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Sating The Dementor’s Kiss 10


Not only was Sirius Black a fast learner, he was also a terribly sore loser. Harry could not remember the last time he had heard such colorful swearing, and to such a passionate extent. Half of the time he was trying not to laugh at the man as he was sideswiped onto grass or off cliffs, slowed down by obstacles and turtle shells.

“Fucking chicken shit shells!”

Harry snickered sleepily, dragging into a turn and feeling Sirius behind him on the couch tilting his entire body in an attempt to do the same. He was vaguely aware that birds were chirping outside, the sun insisting on shining even though Harry was only now starting to feel ready to try and sleep again.

“Here, take this controller instead,” Harry said when the set of races was done. “There are other games if you want to play. Just make sure the box has this logo on it,” he said, pointing to the insignia on the game case. “There are plenty of dvd’s you can watch if you get tired of that… but I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Harry added with a smile, the man completely hooked on video games in a matter of hours.

Sirius took the large controller when handed to him, staring with interest at the miniature screen in the center of it. Harry leaned up a final time, pointing out buttons and how to navigate through the main menu, yawning halfway through. “I’m gonna go back to bed,” he mumbled, pulling himself to his feet and heading for the stairs.

Once the boy left, Sirius slowly slid down to the floor, resting his back in mirror to how Harry had been sitting earlier against the couch. He stretched his legs out, relaxing, eyes straying around the room as he debated on which character to race with. His focus kept going back to the space beneath the tv console, foot rocking back and forth idly.

That had been a lot of flesh colored people for one little case cover. But not just flesh, but flesh wrapped in leather and thin cords, metal rings, one young man with a very bright red ball gag… Jamie and Lily’s sweet little boy was a total perv. Leaning forward, Sirius sneaked his hand out, hooking the last case Harry had nudged under the console and pulling if free. A total, nasty little pervert that apparently had a thing for young men being tied up and dominated by much larger, stronger men.

Eyes scanning the front of the case, he flipped to the back, squinting at the text. Reading was a little difficult after all these years, words looking unfamiliar. He tried to sound some out, eyebrows rising the further he went. Decided, he clicked the case open, ejected the game disk he was playing and switched it for the sharp edged dvd.

He quickly fumbled for the volume, eyes glancing up towards the ceiling. Nothing. The kid was hardly a quiet walker. Shit, but what a perv… Sirius couldn’t help it, clamping his hand over his mouth as the screen filled with very nude, very moaning flesh. It was no use, his laughter breaking free.

Crap, he could never watch porn, always finding it ridiculously funny… Although… he had never seen gay porn before, just the weird stuff James had rustled up with a lot of bushy chicks, very hung, but not always attractive men, and some drug induced artsy themes. This was definitely less funny… once you got over the awkwardness of watching some guy get tied up and forced to suck cock… Which Sirius was adapting to rather quickly, head tilting and socked foot rocking back and forth on the floor.

“Holy crap,” he muttered, hand covering his eyes only to peek through his fingers. When did condoms start coming out in rainbow colors? And when did men start looking so smooth down there? How they managed not to shave their balls off… “Hell… How can he…?” Sirius tilted his head the other way, side of his thumb wedged between his teeth as the very smooth blond boy was folded beyond human capability—he was pretty sure people could not contort that way—and crammed full of the larger, muscular sandy blond man.

Sirius pulled his thumb from his mouth, hitting the skip forward button on the remote. Tongue slipping over his teeth, he stopped at one with a rather slim looking brunette with dark eyes, hands being bound behind his back roughly while he whimpered. His captor could hardly be seen, wearing some weird leather hat blocking most of his face. He could be heard though, saying some very nasty things into the boy’s ear as he pushed him down onto a sturdy workbench. Why they were nude and in a garage with grease and auto parts lying around was beyond Sirius, but it didn’t seem to really matter much. Well, except for when the boy was suddenly gagged with a dirty looking rag… Maybe they were in a garage just to put that filthy rag in that very pretty mouth? The boy didn’t seem to mind, his dark eyes hooded with lust as he was roughly slammed forward and, “Ohhh.” Sirius was starting to understand the point of the garage now, a thick screwdriver handle lubed and pushed into the boy’s tight hole, being driven in and out, wrenched to the sides in likely painful ways.

Gaping at the very graphic view of just how tight that hole was, Sirius had a worrying thought. Did that kid let men do that to him? Was little Lily’s sweet tot out letting men fuck him in garages with screwdrivers and… thick hammer handles? “Holy hell,” Sirius groaned, hand again covering his eyes but failing to actually block the view. Was this just normal sex for gay men now?

Sirius grabbed quickly for the dvd box, eyes moving through the text. Fetish… fantasy… virginal—that brunette was totally not a virgin—unique, naughty bondage fantasies. Oh, thank god. Not normal. Very much fetish. Just weird, kinky… Sirius’s eyes were drawn to the screen again, his breath caught in his throat. “That won’t fit with that…” he croaked out only to be proven very wrong as the boy was double penetrated by hammer and screwdriver together.

Sirius hit the pause button, closed his eyes at just what had been paused at, and hit the eject button. “That boy needs help.” With shaking fingers, he slipped the dvd back into its case and pushed it back under the console. Then, because he was there and he really needed to know, he started pulling everything out from under the tv console, sorting as he went.

James had spawned a gay, sex-crazed, totally deranged deviant of a son. Maybe it was Lily’s fault—She had always been wild, James once confessing that she wore him out on more than one occasion keeping him up all night. Sirius had tried to tune it out at the time, really not that interested in what his best friend and girlfriend were getting up to. If he had realized what the end result of their union would be, maybe he would have said something. This couldn’t be normal.

At least, he didn’t remember it to be… Sirius used to have a flock of girls following him around in school, quickly finding out that they just weren’t that interesting. He had thought maybe he was just really fucked up by his abusive family and couldn’t let anyone in sexually. Then he’d had a random encounter with a bold sixth year punk in the boy’s bathroom his graduating year, resulting in a phenomenal blow job that had proven that he should have been barking up trousers instead of skirts. And for a very short while, he had really enjoyed exploring that new knowledge. Quietly, because being gay could still get your ass beat although not nearly as dangerous as being hunted by Voldemort.

Nothing Sirius had ever seen looked like the stuff on these boxes. Actually, he was pretty sure there wasn’t even gay stuff on boxes back then—maybe some girl on girl stuff. But there were a shit ton of gay boxes here, the majority with young men tied up and on display. Sirius tried to think back to James’s porn collection of magazines… James had probably collected twice as many magazines than his son had dvds… Maybe Harry wasn’t that fucked up…

But there were a lot of people tied up. Sirius flipped through the cases, finding only one that didn’t have anyone bound and sometimes gagged on the cover. Bedroom, flesh, sex… Sirius clicked the case open, sliding the disk in the tray and waiting for it to turn on.

There we go; people in clothes. Just two very attractive young men in clothes, kissing, and touching, and not tying each other up. And yes, those clothes did eventually end up on the floor, which was very nice as well as was when they started rolling on the bed with a very ugly looking bedspread. And if they both stopped because someone was knocking on the door, that couldn’t be too terrible because the pizza guy showing up in their bedroom was actually quite attractive and didn’t seem interested in tying anyone up either, just taking his clothes off and rolling on the bed too.

Sirius had not had pizza in over twenty years. He was pretty sure that was what everyone kept saying—Twenty. He could really go for some pizza… Maybe with a delivery guy that looked like this one… or better yet, like the slender, dark eyed brunette from the other video that was totally not a virgin. Sirius was actually rather curious to know if anything else ended up in that deceptively tight looking hole.

Humming to himself, he switched the dvd’s, trying to think what topping of pizza he would want to try first after all this time.

Oblivious As Fuck 1


“Hey Malfoy, you ever see an invisibility cloak?” Potter asks, holding up a shimmery silver material that I’m apparently supposed to fawn all over.

I haven’t. I’ve heard about invisibility cloaks, but they’re rare and usually passed down through families. My father probably has one, maybe, but the Ministry froze his vault to await his trial, and who the fuck knows when that will be? It’s the Ministry and he’s a Malfoy; with Voldemort dead he’ll be rotting in jail a long time before a trial ever fucking happens. Good riddance.

“So, have you?”

Fuck, he’s annoying. Potter’s always talking to me now in weird hit and run blurbs. Hallways, classrooms, the Great Hall. I really don’t get it. He barely opened his mouth when I saw him at Black’s over the summer, taking shelter from my bitch crazy aunt. Now Potter won’t shut the hell up. And always, always in vague riddles that fuck with my head at every turn. I have no idea what the kid wants with me. Well, besides to piss me off.

Pretty sure that’s his main goal in all this.

I refuse to look impressed over another goddamn toy he gets with ease. “Potter, what the hell do you want…?” I let out a loud sigh when he suddenly unfurls the cloak, the material crackling in the air before descending like darkness all around me.

Of course. I didn’t act impressed so he just has to fucking force the issue. But things on this side aren’t really that impressive. My view of the hall leading to the dinner I really should have run for the instant I saw Potter swaggering my way is slightly obscured by the semitransparent cloak. Maybe if I had watched him disappear it might have been impressive. But he’s just—Oh, crap.

No, he’s like right in my fucking face under here with me, feeling extra close because of the fabric pressing down on my hair. No, he’s just really close.

God, he unnerves the hell out of me.

“What the fuck are you—?”

“Quiet down, D. It’s not a goddamn silencing cloak,” he snickers, his lips almost against my nose. I can barely hear him over the blood roaring in my ears.

Fuck. Holy fuck, why is he so fucking close right now? Has he ever been this close to me? Why is he so—Do not freak out. The last fucking thing I want to do is freak out in front of him. His shoulders are damn wide, his face inches from mine, his body—Hell, I’m hyper aware of his body right now. He’s giving off heat and our combined breathing is already starting to fill the small confines of the cloak with damp, stale air.

Apparently feeling the need to state the obvious, he adds quietly, “No one can see us under here.” No fucking shit. But the way he says it, practically sultry with that low rumbling voice of his, and with his eyes fix on mine in the dim light, his breath brushing over my cheek—Fuck, I need to get the hell out of here.

Hoping he won’t notice just what he’s doing to me, I take a step back. Fucker that he is, he takes one forward to match my motion, literally holding the fabric of the cloak around my back so I can’t get more than a few inches away from him. God, he is like, fuck, right on top of me. So fucking close, I’m pretty sure I can hear his heartbeat because there is no way mine is beating that fucking loud right now.

“Seriously, did that fucking scar finally crack you skull?” I snarl. “Get the fuck off me, Potter.” Please. By Merlin, please, back the fuck off so I can breathe, and think, and stop the world from spinning.

He’s totally hot without his glasses and there’s absolutely nothing to protect me from that hungry gaze under here. Fuck, is that why I’m under here? Does the cocky punk think he has some sort of chance with me? Just because he dresses nice now and fixed his vision doesn’t mean I’m going to fucking swoon over him. I’m not one of his fucking fans and if he thinks for one instant—

“You know what, D?” Harry breaks through my crazed thoughts. “It actually doesn’t matter what comes out of your nasty mouth. I still really like it.” He says it with such conviction like we’re arguing over something he needs to win instead of just speaking fucking gibberish.

“Stop calling me that.” I’m so sick of hearing that damn nickname, like we’re friends or some shit. We’re not. I take another large step back from the green-eyed menace while I try to sort out another confusing thing from him. Is he insulting my mouth? My vocabulary? He has a shit vocabulary, the goddamn imbecilic wanker. What exactly does he like about my supposedly nasty mouth? Why is it nasty? Seriously, what does he fucking mean by nasty? I have perfect breath, my lips are nice and pouty, my teeth straight and white. There is absolutely nothing nasty about my mouth. I have a damn amazing mouth.

I freeze as my heel hits the wall behind me, my heart knocking in my chest. Is he out of his fucking mind? Fuck. Holy fuck, he’s cornering me and he’s smirking about it. He’s fucking lost his mind.

“D, I need you to be quiet for like two minutes.”

That fucking—Oh. Oh god.

He presses closer, his ridiculously thermal form roiling heat as he rests less than a centimeter from my chest. I try to swallow, but can’t. Every movement I make, every breath he takes brushes our chests together. Each touch is a spark of electricity. It takes everything in me not to groan while I press into the wall as hard as possible and try to disappear.

I have to say something or this idiot is definitely going to start thinking I like him. I don’t. I really fucking don’t. “Potter, I don’t have to do a goddamn thing you—” I freeze, his warm finger pressing into my lips firmly. I don’t know when my lips became directly connected to my dick, or the off switch on my usually very sturdy knees, but Potter has pushed a newly discovered magical button. I glare—what the fuck else can I do?—and keep my mouth as still as possible. My glare grows when I realize he’s not even looking at me.

No, he’s looking at the two girls who just walked around the bend in the hall. Lavender Brown and Padma Patil, both giggling like the annoying twats they are. He has me almost pinned to a fucking wall and he’s looking at girls. Now I’m definitely going to kill him. Except as the girls get closer, not only does it sink in we are actually completely unseen under this cloak but Potter’s left foot is about to be tripped over.

He notices it the same time I do, and suddenly there is no centimeters between us—Fuck, no air at all. He surges forward, presses me hard against the wall, crushes me flat all with his fucking strong, tall, very hard body. His face tucks against the side of my head, broad shoulder pressing to mine, his neck brushing my jaw. I’m hyper aware of his hot breath curling around my ear and cheek as I struggle to stay absolutely still and silent.

Fuck… oh fuck… holy fucking, motherfucking, going to die if he doesn’t get the fuck away from me, god, get him off, off, off… Fuck, I’m hard. Definitely hard. I’m getting hard over Harry fucking Potter. I hate him. Trapped me under some fucking cloak and… He smells really fucking good. Really good. Kind of sweaty, and all boy. Masculine and earthy. Sexy. He smells hot and sexy, oh, and he really needs to get the fuck away from me—What the fuck is he doing with his hand right now?

What was once one finger on my lip becomes Potter’s entire hand on my face.

I release a long suffering sigh when he finally pries his palm away, his green eyes alight with apology and mild amusement. The girls are gone, having tittered something about seeing Potter’s face in a crystal ball in passing. He, on the other hand, is not moving at all, just pressed up tight against me.

“Sorry, D. You gotta understand just how fucking annoying fans are, right?”

I rack my brain for the most scathing insult possible for just how fucking annoying he is. But I’m distracted, Potter again opening his mouth.

“I mean, I see how they follow you around everywhere.” He gives me a lazy grin, his eyes looking strangely dark in the dim light under the cloak, his pupils wide with only a thin halo of green. He finally pulls his body off of mine, but now he’s bracing his hands on either side of the wall, trapping me within his furnace hot embrace. “You must get tired of everyone always staring at you.”

The way he says the last part gives me pause. I raise my gaze slowly to meet those devilish green eyes, trying to figure out just what the hell he’s saying. It’s something. Something about me being stared at by fans. I don’t really have fans. People really fucking hate me, mostly because of my father and the fact that I’m an asshole. But, even though I don’t have fans, Potter’s standing here blatantly staring at me. He really messes up my head.

“At least with the cloak, I don’t have to worry about being stared at all the time,” he whispers, cheeks flushing slightly. “But sometimes… sometimes a bloke just comes along that really deserves to be looked at. And then I don’t mind so much.”

My fuck, this kid is confusing. I can feel my brows scrunching. He’s going to give me a permanent wrinkle in the middle of my forehead from all his weird shit. What, exactly, doesn’t he mind so much? Being stared at? Staring at someone?

“Potter, what the fuck—?” I fall silent, two of his fingers now on my lips. For fuck sake.

“Hush, D. Footsteps.” He turns his face away, looking down the hall. His fingertips brush my mouth, as if he isn’t fully aware he’s touching me. But I am beyond aware, so aware I need to focus on something else because I’m hard and he’s found that magic button that wants to make my knees collapse. God.

I’m drawn to his face, the alertness of his expression, the tension in his muscles, the very annoying way his hair manages to wave and curl into the most perfect mess I’ve ever seen even when fabric is flattening it down. I can hear footsteps now, someone running. My eyes stray toward the sound until I catch sight of a lost first year scrambling down the hall. Jeering laughter follows behind the young boy and he flinches and runs faster.

I’m really trying to focus, this poor kid likely minutes away from a beating, but Potter’s fingers keep pressing into the swell of my lips, hot, the scent of sweat and flesh filling my senses. This crazy, maddening urge is growing in me as the seconds tick by until it’s all I can think of. I want to open my mouth, stretch my tongue out, and lick his fingers from root to tip. Stroke them. Wet them. Wrap my tongue around them and pull them deep into my mouth.

I’m losing my fucking mind. Pulling my gaze from those long, tapered digits, I find Potter’s face again. He’s running his tongue over his teeth, a vicious, dangerous glint flashing in his eyes that sends wild shivers through me.

The little boy runs past us and three large, sixth year brutes come into sight. Potter glances at me and removes his fingers from my tingling lips so that he can make a shushing sign. He fishes his wand out of his hidden pocket. I’m transfixed, staring at the pure demonic glee that transforms his features when he nearly silently curses the three bullies into a pile on the ground, their legs resembling wobbling jelly by the time he’s through.

He’s sexy. When Potter does bad, he is really fucking sexy.

I realize his mistake, grabbing the idiot by the waist and tugging him to the side to prevent the nearest brute from floundering into us. He turns to me, his gaze fixing to mine and making me extremely self conscious of the fact that I’m holding his hips in a more than familiar way. Fighting a blush, I take a step and pull him with me, the buffoon on the ground still approaching and Potter completely clueless as he stares at me.

It takes nearly stepping on the bully’s fingers for Potter to finally stop staring at me like a slack jawed idiot. He goes to move me back so he can gain another step, nearly stumbling and tangling with my legs. I gasp, his eyes burning fire into mine as he suddenly puts his very large hands on my hips. Oh god, what is he…? He pulls me close and before I can fear that my concealing charm is not going to do the job, he lifts me up and fucking carries me down the corridor under the cloak.

He lets me down a good dozen feet from where we started, depositing me on the wall like it’s no fucking big deal. The fucking arrogant, audacious piece of fucking shit, scarheaded, stupid fucking ass!

“Potter, you fucking—”

His palm smacks over my mouth, the bastard having the fucking audacity to glare challengingly at me. I’m going to fucking kill him! But again, he’s not even looking at me! He’s looking at the idiots on the floor to make sure they didn’t hear. The rude fucking son of a—

His hand presses firmer against my mouth and he leans in close to whisper in my ear. “You have to be quiet, D. Otherwise it ruins all the fun.”

Fuck him! I’m fucking done with his rude, fucking sexy, maddening bullshit. Any noise we might make can be explained away as ghosts, or magic, or just the fact that I’m always yelling at the bastard and it likely echoes constantly down the halls of the school anyways. He needs to get the fuck away from me and get his fucking hand off my mouth!

I open my mouth wide and press the flat of my tongue to his flesh, lapping a long, wet path over his hand in the hopes of shocking him the fuck off me.

It doesn’t work. He exhales sharply, staring at me with an intense fire I can’t read at all, his fingers curling firmer into the flesh of my face to show he’s not moving. The ass. I growl lowly, warning wordlessly that he’s about to lose those very long fingers. A familiar dark flash in his eyes tells me that my objections have been noted and dismissed. Motherfucking scarhead!

I surge forward, his palm slippery wet against my chin as I get my mouth open wide around the top of his hand and sink my teeth in between his thumb and finger. I clamp deep into his palm, clenching my jaw as hard as I can with all intent to make the bastard scream.

He grits his teeth, hissing as he roughly forces my head back against the wall with his trapped hand. I clamp down harder even though my jaw is at an impossible angle and I’m suddenly aware of how my throat is completely exposed to him. Beneath the roar of anger, I feel a trickle of unease. I might have his hand stuck between my teeth, but with my neck bent back and my breathing reduced to shallow pants of breath from my nose as saliva drips from the corners of my mouth, I feel completely at his mercy.

I’m not a hundred percent certain I dislike it.

For an instant I’m certain he’s going to head butt me, his face stopping inches away. But he only stares, his head cocked, a grin fighting through his pain-wrought grimace. The fucking fucker is grinning at me!

“You want to know what’s really funny about this, D?” He’s rough sounding, the pain making his low voice a dark rasp. He dips forward, his forehead hot as it rests atop mine, fringe silky, his lips brushing the back of his trapped hand. “You’re biting me and no one can see.”

How the fuck is that even remotely funny? I growl as I try to figure out what the hell he means, the metallic tang of blood exploding on my tastebuds as my teeth pierce his skin. Fuck him. If he didn’t want to bleed, he would have attempted to make some fucking sense for a change!

He glances down, staring at his now bleeding hand. He pushes harder against my face, our noses exhaling at the same time in a hot puff of moist air that puts me into hyper awareness once again of just how near he is. His eyes are fucking wild. Nearly black. Long, dark eyelashes so close it’s a wonder they’re not tangled with my own.

“Just think what you could have in your mouth right now,” he whispers, his eyes boring into mine. “And no one would ever know.”

Holy fuck. My mouth goes wet, heat burning every cell of my body, pooling in my stomach in a flood of heady honey. Oh, fuck. I notice for the first time that my lips are raw around his hand, my sensitive flesh chapped, sore, and dripping saliva and blood. And in this moment, I’m pretty sure that’s all he’s thinking about as he stares at my mouth.

What a fucking perv.

I don’t always get what Potter’s saying to me, but when I do, more times than not, he’s saying something fucked up. Shit, and for whatever reason, he feels the need to say these fucked up things to me. Probably all the time. I’m apparently just not up to his level of degenerate pervert to understand it all.

I’m not surprised that after such a messed up comment he suddenly licks the other side of his hand, his red tongue wide as it wets out and moves obscenely over his bruised flesh. I immediately release his hand before that slippery tongue can slurp against my lips like I know the ass has all intentions of doing.

Smirking triumphantly, he quickly pulls his freed hand away and shoves it into his own mouth. While still covered in my saliva. Fucking issues. He glances back at the three brutes on the floor that can’t seem to muster a simple Finite Incantatem. Then he leans a shoulder up against the wall next to me, grinning widely around his bleeding hand. I’m seriously starting to wonder if the punk is actually pleased to be stuck in a hall under a cloak with the one person ballsy enough to bite him bloody.

It’s fucking Potter. It’s probably some fucked up turn on for him.

Glaring my best ‘I know what you’re fucking up to and can’t stand you for it’ glare, I edge some space between us just until the retarded bullies get the hell out of here and I can finally escape from under this damn suffocating cloak. Potter, naturally, won’t let me go, his fingers now curled around my belt to hold me in place. Fuck, I’m so close to losing my shit. I can feel it every time those damn fingers of his brush against my stomach, jolting me through the fabric. He’s driving me fucking crazy.

He dips his head to whisper in my ear. “D, I have a question for you.” I fight the urge to whimper, his voice low, his scent warm and intoxicating like he’s wrapped around me. My mouth is fucking wet, my lips raw like we’ve been kissing or I’ve been sucking him—God, I can’t think like that. Seriously, brain, fucking stop. Fine, dick. Shut the fuck up, dick.

“What cologne do you wear?” I can feel him breathing up my neck. Hot, humid breath on my skin. He lingers on my hair, tickling cool strands across my cheek. “Or is that shampoo?”

God. I fucking hate him and his fucked up shit. I slam my shoulder into his supporting arm and whip my head away. He doesn’t fall. Doesn’t even grunt or budge, the damn mountain. No, he keeps right on breathing fire over my neck like he has a damn right to it. God.

“I think it’s hair product. That must be it,” he murmurs, his face pressing into my shoulder length hair. “You have to put something in your hair, right? To keep it so silky and perfect.”

The fucker is flirting with me. Part of me wants to burst out laughing. Fucking arrogant Harry Potter thinks he can just flirt with me just because he’s hot and we’re both gay and he managed to give Voldemort a stroke that led to his death. Another part just wants to let my knees buckle like they’ve been threatening to do since he pushed me up against the wall.

“So what do you use?”

Fucking Potter, he doesn’t use product—Hell, doesn’t spend more than five seconds in a mirror. And the idea of him styling his perfect mess of hair just pisses me off. I fold my arms over my chest with a huff, determined not to tell. Fuck him and his fucking messy hair.

“Come on, D. Just tell me the name,” he whispers, curling closer, his fingers tugging lightly on my belt. My knees are not working. Not when he’s in my ear, fucking low and sexy and begging shit from me. I hate him.

It’s not like it’s some elite fucking thing. It’s just product. Hair charms are even more effective. But he’s not going to shut the fuck up about it. I tilt my head to the side, glancing to find that, yup, the retards are still flopping on the floor. Turning the rest of the way, I lean in to whisper the answer in his ear. Only, his ear isn’t there anymore, Potter turning his face to mine. Our eyes meet and I see it an instant before he makes a move.

The fucker tries to lick me.

I stress tries, his tongue extending like a cat towards my lips, just missing as I pull away and attempt to punch the fucking prick. But he’s apparently expecting me to beat him. He catches my fist before I can connect, then grabs my other wrist in anticipation—I’m an equal opportunity slugger. Before I realize what he’s doing, he pushes my arms up against the wall, pinning me in place with his terribly strong hands while giving me his patented shit-eating grin.

Oh fuck, and that feels really fucking amazing.

“It was definitely your chapstick,” he half whispers, half laughs, barely flinching when I kick him in the shin. I don’t repeat the move, our bodies crashing together in a way that’s only making the world tilt more.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” I growl breathlessly. I’m unbearably hard. He drives me crazy—and he’s completely unapologetic, not to mention, unaffected.

“You can’t blame me, D. You’re gorgeous. I can’t help but be a prat around you.” Potter defends himself courageously, eyes gleaming with laughter. Only to still, his cheeks flushing when he realizes just what he’s blurted.

I gape, my mind refusing to turn. What? “Did you just…?”

“I guess I did.” Sounding gruff, he looks away. Now he’s glaring at the idiots on the floor, looking for all the world like he’s about to remove their hex just so he can escape the invisibility cloak and get as far away from me as possible. Which is fucking weird. Potter doesn’t get embarrassed. Not since he grew taller than me and started looking just as heroic as I used to fucking tease him for being. And then he became it—Killing Voldemort wasn’t easy, not that I’d ever fucking give him props for it. His fanclub can stroke his damn ego.

I mean, sure, I’m gorgeous. Every mirror tells me so, and not just the enchanted ones. Hello, he has fucking eyes. How can he not notice I’m gorgeous? It’s still not an excuse for him to be a prat.

“Potter, you’re fucked in the head,” I finally huff, the only actual explanation for anything at the moment.

He turns back, beaming at me like I’ve just given him the greatest compliment ever. Have I? Fuck. I run the last sentence through my head, feeling that damn furrow between my brows again. No… Fucked in the head. That’s what Potter is. There really is no way to misinterpret that. Except he’s is still beaming, now staring at my lips for some reason. Shit, he confuses the fuck out of me.

“What chapstick do you wear?” He asks suddenly, his once lax hands tightening again to hold my arms firmer against the wall. God, that feels good.

I swallow a lump in my throat, taking a deep breath. “I don’t.”

He tilts his head, trouble written all over his face. “I’m pretty sure you do. Your lips are always very shiny looking. And red. And I know you don’t wear lipstick because you have way too much—”

“Too much what?” I grit out, daring the bastard to finish that sentence and not get his ass kicked.

He pauses, that same devious look crossing his face. “Class?” He queries. “Pride?” He pauses before finishing with an evil grin. “Balls?”

God, I fucking hate, hate, hate him.

My eyebrow twitching—I’m going to end up with a permanent tic—I glare at the fuckwits that have no right being in a wizarding school when they can’t get out of a damn second year curse. “Potter, when those idiots are gone, I’m going to beat the fucking—”

“So what kind of chapstick do you wear?” He blunders on, completely ignoring my murderous tone.

“I do not wear—”

“I’ve seen you put it on, D. You totally wear chapstick.”

I scowl, trying to figure out when he’s ever seen me use my lip balm. “It’s colorless,” I say haughtily, daring him to say otherwise.

“Oh. Does it have a taste?” His gaze is again on my mouth. God, it is fucking hot under this fucking cloak and I really want this conversation to end.

“It’s a lip balm, not food,” I snap. “It… it has a scent.” His eyes light up from the answer. What the hell is the idiot up to?

“Can I see it?” He’s nearly vibrating with anticipation. I glare at him suspiciously but that just makes him grin and he manages to look absolutely demented. “Please? Pretty please?”

“Why?” I grit out, hating the butterflies fluttering in my stomach from seeing that deranged smile.

He nudges closer, ducking his head low, his soft hair tickling my cheek and making me dizzy. “I just want to see. Come on, D. Please?”

God, I love it when he begs. I really need to get the fuck out of here.

“Stop calling me that. If you haven’t noticed, you have my arms pinned. You’re going to have to let me go if you want to see my lip balm.” I can’t believe I just had to say that. Potter has fucking issues.

He hums in thought, the sound tingling over my skin hotly. Eventually he shakes his head. “You’re going to hit me.”

Oh, I’m going to fucking beat him bloody. “No shit.” I smile viciously. “But hey, at least you’ll see my super brilliant lip balm, right?”

“Is it super brilliant?”

“You’re not going to find out if you don’t let my hands go.”

“I don’t want to let you go.” His hands tighten on my wrists. I have to hold my breath to keep from moaning, my entire body lighting with fire from those fucking stupid words and his goddamn strong, strong hands.

“I’m going to punch you eventually.” I’m way too breathless. “Might as well get it over with.”

Blinking, he beams another brilliant smile at me, like I just gave him a present. “Right. Cus I’m afraid of you punching me,” he says, actually sounding like he doesn’t give a fuck if I beat him bloody. It’s another fucking spot of gibberish but I can’t linger on trying to interpret it because he pulls my arms forward, trapping them against his chest.

Fuck, he is so fucking hot to touch. Yeah, to look at too, but the heat his body gives off could warm me in the fucking dungeons forever. I barely notice when he wraps one of his hands around both of my wrists. But I do notice when my arms are suddenly pushed above my head, the cloak draping over my elbows, my body stretching tall and back, my cock so hard I’m certain I’m going to come. Fuck.

“Well, since I’m so concerned with that, how about you tell me where you’re chapstick is and I’ll get it?”

Through the haze in my head, I manage to sort out that the bastard just assumes I’m going to hand over my favorite lip balm. “Potter, there is no way in fuck I’m—”

“If you don’t want to tell me, I can always go looking for it on my own.”

I swallow hard, his free hand suddenly tugging at the breast pocket of my school shirt so he can peek inside. Oh. My. God. Is he going to…? Seriously, is he actually…? Through my pockets?

He glances up and I freeze from the intensity of those glowing eyes. “Am I getting warm?”

Warm? Potter is fucking hot. Burning my blood hot.

I look away because I just can’t meet that fucking stare anymore. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Mmm… Pretty sure I answered that already. Shall I try your left pocket first?”

I can’t remember him answering anything along the lines of why he’s so fucked up. Well, except for his lame defense of me being gorgeous and that just doesn’t make a damn lick of sense.

“Potter…” My breath hitches. He doesn’t wait for my answer. No, his hand moves down my body, long fingers teasing into my front left trouser pocket. My muscles tense on their own accord, my lungs tights, blood roaring in my ears. I don’t remember my pants being too tight or the fabric too thin, but it’s very much reality when his hot fingers press into my pocket. Each touch is madness, rubbing against my hip and thigh, burning my skin beneath.

My god, what the hell is he trying to do to me?

“Not that one.” He wiggles his fingers in my pocket, my body threatening to jerk in response. I hold my breath, stare blankly at the floor, and praise every deity I can think of that I have a concealing charm on. He apparently has found another magic button. Every brush of his fucking fingers goes straight to my dick, caressing along my length, teasing against my tip. I can’t move. I can’t think. I am nothing more than the heat of his fingers in my pocket, the strength of his hand clamping my cold wrists tightly over my head, and yeah, the press of his lips, again brushing ever so lightly against my ear.

“Want to give me a hint?” He taunts, breath scalding my neck.

My god, no.

He pulls his hand free from my pocket and follows my belt to the right. I realize just how on top of me he actually is when he has to move his hips back to make room to get his hand between us. He grunts softly, my eyes closing from the sound, my entire body tingling from head to toe as he twists his hand at an uncomfortable angle just so he can push his fingers deep into my pocket. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. His knuckles brush the lightest fucking pressure on my dick. I bite my lip hard, fighting the noise that wants to escape.

“You carry nail clippers… paperclip… What’s this?” He pulls a smooth, onyx black stone from my pocket. Slightly larger than a galleon, flat, it has a polished surface that is sometimes more familiar to me than my own hand. He holds it up to my face, his gaze moving past the stone to stare into my eyes.

“Worry stone.” I don’t recognize my voice. It’s harsh. Breathy. A little lost.

Holding the stone between thumb and forefinger, he stares at it so intently, I start to wonder if he’s trying to memorize it for later. “Had it long?” His eyes again flick back to mine, eyebrows raised inquiringly.

“Since second year.” It was a gift from my mother over Christmas break. A subtle, bittersweet hope to help me contain my building fear as my father grew more and more unhinged.

“Do you carry it with you always?”

I shrug as best I can with my arms trapped over my head. I never show anyone the rock. It’s full of every fear I have and I just don’t share things like that. “Habit.”

His eyes are far away, something ticking in their depths again. He slips the stone back in my pocket, and I have to stop from gasping because it’s so warm from touching his skin. “So… every time you have your hand in this pocket, you’re holding the stone?” He asks, his hand now burning on my left hip.

I hesitate, something about the question too intimate. Or maybe it’s just his eyes burning into me, looking for something I can’t figure out. “It’s a habit.”

“What’s your chapstick smell like?” He abruptly changes the topic while I blink in confusion.

“Uh, orange and ginger.” Growing more aware of my surroundings again now that he’s done groping me, I turn my gaze, attempting to see if the idiots have finally righted themselves. Potter’s hand moves and all my focus snaps back to him, my eyes wide as his fingers travel along my belt to my left back pocket. Back pockets—I have fucking back pockets!

He stares at me unblinking and it takes everything I have to not shudder when I feel his fingers press tentatively below my belt, lining with the opening beneath.

He leans closer and my breath catches. He hears it, his eyes flickering an instant to my mouth. But he doesn’t stop, firmly pushing his fingers down, sliding between the seams of fabric. The material of my pants gives way to the thin inner lining of my pocket. That lining and my briefs alone stand between Potter’s burning hot fingers and the sensitive flesh of my ass. Not nearly enough. Again his fingers wiggle when he finds nothing and I inhale sharply, my body tight in want.

“I have a sinking suspicion that you might not be carrying your chapstick, D.” A small frown graces his lips. “Only have one more pocket to go. My odds aren’t looking good.”

I have my own suspicion that if I admit that my lip balm—I don’t care how many times he calls it anything else, it’s bloody lip balm—is actually in my cloak in my room, he might stop this ridiculous game and let me go. And as much as I know that’s exactly what I should do, I keep my mouth stubbornly shut and glare instead.

“I really want to see your chapstick,” he murmurs and I immediately realize I really should have fucking said something because now he is right in front of me, hard chest pressing against mine, his head dipping to the chill side of my neck as he stretches around my back to reach the final possible location of my lip balm. Oh fuck. Oh my fuck. He pulls me closer. Confidently. Firmly. I gasp, fighting a moan when his hand pushes boldly into my back pocket. He might as well be grabbing my ass right now. I am so fucking hard it hurts.

“Damn.” He huffs, stilling the moment he realizes my final pocket is empty.

I can’t breathe. His body is really hard, really hot, and he smells amazing. No product, no cologne, the boy just smells like sex with a hint of chocolate. That he’s still holding my arms up while he practically grinds against me is driving me fucking crazy. And the invisibility cloak—The fucking cloak is just making everything worse, surrounding me in his heat, brushing soft on my flesh, cutting us off from the rest of the world so I don’t feel like this is an insanely bad idea.


“What, D?” He turns from his disappointed slump and glances at me. Fuck, I really like it when he calls me that. It’s sexy. Cute and sexy.

“It’s not there.”

He frowns, looking dejected. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Hysteria clutches at my throat and I bite back the urge to do something loud, and hot, and very much wipe that sulky glare off his handsome face. “So get your fucking hand out of my pocket, scarhead,” I manage to snap instead, feeling extremely proud of my remaining self control.

“Oh.” His eyes narrow on me. He suddenly flashes his more wicked of grins, not even attempting to remove his hand, or arm, or very hard body. “Hey, D, why exactly do you have this in your pocket?”

I raise a brow, trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about. “I don’t have anything—Oh.” Heat rushes to my face as I blink and quickly look away. Fuck.

“You have a hot date?” His fingers slide around the shape of the thin foil square, tickling my flesh as well as outlining the condom in my back pocket.

“No, just prepared,” I find myself saying, wishing with every bone in my body I could just stop answering Potter’s incessant, stupid questions.

“Yeah? Anyone in particular you’re prepared for?” His voice drops in tone, pulling my gaze to watch him suggestively wag his eyebrows at me. I’m strongly reminded of when he first greeted me in the hall before assaulting me with his cloak, finding the expression eerily similar. I was going to hex him then just for that fucking look and I probably still should now.

“No, Potter. Now if you would kindly leave me the fuck alone—”

“D, I’ve been wondering something,” he interrupts me once again, his head dipping as he whispers into my ear.

I’m getting pissed again. I’m embarrassed, painfully hard, and ready for this weird game to be done. “What, you fucking pain in the ass? I wear Eternity for men, my shampoo is some imported shit I can’t pronounce the name of that my mother buys in bulk, and my lip balm smells amazing—Not overly fruity like most stuff out there. I carry a worry stone because I still fucking worry about my father breaking out of jail—Oh, and let’s not forget that I’m a loser who has a year old condom in my pocket. What else would you like me to add to this fucked up conversation?”

Head cocked to the side, he just pins me with another deep, unreadable look I am so sick of trying to figure out as I glare back at him. I hate that I’m short of breath, feeling completely mad, and so ready to punch the annoying punk across the goddamn hall.

“I was wondering…” He draws it out, a familiar, dangerous smirk forming on his lips that sends my stomach plummeting to the floor, my mind racing over all the fucking shit I should not have just said. Whatever is coming next will not be merciful.

“Why are you letting me hold you up against the wall?”

I blink rapidly, not having anticipated this particular question. “Why?”

“Why do you let me say fucked up things to you?” His fingers curl into my pocket, his short nails raking over the thin fabric and my flesh below. I gasp, heat thrumming through me so strong, I fear I’m going to burst into flames. “Why are you letting me feel you up without a single objection?”

Is that… Is that what we’re doing right now?

Eyes searing over my face, he ducks his head again, his hot lips boldly pressing to my ear. I melt, my body losing all its tension. “Why aren’t you yelling for me to let you the fuck go, D?”

A hot shudder moves down my spine and I know if I open my mouth to defend myself I’m just going to moan and it’s going to be really fucking loud. So I don’t answer. I stare blindly at the middle of Potter’s t-shirt so I don’t have to see his glaring green eyes.

He pulls away abruptly—hands, mouth, body—my arms left to fall slowly to my sides against the wall. I don’t look up, not even when he wraps fingers around my chin, his lips teasing against my ear for the last time.

“Think about it, D.” He inhales deeply, his cheek pressing roaring heat to my flushed one. “And bring that chapstick next time.”

The world blinks back into blinding focus when he removes the cloak with a crackle of fabric, the air startlingly cool on my skin as I listen to him walk away. There is no way my legs are moving so I remain where I am, trying to figure out just how long ago the idiot sixth years had hobbled off and how I had managed to miss it.

There’s nothing to think about.

He’s an arrogant, attractive, well loved celebrity who helped kill Voldemort and put my fucked up father in jail. He can fuck with me as much as he likes. I know that’s all it is. He likes to piss me off.

That’s all he likes about me and that’s not going to change.

Magical Reflection 15


Harry felt it, tendrils of warmth and light curling up his legs. He was half awake, staring blankly at the floor of the Shrieking Shack. He had somehow managed to end up in the broken kitchen downstairs, although how he had gotten there was a mystery to him.

His mouth tasted like a gutter and his joints were stiff and pained. Rolling on his back, he found the ceiling, a huge hole gaping above him revealing the bedroom above where he had been in. Vaguely he remembered waking up, angry, lashing out and exploding everything around him. Apparently the floor hadn’t been able to handle it.

“Drake?” Harry sat up stiffly, grabbing his pounding head. God, he felt like shit. Fucking Terrence. This was definitely all his fault. And Dren’s. If Dren hadn’t been in that damn clearing, Malfoy never would have known a fucking thing about him wanting the blond… Well, except that apparently the boy could smell him… Fuck.

Groaning, Harry got to his feet, the world shifting around him. “Shit… what the fuck do you want?” He grumbled, the boy’s power licking at the edge of his consciousness. What day was it? Didn’t Malfoy know he was hung over and didn’t want to fucking talk to him, like ever? Shit, what a pain. Harry stumbled to the door, stooping through the underground entrance to the Shrieking Shack. He blinked his way outside, nearly getting bowled over by the willow before he remembered to spell it still.

Draco was out on the grounds, Harry freezing mid step once seeing him. The halfling had a strange mix of sorrow and hope on his face Harry was having difficulty reading. “Err… hey,” he greeted, eyes skimming over the three adults standing behind Draco and watching him like he was about to start killing people. They were far less interesting than the silver haired boy and he focused in on Draco’s eyes that were no longer glowing. “You, um, wanted something, Malfoy?”

Draco made as if to step forward but a hand clasped down on his shoulder, keeping him still and silent. Harry narrowed in on it, glaring at the pale man standing behind the boy.

“Who’s the veela?” Harry asked, his guard immediately up. He still felt like shit and seeing a full grown veela was not helping anything. “You better not be here to punish Malfoy. It was my fault what happened to Terrence, not his. It it wasn’t for Malfoy, I would have killed the asshole.”

“My name is Elder Holland,” the man said, dismissing Harry’s angry rant. “I’m here to determine just what exactly you are, Mr. Potter, and how to help you.”

Scoffing, Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, walking up to the group. “Listen, man, I don’t actually care who you are. Just get your fucking hands off of Malfoy and get lost. I have no interest in your damn veela crap. Actually, I’m pretty sure I was straight with Terrence about this. If you’re here looking to fucking own me—or so help me, you try to touch me—I’m going to fucking lose it.” He grabbed Draco’s arm, the taller boy’s eyes widening in surprise when Harry snagged him away from the Elder in a show of possessiveness.

“What did you want, Malfoy?” Harry asked, barely glancing at Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey, his head ducked down to whisper to the blond. “You don’t do that pull thing unless you’re losing it or looking for me, and you don’t look like you’re losing it… Are you?” Harry tilted his head, studying Draco’s face a long moment.

Swallowing hard, Draco gave a nonchalant shrug that looked stiff more than anything. “They want to talk to you. Asked me to get you.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, looking away for a moment. He turned back, sighing in exasperation. “Don’t… don’t waste my time like that, Malfoy. If you want me, call me. Don’t do it for someone else. Fuck.” He shook his head, making as if to leave but Draco curled fingers around his wrist, holding him still.

“I didn’t think you’d actually answer,” Draco said quietly, pinning Harry with an unreadable expression. “You always walk away.”

“Yeah, well, things are different now.” Draco wasn’t glowing but even just having him close, warmth radiating from his skin, familiar masculine scent and sexy, elegant feathers was driving Harry to distraction. The fingers on his wrist felt like electricity and before he had realized it, he turned in the grip so that he captured Draco’s arm while the boy held his. “I’m… well, shit. I’m trying. I mean, I just went on a brooding bender and all but I’m trying to piece it together like it actually happened and not how I spent the fucking year thinking it happened. So, eventually, I’m probably going to stop being so pissed off at you because you didn’t actually do all those things I thought you fucking did. You know?”

Draco nodded silently, his expression still revealing nothing. It was actually starting to piss him off, the boy being cold to him again. Except his hand. His hand was anything but indifferent, Draco’s claws scratching ever so lightly against his arm, sending shivers of lust through Harry’s entire body. Shit, he must be really hard up if a few little scratches were doing it for him. And Draco had to know, his nose able to pick up his arousal. So even if the blond was totally a mask to read, he kept lightly tracing over his arm, clearly intent to drive him crazy. And Harry really wasn’t complaining about it.

Harry didn’t let go of Draco’s hand even when he turned and finally addressed his headmaster. “So, why am I here?” He asked, staring Dumbledore in the eye.

“A few reasons, actually,” Dumbledore said, hardly nonplussed that Harry had skipped school and still managed to seem put out for being called back. “But I’d say the most pertinent would be discovering if you’re a Gilt veela or not, so our guest can finally be on his way.”

Eyebrows raised, Harry glanced over to Draco. “Err, I don’t really think I look much like a veela, Sir. And I don’t just mean feathers here.”

Dumbledore gave a small smile. “I can see how you might think that. But there are different species of veela and the fact that you destroyed Voldemort by weaving a spell suggests you may be a very specific breed.”

Harry absorbed this information with a furrow to his brow. “Huh… part veela. This might end up with me hating myself even more than before. Alright, what do I have to do for you to figure it out? Nasty potion? Blood draw?”

“Nothing so barbaric,” Elder Holland broke in, stepping forward. “I will pull you and you—”

“No,” Harry said hoarsely, taking a large step back, hand tightening around Draco’s wrist. “No way in fuck I’m letting anyone pull me.” A full-blooded, fully grown veela was more a threat than the five punk kids that had cornered him in the classroom. Veela magic only grew with age, as did their control. And Harry could feel it in this man. The power. The confidence of control. The ease he would use to try and break him just because he fucking could.

“It’s just for the test, Harry,” Dumbledore said soothingly. “We’re all right here. No one will… No harm will come to you.”

Harry just shook his head, his panic growing to realize that Dumbledore wouldn’t be supporting him on this. “No. I don’t want—I can’t—I just can’t. And if he tries something, I can’t promise I won’t fucking lose it. Just get him away and, and shit, I’m serious!” He shouted, taking another step back when the man began to ripple feathers and glow.

Suddenly Draco was in his line of sight, the boy wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders. And damn, but Harry couldn’t stop himself from burying his face into the blond’s chest while he gasped for air as unfamiliar veela energy rose around him. Too strong. The man was way too strong, threatening to overwhelm him, steal his will away.

“I have you,” Draco muttered, glaring over Harry’s head at the other veela. “You need to stop this!” But Harry didn’t notice, too busy pulling his power up, weaving a barrier to stop the call currently trying to push him down to the ground.

“Get him off me, Malfoy,” Harry hissed, feeling something underneath the call trying to probe him, read him, change him in some way he had never agreed to. “I’m so sick… of you fuckers… taking from me!”

Harry wasn’t sure what happened next, his panic and anger cracking something inside him. His power rose up, a curtain of protection, and then the Elder was on the ground, gasping for air. All Harry knew was that the pressure had stopped and he felt dizzy and full of fear, the world tilting the wrong way.

“You never should have gone against his wishes like that,” Draco snarled from far away. “You could have waited to let him calm—Could have bothered to explain to him. Asked for his permission! What did you honestly expect? You might as well have attacked him.”

“Madame Pomfrey, can you…?”

“I’m doing the best I can, Albus, but he’s losing energy quickly. I think… You need to stop Harry.”

Suddenly the darkness faded and Harry was eye to eye with Dumbledore. He wasn’t sure when he had ended up on the grass but the man’s long nose was inches from his. “Harry, can you hear me?”

Harry nodded weakly, the world spinning from the motion.

“You’re still connected with the Elder. You need to let him go. You have him wrapped in your power. Do you understand me, Harry? You need to release him or he’s going to die.”

Harry didn’t understand. He hadn’t wrapped anyone in anything. At least, he didn’t remember doing such a thing. Closing his eyes, he sifted internally, seeking out the threads of golden power that were reaching outside of him. He followed the strands, finding the Elder veela like a fly within a web, struggling weakly, heart and lungs wrapped so tight they could barely move. For one terrible, angry moment, he felt the hot pulse of what it would be like to just pull a little tighter, to crush the man that had so easily filled him with unbearable fear.

Harry breathed and he let go. His anger. The veela. The unfairness of the world for demanding so much of him unapologetically. He unraveled his energy and twined it back within, then he shook on the ground, hands buried in his hair.

“Oh, thank god,” Madame Pomfrey murmured, throwing status spells up while gently slapping the Elder’s face. Harry watched, feeling numb and empty inside as the man came to, Dumbledore and Draco also by the veela’s side.

He had fucked up. Again. Had nearly killed someone just because he had been scared. God, he couldn’t do anything right. Couldn’t fucking get anything straight in his damn head.

Harry struggled to his feet, determined to get the hell as far away from everyone that he could. But Draco was at his side in an instant, pulling him close, trapping his arms when he tried to break away. “Let me go!”

“You were defending yourself,” Draco said evenly, holding Harry’s fists in place. “You thought he was going to hurt you and you defended yourself.”

Fuck, was he a fucking mind reader now? “Get off me, Malfoy. I don’t need your goddamn pity or understanding—or whatever the fuck—Oh.” He fell silent, Draco slamming him into his chest with a growl. Damn he was hot.

“You are fucking amazing,” Draco rasped, breathing deep against his neck and ear. “Do you even understand how powerful an Elder veela is? Less than a minute and you had him completely subdued and defenseless. My god, Harry—You’re magnificent.” Hands tangling in his dark hair, Draco pulled him up, hot mouth descending and claiming his possessively.

Ignoring the fact that he was in four day old clothes, likely tasted like death and reeked of stale booze, Draco wrapped Harry into his arms. Moaning, Harry hooked an arm around the blond’s neck, tearing at the boy’s shirt, drinking down every noise Draco let loose.

“God, you’re beautiful. Fucking… brilliant.” Biting at Harry’s lip harshly, Draco nipped down the boy’s jaw and throat, pulling loud gasps. “The things you do to me…”

“That, unfortunately, is the reason Elder Holland has traveled here.” Before Harry could fully discern Dumbledore’s words, he found himself again on the ground, the strange dizziness of earlier sweeping through him. This time Draco was with him, the boy lurching sideways as he struggled to keep his balance.

“Elder, I can assume you have gotten the information you were seeking?” Dumbledore asked the still slightly stunned man.

“Yes.” Smoothing his long hair down, the veela stood tall again, eyes sweeping to where Harry was fighting gravity on the ground. “He is a Gilt and given his overly emotional reactions, soon to transform. He will need training. Immediately.” He met Dumbledore’s eye, his expression growing grim. “I would isolate him from all veela interaction. His ability to corrupt his own will only add to his confusion when he reaches his next stage.”

Harry finally found his balance, glaring at the two of them. “Stop talking about me like I’m not even here. And shit—Seriously, that was really fucking rude what you just did there.”

“You’re not yourself,” Madame Pomfrey said tightly while casting status spells over Harry. “You’re erratic, unstable, emotionally explosive—”

Harry scowled, pulling away. “I’m a teenager. Not everything is life and death. If I want to kiss Malfoy, I don’t need you trying to ‘save’ me from it. Sure as hell didn’t ask you to sic a fully grown veela on me after having to fight Terrence off days ago. Are you trying to fuck me up even more? Where the hell is Sirius? You’re not doing another goddamn thing to me without my guardian present. You never would have done anything like this to any other student without their parents present—None of this is okay!” He was yelling by the time he was done, breathing heavily, anger crackling around him in electric sparks.

Draco found his feet as well and with a warning glare at the adults present, wrapped an arm around Harry’s angry form and pulled him close. “They think you’re going to go nuts and start killing for the fun of it. They want to bond you to an older veela to keep you stable. That’s what Terrence was trying to do. They want someone strong enough to overpower you to keep you in line.”

“Well fuck that, I don’t want to be controlled,” Harry hissed, directing it towards the elder veela even while pressing into Draco’s touch. “And if any of them try it, I make no apologies for my actions.” There was a fire in Harry’s eyes, a stubbornness that had not worn no matter how exhausted he was. No, it had only seemed to grow. But that was Harry. Pure will.

As if to prove just how beyond everyone’s reach he was, the brunette pulled from Draco’s hold and began walking away towards the castle.

Draco, glaring at the Elder that had started this mess, whirled, following after the boy and falling in step beside him.

“Mr. Malfoy, please don’t do anything rash,” Elder Hollands called after, his voice full of command. “Reestablishing the bond at such a time could harm you permanently.”

Draco kept walking, his shoulder’s stiff, a low growl rumbling through the tall boy.

Harry didn’t say anything, just glancing his way a moment. He wasn’t yelling at him to get lost—something Draco knew the brunette was more than willing to do when he wanted him gone—so he took it as a good sign and committed himself to repairing any trust he might have fucked up by calling Harry to the meeting with Elder Hollands.

He never should have let anyone interfere. Things were fucked up enough between the two of them without adding a nosy veela with ulterior motives into the mix. It didn’t remove the unease he felt though. Harry was messed up, unstable and dangerous. He didn’t want to hurt the boy more, even if every cell in his body was screaming to mate him again, make him his. It wasn’t safe.

Glancing his way again, Harry’s fingers brushed against his hand, the brunette lingering for a moment. Draco inhaled sharply, nearly losing a step from the simple contact. “You still want to talk?” Harry asked quietly.

What Draco really wanted to do was dig a hole so deep he’d never have to face this fucking topic ever again. “Yeah. It’s important,” he finally said, spreading his fingers wide until he found Harry’s hand inches from his own and touched again.

“Alright. I need a shower first.”

Draco paused once they were inside the castle, Harry stopping to look at him. “I’ll meet you at—”

Harry rolled his eyes, grabbing the blond’s hand and walking again, Draco stumbling forward, eyes wide in surprise. Keeping his mouth shut, he let Harry lead him to the closest men’s room with showers, his stomach clenched tight with nerves.

A Wayward Dragon In Little Whinging 16


So I’m worried I’ve completely ruined the movies for Malfoy. He’s been quiet ever since I set the one rule down—I don’t think he even understands how many rules I’ve been placing on myself while I just asked this one thing of him.

No more touching him if he gets carsick. No staring at his ass, or any other part of him. No fantasizing about him doing anything to me—very much the hardest one cus he’s been masturbation fodder for years. But I’m sticking to it because he’s fucking naïve, and hot, sleeps in my bed in his underwear, and if I touch him while he’s still crying over his parents, I’m no better than Voldemort.

He doesn’t touch my sleeve on the trolley. He actually stands a few feet away from me, staring out the windows. Hasn’t said much of anything to me since, and I’m wondering if he’s more fucked up about this than I first thought. But I’m a guy so I’m going to ignore it until he gets his shit together again.

Seriously, he’s running from a psycho looking to rape him dead. Does he really want to play house with me? Is that really the solution to his fucking problems? No. He needs a fucking shrink. He needs to hear that his parents aren’t dead—Or even that they are so he can mourn properly and deal with his shit. He needs to feel like he’s not going to be kidnapped and killed every waking moment of the day. That’s why he’s freaking out about me being off alone—because he’s certain that’s his fate. Alone and dead.

It’s Sunday so the theater is bursting. We haven’t hit the late crowd yet, still a bunch of screaming kids running around hopped up on sugar while their parents seek shelter in the air-conditioning. I ask him what he wants to see and he has no opinion. Doesn’t care. Fuck. I try to feel him out on what he might like but he’s completely shutting me out. Fine. Whatever. I pick the one with marital arts, fast cars, and muscular men, and hope he gets over it sooner rather than later.

While I’m in line, he’s looking at the arcade games. I get some quarters from the cashier, just in case he feels like playing. By the time I’m done, he’s gone. I find him eventually, the crowd of people making things difficult. Being chatted up by some guy. Which would be fine—everyone wants to chat him up—but Malfoy’s actually smiling back, pushing his sunglasses up for the full effect of his dazzling eyes. I’ve been seeing that particular smile a lot the last three days directed solely at me. Seeing it turned towards this random punk is decidedly upsetting on more than one level.

I know what he’s doing. He’s pissed I turned him down so he’s trying to make me jealous. It’s childish, petty, and right up his alley. The only problem is, it’s really fucking working.

I take a few deep breaths before I walk over to him. No way in fuck he’s going to see he’s getting to me. It’ll only make it worse. I smile at the fucking loser that thinks he stands an actual chance with Draco Malfoy, and hand the blond his ticket. “Starts in fifteen. I’ll be at the games if you’re looking for me.” And then I walk away without looking back while he glares because there’s no way in fuck he’s going to win this. A month of this shit if he wins today. Not fucking happening.

I’ve apparently underestimated just how fucking angry he is. The next time I send a stealthy look his way, he’s gone again along with his new friend. Fuck. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him? Is everything a fucking game? He’s not getting food, he’s not playing games, not in the photo booth, not out on the stairs. Which leaves me with this sinking, fucking sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and I head to the bathroom nearest to where he was standing last.

Fuck my motherfucking life.

The place is almost empty. Almost. Two pairs of shoes, the stall door just about to close. I’m going to fucking kill him. But first, the goddamn loser.

He’s got a whole head on me and some muscle but it’s ornamental at best. I drag him out of the stall by his shirt collar and throw him against the sinks. He gapes at me. Like he couldn’t figure out that Malfoy was trouble the second he let someone as mundane as him speak two words all while glaring at me the whole time? There’s no fixing stupid.

“You can fuck off or I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”

“Potter, you’re—”

“Not a fucking word.” I don’t take my eyes off of the fucktard. The guy’s sizing me up, trying to figure out if I can back up my threat. I can. I’m more than happy to get bloody and bruised to do it. I’m furious and I dying to feel some pain. He must see it in my face because he raises his hands in surrender and walks out quiet as can be.

“Potter, why the fuck did you have to—”

I turn on him, growling. “What the fuck were you thinking? A fucking bathroom? Do you know what people do in these places? You don’t know a fucking thing about that guy and you were going to let him take you to a movie theater bathroom!”

He winces but his jaw’s pointed and he’s trying to stare me down. “It’s no different than what you did in the arcade.”

“Oh, you really fucking think so?” I step forward and he takes one back warily. “You think the guy I’ve been seeing for three weeks is the same as the absolute stranger that thought he could get in your pants after five fucking seconds of talking to you?”

“He wasn’t going to—”

“What? You think he was going to hold your fucking hand and give you your first kiss in here?” The motherfucking idiot.

“Fuck you, Potter! You’re not my fucking mother.” He tries to shove me, but I step into his push and he falls back against the stalls.

I slam my hands down on either side of him, glaring him in the eye. “No, I’m not. But I’ve been trying to fucking think about your mother every goddamn time I deal with you, Malfoy. You are fucked up right now. If you want to ruin your life, don’t do it in front of me. I will stop you at every goddamn turn.”

His face goes red and he’s beyond angry. Mentioning his mother was not the way to go. “Fucking son of a—What the fuck do you care!”

“I don’t. But you’re in my face, under my roof, and I’m not going to let shit happen to you. You don’t think a muggle won’t fuck you up? You don’t think they won’t shoot you up with something or hurt you bad enough to make you do anything they want? You think magic is the only fucking way to get something from someone?”

“Just back the fuck off!” He tries to shove me again, but I grab his arms. “Damn it—I don’t need your fucking Saint Potter bullshit! You’re so much worse than me. So what if I wanted to—”

“What? What the fuck did you really think you were doing in here?” He flinches from my venomous tone. “You were going to let an absolute fucking stranger kiss you. You waited till you had a fight with me to decide you just had to go get your first goddamn kiss with the first loser that showed an interest. You’re fucked up.”

“Not the first—Fucking ass! You could have! You were definitely the only fucking loser I was looking at! I’ve been looking at you for fucking years! But you didn’t want to so why the fuck should I wait? I’m probably going to be dead before the summer is through. God, you’re an arrogant ass—Let me the fuck go!”

I don’t let him go. I slam him back again, watching him growl in frustration. I shouldn’t do this. I’m pissed and he’s pissed, and I really shouldn’t do a goddamn thing but walk away. I release his arms and grab him by the face, pulling him down and kissing him hard. He gasps, tries to shove me again, except his hands cling to my collar, pulling me closer.

Damn it… Damn it to hell, he tastes amazing. Really fucking amazing. I let my fingers tangle into his hair, pulling sharply until he opens to my tongue with a groan. I push him back harder, grinding my body against his, wrapping an arm around his back. His hands are suddenly tearing at my shoulders and before I realize what’s happening, the world spins and I’m crashing through the stall door and he’s throwing me against the wall. Well, fuck.


“Shut up.” He grabs me by the collar again, crushing my lips with his. He’s all hard muscle and angry mouth, and when he pushes flush against me I grab him by the belt and pull him closer, grinding our erections together. He groans into my mouth, grabbing my hip and wrenching me harder against him. God… God, he’s fucking tight.

I bite his lower lip and he hisses and grabs me hard by the neck, holding me still so he can do the same to me. It’s hot, wet, and sends shudders through me every time his teeth scrape my lip. He’s too rough, too angry, but it’s so perfect and I can’t seem to stop moaning.

He presses his leg between my thighs and grabs my ass hard, and the world goes dark for a second. Hell. Holy hell. I tear at his shirt, running my hands up his back the moment I get underneath and reach his skin. He’s hot, flushed with sweat, and when I grip hard enough, he growls and slams me back. Oh fuck. God, yes.

“Oh, harder, just… Yeah, like that.” I cling to him as he kisses down my neck, his teeth sinking in, sucking mean, desperate welts into my skin. It’s maddening, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to stand much longer, my knees trembling under his assault. “Malfoy… God, just… Oh hell…” I trail off with a loud groan, his hand sliding down my ass, squeezing tight, pulling me harder against his strong form.

“That’s it… God you’re fucking sexy—Hell, don’t fall.”

I grin dazedly as he wraps both his hands under my ass and pulls me tight against him. He’s fucking sexy. Everything about him. I kiss him again, slower this time, my lips wet and swollen and aching with every touch of his. When I run my tongue against his lips, he meets it, then plunges into my open mouth, determined to taste and explore every inch of me as we gasp for air. I’m unbearably hard, only getting more so with every rock of his body as he grinds his bulge against my hip. Before I can let my brain think and ruin this perfect fucking moment, I grab for his belt again, working on the buckle as fast as I can.

“Fuck… oh fuck.” He buries his face into my hair, groaning as I wrap my fingers around his cock and stroke. He’s big, feels silky hot, and I wish I was tasting him right now. But I shouldn’t even be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking him off in some dirty bathroom when a dozen men could just walk in the second a movie gets out. But I just want to feel him cum. That’s it. Then I’ll be good. Then I’ll leave him alone. Just so long as I get this one, really fucking perfect moment.

“God, don’t stop… So damn good… Hell.” He kisses my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair and pulling hard. I moan, trying to focus on my hand but so fucking lost in his mouth. He keeps thrusting his hips, keeps fucking my palm while rubbing his hot body against my dick.

“You close?” I ask, feeling so dizzy, so lost as he raises his head and meets my eyes. He cups my face, pressing his forehead to mine while he rubs his thumb over my lip.

“You’re beautiful… Crazy, fucked up beautiful.” He holds my face and kisses me softly, slowly. Small grunts escape him as he draws out his thrusts, his motions heady and growing more tense with every pump. I know he’s going to come, can feel it in every nerve ending, every muffled gasp. He’s going to come for me.

I press harder into his kiss, running my thumb over the head of his cock and feeling the slickness dripping there. He groans, his fingers digging into me as he crushes my lips hard and bucks in my hand. His seed is hot and slick in my palm, every spurt making me dizzy and more wild. For me. For this one heated moment he’s mine. Just mine.

“God, Potter… God, that was…” He’s lost, mouth trailing down my neck. He grabs my hand, pulling it up, growling as he finds his cum still wet there. Then he’s pushes it to my face and I can only whimper dizzily, opening my mouth, licking out when he presses my hand hard against my lips.

“Yeah…” his breath is hot against my cheek as he watches me clean his cum off my hand. “Get it all… Don’t waste it. Just like that.”

God. I can’t look away from his eyes. He’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before. Like he doesn’t know who he is, or where he is, just that he needs to look at me if he’s going to survive. I slide my tongue between my fingers and he groans, dipping close to run his tongue out across my knuckles, touching across my tongue when I lick again.

Kissing my fingertips slowly, he pins me in his gaze again. “Take your pants off.”

Demon Arms 19


It wasn’t difficult to find Wylie through the maze of towering shipping crates. The power radiating in the area was a beacon and any sorcerer in miles probably sensed it. Which made him wonder just what the fuck kind of idiot sorcerer would go through the trouble of protecting a crate and not mask his signature. It was just begging for a cocky bastard to come along and steal whatever was inside.

It wasn’t a sorcerer trying to get into the crate, Dorian soon discovered when he stepped up behind the gang of punks loaded down with weapons. No, it was some snot nosed amateur magic user and a bunch of gangsters, all of them human. They were camped out in front of the crate as if the thing was going to suddenly rear up and attack them. Seriously, what a bunch of idiots.

Although he wasn’t in a hurry to meet the arrogant sorcerer who spelled the canister, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Wylie get caught up with the powerful stranger either. Any sorcerer who could raise such a spell would know the worth of a dragon shifter. It was dangerous shit.

Unfortunately, Wylie was in the crate and Dorian had to get past the idiots with guns first.

He pulled a cigarette free and lit it idly while taking in the formation of men. The weirdo in the green jumpsuit looked like he ran the show. Someone was bleeding, a guy about his own age, and a tougher guy stood over him with a gun. It seemed like a good place to start. Dorian walked forward without bothering to camouflage himself.

His choice was correct. Dorian picked up on Wylie’s scent the closer he got to the guy swaying on the ground. He turned his gaze towards the large metal crate and wondered what the hell was inside it. But people were shouting at him now and the sounds of hammers being cocked were surprisingly distracting.

“Who the fuck are you!” He dismissed the man covered in scars and tattoos, who was waving his gun like it was going to do shit. Dorian turned to the guy on the ground. He offered him a hand and helped him to his feet.

“You know Wylie?” Dorian finished his cigarette and dispersed it with a puff of smoke. That got the angry yelling to stop. The men around him grew tenser when they realized he wasn’t just some powerless teenager wandering in.

Beck nodded slowly in answer to his question. He watched as the beautiful stranger moved so he was between Beck and the many men with guns. Dorian touched his face and he jumped. Dorian just raised an eyebrow at his reaction and pressed fingers again to his cheek. Heat radiated from his touch and soothed away the pain throbbing in the bruises Diego gave him.

“He a friend of yours?” Dorian wanted to make sure he was helping the right guy. Probably. Beck was sweet looking and lacked the resolve to kill, unlike the hard-eyed men around them.

“Dating,” Beck muttered while he touched his face gingerly. When no pain came, he quickly wiped the remaining blood away. His hands were shaking, likely from having a gun at his head for so long.

“Ah.” Dorian didn’t know what to say to Wylie’s ex—or what, current? Had Wylie gone there just to get back together with the guy?

Well, fuck.

Dorian licked his teeth and tried to push the stab of jealousy away. There was a mini army of punks with guns and Wylie was in some crate with god only knew what. Now was not the time to start feeling sorry for himself.

“What’s in the box?” Dorian asked while inconspicuously studying Beck, who was pushing his hair from his face. He wasn’t bad looking beneath the bruises. He had a sweet face if not a bit innocent. Of course Wylie had been dating someone before he came to the Academy. Hell, maybe they were still dating. For all he knew, this guy was waiting patiently for Wylie to get his dragon form under control so the two could live happily ever after in their white-trash gangster ghetto.

Nope, he was totally bitter as fuck. Damn it.

Beck stared warily at the large metal crate and gave a shrug full of uncertainty. “Not sure. Something worth a lot of money but it’s supposed to be dangerous. Wylie went in there over ten minutes ago and he hasn’t come out. I don’t… I hope he’s okay.”

“You should mind your own business.” Adam walked over to the two and met Dorian’s gaze challengingly.

“Fuck off, Adam,” Beck snapped. “Go lick Roth’s boots like the little bitch you are.”

Adam folded his arms over his chest and continued to glare at Dorian. The kid was short with mousy brown hair and wide, frightened eyes. He had power but it wasn’t flowing properly, which meant he had no clue about what the fuck he was doing. Hardly a threat to someone like him.

“I’m here for my boy, Wylie. I really don’t give a fuck what’s going on.” Dorian turned and took in the array of gangsters still pointing guns at him. “Except, seeing as you all seem to be ready to go on a shooting spree aimed where my friend is, I might have to step in just to prevent that.”

“Maybe we can help each other out,” Roth spoke up with a fake smile plastered on his face.

Dorian watched as the weirdo in the green tracksuit approached. For someone with absolutely no magical power, he managed to look confident. “Oh?”

“Yes. Doe has gotten himself trapped in that crate over there and we can’t get through the magic locking him in.” Roth looked him over with an assessing gaze. Dorian’s eyes narrowed in response. “But you seem to have some power, kid. Either that or you’re really fucking brave. If you get that barrier down, we’ll be able to set Wylie free and the two of you can be on your way.”

Dorian wasn’t an idiot. If there were men more manipulative and terrifying than his own grandfather and father, he had yet to meet them. The poorly dressed gangster wasn’t even close to their league. Dorian glanced at Adam’s closed expression and then to Beck’s wide, fearful eyes.

“Don’t,” Beck pleaded under his breath. “They’re gonna kill him.”

A spark jumped off of Dorian’s fingers. Beck stared at him in shock but he didn’t notice. Dorian’s magic was bubbling up in response to the sudden emotion rising in him.

They were going to kill Wylie? Fucking kill him?

“Fuck,” Dorian growled. Two more sparks shot free while he struggled for control.

“Are you—oh!” His eyes wide, Beck stumbled back when Dorian grabbed him. He hauled the shorter boy to the crate. Dorian sliced his hand down, tore a temporary hole in the barrier and shoved Beck through before he could protest.

“What are you doing?” Beck pressed uselessly at the invisible barrier.

“Stay here. It might keep you alive. Wylie can shield some magic.” The barrier plus Wylie’s abilities might be enough. Maybe, if anything was ever enough.

It was getting hard to think. Dorian felt the magic surge up and try to take him over. It wanted blood and he, well, he wouldn’t mind killing these stupid, arrogant fuckers who thought they could just take Wylie away.

Wylie had left the Academy for these freaks. Had left him. No, fuck that.

Beck blanched from the expression on Dorian’s face. Jolts of light sparked across the sorcerer’s body while Dorian’s eyes changed. His once expressive hazel orbs turned black along with the whites of his eyes. It was creepy as fuck, somehow more so because he was so beautiful. Beck held his breath and was relieved when Dorian finally turned away.

Dorian hazily took in the gang of men. The shipping crates were stacked high around them and formed a bizarre metal canyon. It might be enough to contain his power. It might be enough to keep him from taking out more than just the area and the fuckers around him.

His eyes fell on Adam, who was so small and scrawny among the bulked and muscular gangsters. He smiled and felt his lips stretch in a more than psychotic way. “Are you looking to kill my Wylie too?” His voice was deceptively calm as he stepped towards Adam and more sparks flared from his skin. “Are you planning on skinning him? Stealing his fucking magic for some shit dark spells?”

Adam shook his head wildly and stumbled away from Dorian. He cringed when he saw the blackness of his eyes. “N-Never. I’m self-taught. I don’t know anything about magic except what I learned on the web. I’d never kill someone for a spell.”

Dorian’s smile grew. “Then you better get the fuck out cuz once I get started, this whole place is going down.”

Adam licked his lips nervously and glanced at Roth. If the gangster let him go, it would be riddled with bullets. But Dorian had damn monstrous power. If he were to choose between guns or the sorcerer, it would be Dorian. Adam slipped around the sparking sorcerer and headed to the crate Beck and Wylie were in. He swiftly moved down the length and ducked behind the makeshift shield.

“Do I give you creeps the same choice?” Dorian’s voice was unfamiliar in his own ear. It sounded smooth and controlled as he stalked forward. “You’re pointing guns at my guy.”

“Chill the fuck out, kid.” Roth hardly looked impressed with his power even though Dorian’s clothes were smoking and flames just started to lick up his shirt. “You’re getting worked up over nothing. The guns are for what’s in the crate, not Doe.”

“Wylie’s in the fucking crate!”

“Stupid kid.” Roth sighed resignedly and looked over at Diego. Diego raised his gun, pointed it at Dorian’s chest, and three bullets exploded out in succinct explosions.

Dorian didn’t bother moving. The bullets didn’t hit, not that Diego’s aim was off. They hovered in midair in front of the now flaming sorcerer where they were suspended inches from his body. Moments later, they fell with a metallic clatter.

“You guys might want to start running like the little bitches you are.” Dorian’s teeth bared in an expression he couldn’t comprehend. He felt wrong, twisted. It was the first time his power hadn’t immediately exploded outward and he wasn’t himself.

Roth glared back at his men who were staring at the sorcerer like they were facing the devil. “Come on, you pussies. It’s just a fucking kid. He can block one gun, but there’s no way he can block us all. Fucking shoot him!”

Dorian glared when two dozen guns immediately clicked in preparation to fire. Wow, they were really fucking stupid. What did he have to do, start flying for them to take him seriously? Fucktards.

A vicious smile twisted his lips. Let them shoot. They had no idea who they were fucking with.

The shooting grew louder. Wylie gasped when he got another centimeter open on the chain now coated in his blood. It was nearly done. With a growl he gave a final pull. He roared triumphantly when the chain snapped apart in his hands.

“Did you…?” Dante blinked back tears and whimpered as Wylie moved to untangle him. It was overwhelmingly loud after so much silence. Metal struck metal as each freed loop landed on the floor of the crate. Dante sat up unsteadily with Wylie’s help. The chain was wrapped so many times around him Wylie swore under his breath.

“You’re like a fucking mummy.” Wylie hissed when metal burned into the cuts on his hands. The chain gave a final ear piercing clatter and fell flat on the ground in a heap.

Wylie licked his palms to heal his bloody cuts. He let Dante sway in his sitting position and get used to being unbound.

“You’re really strong,” Dante finally whispered. His rail-thin body shook uncontrollably. “Are all dragon shifters like you?”

“No clue.” He held his hands out and Dante fumbled for them the instant he made contact. “Try not to be scared when you see me, okay? I’m covered in black scales and I’m sure I look scary as hell. Can you stand?”

Dante tried. He clutched Wylie’s hands when his knees gave out.

“Damn.” Wylie’s anger grew to see how weak he was. “How long have you been in this crate?”

“I… I’m not sure,” Dante whispered. “It’s so dark. I couldn’t tell the time. I… I got sick…” he trailed off and blushed when his hand brushed over his damp pants.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not like they gave you a bathroom.” Wylie tugged his hand and Dante nearly fell again. “I’m going to carry you, okay? We might have to run really fast and I don’t want you to fall and get hurt.”

“Okay.” Dante let himself be lifted. He wrapped his arms around the back of Wylie’s neck as scaled arms engulfed him. “You’re really strong.”

Wylie couldn’t answer. His rage was too great. The kid was thin as a straw and weighed barely anything. Who the fuck would have chained a little boy up in the dark and thrown him in some fucking crate? He didn’t know but if he ever met the person, he was going to make sure they suffered even more than little Dante had.

“We’re going to get you home, Dante. First, I’ll take you to the place I live. There are lots of good people there, and they’ll protect you. Then we’re going to find your parents and get you home. Just remember, I’m not going to look like a normal guy when you first see me. I have lots of scales.”

“I know.” Dante’s breath was too cold against his neck. Wylie had a chilling fear that the kid might be losing the last of his energy while in his arms, even though he was now free of the chains. He quickened his pace and headed for the door to the container. Wylie stopped short when he caught sight of an arm framed in the narrow gap leading out. He breathed deep and his confusion only grew from the familiar scent.


Beck didn’t answer. He barely glanced at Wylie when he pushed his way out the door with Dante in his arms. “Holy fuck, Wy. Your new boyfriend is fucking awesome.”

“Boyfriend?” His gaze followed to where Beck was staring. Wylie almost dropped Dante when he saw Dorian. “What the hell? When did he get here?” Better yet, why was he there? After the bonfire incident, he could have sworn Dorian wanted nothing to do with him.

Wylie jerked when he realized the bursts of magic shooting off of Dorian were just powerful versions of the sparks he had a habit of letting loose around him. “Shit. B, I need you to watch Dante. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

He carefully lowered Dante to the ground. Dante was transfixed as he stared up at Wylie’s scaled form in wonder. “Who is he?” Beck asked when he finally noticed the kid.

“Roth’s fucking treasure,” Wylie growled bitterly. “Be gentle with him. He’s weak, and probably starving and thirsty. I need to help Dorian before he loses his shit.” Wylie went to leave but Dante’s hand suddenly clutched his.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Sighing, Wylie crouched down and smiled grimly. “Don’t be scared, okay? I’m going to be right back.”

“They have guns,” Dante whispered.

“It’s okay. I’m going to be fine. Beck’s a good guy and he’s going to watch you until I come back.”

Pursing his lips, Dante reluctantly released Wylie’s clawed hand. Beck held a hand out to the boy and smiled encouragingly until Dante tentatively took it and stepped closer.

Wylie could sense where Dorian previously sliced the barrier. He pushed through the thin tear faster and with much less pain than last time. Noise immediately roared around him when he crossed the threshold and Wylie was momentarily stunned. He hadn’t realized how the barrier muffled all the sound until on the other side.

Shaking himself, he headed towards the sorcerer alight with magic and fire. “Dorian! Stop!”

At the sound of his voice, Dorian whirled. “Wylie!”

Wylie couldn’t help but stop and stare. Dorian was backlit with orange and surrounded in flames. The wood around them had caught on fire from the sparks jumping off of his form. Peering closer, he found a pile of guns at his feet. Dorian had collected them one by one with simple flicks of his wrists.

He was fucking beautiful.

A smile lit his face and Wylie reached a hand out to Dorian. He’d taken on the entire fucking gang for him, and didn’t even break a sweat. Well, besides his burning clothes, anyways. Wylie’s dragon had stopped its aggressive stance just on seeing its mate’s amazing power.

“It’s not worth it, Dorian. They’re just a bunch of dumbass scum. Not worth the guilt you’ll feel if you lose control of your power. Not worth ending up in Daiker—”

Dorian’s eyes went wide. Gasping, Wylie stared down at his chest when he was pushed back a step. Two small, perfectly round holes dotted his flesh beneath shattered scales. Blood slowly trickled out of the wounds.

“Shit.” It didn’t hurt. Being shot was supposed to hurt. Wylie’s body shuddered and tilted sideways. Against his consent, he slammed down heavily to his knees. “Shit.” He lurched forward. His face hit the ground hard and everything went black.

Dorian couldn’t breathe. Wylie was bleeding out, with his blood thick and black as it poured down his beautiful scales. But for some reason he was the one who couldn’t breathe. He felt lightheaded and no longer attached to his body. All he could do was watch Wylie gasp for air on the ground.

There was an explosion as his magic reacted to another array of bullets. Dorian turned slowly and looked blankly at the men remaining. Twelve were left. Roth’s lime-green tracksuit was lost in the dark while his men formed a shield to keep him from being harmed. It didn’t matter. Once his magic finished its quickly spiraling climb, anyone within a mile would be dead.

The moment the thought hit, it was a dam breaking of the numb wall blocking his emotions. His shirt was char and the wind swept it away. Smoke billowed up with his power. Dorian raised his hands and spread them wide. He pulled his arms down in a sweeping motion and the men before him fell, pinned flat to the ground even as the fire continued to burn higher.

They could have been something. They could have been something amazing. It was why it was so fucking hard to let Wylie go. Wylie could have been his damn life if his fucking magic hadn’t gotten in the way of everything.

God, he hated it! Years a slave to his grandfather’s ideals just because he was born with magic. And once he found a way free—at the sacrifice of Alastor’s life—he allowed himself to forget. He chose his terrible, cursed magic over a real future. He picked power like his heartless family would have instead of the one he loved.

Now the option was gone. He had chosen wrong and there was no do-over.

“Just so you know, you’re all going to die.” Dorian’s voice was hoarse from the smoke. He stepped forward and stood over the closest of the men who struggled and failed to move. It was the one covered with tattoos who threatened to kill Wylie’s friend. No, Wylie’s boyfriend.

Sparks flew from his body. Dorian embraced the feeling of jealousy. It was easier to focus on than the hollowness threatening to consume his heart. Ever since the accident with Alastor, he did everything to keep his emotions in check. Now he was doing everything to let them flow free. He wanted them to die. He wanted to see everyone die and there was more than enough pain inside to make it happen.