do.” He flicks a hand. “Fuck him.”
“Now—?”
“He’s already loose and wetter than any whore. Make sure the first thrust is solid; he should have no freedom.”
“Right then.”
“Tell me how it feels.”
“Just like you said, he’s a hot little cunt.”
“Tell me more.”
“Tight just like a little virgin. Squeezes you just so. Then again, I assume you know—”
“No.” The answer is flat, yet neither black nor white: just like a grave. “We don’t touch. We never touch.”
“But why—?”
“Who would want to touch me?”
That’s not why at all. There’s cock inside you now, and you feel like flame. Malfoy’s eyes are ashes.
“Then how do you—”
“Because I know him. I know him better than anyone else. I can tell you just how to drive him into ecstasy.”
“You’re missing out.”
“No,” Malfoy says. “Because he knows me.”
IV. At Arm’s Length
“Do you really want it?”
“Yes,” you say, “I want it.”
You want to pay for the things you never did, for lives you never saved, for mercy that was never yours. You’d pay the price to prove you’re not a hero; you’d like to spend enough to show that you are selfish. Your self-sacrifice never cost enough.
Malfoy looks like money, even in the morning, his skin like too-rich cream, his hair just like gold Galleons. He always did appreciate the finer things; his voice is honey-sweet but cultured just like wine; he’s a chardonnay.
Between your legs, he’s adulterated, like rosé: so flushed and sweet he seems expensive. Substanceless, you think, and so completely pink; he’s just a frothy bit of nothing. You never could get drunk on something quite so sweet.
“They might hurt,” he says, pinches skin between his fingers. The clips clamp your nipples, and you groan. “Too much?”
“More,” you say.
Though pain and shame have lived in his life they have not lived in his hands; the palms are still soft as a lap of luxury, and his voice still sounds like silver spoons. “I can give you another cock to suck,” he says, and offers crystal.
He’s brought all his riches: silk and marble, silver clips; he’s brought glitz and glamour with him, willing to admit he’s not enough. He’s too dainty and too fine; he doesn’t want to hurt you; though he planned to kill a man, he shrunk from it. Instead he’ll push a crystal cock inside and hope to make it rough; he’ll try for you to be the killer he never did become.
“It’s so hard,” his teeth near your throat, “it becomes difficult to breathe.” He’s already pushed marbles slowly up with in you, hard and fine and veined like blood.
“It’s not enough.”
He brushes back your hair. “I can make your cock-ring tighter.”
“You know what I want,” you say; you want his family tree, his father’s legacy; you want the shame of it: destroying him and all his faith, everything that has made someone like him feel safe.
“Sweetheart,” he says, kisses your brow.
“Do it.”
Slowly he takes out the dagger that his father gave him, that he has never used. “I could fuck you with the hilt,” he says, and you know what that costs him: his name is engraved there and he would sully it with you; he would give himself with silver script inside you.
“Fuck me with the blade.” You’ve been dead before.
He shakes his head.
“Then the rest,” you say. Since you died, you’ve always needed more.
He places the point upon your chest, for though he could not kill for a kingdom, he would at your behest. Still his sacrifice isn’t worth enough; he’s just a pretty trinket, an offering of coins.
When he penetrates you, you find release as you bleed. You relive Snape; you relive dying; you relive peace. This is what you need.
V. From the Heart
“You want this.”
“Just shut up,” you say. He does; you kiss him.
Malfoy in the morning is just like warm milk and bread: soft and white and filling. You should be ashamed, thinking of Molly Weasley’s kitchen, but you can’t help it: the way the sunlight spills right in, the way the very air tastes like cinnamon. When Hermione brought her cat, it stretched out wanton in the squares that windows made beyond the flowered curtains. Malfoy’s just like that; he extends toward the light of you and settles all around you, content.
“You shut up,” he says, and breaks away; he’s smiling against your cheek.
“I didn’t say anything,” you say, because you didn’t.
“I can hear you thinking.”
You smile in the shallow bowl of his neck; you want to lap him up. “What was I thinking?”
“Probably about how I’m going to fuck you.” His voice is so lazy, still drowsy that it rouses you beyond reason. He’s warm like butter and like pancakes, all round, soft edges before he gets up to the full snark of noon.
“Mm hm,” you say, and lick the hollow of his throat.
“I am,” he says. “I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you so good and hard and fast, you’ll beg me for mercy.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I will, though.”
“Just keep telling yourself that.”
“I am a god among men, if you must know. A sex god. I can make you—oh. Harry—oh.” His throat’s thrown back and exposed; you kiss that too; your other hand has pulled his finger inside you, and you’ve already got ready for him.
“You were saying?”
He’s clingy and so pliant and soft, just like cotton. You should be ashamed thinking of laundry also, but you wish that you could wear him. “I said I’m going to fuck you so long and slow, you’re just going to be a messy puddle by the end.”
“Okay,” you say, and laugh. “I’m ready.”
He does; he takes you slow. He’s just like honey poured on bread; you’re warm and sticky, satisfied. Draco Malfoy is a steady household thing, nothing like your past; he is warm light and family, cool water and the fresh, clean scent of grass.
“I need, I need,” he tells you, as he thrusts above you; you want. You want him hot and slick inside you, nothing between you but the present, without a past to paint you in shadows or in fear.
He is neither ice nor fire, neither a shadow nor symbolic of a serpent-man you once slayed. You are not merely an instrument of his desire, nor his servant, you are not a merchant buying penitence for sins. You are merely mortal, and this is not your punishment. You are normal, what you’ve always dreamed of; you need not repent, for this is your reward.
Perhaps this was always meant for you. This is not the end.
This is where it all begins.
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