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“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 dumbfuck 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 imbeciles 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.
“Those clothes make you look hot, D,” I blurt, glad that the hallway is empty so late at night as another stupid thing falls out of my mouth. Not that it matters.
Draco just shrugs, glancing toward me from the hall he’s walking down. “Actually, I need to get a sweater.”
I groan inwardly. I’m not sure why Draco Malfoy is so fucking oblivious, but it’s really starting to get frustrating. Refusing to respond to yet another idiotic misinterpretation out of the sexy blond’s mouth, I unzip the black sweatshirt I’m wearing and shrug it off. He looks at me warily but I’m feeling bold tonight and wrap my sweatshirt around him. Knowing D, he’ll just think I’m being an ass. I’m used to it.
I pull the hood up so it’s framing his pale face, using it as an excuse to check him out. He always looks sexy. Always. But there’s just something really extra hot about seeing him in my clothes. Really hot.
“Okay, D. Now you look hot,” I say with a wry smile.
“Potter, what the fuck is wrong with you?” He asks, not actually sounding very interested in knowing the answer.
I’ve come to the conclusion that the only thing wrong with me is my choice of crushes. It’s bad enough, Draco’s probably the only one in the entire wizarding world who hates me on principle alone. Hermione insists I’m a masochist at heart and when D’s glaring at me, I’m pretty sure she’s right. It doesn’t matter how much the prat bitches at me, I still want to fuck him within an inch of his life. That he’s absolutely obtuse about it just adds to my grief.
Ignoring another rude remark from very sexy lips, I tilt my head down the hall in invitation. “Walk with me?”
He purses his lips, glancing in the direction I’m pointing at. “It’s late and I have homework.”
Pausing, I look him over, trying to figure if that’s a hard no or a soft no. Taking a guess, I push. “Do it later.”
Huffing in annoyance, he slips his arms into the sleeves of my sweatshirt and pulls it close. I try to ignore the thrill I get to see it, almost like he’s trying to pull me around him. I take a step and he follows and we start silently walking down the hall.
This is of course why I can’t give up on the annoying as fuck kid. For every absolutely oblivious reaction he gives me, he still keeps letting me in. I’m pretty sure I’m going to go mad one of these days trying to figure out if he actually likes me or not.
“Siri stopped by the other day. Told me to say hi to you for him,” I say conversationally, hoping to get him talking. D doesn’t really talk much. He yells—I’m never confused when he’s upset, that’s for sure. But beyond that, he really doesn’t say much. I used to think it was me but after watching him awhile, it’s clear Draco’s just quiet. He thinks a lot. I, on the other hand, seem to do my thinking out loud.
Proving my point, he glances over to me, shrugs and keeps walking. It’s not a terrible thing that he doesn’t talk, just makes it really hard to figure out how to get him interested. “How’d you do on that Herbology exam? Everyone was complaining about it.”
“Aced it.” That’s all he says, not elaborating, boasting, complaining, or anything else.
“Figures. I don’t think you fail at anything.” I wonder if all of D’s studying has just made the boy an idiot in the real world when it comes to people. Hermione was a little like that but she still managed to figure out Ron liked her even before Ron had. D’s so beyond that.
He still refuses to add to the conversation so I’m forced to try another topic. But, as we round a corner and head down a flight of stairs, I’m drawing a blank. I suck at small talk. I can’t plan a conversation to save my life. Talking comes easy or not at all, and with D it’s definitely the latter. So in a last ditch effort to fill the growing void, I decide to see just how oblivious he’s feeling tonight.
“You know, if you ever need a broom ride, feel free to come to me, D,” I say innocently, inwardly cheering when Draco furrows his brows and scowls.
“What the fuck does that even mean, scarhead?” He grumbles, clearly spinning the line around in his head. “You do realize I have like the best broom out there, right?”
I really, really want to show him what the fuck I mean about him riding my ‘broom,’ but I now know firsthand that D is definitely a biter. So I roll my eyes to the ceiling in exasperation and keep my mouth shut.
It used to be hilarious. When I first realized just how daft D was, I was filled with this relentless, morbid curiosity to see just what kind of nasty shit I could say to his face. So far, it had been a lot. For a moment I thought the gorgeous comment had gotten through the other night, and it threw me so much I hadn’t known how to act. Because, god, just how am I supposed to act if he actually figures it out after I’ve said so much shit to him now? But D once again shrugged off what I said and I’m again frustrated wondering how to get him to realize I like him.
It really doesn’t help that he talks to me the most when he’s trying to figure out the inappropriate things I think up. That boy says fuck so many times when he’s upset, it’s about all I can think about. Although… something was very different our last encounter when I tried the cloak. D, for all his grumpy, angry words, was damn near putty in my hands. Maybe things will go better if I approach his body and just ignore his very confused mind for a bit.
Glancing sideways at him, taking in the way a tendril of bright hair is peeking out of his hood, I sidle close and drape my arm over the back of his shoulders. He’s shorter than me and fits damn near perfect under my arm. I can feel how toned he is, all compact muscle on his slender frame and really sturdy. He peeks at me but doesn’t say a word. Just keeps walking while I hold him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And fuck, it sure feels really damn natural. But I’m not an idiot. I wait because he’s gonna start yelling at some point. It’s D.
We make it down the rest of the hall before he finally speaks up, way further than I would have ever expected. “Potter, it’s not that cold.”
My god, he has fucking skill. We’re back to temperature again. “Just thought you looked chilly,” I say, failing to hold back a sigh. Then my brain jumps and my mouth is again blurting. “So, D, did you find your chapstick?”
He stiffens under my arm, throwing a mild glare my way. “Why?”
“Because I want to see it,” I say as innocently as possible. That he hasn’t thrown my arm off yet is pretty damn interesting, seeing as he’s glaring, his brow furrowed cutely as he tries to misinterpret my very simple words. Watching to gauge his reaction, I let my arm slide down his back, feeling the twitch of his shoulder blades and then the smooth side of his waist as I hold him loosely.
I earn another confused look but he still doesn’t pull away. It’s kinda fucking crazy actually that D just lets me hold him like this. Fuck, I should have tried this ages ago. Surely it can’t last though. But I want to see how long before he either folds and tells me to fuck off or freaks out and hits me.
After a long moment of silent thinking, Draco slips his hand into his pocket and reveals a small, brown tube. Holy hell, he has the chapstick! I reach for it but he hides it in his fist.
“You saw it. I’m not letting you get your germs all over it,” he says with the cutest territorial glare I’ve ever seen.
“D…” I whine, not afraid to use the puppy eyes. I stop walking so I can hip check him, hoping to distract him long enough to steal the chapstick. “I just want to try.”
“No way in fuck I’m letting you touch my favorite lip balm, Potter.” He holds his hand further away from me. My god, he’s sexy when he’s angry.
“Why not? I let you borrow my sweatshirt. You can’t be that afraid of my germs,” I point out, my eyes unconsciously following down his tight form wrapped in my hoodie.
“Yes, well, your sweatshirt hasn’t been on your mouth.” Exasperated, he kicks my foot when I start leaning into him, literally hoping to pressure him into folding. “Potter—Damn it, you’re heavy.”
Fuck, he’s still not pushing me away. It’s really hard to focus when his cheeks are flushed in annoyance, his lips a very tempting red while swearing at me. The things I could do to that nasty mouth…
“Come on, D. You can wipe it off afterwards,” I whisper, tightening my arm around his waist and pulling him up against my side. He fits perfectly against me. Smells amazing. Looks fucking sexy. Everything about him is so bloody perfect, it makes me wild.
“I don’t want to wipe it off,” he says haughtily, pushing at my shoulder. Hell, even that’s fucking perfect. I really have it bad. I’m standing here pissing him off because it’s the only time he actually talks to me, wondering if I can find a way to get my hand on his ass. I might have some fucking issues.
“How about this, D? You put some on the back of your hand and I’ll use that?” His glare grows at my suggestion, but it’s his ‘annoyed at being convinced’ glare, not his ‘no way in hell’ glare. I add with a winning smile, “That way it will never have to touch my lips. Fair?”
Oh, that did it. He unclenches his fist and pulls the cap of his chapstick with a little huff. “You’re such a headcase.” He can call me anything at this point because when my lips touch that chapstick, I totally get an indirect kiss. He draws a line of wet with the chapstick and I pull his hand up and sniff, surprised with just how cold his fingers are.
“Ooh, I like it.” I really actually do. It’s just like him. Soft and biting all at once. “It’s kind of fiery, the ginger. You sure it doesn’t taste like anything?”
It’s his silent, ‘you’re annoying me’ default glare. I could write a book on his fucking glares. Still, I have my arm around his waist and I’m about to be rubbing my lips on his hand and he’s not trying to stop me from either. Total win. I dip down and press my lips to the shimmery line, wondering how long I can kiss his hand before he tries to punch me. When I pull away my lips feel sort of oily and that scent is everywhere—Hell, my lips are tingling. Probably from kissing D. Everything about him makes me tingle.
“Done?” He asks, the prat not even bothering to see if I actually like the stuff or not. I rub my lips together and shake my head, knowing I’m about to be an ass despite my best efforts to behave. I thread my fingers with his so he can’t pull his hand away, then I bend down and lick the back of his hand with as much slobbery tongue as I have. The squawk he makes is fucking priceless.
“Now I’m done,” I say cheekily, then duck away to dodge his punch. Course, I have to let him go now. But fuck, he tastes good because that chapstick doesn’t taste like anything at all.
“Fucking ass!” Draco growls, wiping his hand on my sweatshirt like it’s going to bother me or something. “You’re so annoying!”
I really, truly am. It’s a problem I can’t seem to curb around him. Mostly because he’s talking to me, and blushing, and flashing those fucking amazing silver eyes right into mine and I just want to do really nasty things to him when he’s like this.
“Aren’t you going to put some on?” I ask a little breathlessly, pointing to the chapstick. I’ve probably pissed him off too much—Holy fuck, he’s taking the top off!
This is the entire fucking reason I’ve been hounding him over this thing. I saw him put it on once before but it was across a room and… yeah, this is really much better… Draco just coats it on, covering his already red lips until it looks like they’re going to drip in the slick stuff. It’s really fucking hot. Like, I’m staring like a dog about to hump his leg hot.
“No,” he snaps, meeting my eye.
“No?” No, I can’t hump him? Did I blurt out that I want to hump him?
But he’s not furrowing his brow at me in his ‘what the fuck did you mean’ face. He caps the tube and tucks it away in his pocket before answering. “No, you can’t have anymore. After you licking me, I’m not feeling very generous.”
My fucking god, he can’t just say that. Not with his lips all extra sexy while wrapped up in my sweatshirt. Doesn’t he know that shit like that just goes straight to my dick?
“What makes you think you can stop me?” I ask—because he fucks me up, damn it! And now I’m crowding him back, watching his face turn red, his beautiful cloudy eyes wide when he hits the wall.
Scowling, he puts his hand in his pocket, preserving the fucking chapstick like the naïve, gorgeous idiot he is. I don’t care about the chapstick, I care about those damn delicious lips he covers up with chapstick. And given just how obtuse D can be, I have a really, really naughty idea to see just how long it will take for him to figure it out.
“I’m giving you a choice, D.” My voice is way too husky right now but he’s more interested in the fact that I’m blocking him in with my hands on the wall. Damn, he has the most beautiful eyes. “You can give up the chapstick or I’m just going to have to steal it.”
“No way in fuck, asshole,” he hisses, tilting his chin defiantly. It’s his sexiest, most murderous glare, and he only ever aims it at me. God. He does things to me. Fucking crazy, maddening things that I have no control over when he looks at me this way.
I cup his cheek before I can stop myself, pressing closer until I feel the zipper of his sweatshirt. He just narrows his eyes, waiting for the cue to hex me. My nose actually has to brush the side of his before D seems to understand my lips are planning to be on top of his. I give him a second because he’s a fucking painful biter, but he doesn’t turn away. No, he just makes the most sexiest of noises, exhaling shakily when my lips finally touch his.
Hell, I’m actually kissing him.
His lips are soft, warm, and smell like that fiery ginger. I curl my fingers into his silky hair and run my tongue slowly over his bottom lip. He gasps and opens to me, so much hotter on the inside. God, I’m not going to survive this. I try to keep it slow, savoring every soft gasp as I touch my tongue to his, every slick suction and wet noises as we connect again and again with heady strokes. He melts into me as I push him flush against the wall with my body, my erection burning between us, his fingers cool as he grasps my shoulder tightly and still holds onto his fucking chapstick.
Every time I convince myself to stop, to look into D’s eyes and make sure the little fool understands exactly what the hell I’m doing with my tongue down his throat, I kiss him again. Running my hand from his cheek to the back of his head, I cradle him, turn him, directing each kiss as he relents to me. He whimpers soft, wild, desperate little sounds that get louder as I respond, reaching deeper, pulling him hard against me, demanding louder, even more wanton moans. God, I need him. Have never needed anyone the way I need him to notice me, and touch me, and fucking pant the way he’s gasping for me.
He opens wider, like he’s trying to swallow me whole, letting me do whatever I want to him as I crush him against the wall with my chest and hips. God, and he jerks—fucking jerks—when my teeth rake over his bottom lip, the flesh now swollen and tasting like him and nothing else. I do it again, pulling that thick flesh into my mouth, his fingers curling into the back of my neck, his short nails biting in. Fuck. Holy fuck. If I don’t stop now, I’m not ever going to fucking stop.
I break away with a groan, gasping against his cheek, fighting to keep my hands from tearing under his clothes and feeling that perfect body I’m dying to feel. He pulls unsteady drags of air in, his eyes firmly shut, head tilted back on the wall. God, maybe this is his sexiest look. Undone. Tousled. Swollen lips and flushed cheeks. Because of me.
“D?” I whisper, cupping his warm face and turning him to me. He liked it. I know he fucking liked it. But does he know why he liked it? “Did you think about what I said last time? Before I left?”
He gives a long suffering sigh, like I’ve just said the stupidest thing ever. “Potter… you’re weird.”
What? What the hell does that have to do with anything? “D? This is important. I… I really need to know why you…” Let me kiss you. Touch you. Grind you into a fucking wall. Damn, why can’t I just say it? I like the kid. Hell, I just fucking had the best kiss of my life! Why is it so damn difficult to just tell him how I feel?
Draco’s hand is suddenly pushing something warm and cylinder into mine. I stare blankly at the tube of chapstick, my stomach slowly tightening into a knot that’s not going to ever come undone. But I have to know because he’s just so dumb sometimes. His eyes confirm it, that damn furrow between his brows.
“You can have the fucking thing,” he whispers so roughly, I just want to grab him and kiss him again. But he’s already out of my grasp. “Just stop being such a perv.”
He’s walking away before I can even move, my sweatshirt still wrapped around him. Perv? I look at the chapstick. Did he…? He really thought I was trying to lick off his chapstick. Is the kid that fucking oblivious?
“Holy fuck, D.”
Potter is such a pervert.
There’s really no other explanation. Why else would I be trapped in some random corridor of the school, again, with Potter sucking on my neck? He might also be a stalker perv because he keeps finding me when I’m not even a hundred percent certain where I am. Tonight the damn moving staircase whirled me around twice before depositing me almost directly into Potter’s strong, very warm arms.
“You smell really good, D,” he mumbles, his tongue moving up my neck in a long, obscene path.
I stopped wearing lip balm after the last incident but apparently my cologne is going to have to go as well. Whatever is wrong with Potter, it seems to be linked to the simple products I use. Normally when someone likes something, they just say it. Potter’s apparently so fucked in the head, he feels the need to taste it.
“I have your sweatshirt to give back,” I mutter, valiantly trying not to fall into the wild rush of heat thrumming over my skin. It doesn’t help that what Potter is doing—perverted and fucked as he is—feels absolutely amazing.
“Hold onto it. You’re always cold.”
I am, and I slept in the damn thing and I don’t want to give it back because it smells like him. But I’m not about to tell him that.
He breathes deep against my neck, then moves up to my ear and nips my earlobe. Oh fuck. I choke back a groan, my ears almost as sensitive as my neck. His hips are pressing against mine, moving in a slow, languid rocking motion. God. There really is only so much I can ignore. That hard, hot, steel bar in Potter’s pants keeps grinding into me, stealing my breath, making me mad.
“Why’d you let me kiss you?” His mouth opens wide to lick another scalding swatch of wet to my trembling throat.
“Let?” It’s really hard to think, the heat coming off of him nearly suffocating, burning all the oxygen away. He makes me hard. So fucking hard and really slow-witted.
“Yes, let,” he stresses. “You could have stopped me, D. You can stop me now.”
I really can’t. One of his arms tighten around my waist, pulling our lower bodies together, forcing me to feel just how hard he is, the damn perv. The only consolation I have is knowing my concealing charm is going to make sure he never fucking knows what he does to me. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let the arrogant jerk know I think he’s fuckable.
“Potter, just… stop asking stupid questions.” My head feels very heavy all of a sudden, like I’m drugged. All my focus in on that rock hard flesh moving against my hip in perfect, rhythmic thrusts. God, I feel hot. Dizzy. And Potter really needs to shut up already. He’s always talking, even when his hands are sliding down the front of my pants. Oh god.
My eyes flutter shut, the wall cool against my head as I fall back, a shattered breath escaping me. He says something not worth answering, then his very hot, large hand is cupping my erection through my pants. Hell… there is no concealing charm out there that is going to hide how good that feels.
“Damn, D,” he says hoarsely, his palm pushing harder into my bulge until my ass is crushed against the wall as well. “You really shouldn’t just… let me touch you, you know.” God, he sounds so raspy, so out of control even while he’s pushing a knee between my legs, that hot hand sliding down to squeeze my tingling inner thigh.
“At least tell me you don’t let just anyone paw you like this,” he mutters, rubbing up and down my thigh in long, maddening strokes that I really wish were on my dick. Oh. His leg pushes flush between my thighs as he grabs my hips, his body grinding against my erection. It’s so good. My knees are going to break and I’m going to crack my skull on the floor, it’s that good.
Potter’s fucked in the head and I really don’t need to explain myself to the menace. So what if I only let him touch me? So what if I can’t seem to form a fucking sentence whenever he’s around? It doesn’t mean shit about fuck. Determined to shut him up, I wrap my fingers in his hair and pull him away from my neck.
God, he’s got some fucking sexy bedroom eyes. There’s a lot of green in my dorm. My bed hangings, my blanket—Potter and his eyes would fit in really well with my bed.
“D, you don’t just let anyone do this, right?” He whispers, like it really fucking matters to him, the fucking horndog. For all I know, he’s off grinding every fangirl and fanboy that looks at him twice. Fucking arrogant ass.
“Shut up, Potter.” I pull him down into a kiss, needing to feel that tongue of his in my mouth. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, the way he fucking drank me down like a shot of Firewhisky until we were both burning, dizzy and wild inside.
He doesn’t disappoint, groaning and crashing into me, lifting me to my toes and further up his leg. God, he’s strong. His mouth is suffocating, hot, relentless. I need this. Need him. Just as long as he doesn’t realize how much, I can totally do this… Oh fuck… Fuck.
“God, you like that,” Potter says in surprise, like he can’t figure out that his hand on my ass is turning me to mush. He’s not in my pocket this time, his large palm rubbing circles over my flexing muscles, squeezing harder, grinding our hips so fucking tight together.
“Fuck.” I bite my lip to keep from saying his name, his hand cupping lower, spreading my cheeks, fingers sliding over the seam of my pants and pressing into my crack. His tongue sneaks out, teeth trying to claim my bottom lip for his own. Hell, he can have it. He does really good things with my lips. Hot, wet, dirty things I don’t want to stop.
Fuck, but he keeps talking!
“D, I just… I just need to know that you don’t think I’m after your chapstick.”
God, he is so fucked in the head. I must be the worst kisser in the world if he can still think stupid shit like that while his tongue is down my throat. I wrap my arms tighter around his neck, hook my leg over his hip and jump up. And damn, he catches me and holds me by my thighs like it’s nothing.
“D, I need to know,” he says, his eyes strangely insecure for someone whose waist I’m humping.
“If you don’t stop asking stupid questions, I’m leaving.”
I’ll probably have to leave. He can never shut up. But before he ruins this moment permanently, I surge forward and kiss him, wanting a last taste. Damn… he’s just… damn. I pull him by his hair, harder, until he groans and slams me back against the wall again, using the leverage to get my shirt untucked from my belt. His hand burns my skin, over my shoulders, down my spine. I tear his shirt up, my fingers feeling frozen and sluggish against the heat of his sides.
“Oh god… D, that’s… god,” he muffles in my mouth but I’m pretty sure he likes it. Especially when I shove my hands down the front of his jeans, fingers seeking out his erection among the rough fabric. I brush his large length, his breath hitching the same time mine does. He freezes and I meet his eyes. “D?”
Just how many fingers do you have to have on a guy’s dick until he realizes you’re into him? Potter looks really fucking confused right now. I slide my hand a little lower, watching him gasp, his eyes darken, the tip of his tongue touch his bottom teeth. He pushes into my hand. Again. Oh, and again. Fuck, I want him to come in my hand. Looking at me like he is right now like I’m the best fucking thing he’s been dreaming of.
“D, I need to tell you…” Whatever Potter feels like he needs to say while my hand is around his dick I’m probably never going to know. There’s a noise like someone tripping. Potter, ever alert, whirls his head, growling lowly like he’s some guard dog while he quickly extracts my fingers from his pants. Personally, I really don’t give a fuck if we’re discovered but I’m sure the golden boy is worried about his rep or some shit. I’m already annoyed as he lowers me to the ground by the time the wayward student comes around the corner in the hall, the young boy stopping cold once he catches sight of us.
It’s the one with the camera. The annoying, hero worshiping, wannabe little brother Potter never had or ever fucking needed.
“Harry, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Of course he has. With his fucking camera, at that.
“Collin, it’s late. What the hell are you doing out of the dorm?” Potter growls at the kid. I look at him, surprised by his tone. He’s pissed. Like about to hex, pissed. Maybe even a little world shaking pissed. Potter’s not one for getting angry at his housemates and since Voldemort kicked it, he hasn’t lost his shit since. But he’s about to now.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Collin says hesitantly, not blind to the murderous glare being sent his way. “I didn’t realize you were fighting.”
Fighting? How fucking dumb is this kid? I haven’t had a fight with Potter in over two years now. Potter seems to be wondering the same thing, his eyes glancing my way with a mix of anger, amusement—Oh, and lust. That would be burning, wall grinding lust that he is frustratingly holding back right now.
“Collin, I told you to stop following me around.”
Weird. Gryffindor must be full of stalkers.
“But Harry, Hermione said—”
“Fuck Hermione! I’m fucking sick of you three interfering in my goddamn life!” I’m pretty sure Potter’s going to punch the kid, he’s that upset. And, as amusing as that might be to watch, it would involve Potter stepping away from me to do it and that’s just beyond unacceptable.
I tighten my grip on his hair—which, thinking about it, could look like we’re fighting—until Potter turns back to me. “I could be doing homework right now.”
“Sorry, D. My friends have been…”
I really don’t care about his fucking friends. I press my body up against his, watching as he groans, his hands moving down to pull me closer. “You have ten more minutes, Potter, then I have shit to do. You can waste your time bitching about your friends or we can go back to doing what we were doing.”
“Malfoy, you better leave him alone, or I’m—”
Whatever the little shit’s going to do is blocked out by the sound of Potter crushing his lips to mine. Because Potter, unlike the stupid kid, has his priorities straight. Things go well for the next couple of minutes, Potter determined to convince me to get my hands back down his pants. But the kid’s watching us and although I can’t be arsed to actually look his way, I’m starting to get really fucking annoyed by it.
“Potter.” I stop kissing back, letting his hair and neck go so he can see just how close I am to walking the fuck away. Dim as Potter can be sometimes, he’s a fucking genius tonight.
“Want me to beat him?” The look he’s giving me, I’m pretty sure he’s going to beat the kid anyways, whether I say so or not. I look over, wondering if the kid even realizes he’s crossed the line, only to find a look of utter heartbreak on his small face. Fuck.
“I have to go.” There’s no way I’m dealing with a brokenhearted Potter fanboy who just realized he doesn’t have a fucking shot at the golden boy. Potter’s life is pure drama and I hate that kind of shit.
“D. Fuck, don’t go.” He grabs my arm, pulling my back up hard against his chest. And hell, this is a damn nice position to be in, his arms wrapped around me, his cock grinding against my ass. Really fucking nice.
“I hate drama,” I tell him as evenly as possible, even though my body is screaming to pull his arms tighter around me and rub against his hard length.
“I know. You like quiet and routine and kicking ass in Quidditch. This is my problem and I’ll deal with it.” His mouth sucks the side of my throat and between him being insightful, and sexy as sin, I’m having a hard time remembering why I was trying to leave. “I need to talk to you. I want you to know how I… well, that is…” he trails off, sounding like an idiot again. It was nice while it lasted.
I pull away with a sigh, hating my body, hating how fucking sexy he is, and how much I really want to ignore all the annoying things about Potter and just focus on how hard he makes me. But I can’t because there’s this stupid, naïve little kid that might as well have been me for all the fucking times I dreamed to have a shot at Potter, only to realize the boy was untouchable in more ways than one. And even if I can get my fingers down Potter’s pants, it doesn’t mean I have any right to it, just like the rest of the hordes of empty headed fans that line up to do the same. Fuck, I hate him.
“Here, before you go,” he whispers, completely oblivious to my angry thoughts as he pushes something into my hand. It’s my lip balm. He’s got this look in his eyes, like it’s the most meaningful fucking thing in the world to be giving me back my goddamn lip balm. I really do hate him. Hate his eyes. Hate his lips. Hate how fucking crazy he makes me feel without even trying.
I turn and grab him before I can stop myself, pushing him against the wall for a fucking change. I kiss him with all the anger I have and he sways, his knees buckling as he grabs behind him for support. Fuck, the things I want to do to him. All those fucking losers that just want him to look at them, to feel fucking special because Harry Potter gave them the time of day. I want to own him. Bend him. Fuck him so hard and so deep, that he’ll always know he belongs to me.
I grind my dick into his hip, loving the noises of surrender he gasps into my mouth. But it’s a lie. Potter just likes sex and I’m the fucking idiot that thinks it means anything more. I pull away, panting heavily, watching him struggle to stay upright while he looks at me with confusion and need.
He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t need a fucking soul. Potter has the fucking world to love him.
I pocket my lip balm and leave without saying a word.
D’s ignoring me. Nothing new. He’s been ignoring me for years ever since we stopped fighting. That was the compromise. Either continue to obsess and fight with each other every fucking chance we get, or finally let it the fuck go. But he couldn’t let it go, just as much as I couldn’t. So he blatantly ignores me and I, well, I can’t ignore him. No matter how hard I wish I could.
“I don’t know why you couldn’t just tell us,” Hermione says under her breath while chopping ingredients for the overly complicated potion Snape has us all slaving over.
“Because it’s none of our business,” Ron mutters right back, deflecting me from having to shake the little witch until she gets the fucking point already. I give him a grateful look but he’s pissed too, in his own way, for me not telling them about D. But at least he knows this is not the class to discuss it.
“Harry, you’ve been so messed up lately. Angry.” She gives me the look, like I’ve been murdering muggles in my spare time. “I’m worried about you. Things have calmed down. Things are good now. Why are you so…?”
“Fucked in the head?” I give her my own brand of the look, and she shuts her mouth and glares at her ingredients.
Probably because I spent the majority of my life not knowing who I was and then when I started getting an inkling of myself, some dark wizard showed up to kill me. And now with Voldemort dead, I really don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know the fucking point to anything. Except D.
I tried. I dated myself stupid, trying to not think about D and his ever cool facade. Girls, then guys, when I was willing to admit that girls really don’t do it for me. But guys don’t completely do it for me either. Only D does. When D started ignoring me, it was like my fucking world disappeared. My life consisted of worrying about Voldemort and obsessing over D, and D proved that he could strip my existence away every time he walked into a room and chose not to acknowledge me. Like now. Here I am arguing with my friends over the fact that I’ve been staying out late, and he’s just doing his fucking potion like he’s not the reason I’m wandering the halls at night.
“Harry, just talk to us. We really just want to help—”
“Mione, stop sticking your nose in it,” Ron snaps, giving her a warning look that she willfully ignored.
I’m so done with this. Fifteen minutes into class, and I’m walking out the door, all my school things left under my desk.
Every one has a fucking opinion on what I should be doing with my time, with my life and apparently I get no goddamn say in it. Dumbledore signed me up for some sort of internship at the Ministry—Didn’t even fucking ask me. Just sent me a note saying what a privilege it is to be accepted and I should show up a week after I graduate. This is why I’m pissed. It’s also what I told Hermione two weeks ago when the letter showed up in the post. She hasn’t gotten the fucking clue that it’s still the reason I’m pissed. That, along with her constant nagging for me to be whatever the fuck she thinks I’m supposed to be instead of me. Fucking hell.
I push my way into the bathroom and dunk my face under the faucet. What pisses me off the most about the Dumbledore thing is that I’m going to take the internship. Because I don’t have anything else to do. Because I don’t want to do anything. I have no fucking hopes, no ambitions. I’m a fucking shell of a human being, and no one seems to see it.
Fucking hero worshiping Collin. I still can’t get over that kid interrupting me with D. I told him a million fucking times I don’t like him that way. But the second Hermione snaps her fingers, he’s ready to go, just for an excuse to be near me. And maybe, if he was any other way, it wouldn’t be so annoying. But he seems to think I’m the second coming of Christ—Or the first. I still can’t figure out what religious beliefs go with being a wizard with godlike powers. Whatever. The kid thinks my shit doesn’t stink, no matter how many times I crap on him. It’s annoying as fuck.
The door opens and I pull my head up, hair soaking wet and streaming water in front of my eyes. It’s D, and he’s covered in green sludge.
“Neville?” I ask, trying to keep a straight face. Fuck, he’s adorable in everything, even gross sticky stuff that smells like sulfur.
“Granger,” he grunts, looking at me with a blank expression. The water streaming from my hair suddenly soaks my face. Swearing, I duck my head over the sink, squeezing out the excess liquid.
“I’ve never seen Hermione blow up a cauldron before,” I say while trying to sneak a peek of him in the mirror as he strips off his cloak and shirt.
“Apparently she’s upset with me.”
That gets my attention and I nearly brain myself on the faucet, I snap my head up so fast. “Did she say anything to you? Hex you?” I’ll fucking kill her if she so much as sneered in his—
He raises an eyebrow like I’m the biggest moron out there. Maybe I am. He can easily take care of himself. “I might have brought it on myself,” he says after a moment, not looking apologetic. The last button on his shirt is pulled free and I’m not really thinking any longer, his skin pale and stunning and demanding all of my attention.
“She wanted to know what I was doing in a hallway with you at eleven o’clock at night. The Weasel suggested she really shouldn’t be asking me that.” Draco scowls at his shirt, holding it up to take in the full effect of green goop on his school clothes. No charm is going to clean that alone, and he stuffs it into the sink and runs water over it.
“What did you tell her?” I ask, dying of curiosity. Maybe Hermione actually succeeded where I can’t and got a proper answer out of D.
“I said something along the lines of not being able to understand her question on account of her huge buckteeth getting in the way. It sort of went downhill after that.” He shrugs and I can’t help but stare at his shoulders and the muscles rippling under his glowingly pale skin. D might be slender but he is damn fit.
“Well, seeing the aftermath, I’m going to say you still have it, D.” Draco always could piss anyone off if he really wanted to. It was a fucking skill that used to drive me mad. Even Hermione, for all her intent on being civil and apathetic to everyone that annoyed the hell out of her, still blows up. “You cold?”
“Freezing.” I’m on him before the answer is fully out of his mouth, pulling him into my arms while trying not to laugh at the image of D telling Hermione off. Ron must have been roaring. God, but he’s fucking soft. Not that girly, perfumy soft. His skin is powder smooth, his muscles firm and healthy under my hands. When I run my palms over his bare back and sides, he shivers and I don’t think it’s from the cold.
“Any warmer?” I ask, ducking my head to catch his eye, my hair slicked back and dripping water down my eyebrow. He has such fucking beautiful eyes. I could stare at them forever—If he didn’t hex the fuck out of me for it.
“No. This castle is always so fucking cold—Oh.” He falls silent as I pull him closer, his eyes closing, lips parting. Right now he’s unguarded, free of all those many walls he’s always stacking up. I slip my arms from my school cloak and pull the edges around him so that when I run my hands up his back he’s still covered warm. I don’t want to make him warm with my hands, I want to touch him. I want to take every damn opportunity I can get to feel him, sink into the fucking amazing privilege of experiencing Draco Malfoy as a person, hot blooded—no matter how cold he gets—real, alive with needs and wants like any other guy. He tries to hide it but he keeps letting me see for some reason and I’m going to enjoy it while I can.
“Potter, I have to get back,” he whispers weakly. But he doesn’t stop me when my thumb brushes over his nipple. No, he moans, the sound so sexy, I’m rock hard and straining just to know I’m the reason. God. He better not let other people do this to him. No one should touch him the way I touch him. He should only get hard for me, the way he is now, pressing tentatively against my hip.
I wrench him closer, dragging my fingers down his bare back, pulling him by his belt until we’re grinding our erections together. Yeah, he gets fucking hard for me and that makes me so crazy. He’s gasping, these perfect, naughty sounds that make me want to slam him against something solid and have him scream my name. But he won’t say my fucking name. Fuck—I won’t say his name. I call him D because if I call him Draco he’ll fucking know I love him.
Forcing the thought from my mind, I decide slamming is the way to go and I push him into the nearest bathroom stall and throw him against the side wall, shutting the door behind us. I lick his nipple and he cries out, his fingers biting into my skull and pulling my hair so good. He’s sensitive everywhere, including his rosy red buds. I pull the hardening flesh into my mouth, letting my tongue tease over the tight edges, loving every gasping whimper he makes. And when I dare to bite down—God, he is not quiet. If he wasn’t holding my head against his body like he’s going to die if I stop, I would have sworn it hurt.
“Harder,” he whispers, his voice so fucking raspy, shivers go down my spine. I let my grip tighten, tugging on the slick flesh as it slips between my teeth. He wrenches at my hair while he cries out, and the pain is everything I need to keep from losing myself in him. It would be so fucking easy to get lost in D, especially when he’s humping my leg. I slide my hand down between the press of our bodies, feeling the damp muscles of his stomach twitch, hearing the soft groan when he realizes I’m not stopping and slip my fingers beneath his waistband.
His head thumps against the stall, his entire body arching under my hands. “H-Harry…”
Oh my god. I close my eyes, heat thrumming through my veins. Well, he’s not thinking of anyone else, that’s for fucking sure. “You like that, D?”
“Don’t stop.” He tugs at my hair, forcing me to look at him and once I see him, I can’t look away. His cheeks are flushed, his lips red, eyes glazed and dark. Draco Malfoy has to be the sexiest fucking person on the planet. I push my hand further down the front of his pants, my fingers brushing boldly over his hard cock. His eyes widen, lips parting in the hottest moan I have ever heard. The whole time he’s staring at me with those crazy beautiful eyes of his, fingers holding my head still, panting loudly when he’s not whimpering or crying out.
God, I need him. I never should have touched him because there is no way I can ever go back now. To not see his face—brows twisted as he gasps for air, his cheeks nearly as red as those fucking perfect lips of his—is to never know happiness again. A lot of shit has gone down in my life, but fuck, I want to be happy.
Without taking my eyes off of his, I quickly tear his fly open and push his pants and underwear down his toned thighs. His eyes tell me everything. He’s hot for me. Likes it when I’m forceful with him. Likes it when I take control. I just don’t know if he knows how much he likes it. He lets me do a lot of fucked up things and has yet to say a word.
I’m on my knees before he can blink. He stops breathing the instant my nose presses against the side of his cock. I want to look at him but I also want to see just how fucking perfect his dick is.
Ah. Holy fuck. He’s big. Not crazy big, but definitely big enough to convince me that riding him would be worth getting over my last hangup. He’s also red, his pale skin hiding nothing. I lap my tongue slowly over his flushed tip, the flesh hot, firm, thick. Perfect. God, he feels good in my mouth. My tongue trembles and I rub harder, wanting to feel every ridge, every inch. His fingers are in my hair again, pulling me further on him, his cock thrusting against my tonsils in one desperate, needy push. I lock my lips tight, loving how wet he makes my mouth, like I’m already filled with his hot seed. God, just god.
Hands fumbling, I grab his hips, roughly forcing him deeper inside my throat as I open wide to him.
“F-Fuck!” He shouts, then moans.
Should have cast a silencing charm. Not stopping now. I’m going to make him cum. I’m going to fucking show him just what he does to me by doing it to him. And fuck—he better not misinterpret his cock down my throat.
I rock his hips, making him fuck my mouth hard, deep, needing to feel just how real he is inside. My lips are sore and numb, jaw aching as I keep it as wide as I can so he gets as deep as possible. His precum is dripping down my lips, diluted with my saliva, my skin hot and tight, and a little sore from the feel of his zipper. I want to suffocate on him. I want to die sucking his cock, knowing he’s hard because it’s my lips wrapped around him, my hands squeezing his tight ass, my name he keeps mumbling.
“Please—oh god—so close… Harry… god, that’s it… almost…”
Yeah, D, get there. Fucking get there from my mouth. I squeeze his ass tighter, letting my fingers tease into his crack, seeking out his hot little pucker. His hands feel like vices, and I might be missing some hair by the time this is done.
“Fuck… oh fuck…”
He’s thick in my mouth, suffocating, wet bruising thrusts. My lips are raw, and I fucking love it as I struggle to breathe. I want to see him but can’t, the angle too steep as he practically folds over my shoulders to hump my face. He’s close, so fucking close. I press a finger right up against his hole, his flesh fluttering around my tip. His hips give a final wild buck. Yeah, D, fucking yeah. His cry is fucking delirious as he fills my mouth with his cum.
God. My god.
His hands still tangled in my damp hair, he holds me still, keeps me full of his cock while I try to swallow all the hot fluid around his thickness. I feel so crazy right now, burning on my fucking knees, thoroughly used by his gorgeous, brutal dick in the goddamn bathroom of all places. God, he does crazy things to me.
His hands loosen and I gently release his softening flesh, looking up to find him an absolute mess as he pants for air. Beautiful, so damn beautiful. I run my hands down his legs, catching his knees and tugging. He folds with a surprised gasp, falling down into my arms.
He blinks at me like he completely forgot that I was even here. It’s okay. He’s just a little fucked, totally dazed and something I can’t quite figure out but it’s making him look away from me. Sad. He looks a little sad.
I kiss him, trying to pull him from whatever’s haunting him today. He’s languid, dizzy, his fingers digging into my shoulders as he pushes forward and straddles me the best he can around his pulled down trousers. His flesh is damp with sweat, yet still cool to the touch. When I pull him tight, he moans, his tongue meeting mine with fumbling, perfect strokes. I can’t help but notice he’s nearly naked in my arms, his shirt still in the sink, his pants riding low, exposing so much of his beautiful flesh to my hands and the air.
“Wait,” he gasps, but I can’t seem to stop, my mouth burning kisses down his throat, my hands moving over him desperately, pulling him closer, grinding my body against his. He’s gorgeous, fucking sexy, god, fucking perfect, and I have to touch him. I tear at his pants, bending his knee, dragging the material down off one of his long legs and pulling it free from his shoe. I grab his inner thigh, running my palm roughly over his smooth skin, pulling his leg up to wrap around my hip as I slam him back against the stall wall, his body folding awkwardly.
He groans, his breath growing loud as I grind him hard against the wall, spreading his tight cheeks apart with my hands. God, I want him so bad. Want to be in him. Want to make him mine. He won’t even tell me why we’re doing this, won’t say he likes me, won’t even fucking acknowledge that he’s been making out with me.
“Shit, slow down… Oh fuck… fuck.” His head makes a thunk when he arches back, his hole yielding to one of my fingers. He’s tight inside. Hot. Fucking slick.
“You like that, D?”
He whimpers, fingers digging harder into my shoulder, his other hand clasping the back of my neck hard. I plunge into him slowly, wanting him to feel everything, want him to know I’m the one who makes him like this. Desperate, and unhinged, and so fucking ready for more.
“Yeah?” His eyes are squeezed shut, face flushed as I work my finger deeper into his entrance. He is so fucking beautiful, it feels like my heart wants to break just a little.
I press a kiss to his brow, his flesh damp beneath my lips. “D, you ever think you might want to, uh…?” God, this again. This fucking tongue twisting bullshit where the right words won’t come. “D,” I try again, only to sigh in frustration. I want to ask him out. I want to ask him to be my boyfriend. Fuck, if I thought he wouldn’t laugh in my face, I’d ask him to marry me. Whatever will make him mine always.
Draco moans a low, raspy sigh against my cheek the same moment I tease a second finger around his rim. “Harry.”
I lick my lips and stare down at his closed eyelids where his white blond lashes flutter lightly. “More?”
“Just… just a little.”
I lean down and brush my lips to his. “Draco.” Maybe it’s really not the right time. Maybe it’s never going to be the right fucking time to break my heart on Draco Malfoy. “Draco, I need to tell you something. Uh, ask you…”
“I’ll give it back.”
“Your sweatshirt. Sorry I forgot. I’ll…” His breath catches and his fingers twist painfully into my hair. “Fuck… Fuck, Harry. Right there. Right… there…”