[aureateink]

allie is typing...

she/her, mid-twenties, leo, intj, published author & poet

my blog is 18+!

[requests are closed.]

lately -

false alarm (Harry J. Potter x gf!reader)

double vision (Bucky Barnes x reader)

teeth (auror!draco malfoy x reader)

if we make it through december (Steve Harrington x Munson!reader)

A Madness Most Discreet p6 (George Weasley x Malfoy!reader)

masterlist - aureate's library rec page - @aureatefics

guidelines-

mdni 18+... my blog is for those eighteen and older. this is not a safe space for minors. you will be blocked.

credit my work always without exception... do not feed my work into any sort of ai (c.ai included) or repost elsewhere under any circumstances. you will be blocked. if you see my work anywhere else, please report it.

when submitting a request... please be kind. i am not a story machine or chatgpt. you're asking me to do labor for free, act like it. please include actual ideas/concepts, not just "more x!character!". i reserve the right to delete, ignore, or block anything that makes me uncomfortable.

boundaries... i do not write pregnancy, children/kid!fics, dead/dying animals, incest, or sa. any requests featuring any of these things will be deleted.

i write for...

Harry Potter

adult!marauders era... james potter, sirius black, remus lupin, barty crouch jr (& various poly! arrangements)

post-hogwarts!golden era... george weasley, harry potter, charlie weasley, bill weasley, draco malfoy (& various poly! arrangements)

Stranger Things

steve harrington, eddie munson

Marvel

bucky barnes, steve rogers

open to... stephen strange, clark kent (david corenswet's version), jim hopper, robbie robinavitch (the pitt), jack abbott (the pitt), joel miller (the last of us), rick grimes

thanks for being here 𓂃⋆.˚

[aureateink]

celebrating 5k friends !!

my loves, I'm so incredibly honored to have so many of you here supporting me and my work. getting to share my writing with you has been the greatest blessing, and I'm so proud of the magic that we've created together. 🌹

[aureateink]

tumblr hates me today and deleted the original ask in my drafts. hope this finds you anon 🫶

false alarm | harry j. potter

feat. Harry J. Potter x gf!reader

summary: you almost break up…again

cw: MDNI 18+, hurt/smut, post-war era, relationship issues, jealousy, verbal argument, angsty!harry, buff!harry oral (m!receiving), piv, fluffy ending

an: inspired by “We Almost Broke Up Again" by Sabrina Carpenter | masterlist

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" You threw your bag down on the kitchen island.

Harry scoffed. “Do you think I’m blind? You were practically drooling all over him—"

“You think I was drooling over George Weasley?" You crossed your arms over your chest, leaning your hip against the counter.

Your boyfriend shirked his jacket and tossed it over the back of the couch. Irritation prickled up your spine. How many times had you asked him to just hang it in the fucking closet? But you also couldn't help but notice the way his biceps stretched the fabric of his t-shirt, the dips and swells of his chest in full display.

Damn Quidditch season.

“You were all over him! I barely saw you all night,” Harry took off his glasses, scrubbed a hand over his face before running his fingers through his hair, the dark locks sticking up in every direction.

Ah, so there it is.

“Harry James Potter—" you crossed the room to him, gliding your hands up that Herculean chest, "—are you jealous?"

Harry shook his head, shrugging you off. "I'm not jealous. It's fucking embarrassing, standing by myself while my girlfriend hangs all over my best mate's brother.”

Now it was your turn to scoff, anger flaring hotter. “Oh! So, I embarrass you by talking to my friends? It's not my fault that you can't handle not being the center of attention for one night."

His green eyes darkened. "That's what you think?”

No, it wasn't what you thought. The last thing Harry ever wanted was the spotlight after everything he'd been through. And sure, you'd spent a little less time with Harry tonight than usual, but he was being sullen! Sulking in the corner, barely making any effort to talk to anyone. Even Ron and Hermione had given up trying to cheer him.

God forbid you wanted to have a laugh at a party on a Saturday night.

“I think you're making a big deal out of nothing," you tried again, softening your tone a bit.

“So, you won't even admit to flirting with him?"

“Why would I admit to something I didn't do?" Frustration burned in your throat, made your eyes water.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Harry shook his head and turned away from you, stalking down the hall to your shared bedroom.

“You were miserable all night, Harry." You followed him down the hall, finding him sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. “You didn't want to drink, you didn't want to dance…”

“Then maybe you should have asked what was wrong,” he snapped, lifting his head to glare at you.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that something was wrong?!" you cried, kicking off your heels and trying to grab the zipper on your dress. The damn thing had been suffocating you all night.

He sighed, pushing to his feet and approaching you. Batted your hands away from your dress and turned you around. “I wanted to stay home, spend some time together just the two of us." His calloused fingers skimmed the valley between your shoulder blades, carefully undoing the little hook above the zipper. "With the season starting, I feel like I've barely seen you." He slid the zipper down slowly, and you were finally able to take a full breath as the bodice gave way.

The relief was short-lived, however, because his lips grazed the curve of your shoulder, and you lost your breath once again.

“I’ve missed my girl," he murmured into your skin, lips trailing up your neck. The zipper reached the bottom, and the dress slipped down your legs, pooling at your feet.

“I miss you, too," you admitted, tilting your head to the side to give him more access. Body melting into his with practiced ease. “That's why I wanted to go tonight, so we could let loose and have a little fun. You’ve been working so hard…”

“I know, baby." He gripped your hips, turning you around to face him. "I’m sorry for being such a spoil-sport tonight.”

“I’m sorry for not asking what you wanted to do." Your fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt. “And I'm sorry if it seemed like I was flirting with George. I have no interest in him or anyone. It's always been you, Harry." You leaned in to peck his cheek, but he recoiled.

“It didn't seem like anything. Anyone with eyes could see you two were flirting.” He stepped away from you, the moment shattered.

“We were just talking! What, I can't talk to other men ever?!" You tugged one of his old t-shirts over your head to cover up, suddenly feeling exposed.

“If that's what you consider ‘talking’, then no!"

“I sit in this flat all fucking week while you're at practice all hours of the goddamn day doing Merlin knows what with Merlin knows who, and I can't have one fucking night to socialize and relax?!” You were shouting now, hands trembling with anger.

Harry's face flushed as his own anger surged. “I'm busting my ass on the pitch! It's not a bloody social call!”

“Having a kegger in the locker room is not what I would call ‘busting your ass’!"

“That was one time for Darby's engagement. And I told you we were doing it beforehand!”

“Oh, but you didn't ask what I wanted, did you?"

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose over his glasses. "I don't want to fight.”

“Then don't start one." You brushed past him, padding out into the kitchen. The rapidly retreating buzz demanded a snack. But, of course, neither of you had made time to go to the grocery store this week, so the fridge was woefully empty.

Harry followed you, watching you rummage around in the pantry before finally settling on a packet of instant noodles. You grabbed two, setting them on the counter while you fetched the pot. Except Harry put the dishes away last, and the pot was too high for you reach on your own.

Without a word, he pressed up behind you again and grabbed the pot, setting it on the stove for you. “Ron asked me if we were fighting again tonight,” he said, moving out of your way while you filled the pot.

Guilt curdled in your stomach. You knew your friends were worried about the two of you, and you'd maybe confided a bit too much in Hermione after bottomless mimosas last weekend, but surely it wasn't so serious that they were cornering him about it, right?

Maybe it was, though. The last few parties you'd gone to had all ended in fights, and you'd banished Harry from the flat not even a month ago after a particularly nasty row. Of course, he would have gone to stay with Ron and Hermione.

Fuck, this had gotten further out of hand than you thought. When was the last day that you and Harry hadn't fought about something?

The realization that you couldn't remember rinsed through you like ice water.

“What did you tell him?" You asked, adding the noodles to the boiling water.

“That we were going through a rough patch, but we love each other." He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes trained on the floor, like he was afraid to see your reaction. “Right?"

You poked at the noodles with a pair of chopsticks, lost in thought as you tallied up all the fights over the last few months. All of the nights you almost called it quits. All of the mornings you were glad you hadn't, only to be crying again come dinner time over something or another. You couldn't even remember what most of them were about anymore; they were that stupid. But the hurt was real, and it lingered far longer than the argument did.

Neither of you spoke for a while, avoiding each other's orbit while you stewed. The noodles sat cold in their bowls while you looked anywhere but one another.

For a terrible moment, you wondered if this was finally going to be it. If this was the fight you wouldn't be able to come back from. But then Harry reached across the table, placed his hand over yours.

“Lovely, look at me." His voice was honey and cream.

You obeyed, meeting his mossy eyes, the moonlight reflected in his glasses.

“I believe you—that you weren't flirting with George. You were just trying to have a good time, and I wasn't in the mood."

“Thank you," you said, squeezing his hand.

“I've been under a lot of stress, and I’ve been taking it out on you, on us, and that isn't fair. You haven't done anything wrong—"

“That's not true," you said, wiping a tear from your cheek. “I know I can be stubborn, and needy, and maybe a little reckless."

His mouth curved into a wry smile. On some level, you knew these were traits he loved about you, but you also knew that the reality of these things was much different than seeing them on paper.

“Okay, a lot a bit needy, but can you blame me?" You dragged a finger along the veins of his forearm, bulging around the sculpted muscle. “I’m the luckiest girl in the world."

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "That might be a stretch, sweet girl. But I’ll take it.”

“Maybe, um—” you weren't sure how to breach the subject, but you knew it needed to be said, especially with how unstable his mood had been lately. " Maybe it's time you start going to that therapist again...”

You braced for impact. This suggestion was never one that had gone over well in the past. Harry loathed any implication that he wasn't handling things well. Refusing to rely on anyone after so many suffered for his sake. Or, at least that's what he believed. Like he'd failed, somehow, in needing others to survive the Dark Lord's wrath. As if being close to him was a harbinger of pain.

Once, in the middle of the night after you'd woken him from a nightmare, he told you that part of him wished he hadn't survived. That he felt lost, purposeless. Selfish for having made it out, for trying to find happiness with Quidditch, with you, when so many had died.

Survivor’s guilt, his therapist had called it. It clung to Harry like a second skin. Dragging him down whenever he managed to break the surface, smothering him.

Harry sighed, resting his cheek on your stacked hands. “I'll call tomorrow,” he promised, and your heart soared. "Maybe we could start going together.“ He sat up, facing you fully. "Sort out whatever's—” he gestured vaguely between you. “Whatever's going on with us."

Tears welled in your eyes. “I’d like that."

Harry slid out of his chair, landing on his knees in front of you. He took your face in his hands, wiped your tears with his thumbs. “I love you, and I'm going to do whatever I have to do to make this work. I can't—" his voice caught. "I can't lose you, too.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you reassured him through damp sniffles. "I love you, too, baby.” You grabbed him by the collar, dragged him up for an earnest, salt-tinged kiss. His mouth parted eagerly under yours, pressing his hips between your knees to get closer. His tongue dragged along your lower lip, almost hesitant, and you met him halfway, tongues tangling as the kiss devolved into something messier, more frantic, as the heat between you ignited.

Your blocked nose made it tough to breathe, forcing you to break the kiss early, and he seized his opportunity, scooping you up off the chair in a dizzying feat of strength.

“Harry!" you gasped, clinging to his shoulders, legs fastening around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom.

“Shh, I’ve got you," he purred into your neck, drawing the fragile skin over your pulse point between his teeth. "You're safe,” he reassured you while painting blooms of purple and red across your throat.

Your hands found their way into his hair, tugging at the roots in the way that made him go a little mad, and he grunted, lifting his head to connect your mouths once again. He was insistent, need dripping from every press of his lips to yours, every swipe of his tongue, and graze of his teeth. Ravenous for you.

The two of you tumbled onto the bed, your shirt riding up over your thighs as he pawed at you. Desperate to remove every barrier between your bodies. His shirt practically flew off his back, and he'd nearly ripped yours in his haste.

“Harry, baby—hey,” you soothed, grabbing his face from where he'd buried it between your tits. He didn't go willingly, lips glossy and rose-colored as they unlatched from your skin. “Relax, love. I’m right here. I'm not going anywhere,” you reassured him once again. You'd say it as many times as he needed to hear it.

He flushed scarlet. “Sorry, sorry—I—”

You shushed him, drawing him down for a slower, more indulgent kiss. Savoring the lingering taste of beer on his tongue, the plush of his lips against yours, the cool, familiar press of his glasses against your fevered skin.

He melted into you, tight muscles going lax, and you heard the tiniest moan slip out from his throat when your thigh nudged his rapidly hardening cock over his jeans.

That sound alone was enough to set your blood on fire, sending a pulse of desire straight to your core. Using the little bit of leverage you gained, you rolled him onto his back without breaking the kiss, straddling his hips. This time, he didn't resist, hands greedy as they squeezed your ass, encouraging your hips to rock against his.

“Ngh—fuck, you feel so good,” he panted against your throat as you gyrated your hips, the rough texture of denim, the edge of his fly catching your clit with dizzying accuracy. “So pretty f’me.”

You braced your hands on his chest to push yourself upright, riding him with more urgency as your pleasure surged, stars dancing behind your eyes.

Harry gripped your hips, using his big hands to help you move even faster. “You looked too good tonight, drove me fucking crazy seeing you parade around like that—”

You gasped, his words like gasoline on your fire. Harry was never so bold, never let you see this more possessive side of himself, and despite your whinging earlier, you had to admit—you loved it. Loved being his.

“Wanted to make you jealous,” you admitted, nails biting crescents into his abs. “I—shit, Harry—I just wanted your attention—”

“You’ve always got my attention.” Harry sat up, mouthing at your tits while you grinded against him. Sucking one of your nipples between his teeth, biting hard enough to make you cry out. “Got me wrapped around your finger.”

Oh, that sweet boy.

Flattening your palms against his chest, you shoved him back down onto the bed and kissed your way down that infuriating, carved-from-marble torso. How could you ever stay mad at a six-pack like that?

His breath turned ragged, pink spreading across his chest when your fingers hooked into his belt, undoing the buckle and his fly in record time.

“Baby—oh, fuck,” he grunted when you dragged your tongue over the fabric covering his bulge. “Don't tease me, p-please—need to feel you—”

You obliged, partially in repentance of your attitude, partially from your own need, and tugged his bowers down. His cock slapped against his stomach, flushed an angry red and drooling, veins thick and straining.

You swallowed him down halfway, not giving him a chance to brace himself, and he whined, a broken moan spilling from between his teeth.

“Oh, saints—” he whimpered, hands fisting the sheets, knuckles white as he fought to keep still.

You bobbed up and down, pushing lower with each descent until your nose brushed the dark curls around the base. You couldn't help a moan yourself; the taste and heat of him on your tongue, stretching the muscles of your jaw, made your whole body burn.

After a few minutes, he couldn't resist sliding a hand into your hair, gathering the strands in his fist so they didn't get in your way.

“So pretty,” he praised, voice rough with pleasure. “You’re so good to me—so perfect.”

The praise spilled through you, honey-sweet, and you pulled off of him to steal a kiss. He had other ideas, though, fist tightening in your hair to keep your mouth connected with his as he rolled you both over, pressing you down into the mattress.

Your legs fell open, his soaked cock nestling against the gusset of your panties. He reached between you, tugging at your underwear until a riiiip echoed through the room.

Both of you froze, breaking the kiss to stare at one another. Processing what just happened.

“Did you just—” a smile threatened to break across your face despite trying to look stern.

“Uh—” he lifted his hand, the shreds of your underwear hanging between his fingers. “Sorry, I—”

“That was so fucking hot.” You dragged his lips back to yours, kissing him fiercely.

He moaned into your mouth, eagerly returning your enthusiasm, and resumed rocking his hips, sawing through your now bare pussy. Already puffy and slick, so ready for him.

“Harry, please,” you whined, dragging our nails down his back.

He notched himself at your entrance, the blunt head splitting you open, and you both cried out. Usually, Harry would have taken a few minutes to stretch you out, but you were too far gone at this point to care.

“Gotta relax, baby—fuck, squeezing the hell out of me—” He lifted up, bracing a hand on the headboard as he drove deeper into our clenching heat. “Breathe, lovely.”

You swallowed a lungful of air, gasping when the tip nudged against that spot that made your eyes cross. The stretch was bright, but not unpleasant, the momentary pain chased off the accounting rush of dopamine.

“More—please, more.” You wrapped your legs higher around his waist, urging his hips forward, but he was stronger than you. Immutable as stone when he wanted to be.

H shook his head, dark hair obscuring his face. “Not going to risk hurting you,” he said, gliding a hand down your thigh to soothe your trembling. “Even though you beg so sweetly.”

He rolled his hips back, temporarily relieving the tension before easing back inside, pressing deeper. Back and forth, he worked you open until you were singing for him, your body finally going lax around him, walls fluttering in welcome as he sank to the hilt.

“There you go, good girl.” He leaned down, peppering kisses across your cheeks. “Still want more?”

You nodded eagerly. “Please, Harry—please, please, please—”

He drew his hips back and snapped them forward, the headboard knocking hard against the wall. Pleasure shot up your spine, and you keened, head tipping back with the force of it. He set a punishing pace, drilling you into the mattress with everything he had until sweat was beading between his muscles, the skin of his chest bright red from exertion.

“Is this what you wanted, baby?” He lowered himself on you, breath hot on your cheek, driving your knees nearly to your shoulders and hitting a new, mind-numbing angle deep inside of you. “Remind you how much I love you? How badly I need you?”

You nodded, biting down on his shoulder to stifle your cries, lest you piss off your neighbor--again. Your pleasure began to crescendo, the knot in your belly twisting tighter and tighter with every slapslapslap of his skin against yours.

“Not gonna last much longer with you squeezing me like that—ngh, fuck—” he grunted, hips starting to lose their rhythm as the two of you barreled towards the edge. “C'mon, lovely. Give it to me—”

His name was a chant on your lips, a prayer. You clung to him like he was the edge of the cliff you were plummeting off of, the empty air beneath you yawning wider and wider, spurred by the helpless, broken sounds spilling from his mouth, the wet plap of your bodies meeting with a feverish intensity.

You could feel him grow impossibly thicker, pushing back against your tightening walls, creating the perfect storm of pleasure that crackled beneath your skin, the briefest warning before lightning struck.

The two of you toppled over the edge together, clinging to one another. You shattered, wave after wave of bliss pouring over you, thundering through your bones. He continued rolling into you, your cunt pulling hard with every backstroke, until he collapsed on top of you. Gasping together, sweaty and smoldering, as the euphoria bled out of your muscles.

“Love you,” Harry mumbled against your pulse point, brushing his lips against the thrumming skin. So achingly gentle, like he hadn't been railing you into the next dimension moments before.

You loved him so much, it made your eyes sting, your throat close.

“Love you too,” you whispered, combing your fingers through his damp hair. “And I'm sorry for before—”

He lifted himself onto his forearms, muscles shaky with fatigue. “Don't apologize, I know I've been distant lately…” he trailed off. “I kept telling myself that we were drifting apart, but I think it was just me, hiding myself away because I—” he dropped his head into your neck again, and you felt the tell-tale warmth of fresh tears, his shoulders quivering ever so slightly.

Your heart cracked. “I know, love. It's alright,” you soothed. “Grief manifests in ways we don't expect. It's greedy, demanding—but I'm not going anywhere. You can't run me off that easily.”

He gave a wet chuckle, pressing kisses along your dampened skin. Lifted his head to look down at you through foggy lenses.“I don't know what I would do without you.”

You brushed the hair back from his face and grazed your thumb over the scar stitched across his forehead. “Something stupid, like save the world again.”

He snorted a laugh, then leaned down to steal a chaste kiss. “You are my world,” he murmured against your lips.

“And you're my hero.” You kissed him again, both of you grinning like fools.

© aureateink 2026. do not copy, post, or claim my writing as your own.

[aureateink]

tumblr hates me today and deleted the original ask in my drafts. hope this finds you anon 🫶

false alarm | harry j. potter

feat. Harry J. Potter x gf!reader

summary: you almost break up…again

cw: MDNI 18+, hurt/smut, post-war era, relationship issues, jealousy, verbal argument, angsty!harry, buff!harry oral (m!receiving), piv, fluffy ending

an: inspired by “We Almost Broke Up Again" by Sabrina Carpenter | masterlist

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" You threw your bag down on the kitchen island.

Harry scoffed. “Do you think I’m blind? You were practically drooling all over him—"

“You think I was drooling over George Weasley?" You crossed your arms over your chest, leaning your hip against the counter.

Your boyfriend shirked his jacket and tossed it over the back of the couch. Irritation prickled up your spine. How many times had you asked him to just hang it in the fucking closet? But you also couldn't help but notice the way his biceps stretched the fabric of his t-shirt, the dips and swells of his chest in full display.

Damn Quidditch season.

“You were all over him! I barely saw you all night,” Harry took off his glasses, scrubbed a hand over his face before running his fingers through his hair, the dark locks sticking up in every direction.

Ah, so there it is.

“Harry James Potter—" you crossed the room to him, gliding your hands up that Herculean chest, "—are you jealous?"

Harry shook his head, shrugging you off. "I'm not jealous. It's fucking embarrassing, standing by myself while my girlfriend hangs all over my best mate's brother.”

Now it was your turn to scoff, anger flaring hotter. “Oh! So, I embarrass you by talking to my friends? It's not my fault that you can't handle not being the center of attention for one night."

His green eyes darkened. "That's what you think?”

No, it wasn't what you thought. The last thing Harry ever wanted was the spotlight after everything he'd been through. And sure, you'd spent a little less time with Harry tonight than usual, but he was being sullen! Sulking in the corner, barely making any effort to talk to anyone. Even Ron and Hermione had given up trying to cheer him.

God forbid you wanted to have a laugh at a party on a Saturday night.

“I think you're making a big deal out of nothing," you tried again, softening your tone a bit.

“So, you won't even admit to flirting with him?"

“Why would I admit to something I didn't do?" Frustration burned in your throat, made your eyes water.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Harry shook his head and turned away from you, stalking down the hall to your shared bedroom.

“You were miserable all night, Harry." You followed him down the hall, finding him sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. “You didn't want to drink, you didn't want to dance…”

“Then maybe you should have asked what was wrong,” he snapped, lifting his head to glare at you.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that something was wrong?!" you cried, kicking off your heels and trying to grab the zipper on your dress. The damn thing had been suffocating you all night.

He sighed, pushing to his feet and approaching you. Batted your hands away from your dress and turned you around. “I wanted to stay home, spend some time together just the two of us." His calloused fingers skimmed the valley between your shoulder blades, carefully undoing the little hook above the zipper. "With the season starting, I feel like I've barely seen you." He slid the zipper down slowly, and you were finally able to take a full breath as the bodice gave way.

The relief was short-lived, however, because his lips grazed the curve of your shoulder, and you lost your breath once again.

“I’ve missed my girl," he murmured into your skin, lips trailing up your neck. The zipper reached the bottom, and the dress slipped down your legs, pooling at your feet.

“I miss you, too," you admitted, tilting your head to the side to give him more access. Body melting into his with practiced ease. “That's why I wanted to go tonight, so we could let loose and have a little fun. You’ve been working so hard…”

“I know, baby." He gripped your hips, turning you around to face him. "I’m sorry for being such a spoil-sport tonight.”

“I’m sorry for not asking what you wanted to do." Your fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt. “And I'm sorry if it seemed like I was flirting with George. I have no interest in him or anyone. It's always been you, Harry." You leaned in to peck his cheek, but he recoiled.

“It didn't seem like anything. Anyone with eyes could see you two were flirting.” He stepped away from you, the moment shattered.

“We were just talking! What, I can't talk to other men ever?!" You tugged one of his old t-shirts over your head to cover up, suddenly feeling exposed.

“If that's what you consider ‘talking’, then no!"

“I sit in this flat all fucking week while you're at practice all hours of the goddamn day doing Merlin knows what with Merlin knows who, and I can't have one fucking night to socialize and relax?!” You were shouting now, hands trembling with anger.

Harry's face flushed as his own anger surged. “I'm busting my ass on the pitch! It's not a bloody social call!”

“Having a kegger in the locker room is not what I would call ‘busting your ass’!"

“That was one time for Darby's engagement. And I told you we were doing it beforehand!”

“Oh, but you didn't ask what I wanted, did you?"

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose over his glasses. "I don't want to fight.”

“Then don't start one." You brushed past him, padding out into the kitchen. The rapidly retreating buzz demanded a snack. But, of course, neither of you had made time to go to the grocery store this week, so the fridge was woefully empty.

Harry followed you, watching you rummage around in the pantry before finally settling on a packet of instant noodles. You grabbed two, setting them on the counter while you fetched the pot. Except Harry put the dishes away last, and the pot was too high for you reach on your own.

Without a word, he pressed up behind you again and grabbed the pot, setting it on the stove for you. “Ron asked me if we were fighting again tonight,” he said, moving out of your way while you filled the pot.

Guilt curdled in your stomach. You knew your friends were worried about the two of you, and you'd maybe confided a bit too much in Hermione after bottomless mimosas last weekend, but surely it wasn't so serious that they were cornering him about it, right?

Maybe it was, though. The last few parties you'd gone to had all ended in fights, and you'd banished Harry from the flat not even a month ago after a particularly nasty row. Of course, he would have gone to stay with Ron and Hermione.

Fuck, this had gotten further out of hand than you thought. When was the last day that you and Harry hadn't fought about something?

The realization that you couldn't remember rinsed through you like ice water.

“What did you tell him?" You asked, adding the noodles to the boiling water.

“That we were going through a rough patch, but we love each other." He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes trained on the floor, like he was afraid to see your reaction. “Right?"

You poked at the noodles with a pair of chopsticks, lost in thought as you tallied up all the fights over the last few months. All of the nights you almost called it quits. All of the mornings you were glad you hadn't, only to be crying again come dinner time over something or another. You couldn't even remember what most of them were about anymore; they were that stupid. But the hurt was real, and it lingered far longer than the argument did.

Neither of you spoke for a while, avoiding each other's orbit while you stewed. The noodles sat cold in their bowls while you looked anywhere but one another.

For a terrible moment, you wondered if this was finally going to be it. If this was the fight you wouldn't be able to come back from. But then Harry reached across the table, placed his hand over yours.

“Lovely, look at me." His voice was honey and cream.

You obeyed, meeting his mossy eyes, the moonlight reflected in his glasses.

“I believe you—that you weren't flirting with George. You were just trying to have a good time, and I wasn't in the mood."

“Thank you," you said, squeezing his hand.

“I've been under a lot of stress, and I’ve been taking it out on you, on us, and that isn't fair. You haven't done anything wrong—"

“That's not true," you said, wiping a tear from your cheek. “I know I can be stubborn, and needy, and maybe a little reckless."

His mouth curved into a wry smile. On some level, you knew these were traits he loved about you, but you also knew that the reality of these things was much different than seeing them on paper.

“Okay, a lot a bit needy, but can you blame me?" You dragged a finger along the veins of his forearm, bulging around the sculpted muscle. “I’m the luckiest girl in the world."

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "That might be a stretch, sweet girl. But I’ll take it.”

“Maybe, um—” you weren't sure how to breach the subject, but you knew it needed to be said, especially with how unstable his mood had been lately. " Maybe it's time you start going to that therapist again...”

You braced for impact. This suggestion was never one that had gone over well in the past. Harry loathed any implication that he wasn't handling things well. Refusing to rely on anyone after so many suffered for his sake. Or, at least that's what he believed. Like he'd failed, somehow, in needing others to survive the Dark Lord's wrath. As if being close to him was a harbinger of pain.

Once, in the middle of the night after you'd woken him from a nightmare, he told you that part of him wished he hadn't survived. That he felt lost, purposeless. Selfish for having made it out, for trying to find happiness with Quidditch, with you, when so many had died.

Survivor’s guilt, his therapist had called it. It clung to Harry like a second skin. Dragging him down whenever he managed to break the surface, smothering him.

Harry sighed, resting his cheek on your stacked hands. “I'll call tomorrow,” he promised, and your heart soared. "Maybe we could start going together.“ He sat up, facing you fully. "Sort out whatever's—” he gestured vaguely between you. “Whatever's going on with us."

Tears welled in your eyes. “I’d like that."

Harry slid out of his chair, landing on his knees in front of you. He took your face in his hands, wiped your tears with his thumbs. “I love you, and I'm going to do whatever I have to do to make this work. I can't—" his voice caught. "I can't lose you, too.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you reassured him through damp sniffles. "I love you, too, baby.” You grabbed him by the collar, dragged him up for an earnest, salt-tinged kiss. His mouth parted eagerly under yours, pressing his hips between your knees to get closer. His tongue dragged along your lower lip, almost hesitant, and you met him halfway, tongues tangling as the kiss devolved into something messier, more frantic, as the heat between you ignited.

Your blocked nose made it tough to breathe, forcing you to break the kiss early, and he seized his opportunity, scooping you up off the chair in a dizzying feat of strength.

“Harry!" you gasped, clinging to his shoulders, legs fastening around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom.

“Shh, I’ve got you," he purred into your neck, drawing the fragile skin over your pulse point between his teeth. "You're safe,” he reassured you while painting blooms of purple and red across your throat.

Your hands found their way into his hair, tugging at the roots in the way that made him go a little mad, and he grunted, lifting his head to connect your mouths once again. He was insistent, need dripping from every press of his lips to yours, every swipe of his tongue, and graze of his teeth. Ravenous for you.

The two of you tumbled onto the bed, your shirt riding up over your thighs as he pawed at you. Desperate to remove every barrier between your bodies. His shirt practically flew off his back, and he'd nearly ripped yours in his haste.

“Harry, baby—hey,” you soothed, grabbing his face from where he'd buried it between your tits. He didn't go willingly, lips glossy and rose-colored as they unlatched from your skin. “Relax, love. I’m right here. I'm not going anywhere,” you reassured him once again. You'd say it as many times as he needed to hear it.

He flushed scarlet. “Sorry, sorry—I—”

You shushed him, drawing him down for a slower, more indulgent kiss. Savoring the lingering taste of beer on his tongue, the plush of his lips against yours, the cool, familiar press of his glasses against your fevered skin.

He melted into you, tight muscles going lax, and you heard the tiniest moan slip out from his throat when your thigh nudged his rapidly hardening cock over his jeans.

That sound alone was enough to set your blood on fire, sending a pulse of desire straight to your core. Using the little bit of leverage you gained, you rolled him onto his back without breaking the kiss, straddling his hips. This time, he didn't resist, hands greedy as they squeezed your ass, encouraging your hips to rock against his.

“Ngh—fuck, you feel so good,” he panted against your throat as you gyrated your hips, the rough texture of denim, the edge of his fly catching your clit with dizzying accuracy. “So pretty f’me.”

You braced your hands on his chest to push yourself upright, riding him with more urgency as your pleasure surged, stars dancing behind your eyes.

Harry gripped your hips, using his big hands to help you move even faster. “You looked too good tonight, drove me fucking crazy seeing you parade around like that—”

You gasped, his words like gasoline on your fire. Harry was never so bold, never let you see this more possessive side of himself, and despite your whinging earlier, you had to admit—you loved it. Loved being his.

“Wanted to make you jealous,” you admitted, nails biting crescents into his abs. “I—shit, Harry—I just wanted your attention—”

“You’ve always got my attention.” Harry sat up, mouthing at your tits while you grinded against him. Sucking one of your nipples between his teeth, biting hard enough to make you cry out. “Got me wrapped around your finger.”

Oh, that sweet boy.

Flattening your palms against his chest, you shoved him back down onto the bed and kissed your way down that infuriating, carved-from-marble torso. How could you ever stay mad at a six-pack like that?

His breath turned ragged, pink spreading across his chest when your fingers hooked into his belt, undoing the buckle and his fly in record time.

“Baby—oh, fuck,” he grunted when you dragged your tongue over the fabric covering his bulge. “Don't tease me, p-please—need to feel you—”

You obliged, partially in repentance of your attitude, partially from your own need, and tugged his bowers down. His cock slapped against his stomach, flushed an angry red and drooling, veins thick and straining.

You swallowed him down halfway, not giving him a chance to brace himself, and he whined, a broken moan spilling from between his teeth.

“Oh, saints—” he whimpered, hands fisting the sheets, knuckles white as he fought to keep still.

You bobbed up and down, pushing lower with each descent until your nose brushed the dark curls around the base. You couldn't help a moan yourself; the taste and heat of him on your tongue, stretching the muscles of your jaw, made your whole body burn.

After a few minutes, he couldn't resist sliding a hand into your hair, gathering the strands in his fist so they didn't get in your way.

“So pretty,” he praised, voice rough with pleasure. “You’re so good to me—so perfect.”

The praise spilled through you, honey-sweet, and you pulled off of him to steal a kiss. He had other ideas, though, fist tightening in your hair to keep your mouth connected with his as he rolled you both over, pressing you down into the mattress.

Your legs fell open, his soaked cock nestling against the gusset of your panties. He reached between you, tugging at your underwear until a riiiip echoed through the room.

Both of you froze, breaking the kiss to stare at one another. Processing what just happened.

“Did you just—” a smile threatened to break across your face despite trying to look stern.

“Uh—” he lifted his hand, the shreds of your underwear hanging between his fingers. “Sorry, I—”

“That was so fucking hot.” You dragged his lips back to yours, kissing him fiercely.

He moaned into your mouth, eagerly returning your enthusiasm, and resumed rocking his hips, sawing through your now bare pussy. Already puffy and slick, so ready for him.

“Harry, please,” you whined, dragging our nails down his back.

He notched himself at your entrance, the blunt head splitting you open, and you both cried out. Usually, Harry would have taken a few minutes to stretch you out, but you were too far gone at this point to care.

“Gotta relax, baby—fuck, squeezing the hell out of me—” He lifted up, bracing a hand on the headboard as he drove deeper into our clenching heat. “Breathe, lovely.”

You swallowed a lungful of air, gasping when the tip nudged against that spot that made your eyes cross. The stretch was bright, but not unpleasant, the momentary pain chased off the accounting rush of dopamine.

“More—please, more.” You wrapped your legs higher around his waist, urging his hips forward, but he was stronger than you. Immutable as stone when he wanted to be.

H shook his head, dark hair obscuring his face. “Not going to risk hurting you,” he said, gliding a hand down your thigh to soothe your trembling. “Even though you beg so sweetly.”

He rolled his hips back, temporarily relieving the tension before easing back inside, pressing deeper. Back and forth, he worked you open until you were singing for him, your body finally going lax around him, walls fluttering in welcome as he sank to the hilt.

“There you go, good girl.” He leaned down, peppering kisses across your cheeks. “Still want more?”

You nodded eagerly. “Please, Harry—please, please, please—”

He drew his hips back and snapped them forward, the headboard knocking hard against the wall. Pleasure shot up your spine, and you keened, head tipping back with the force of it. He set a punishing pace, drilling you into the mattress with everything he had until sweat was beading between his muscles, the skin of his chest bright red from exertion.

“Is this what you wanted, baby?” He lowered himself on you, breath hot on your cheek, driving your knees nearly to your shoulders and hitting a new, mind-numbing angle deep inside of you. “Remind you how much I love you? How badly I need you?”

You nodded, biting down on his shoulder to stifle your cries, lest you piss off your neighbor--again. Your pleasure began to crescendo, the knot in your belly twisting tighter and tighter with every slapslapslap of his skin against yours.

“Not gonna last much longer with you squeezing me like that—ngh, fuck—” he grunted, hips starting to lose their rhythm as the two of you barreled towards the edge. “C'mon, lovely. Give it to me—”

His name was a chant on your lips, a prayer. You clung to him like he was the edge of the cliff you were plummeting off of, the empty air beneath you yawning wider and wider, spurred by the helpless, broken sounds spilling from his mouth, the wet plap of your bodies meeting with a feverish intensity.

You could feel him grow impossibly thicker, pushing back against your tightening walls, creating the perfect storm of pleasure that crackled beneath your skin, the briefest warning before lightning struck.

The two of you toppled over the edge together, clinging to one another. You shattered, wave after wave of bliss pouring over you, thundering through your bones. He continued rolling into you, your cunt pulling hard with every backstroke, until he collapsed on top of you. Gasping together, sweaty and smoldering, as the euphoria bled out of your muscles.

“Love you,” Harry mumbled against your pulse point, brushing his lips against the thrumming skin. So achingly gentle, like he hadn't been railing you into the next dimension moments before.

You loved him so much, it made your eyes sting, your throat close.

“Love you too,” you whispered, combing your fingers through his damp hair. “And I'm sorry for before—”

He lifted himself onto his forearms, muscles shaky with fatigue. “Don't apologize, I know I've been distant lately…” he trailed off. “I kept telling myself that we were drifting apart, but I think it was just me, hiding myself away because I—” he dropped his head into your neck again, and you felt the tell-tale warmth of fresh tears, his shoulders quivering ever so slightly.

Your heart cracked. “I know, love. It's alright,” you soothed. “Grief manifests in ways we don't expect. It's greedy, demanding—but I'm not going anywhere. You can't run me off that easily.”

He gave a wet chuckle, pressing kisses along your dampened skin. Lifted his head to look down at you through foggy lenses.“I don't know what I would do without you.”

You brushed the hair back from his face and grazed your thumb over the scar stitched across his forehead. “Something stupid, like save the world again.”

He snorted a laugh, then leaned down to steal a chaste kiss. “You are my world,” he murmured against your lips.

“And you're my hero.” You kissed him again, both of you grinning like fools.

© aureateink 2026. do not copy, post, or claim my writing as your own.

[aureateink]

they put a content warning on something I haven't even posted yet that's sitting in my drafts. who do I have to sacrifice for the tumblr gods to forgive me

[aureateink]

just read double vision!!! it was really beautifully written!!!!

just curious, are you a swiftie?

thank you love!!

i have a few albums I like (red, folklore evermore, TTPD) but no, I wouldn't call myself a swiftie

[aureateink]

double vision | bucky barnes

feat. Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

summary: 5.2k. you drunk-dial your ex-situationship

cw: pov switching, thunderbolts era, fluffy caretaking, mild angst, day-drinking, hurt/comfort, mild brat-taming, Bucky has the patience of a saint, mentions of sex/hooking up

an: inspired by “Go Go Juice" by Sabrina Carpenter. this turned out so much mushier than I expected and with no explicit smut, who am i

| masterlist

Somehow, and for reasons that were almost certainly not your fault, your day-off mimosa had turned into three cosmopolitans (if you could call vodka with a whisper of whatever pink mix you had in your pantry a cosmo) and two shots of whiskey. You think they were roughly shot-sized. Close enough, at least.

You tipped the bottle back again, amber liquor sloshing into your mouth, and you grimaced as you swallowed. It wasn't yours. It was Dylan's—gag—, but you weren't about to let perfectly good liquor go to waste. Not when you could put it to use, blunting the sharp edges of your broken heart.

Six months, including a whole holiday season, you'd sunk into that capricious fucker, and he'd dumped you via text en route to the Valentine's Day dinner you'd planned.

You took another swig of whiskey, glaring at the offending device on your coffee table. Full of nothing but fuck boys and fuck heads and fucking limp-dick bitch boys—and him.

The bottle hit the table with a clatter as you set it down. Nope nope noooope. You weren't supposed to think about him, especially not after a few drinks. You'd built a firewall between that year, those memories, and yourself.

Do not pass go. Do not think about B—

You snatched up the bottle again, poured the lukewarm dregs of it into your mouth. Letting the liquor burn away the forbidden thoughts. Fuck, you needed an omelette and a nap.

And therapy, probably.

Omelette first.

You pushed to your feet and the room twisted, your body floaty and a little numb as you picked across your apartment to the kitchen. Reached for the pan, missed, decided on popcorn instead. Grabbed the bottle of strawberry vodka still in your freezer from Galentine's while the kernels popped. Checked the oven clock, 10:44 a.m., and you pretended you hadn't seen it.

Popcorn bowl in hand, you landed safely on the couch once again. The strawberry vodka went down too easily, viscous and syrupy on your tongue.

A memory slipped free, lubricated by the liquor. A date night at his apartment in Upper Manhattan. Billie Holiday playing on the record player in the corner. He cooked for you, despite still relearning how, and spun you around the kitchen like the lead in those black-and-white films he made you watch. For dessert, you'd had strawberries, whipped cream, and his mouth between your legs on the kitchen counter.

The liquor turned bitter on your tongue, but you still drank it.

You didn't remember picking up your phone, but the LED screen was bright in the dark hole of your apartment, thumb scrolling through your contact list.

Shawn? No.

Jake? Married now.

Harry? Hell no.

Dylan? Too soon.

Bucky? Your thumb hovered over his contact. His picture was still the selfie he'd taken of the two of you snuggled up in your bed, your hair half-covering his face, but his grin was palpable as he gazed down at you. It still sent your heartbeat galloping away every time you saw it, but you couldn't bring yourself to change it.

You'd met not long after the Blip, when the world was trying to reorient itself after half the population suddenly returned. You and Bucky had created a safe-haven of sorts, a solid place to land while you both healed.

It had been almost three years since he'd broken things off without warning. All but ghosting you not long after the night with the strawberries. Just days after that photo was taken.

It was never official, you reminded yourself. Just a situationship. A months-long situationship in which you felt more for him than anyone else you'd ever been with combined—but a situationship nonetheless.

The liquor had hold of you now, thick and pounding through your bloodstream, phone screen pulsing, then splitting as your eyes began to cross. Double vision, like the relationship you thought you'd had with him, and the reality of it.

Your thumb was moving before your brain could catch up, and his voice suddenly filled your apartment. Gruff and impersonal, but it still made your heart flutter.

“You’ve reached Bucky Barnes. If it's important, leave a message. If not…don't.”

Beeeeeeep.

—

Bucky’s fist connected with the punching bag, the thwack echoing loudly through the empty gym. He’d lost track of time in the concrete, windowless space, and that's exactly how he liked it. Buoyed by the quiet, the shelter from reality.

Therapy this morning had gone poorly. His therapist wanted to talk about his relationships, his emotional connections that went beyond obligation, and Bucky hadn't been able to provide a satisfactory answer, apparently. Mostly because he refused to talk about you.

Thwack. The energy from the hit reverberated up his metal arm, buzzing across his shoulders and down his spine.

He never let himself think about you, never let himself wonder if he'd made the right decision, never let himself imagine what things would be like if he had stayed. If he had been honest with you.

Thwack.

It didn't matter, anyway. He was certain you'd moved on, had seen the photos of that weasel on your social media pages. And he genuinely hoped you were happy with him, even if you were lightyears out of his league.

Thwack.

That's all Bucky ever wanted—for you to be happy and safe.

It's the reason why he did what he did, even though it felt like taking a lamb out into the yard and shooting it at the time.

Thwack, thwack, thwack—SNAP.

The chain holding the bag snapped, sending the bag flying across the space and slamming into a rack of dumbbells with a deafening crash.

Bucky shook out his fist. That was probably enough exercise for today.

He took a few gulps of water from the bottle and gathered his things. Pulled out his phone to check the time.

1 missed call from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

1 new voice message from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

He froze, staring down at his phone screen. You hadn't called him since the week after the breakup, when you'd left him a message to tell him you'd left some of his things outside his apartment. Nearly three years ago.

His thumb hovered over the message. It could be nothing, he told himself. Or, you might be in trouble.

“Fuck it," he muttered to himself, and hit play.

“Heeey, Bucky, it’s—hyuk—meee.” God, you sounded drunk. “I, umm, just wanted to see how you were d-doing. Maybe we could—hyuk—hooks up, er, no—hang out sometime?” you trailed off, faux-cheeriness slipping away. He could practically hear the sadness in your voice, and it made his chest ache. “Actually, f-forget I said anything—I’m just, fuck, ignore me. Sorry, I—I hope you're doing good, B.”

The call ended with an abrupt click.

Oh, you poor thing.

Wasted and crying at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday. So very unlike you, which meant something must have gone very wrong.

He showered quickly, racing the voices in his head telling him this was a mistake, and set off in the direction of your apartment before he could talk himself out of it.

You answered the door after about a dozen increasingly frantic knocks. He'd been pulling his phone out to call you when he heard the dead bolt slide into the wood.

It took you a second to adjust to the bright light of the hallway, lashes fluttering over red-rimmed eyes. You were still dressed in your pajamas, a tiny tank top, and shorts with delicate scalloped edges. Even in this state, you were more beautiful than the rose-colored lens of his memory.

With some effort, he glued his eyes to your face as you finally processed who was standing in front of you.

“Your hair is longer," you said finally, the words a little gooey, syllables sticking to the roof of your mouth.

God, he'd missed you so much. “It is," he replied, and you said nothing, doe-eyed and blinking. "Not a fan?” he pressed, running his fingers through it to smooth it back, still damp from his hurried shower.

He could practically see the gears turning in your head. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Bucky, what’re you doin’ here?"

“You called," he shrugged. Trying to play it cool, like his insides weren't a tangled mess of worry.

You looked exhausted, bleary-eyed, and unsteady on your feet. He wanted to scoop you up and carry you to your bed right then and there. He maybe would have if he thought you wouldn't kick and bite like a feral cat. No one was safe when you were a little bit drunk.

“Sounded like you could use some company," he continued.

“Didn't think that you'd pick up. I’m f-fine," you lied, picking at the chipping paint on the door.

“Can I come in anyway?"

You contemplated this, gaze sweeping over him, and he resisted the urge to puff up his chest.

“Don't you have like, hero shit to do?"

“Nah, it's quiet today," he lied. The Thunderbolts were actually scattered across the city right that moment, gathering intel. But they could handle it. Right now, the only person he was concerned about saving was you, even if it was just from a nasty hangover.

He saw the moment you relented flicker across your eyes, and you turned your back on him, disappearing into the cave of your apartment. He followed closely behind, closing and locking the door behind him.

It was unusually dark in there, the only light coming from the edges of the curtains and the glowing TV. You were watching some 90’s sitcom he vaguely recognized, and returned to your nest on the couch, drawing the blanket around your body.

The apartment was mostly how he remembered it, with some new art and a larger bookcase. It was definitely messier, though, with empty cups and bowls on the coffee table, dishes piled up in the sink, and a small mountain of laundry in your reading chair by the window.

“You're judging me," you accused, that drunken lilt tripping over the g’s.

“I am not." And he wasn’t, though he could tell you were a little embarrassed, even when thoroughly intoxicated. "I'm the last person to be dispensing judgment.”

“Please, your place was always immaculate." You rolled your eyes and reached for a bottle of something pink on the coffee table.

“Yeah, because I knew you were going to be there." He snatched it out of your hand before you could neck it.

“Hey—excuse you," you bit, trying to grab at it.

He held it high, suppressing a smile while he read the label. “Frisky Vodka?" he raised an eyebrow. “Salacious Strawberry—" he took a few steps towards the kitchen as you jumped to your feet, lunging at him, clumsy and slow from the alcohol.

“Bucky! Stop it—"

“—serve alongside a summer salad, vanilla cake, or at the beach with a handsome lifeguard—”

“Can you not—"

“140 proof!" he gasped, pausing by the sink. “Doll, this will strip paint."

“I swear to fuck—" You threw yourself at him, grabby hands batting at his chest and shoulders. You always were a spirited little thing.

He adored you so much it made his ribs ache.

Bucky tsked. “Language." He tipped the bottle over and poured it into the sink.

“Who the hell do you think you are barging in here—"

“You let me in," he countered, washing the liquor down the sink. The smell alone made his teeth ache. "You called me, sweetheart. You knew how this was going to go. I’m not one of the little party boys in your phone.”

You sucked your teeth, glaring daggers at him. You knew he was right. If you wanted a random hook-up or meaningless attention, you would have called any of the other drooling dogs on your phone. The thought alone made his stomach twist, his vision fill with blood. But instead, you'd called him.

There was a reason, whether or not you'd even admitted it to yourself.

“So, are you going to let me take care of you, or are you going to keep being a brat?"

“I hate you.”

“You can hate me while walking. Go take a shower, and I'll make you something real to eat.” Yes, he'd noticed the half-eaten bowl of popcorn. You’d need a lot more than that to soak up the strawberry-flavored lighter fluid you were drinking.

“You can't tell me what to do in my own apartment!"

“I believe I just did." He started collecting things to make brunch, surprising even himself with how well he remembered the layout of your kitchen.

Your eyes narrowed, arms crossed over your stomach. “You're different."

He paused his rummaging through your alarmingly empty refrigerator. “Good different?" he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I haven't decided."

“Well, I always do my best thinkin’ in the shower. So get to it." He retrieved the carton of eggs at the very back, and by the time he straightened up, you'd stalked down the hallway. A door slammed shut a moment later.

Twenty minutes later, he plated a cheesy omelette and some tater tots—they were basically hashbrowns, right? Along with a few orange slices and the largest bottle he could find, filled with ice water. He’d also taken the liberty of starting a load of dishes and cleaning out the old food from your fridge.

He'd been about to run the trash when you came padding down the hall, dressed in a new set of pajamas, your hair tied up in a towel. The smell of your body wash caught him across the chin like a sucker punch, and he had to grip the edge of the counter so he didn't fall to the ground and start panting.

He was here to take care of you, nothing else.

You looked decidedly less hostile as you sat on one of the stools, even offering him a timid, melty smile when you took in the cleaner kitchen and steaming food. “Thanks, B," you mumbled while you tried to stab a tater tot. You missed, trying twice more before giving up and grabbing it with your fingers, popping it into your mouth.

Bucky didn't trust himself to speak around the heart-sized lump in his throat, so he nodded and nudged the water towards you.

“I promise I'm not an alcoholic," you said, and he snorted a laugh. “It's just been…" You trailed off, pushing eggs around your plate.

Bucky leaned on his elbows across from you, getting down to your eye level. “You don't have to explain anythin’ to me. Not ever," he said, and you nodded, swallowing hard. “Eat up."

But before he could turn back to the dishes, you spoke up again, all in a slurring rush. “He ghosted me on Valentine's Day. Used the reservation I made to take another girl. I should have known he just wanted to fuck me, he was always so weird and flakey and god—it was so fucking stupid. I just never thought he'd do something that shitty, y’know?"

Bucky contemplated this, untangling your scrambled words. “You dumped him?"

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“You want me to kill him?"

The corner of your mouth tilted up a tiny bit.

“I've got the clearance. I can make it look like an accident—”

“No, no," you giggled, shaking your head. "No murder.”

“That's what the clearance is for. It's not technically murder," he corrected, unable to stop himself from smiling back at you.

“No assassinations, then." You pronounced the word with about a dozen extra s’s, and he felt like he might keel over if his heart didn't return to a normal rhythm soon.

“Fine, no assassinations," he said. "I’m sorry he treated you like that. You aren't stupid, and it wasn't your fault. You don't deserve to be left hanging.”

Your smile faltered, gaze dropping back down to your plate. “And yet, it keeps happening,“ you muttered.

He realized his mistake, then. “Doll—"

“I know, Bucky, I know," you cut him off, waving your fork in the air. “You’ve got more important shit to do, like saving the world from purple aliens and, like, Russians or something. It's fine. We don't have to talk about it."

It felt like you stabbed the fork between his ribs, twisting the tines through the fragile skin of his lungs.

“Just—just forget it. It's fine. Thank you for breakfast.” You pushed the plate away, jumped to your feet too fast. Your balance failed, legs moving too slowly to catch you, but luckily, Bucky was quicker, and he caught you around the middle before you cracked your head on the counter.

“Easy now, I gotcha’." He shifted you back onto your feet, grip tight around your body to ensure you didn't fall again. You were trembling and hot to the touch, hands clammy against his arms. Your hair towel had fallen off, cold strands tumbling over your shoulders. You seemed very pale all of a sudden. " Let me get you into bed, yeah? C’mere, honey—”

“No—" you tried to protest, but he was already scooping you beneath your knees, lifting you carefully into a bridal hold. Trying his very best not to jostle or move you too quickly.

“You look like death warmed over, doll. Pipe down and let me help you." He started moving towards your bedroom, the path so familiar he could chart it with his eyes closed.

You swatted weakly at his chest, but didn't protest, head lolling against his shoulder. You were so limp in his arms, so trusting, and he was deeply grateful you'd had the foresight to call him, and not one of those other dipshits who might have taken advantage of you. It healed something in him to know how much you trusted him, even after everything he'd done. Maybe he really wasn't the monster he saw in the mirror.

“Just wanted to fuck you," you mumbled into the hollow of his throat, lips brushing his skin.

He barely stifled a laugh at your bluntness. “Did you?" he asked, stepping over a pile of clothes and into your bedroom. “That's why you called, huh?"

You nodded. “But you're being mean." Your voice was barely above a whisper, fading as you drifted closer to sleep.

“I know, doll," he hummed, unable to resist placing a kiss on the furrow between your brows. You wouldn't remember it anyway; he was being selfish. “And you can curse me out all you like tomorrow."

“Bet your ass I will…”

“Oh, I'm counting on it." But his words hung empty in the air. By the time he got to your bedside, you were fast asleep, tiny snores tickling the hair around his throat. Careful not to wake you, he tucked you beneath the covers, arranged your hair so it wouldn't soak your pillowcase.

He retrieved a wastebasket, your water, and a few Advil, setting them all within arm's reach on your nightstand. Then he plugged in your phone, turned on all your little ambient lamps around your room to make it cozy, and put your comfort show back on, volume all the way down.

Satisfied that you were settled and safe, he debated whether he should stay. What if you woke up and needed him? What if you really were ill?

He decided to stay just a little longer, to finish cleaning up the kitchen and take the trash. That's the last thing anyone wants to do when they're hungover.

But when that was done, he decided to tidy up the living room, just a little bit. Throw away the old flowers and dust the shelves, straighten your desk, and put any stray items where they belong.

But then he might as well fold the pile of laundry. It was taking over your favorite chair after all, and you'd probably want to sit there later. So he folded your laundry, pretending not see the more delicate items in the pile that made his blood pressure rise, or the old t-shirt he'd been missing, the fabric significantly more worn than the last time he saw it.

And then the chair was bare, so he put a blanket over it and a favorite stuffed animal. Sure, it just so happened to be a bear he'd won you on Coney Island, but that wasn't the point.

And if you were going to enjoy your reading chair, you'd need a few snacks. Plus, your fridge was mostly condiments and beverages, so you needed groceries, too. He ordered some on Instacart, only needing mild assistance from Yelena, and waited around for the delivery to put them away.

By then, it was nearly six o’clock, so he might as well prep you some dinner.

It occurred to him that he was being a little bit insane, maybe a lot a bit, but he missed you so much, and just wanted to make sure you were okay. He had to know if you were okay.

And being back in your apartment, surrounded by your favorite colors and little trinkets and hobbies, it felt like coming home. A home he hadn't been to in a long, long time. It was like double vision, seeing the place he'd once loved, knowing it didn't really belong to him anymore.

With every hour that passed, the gravity of his mistake grew heavier, harder to ignore. He should never have let you go, should never have thought you'd be better off without him. That was your choice to make, not his, and all he'd done was hurt you both by making it instead.

He’d been a coward, and now he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to make it right. Not when you were clearly still hurting, still angry with him.

But, he thought with rare optimism while he dumped the pasta into the boiling water, maybe this could be a first step.

—

You woke up to a familiar laugh track and a kick-drum pounding behind your eyelids. Spotting the water on the table, you guzzled it, along with the painkillers sitting beside it—wait, you didn't remember setting that glass there, or the pills, or the wastebasket. And you definitely didn't turn on all of your ambient lights, or... was your hair wet?

Okay, you did remember taking a shower, and eating the best omelette you'd had since—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Bucky had made the omelette for you. Bucky had been here, in your mess of an apartment. Made you take a shower, eat, and dumped out your booze.

Then, the smell of frying garlic reached your nose, and your stomach gave a fierce growl.

Someone was cooking in your apartment.

Moving slowly to not irritate your head any further, you pulled on a hoodie and exited the dark safety of your bedroom.

You couldn't believe what awaited you.

Apartment? Spotless. Laundry? Folded. Lights? Dimmed. Candles? Lit. Bucky? Dressed in a too-tight t-shirt, chopping zucchini at your kitchen island.

“Thought the garlic might summon you," he said, his voice a low baritone alongside the thunkthunkthunk of the knife that soothed the ache between your eyes. "Hungry?”

“Did you…” You looked around, struggling to comprehend what you were seeing. Bucky had cleaned your entire apartment while you slept and was making you dinner, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn't stomp on your heart and blow you off three years ago with no explanation. “Why did you do all of this?”

He finished chopping and scraped the vegetables into the pan. “You called me," he said, as if that explained anything.

“Yeah, for a hook up, not—" you gestured around the apartment, "—not for you to babysit me.”

“Don't act like a baby then." He turned back around, setting the cutting board on the counter. Those blue eyes were like fucking arrows, piercing straight through the soft parts of you.

“I am not—" you caught yourself. "You didn't have to do this.”

“Obviously." He braced his hands on the counter, his metal arm whirring faintly at the pressure. Fuck, how had he gotten even more buff than before? And you felt personally attacked by his newly long hair. You'd pestered him to grow it back out for months.

“So why did you?"

“How about a ‘thank you’?" He was deflecting.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Too hungover to filter yourself anymore. “Are you ever going to be honest with me?"

The question shattered like glass on the floor between you.

His jaw flexed, gaze lowering to the counter.

You waited for his response, the vegetables undoubtedly burning behind him. Your head was still pounding, stomach gone sour, and your tongue felt like it had a sock wrapped around it.

“Just go, Bucky. You've done enough. “ You turned on your heel to hide in the dark of your room, when he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry."

“What?" You turned back towards him.

“I’m sorry," he repeated, lifting his head to look at you. The hurt in his gaze was unmistakable. A bone-deep pain you'd only witnessed when he talked about losing the one person that meant everything to him. "It was a mistake, I made a mistake, and I—” his metal hand combed through his hair, scrubbed over his face. “I just wanted to help you, to do something for you. I know it doesn't change or erase what I did, but—fuck, I’ve missed you so much, and even just being in your home, around you was so...” he fell silent, letting his confession hang in the air between you.

Maybe you were still a little drunk—okay, definitely still a little drunk—but that look in his eyes was all the confession you ever needed. And deep down, you knew that you called him because you needed someone to take care of you, someone to love you, and Bucky was the only person you trusted to do so without taking more than they gave.

You hadn't called for a hook-up; you called because you missed him. Because you needed him. And he'd come because he missed you, too. He stayed because he needed you too.

With hurried steps, you crossed the apartment. Your arms found their way around his waist, tucking your head under his chin. Immediately, his arms encircled you, holding you tightly against his chest, his nose buried into your hair. The connection between you thrummed to life, sparks jumping every place your skin brushed his. The years fell away like autumn leaves, leaving just the two of you, and the love you both had tried so hard to bury.

“Thank you, B," you murmured.

“Anytime, doll," he hummed, the words resonating in the drum of his chest.

The two of you stayed quiet for a few minutes, unwilling to relinquish the fragile moment, but an acrid smell started to make your nostrils itch.

“Your veggies are burning.”

“Fuck ‘em," he said. “You just want the pasta anyway."

You giggled, nuzzling even closer, the smell of his skin turning your thoughts to static. “Yeah, I do."

His metal hand skimmed up your spine, sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. The coolness of his touch made you shiver, and he started gently pressing into the knots in your neck, loosening the tension that was like a vice around your skull.

“How's your head?" He asked.

You let your head fall into his palm, unraveling under his touch as your pain melted away. A moan slipped out when he dug into an especially tender spot, and you felt his breath hitch.

“Poor thing," he cooed. “You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?"

“I was stupid," you muttered, petulant.

His fingers tightened in your hair, craning your head back. “You were reckless, not stupid. Stupid would have been calling one of those other losers on your phone."

“Wouldn't have all those losers in my phone if you—”

“I know, I know,“ he pouted, loosening his hold. “Don't have to rub my nose in it."

“James Buchanan Barnes, are you jealous?" You teased, tugging at his pursed lower lip with your thumb.

He nipped at your fingers, his flesh hand wrapping your wrist to immobilize you.

“Maybe I'll call one of them right now, since you seem more interested in being my personal butler than hooking up—"

He pressed his mouth to your captive wrist, a hot, hungry kiss that shot up your arm and through your body, making your toes curl in your slippers. “Hooking up doesn't even begin to cover what I want to do to you," he gruffed, trailing his lips down your forearm while his metal hand fell to your lower back, pressing your body closer to his.

“So what are you waiting for?" you asked, a little breathless.

His lips moved to your throat, feather-soft against your hammering pulse, up towards the shell of your ear. “First, you're going to eat and hydrate. Then we're going to watch a movie, something mushy and romantic, and you're going to fall asleep in my lap,” his voice was slow and sinful, stoking the fire in your belly to an inferno.

You clung to him, head bobbing. Yes, yes, yes.

But he wasn't finished. “And when you wake up in the morning, bright-eyed and clear-headed, I'll seek my penance between those perfect thighs.” He leaned back to look into your eyes. “Sound good?"

You nodded, jaw a little slack. It was like he tipped your head over and all your thoughts came pouring out of your ears. “S-sounds great."

He pecked your lips, which was practically a crime against humanity after winding you up so much. “Now, go sit your butt on the couch. I got frozen pizzas as a backup."

You perked up at that, pout falling away. “Did you get my—"

“Your favorite? Of course I did. Go on and pick your movie." He turned you loose with a pat on the butt, and you scampered off to the living room.

“Hey, B, did you get any wine?—"

“No."

“Fiiiiiiiine.”

© aureateink 2026. do not copy, post, or claim my writing as your own.

[aureateink]

Hey cutie. Pleaseeee more jealous/possessive draco with a sweet and innocent reader. Like he's your guard dog, walking behind you with his friends while you walk and wonder why no one even dares to stare at you. But when he's gone, people get their confidence back but it it so short lived once he finds out.

thanks so much for you request babe! appreciate your patience 🌹

teeth | draco malfoy

feat. auror!Draco Malfoy x reader

summary: 6k (whoops). you work in the department of records at the ministry of magic, and have made an unlikely friend in the wizarding world's most brutal auror.

cw: MDNI 18+, fluffy with some smut, afab!reader uses she/her pronouns, possessive!draco, scary dog privileges, shy!reader, mean coworkers, threats of violence, “use your words”, dom-sub dynamics, finger blasting as an act of dominance

an: can't tell if I love or hate this, but if i don't post it now, it'll rot in my drafts for all eternity, so eat up !!

| masterlist

It started with a chocolate croissant. You had reached for it in the break room at the same moment he did, the brush of his fingers like cool water. In the moment, you'd recoiled, heat scorching your cheeks, fear knotting in your sternum. Stammered out some halfwit apology.

Sorry, I didn't—please, you take it, Auror M-Malfoy.

Those glacial eyes fixed on your face for a second, the kind of blue found only in the coldest places, and for a moment, you thought he was actually going to reprimand you over a bit of pastry. But instead, he'd smiled and cut the croissant in half.

The following week, you'd found a paper bag and a latte waiting on your desk in the department of records. There was no note, no name anywhere, but nestled between flaxen parchment paper was a chocolate croissant dusted generously with powdered sugar. The only clue as to who left it for you was an angular ‘D’ scrawled onto the side of the coffee cup by the barista who made it.

You'd hardly believed it was real until you felt the sugar dissolve on your tongue. It was a kindness you hadn't experienced since you started at the Ministry over a year ago. It could be a dreadfully bureaucratic, unfeeling place. That sugar high had stuck with you the entire day, lightening your steps.

Another one appeared later in the week, again, anonymous, besides that tell-tale ‘D’.

There were lots of D’s at the Ministry, you told yourself. You had at least three coworkers named Daniel just in the Department of Records. But you knew none of them would have the taste to select such fine pastry, or the deduction skills to know how you liked your coffee based on a few fleeting observations in the break room.

On Friday of that week, you'd arrived early, hoping to knock out some filing before record requests started piling up for the day. The Department had been blissfully empty, and you'd gotten to work with a tune sung just under your breath.

“Ah, you're here early,” a brusk, masculine voice rolled through the quiet like an afternoon storm.

You were a bit embarrassed to admit it, but you knew exactly who that voice belonged to.

Nearly dropping the files in your hands, you whirled around. Your suspicions, and perhaps wildest imagination, were confirmed. Draco Malfoy, the most brutal, efficient Auror the Ministry had seen in decades, stood beside your desk, holding a pastry bag in one hand, a latte in the other. And he looked almost…sheepish, standing there in his heavy black uniform, platinum hair smoothed to perfection.

“Uh—I—yes, the, um, lots of filing,” you stammered, tongue-tied. In that moment, you swore no one had ever looked that good before in the history of forever. And you would know—it was your job to know everything.

The corner of his mouth lifted, and impossibly, he became even more devastating. “You'll need your energy, then,” he said, setting the treats onto your desk.

You had the inane impulse to ask him why. Why was he suddenly paying you any attention? What did he want from you?

But before you could untangle your words, he was turning on his heel and striding away, cloak billowing in his wake.

—

The breakfast deliveries continued, but more often Draco began delivering them in person, or, if he arrived before you, he'd leave a small note beside the bag, written on one of the little notepads you keep on your desk.

Thank you for finding that record yesterday.

They were out of cinnamon, thought you might like mocha instead.

Don't work too hard today.

Going away for a week. Keep an eye out for Potter.

You weren't sure what he meant by that. Harry Potter, obviously, his childhood enemy turned coworker after they both became Aurors, but why would you need to keep an eye out for him?

Then, the following morning, you found Harry looking a bit lost in the department, hovering by your desk. He had a pastry bag in one hand and a latte in the other.

“Can I help you, Mr. Potter?” You asked, approaching cautiously.

His eyes lit up. “There you are! I thought this was your desk, but wasn't sure—” he held out the bag and coffee cup to you. “Delivery from one Draco Malfoy.”

For a moment, you were too stunned to speak. You'd always been a bit shy, preferring books and records to socializing, but tried your best to be friendly and gracious at work. Now, you couldn't even manage a ‘thank you’ as you took the treats from him.

Harry didn't seem to mind. “Malfoy will be back next week, but he insisted I bring you this while he was gone.”

“Do you—um—” you struggled to find the words, suddenly feeling exposed, soft underbelly on display. “Do you know why he's—”

“Because you're kind and genuine,” Harry said with a sympathetic smile. “Draco’s not so mysterious as he looks,” he joked, smile turning conspiratorial. Then, smile faltering, added, “Don't tell him I said that.”

You found yourself giggling at the insanity of this new reality you'd found yourself in. “I won't,” you reassured him.

—

The following Thursday, you stayed late to catch up on the filing that had piled up throughout the week. All of your coworkers seemed to have decided you were the best at it, so you should handle it all moving forward, on top of fulfilling all the requests that came your way. Which was nearly double what the rest of them received.

It was fine, you didn't really mind. You liked being helpful, being needed. But two hours in, and your back was beginning to ache, your energy depleted from continuous magic usage.

“They said you were still here, but I was half-hoping they were wrong,” a low voice broke through the quiet.

You stumbled out from between the stacks, hardly believing your ears. But sure enough, there was Draco Malfoy perched on the edge of your desk, flipping through one of the records stacked high on its surface. He looked different, under eyes bruise-dark, his blond hair finger-tousled and uniform ruffled. There was a slash across his cheek, the skin an angry pink, going lilac at the edges.

Your stomach did a backflip over your lungs, forcing your heart into your throat. “Here I am,” you said meekly. “When did you get back?”

“This evening,” he said absently, a line forming between his brows as he read. He clapped the file shut and slid off the desk. “Krepski pulled this,” he said, dropping it onto your neighbor's desk.

You nodded, not sure what to say.

“Do you usually put everyone else's records away?” Draco asked, his voice softer than the look in his eyes.

“Well, uh, I wouldn't say usually, but—”

“How many of these are yours?” He turned back to your desk, rifling through the stack.

You grimaced. None of them were yours. You always put them away as soon as they were returned to you to avoid, well, this.

Apparently, the look on your face was answer enough. Something sharp glinted in his eyes, but he blinked it away, rolled out the stiffness that had accumulated in his shoulders.

“Let me help you,” he said, meeting your gaze.

“You just got back, I couldn't—”

“Please?”

You stared at him. Somewhere, a part of you knew this wasn't a word Draco Malfoy used often, if ever. You found that you couldn't deny him such a simple request.

And, if you were being entirely honest, the thought of actually spending some time with him cracked your heart like a glow stick.

“Alright.”

The two of you worked together, hardly speaking at first, to start sorting the files. But it wasn't an uncomfortable quiet like you'd come to expect from your other coworkers. This quiet was soft in the way that freshly fallen snow can be, a gentle muffling of the outside world. You found a steady rhythm, communicating without words. He seemed to know what file you were reaching for before you reached for it, just like you knew where he was about to step before he moved.

You'd never seen the Auror look so calm, his muscles loose, his stride languid. Even his voice, when he did use it, had softened to the coo of a dove, sending a tremor down your spine with every passing word.

But mainly, you were just happy to have given him a quiet space to land. From the snippets of information he gave you as the evening wore on, his trip hadn't been an easy one. Chasing dark wizards along the Scottish coastline didn't exactly sound like a holiday.

He'd asked about you more than anything: where you grew up, your Hogwarts house, your favorite music. You answered timidly, unsure about what to do with his interest. Usually, when people asked you those sorts of questions, it was so they could answer the questions themselves, but Draco wasn't like that. You'd even made him laugh a few times, the sound as pleasant a surprise as an afternoon sun shower.

He seemed genuinely intent on getting to know you, and spoke very little of himself. Though you couldn't exactly blame him for that, knowing what you did know about him.

When the last record had been filed, he leaned against the bookcase beside you, having to crane his neck to peer down at your face.

Saints, he was tall.

“So, have you eaten yet tonight?” He asked, adjusting the wrists of his uniform, fiddling with the ring on his middle finger. A signet etched with a coiled serpent.

Your stomach answered for you, growling audibly at the mere mention of food.

He tsked, shaking his head at you. Lips curling in opposite directions, displeased and relieved in equal measure. “I was going to stop at that pizza place on the corner on my way back to my flat. Would you like to join me?”

“S-sure, pizza sounds great,” you said, wondering if you'd somehow fallen asleep while sorting files and this was some insane, marvelous dream.

His smile widened. “C’mon, then. My treat.”

—

After that evening, you and Draco had built an unlikely partnership. You weren't sure you were friends, mainly because you didn't see one another outside of work beyond getting pizza, but he was always there to lend a helping hand. The breakfast deliveries became more frequent, and he started bringing you a cup of tea every afternoon. And, in exchange, you'd let him loiter at your desk whenever he needed a little escape, or to have his overactive mind numbed by the repetitive scribble stamp swoosh of your work.

Even with this new familiarity, your heart still did a little flip whenever he smiled at you, or appeared around the bend of a hallway you weren't expecting him to. But you never imagined he'd feel that way about you. He was Draco Malfoy. He could literally have anyone in the world he wanted.

Whatever the two of you were, you were just happy to have a companion. He made you feel less alone in this marble-crusted corporate hellscape.

And, you realized just a few weeks into this new dynamic, that having a notoriously vicious Auror in your life came with its own set of perks.

The second Junior Auror Lewis walked into the Department of Records, you knew there was going to be a problem. He was red-faced and sputtering, waving the records you had dispensed to him the previous morning like a war flag.

Anxiety prickled along your neck, palms going clammy against your wooden stamper. You set it down, folding your hands into your lap as the flustered man approached.

You gave him your most winning smile. “Can I help you, Auror Lewis?”

He slammed the files onto your desk with a reverberating whack, and you startled to your feet, chair screeching backwards. “What the fuck is this?” He snarled, jabbing a finger into the paper. “These aren't the records I requested.”

Heat built under your skin, heart hammering against your ribs. You could feel every eye in the Department on you, judging you. “I—uh—” you made a show of shuffling through the papers, despite knowing that these records were exactly what he had asked for. Evidently, he just wasn't skilled enough to actually use them.

Part of you wanted to say that, to humiliate him like he was humiliating you right now, but the words stuck in your throat. Choked you.

“Uh—what?” He mocked. “You work in the Department of Records and you can't fucking read?”

“Sir—I, if you could just—”

“This is a very important case, and I will not have some paper jockey fuck it up for me!”

Oh no, oh no. Your nose began to itch, moisture pooling along your lower lashes. Don't cry, don't cry.

“And here we go with the waterworks. How about you just do your fucking job instead of sniveling like a—”

“Like a what?” A low growl came from behind you.

Shit, you'd almost forgotten the Draco had been meandering through the stacks, taking a break between meetings.

Lewis paled. “Oh, uh—I—”

Draco moved to stand in front of you, his body warm and solid, traces of his evergreen cologne still lingering on his collar.

It made your head swim.

“Sir, she potentially compromised the mission with false inf—”

“Say another word about her, or her work, and I will be forced to use every weapon in my arsenal as punishment.” His wand whipped outward, verdant green magic spilling from the dark wood. His lips were pulled back in a snarl.

You sucked in a breath, and the Junior Auror staggered back a step.

“Draco, don't—” You weren't sure what came over you, but you placed a hand on his bicep, turning to look into his face. His eyes were blazing, molten glass, as he stared down the length of his wand. He was rigid beneath your touch, coiled like a snake able to strike. “Draco, please,” you tried again.

His eyes finally flicked to yours, and the harsh line of his mouth softened a fraction as he took in your fearful expression. The entire Department held its breath.

“What would you have me do?” He murmured finally, though his wand never wavered.

Your fingers inched down his arm, feeling the supple fabric of his uniform, the ropes of muscle concealed underneath, the slight tremor as you reached his forearm, then his wrist, until you finally brushed the leather glove covering his hand, pressing down gently until his shoulder loosened, and he lowered his wand. Never once did his eyes stray from your face.

“An apology is enough,” you whispered. “Please, Draco.”

He absorbed your words, jaw feathering with tension, until he gave you one stiff nod before turning his attention back to the quivering Junior Auror.

“You will apologize to her, and if I ever hear about you treating her, or any other coworker, this way again, I will see to it that you spend the rest of your simpering life in the bowels of Azkaban. Do I make myself clear?”

“I'm s-sorry,” Lewis sniffled. “I didn't—I’m sorry. Please—”

“I accept your apology,” you replied. “And in the future, if you're having trouble deciphering the information in the records, all you have to do is ask, and I’d be glad to assist you,” you added, flashing a smile.

Our coworkers chittered at that, and Lewis flushed a deep crimson, bowed his head, and fled. You never spoke like that, but having Draco at your side made you feel a little braver.

Draco glanced down at you, the warmth in his eyes almost tangible as it caressed your cheek. A giddy thrill ran through you.

“Clever girl,” he purred. “If anyone speaks to you like that again, come find me. Okay?”

You nodded, feeling like your lungs had turned into hot air balloons. “Okay.” You didn't even think about disagreeing.

“Good,” he smiled then, and it wasn't until he pulled away that you realized your hand was still resting on his. “I'm going to have a word with his supervisor, maybe the Minister, and you are going to take a half-day.”

He said the last part loudly enough that your boss, who was hovering in the wings, could overhear him.

“But I have so much—”

“Krepski will handle the rest of your work, won’t he?” Draco glanced over his shoulder at your desk neighbor, whose eyes widened to an almost comical degree.

“Yes, sir! Happy to!” Krepski blurted, jumping up to take the stack of files off your desk and over to his.

Draco turned back to you, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, brows raised expectantly.

“Why are you doing this?” You asked, voice lowering to barely a whisper. “I don't deserve—”

His expression sharpened. “What you don't deserve is to be overworked and underappreciated by the mindless goons that work here,” he said, voice low but not harsh. Restrained. Then, softer, “Someone has to look after you.”

No one’s ever looked after you before. Not like this. You'd always been independent, high-functioning. Never asked for anything, never needed anyone. If something needed to be taken care of, you were the one who took care of it. No questions asked.

If you were honest, you kind of liked this change of pace, even if it was a bit difficult to accept. And it didn't hurt that the person wanting to look after you was someone you genuinely liked, not to mention drop-dead gorgeous.

“Thank you, Draco,” you said, meeting his eyes.

“My pleasure. Now, go get some rest,” he ordered. “And all of that work better be finished by the time she clocks in tomorrow.” He directed this at Krepski, spinning his wand as if to punctuate his point.

“Of course!” Krepski squeaked.

Draco nodded in approval, flashed you a wink over his shoulder, and took his leave.

—

Word spread quickly about the altercation in the Department of Records, and suddenly everyone was wishing you a good morning or nodding in respectful greeting when you passed them in the hall. Your coworkers fielded work before it could even think about crossing your desk, and the line at the coffee station in the break room magically vanished whenever you stepped inside.

It was weird, and imposter syndrome still dogged at your heels, but you had to admit, it was a nice change. You finally felt like you could breathe again. And, despite yourself, your attraction to him had progressed into full-blown chest palpitations whenever he entered the room.

Sometimes, when he left an extra-sweet note or looked at you for a half-second too long, you thought maybe he could feel the same way about you.

But two weeks later, a gloomy, winter Friday, you hadn't seen Draco at all. No breakfast delivery, no afternoon tea, no five-minute break. Not even a glimpse in the hallway.

Your anxiety had mounted throughout the day, the knots tightening with each hour that passed until you could hardly breathe.

Was he mad at you? Avoiding you? Had you done something to upset him?

The thoughts were an endless loop, a train gone way off the tracks, and finally, when the bell struck 6 pm, and everyone was heading home, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

You were a bit ashamed to admit that you hadn't ever sought him out in his own office. He almost always came to you, except for when you strategically positioned yourself in the break room because you knew he'd be passing by. But even that was passive, an indirect maneuver born out of your own cowardice.

Now, standing outside his office door with a chocolate croissant, a black coffee, and your fist raised to knock, those insecurities came screaming back to you.

What if he doesn't want to see you? What if you're interrupting something? What if he's sick of you and now you look desperate because you can't take a hint?

What if, a quieter voice whispered, he needs you right now?

He'd done so much for you over the last few weeks; the least you could do was show him that you'd be there for him, too.

Knock knock. “Draco?” You called. “It's me.”

You couldn't hear anything through the door, weren't even entirely certain he was actually in here, when the knob unlocked with a soft click, and the door eased open.

Draco’s office was spacious, with large bookshelves and expensive-looking furniture. You could smell the leather polish and mahogany beneath the verdant top notes of the high-end cologne he wore. Emerald curtains were drawn over what had to be enormous windows, leaving the room dark except for the fireplace and fire-lit scones along the walls.

Draco was sitting at his desk, the surface strewn with papers and empty mugs of tea. He'd discarded the bulk of his uniform, leaving him in just a black long-sleeve shirt and pants. His hair was unruly, sticking up at odd angles from running his hands through it, and exhaustion hung from his shoulders like a shadow.

“What time is it?” He asked, though you weren't sure if he was directly asking you, and he spun in his chair to peer at the clock over his head.

“After 6,” you supplied, and he turned back to you, looking a little dazed.

“Fuck, really? I didn't realize—” his eye caught the coffee and paper bag in your hands, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “And what do you have there?”

You shrugged, heat climbing up your neck as you fought to suppress a smile. “Thought you might need a little something sweet.”

His mouth pulled into a borderline indecent smirk. “That so?” He asked, tilting his head slightly.

Your stomach swooped. “B-but I don't want to bother you if you're busy…” You back-peddled, fidgeting in place under the burn of his gaze.

“I am busy,” he agreed, watching you intently.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry—”

“Darling,” he cut you off. The new pet name was said gently, but it still felt like a tug at your collar. You straightened subconsciously. “If you wanted to see me, then all you had to do was ask.”

Your cheeks burned, lungs snagging against your ribs and hitching awkwardly. “I didn't—I don't—”

“Don't what?” He rose from his chair, moving around the desk to approach you. “Don't want to see me?” He asked, a faux frown on his face. Teasing you. Testing you.

“No, I—y-yes, of course I do, but—”

“But what?”

“But I know you're busy and…” you trailed off, throat closing as he loomed over you.

“And…?” He was so close you could feel the warmth of his skin, could smell the Earl Grey and lavender brew he was drinking, the ink he was using.

“I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me,” you admitted, looking down to avoid his gaze.

“Love—” his thumb and index finger caught your chin, tilting your head back up. “I always want to see you.”

Your heart thudded wildly against your sternum, mouth going dry at his confession.

“But you seem to have trouble asking for what you want.”

Indignation rose in you, an unfamiliar, acidic feeling. “No, I don't,” you argued. How could he always see straight through you?

He chuckled and took the coffee and pastry bag from you, taking a swig as he turned away and retreated to his desk chair.

“I came up here to check on you,” you continued. Even to your own ear, you sounded defensive.

“And I'm fine,” he said, reclining in his chair, casual as anything, but you could see the stiffness in his shoulders, the grip he had on the coffee cup. “Thank you very much for the coffee.”

Was he dismissing you? Your head spun at his sudden change in demeanor. The distance between you seemed enormous, cold creeping in where his warmth was moments before.

“Was there something else you wanted?” He asked, leaning forward to brace his elbows on the desk.

More, you thought, but didn’t say. You wanted more of that closeness, more of him, but the thought of asking for it stitched your mouth shut. You debated turning on your heel and opting out of whatever mind games he was playing with you, but the echo of his closeness kept you in place.

You met his eyes, and something in your expression must have given away your consternation.

Draco sighed. “You're stubborn, you know that?” He asked, but there was no real bite to it. “How about I tell you what I want?”

Your throat closed, palms growing sweaty. You forced yourself to look at him, to take in the smolder of his eyes.

“I’ve had a really long fucking day, and I'm feeling a bit reckless. I locked myself in here because I didn't want to push you.” He took a breath, mandibles flexing as he arranged his next words. “But what I want, darling, more than anything right now is to see what you’re hiding under that sweet little smile. I want to know what you really want—what keeps you awake at night, what makes your heart race—.”

“But why?” You whispered. You didn’t even want to acknowledge those parts of yourself. Why would he?

“Because that's what trust is.” His words stole whatever scant breath you had left.

“I do trust you,” you said, and meant it. You trusted him more than anyone else in your life. So why were you still hiding from him? Still holding back?

“You need to trust yourself,” he corrected gently. “To trust what your mind and body are telling you that you want and need.”

Clarity hit you square between the eyes.

This entire time, he'd been showing you all the ways you weren't showing up for yourself. All of the wants and needs you were failing to articulate. To claim. Starting with the damn croissant, and all the way to this moment, where you wanted him so desperately, it burned like lava through your bloodstream.

Hadn't he shown you that he was more than happy to deliver whatever you wanted? Whether it was pastries, tea, or an apology from someone who wronged you.

All you had to do was ask.

“Kiss me,” you blurted, spitting out the words before you could talk yourself out of it.

No sooner had the words left your mouth than he was on his feet, crossing the room towards you in three long strides. A hand slid into your hair, the other melting into the curve of your spine, and he kissed you so hard the floor fell out from beneath you.

He left no room for argument, no space for doubt. He was merciless in his claiming of you, lips making way for tongue and teeth, devouring you like a fervor you'd never experienced. But it wasn't reckless or messy. No, every press, every nip, every lick was deliberate. An intricate dance that he led with precision. Like he’d been planning this kiss in his head for a lifetime. You could do nothing but be swept up in the movements and luxuriate in the force that was Draco Malfoy.

He shifted forward, backing you against the bookshelf on the far wall. You gasped when your back hit the wood, and he grinned, tilting his head to drag his lips down your neck. Grinding the frenetic pace to a languid crawl.

His shoulders rose as he breathed you in, the hot muscle of his tongue laving across your hammering pulse. Your knees threatened to buckle as arousal surged through you, electric and exhilarating. If he kept this up, you feared you would melt between the floorboards.

“You're shaking,” he murmured, kissing his way back up to your face.

“S-sorry,” you breathed, struggling to remember a word that wasn't his name.

He shushed you with a peck on the lips. “I'm just making sure you're alright,” he said, his voice like velvet. His lips grazed your temple, heart-achingly tender. A dizzying contrast from the rip current he'd created just moments ago. “That you still want this.”

You nodded, fingers tightening into the folds of his shirt to draw him closer.

“Ah, ah—” he pulled back to look you in the eye. “Use your words.”

Your eyes gave you away, flicking down to where his fingers rested on your hip.

He smirked, lifting his hand. Flexing his fingers in the dim candlelight. “You want my fingers, darling?” He asked, caressing your cheek with the backs of them.

“Yes, please,” you whispered, blinking up at him, cheeks burning.

“Say it.” His hand fell to his side.

“I—” you took a steadying breath. “I want your f-fingers.”

His smirk turned lethally sharp, flashing an ivory canine. “You want my fingers where?”

“Draco,” you whined, dropping your face into his shoulder, and he tutted. You could feel his smile as he pressed a kiss to your hair. So affectionate, even when he was being firm with you.

Then, you felt the belt of your trousers pop open. Those dexterous fingers sliding along the elastic waistband of your panties. You clung to his shoulders, breath coming in short pants, and sent a silent thank you to your past self for wearing a cute pair that day.

“Here, baby?” He asked, fingers dipping lower, finding the pool of slick he'd coaxed from you.

You nodded, tilting the bowl of your pelvis into his palm. “Please.”

Fuck, you sounded so pathetic, but he made a low sound of approval in the back of his throat.

“Good girl,” he praised right as his middle finger stroked against your clit.

You gasped, that simple touch like a bolt of lightning up your spine. You could feel how wet you were, leaking into his palm as he traced slow circles over your bud, gauging what pressure you preferred, what speed. He took his time, spreading you open, teasing out every little sound, every twitch, he could get from your pyretic body.

You were like putty in his hands, completely boneless against him, pleasure saturating your mind, burning through your veins like fire whiskey.

“Draco,” you mewled, hips rolling against his hand, hungry for more.

“And suddenly she's demanding,” he teased, nipping at your shoulder. But he indulged you, finally easing one finger inside your heat, quickly followed by a second. You were more than ready for it, your pussy practically begging to be filled. Fluttering, clenching, coaxing him deeper. “So fucking tight, love. You're absolutely perfect, aren't you?”

You couldn't think, couldn't speak. His fingers had found your brain's off button in record speed, curling against your front wall with that unwavering, merciless intention he did everything with.

And he was going to make you cum embarrassingly quick because of it.

“Wait—I—” you grabbed at his wrist, head spinning as the plummet stretched out before you, and he froze in place.

“Too much?” He asked, leaning back to look at you, his free hand smoothing the hair from your face. He looked almost as wrecked as you felt, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy, hair a disheveled mess from your grabbing hands. So beautiful you could hardly believe he was flesh and blood, and not some horny fever dream. But he was real, muscle and bone and lips and teeth, and you wanted to eat him whole.

Fuck it.

Your hips started to rock against his fingers, that momentary panic twisting into urgency. “S’too good,” you slurred, pleasure-drunk.

He grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yeah?” He curled his fingers again, hitting that traitorous, magnificent spot inside of you, and you keened. “I can feel how close you are, soaking me to the wrist.” He pressed you harder into the wall, the wood digging into your back, but you didn't care so long as he kept driving his fingers into you just like that. The sound of your sopping pussy made your cheeks burn, lewd and loud, but it only seemed to draw your orgasm closer. “Show me, love. Show me how pretty you are when you let go—”

“Fuck, D—I’m gonna—want to—”

“Go on, love. Take whatever you want. It's all yours—good fucking girl, just like that—”

Your release crashed over you, white hot, and you buried your scream into his shoulder as he worked you through it, muttering praise in your ear while you bucked and twitched. Stars danced behind your eyes, under your skin as you came down, and you felt yourself smiling.

His motions slowed to languid strokes before he withdrew entirely. Brought his fingers to his mouth, stealing a taste before easing them between your own lips. You parted willingly, the taste of your release heady and sweet on your tongue as you sucked those magical digits clean.

“See what happens when you ask for what you want?” He murmured against the shell of your ear. “You did so well, love.”

You nodded, not having the energy to do much else. But his praise rang against your bones like church bells, and delight reverberated through you.

He withdrew his fingers and righted your clothes, then settled you into his desk chair, the most comfortable one in the room. The croissant you brought for him somehow ended up in your hand, and he was urging you to take a bite. Made you wash it down with a freshly cracked water bottle from his mini fridge.

“You look so beautiful right now,” he said, watching you chew from his perch at the edge of his desk.

The temptation to hide itched under your skin, but you resisted, smiling shyly at him instead. “Thank you, Draco. For all of this, everything.”

“It's an honor and my absolute pleasure,” he grinned, leaning down to kiss your forehead and steal a bite of the croissant. “How about we go get you some real food?”

“Is that pizza place still open?” You asked, and he looked ready to keel over with surprise and delight. You'd actually asked for something!

“If you want pizza, baby, a closed sign isn't going to stop me from getting you pizza. Hell, I'll apparate us to Italy right now—”

“You're ridiculous,” you giggled, rolling your eyes at him.

“And you're mine,” he said, sliding off the desk and offering you a hand. “So, get used to it.”

You slipped your fingers into his, letting him pull you onto still shaky legs. “I don't remember agreeing to that,” you teased, pecking his cheek so he knew you didn't mean it.

“Already spoiled, hm?” His grip on your hand tightened, his body shifting to press you against the desk. “One night with me and you've turned into a brat.” The word was hot at your neck, and a shiver rolled through you, fresh arousal dripping into your ruined underwear. Stirring something wild in you that you hadn't felt before.

“Maybe,” you flirted, leaning forward to nibble at the hard angle of his jaw, hand skimming down the front of his chest until your fingers hooked on his belt. Taking what you wanted, taking what was yours.

And from the rigid pulse against your hip, he was more than eager to give it all to you.

“Good—” his grip moved to your wrist, pinning it to the desk with a force that set your blood on fire, “—because I'm just getting started.”

© aureateink 2026. do not copy, post, or claim my writing as your own.

[aureateink]

OMG GIRL I READ UR CHARLIE FIC A WHILE AGO AND JUST STUMBLED ON YR BLOG AGAIN (in the middle of the night even tho I have to wake up at 4 tmr) and I am so happy I love u so much and ur writing is genuinely incredible. You’ve got me giggling and kicking my feet while I dread tomorrow morning 💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

ahh hi baby!! so glad we found each other 🌹

[aureateink]

Can you PLEASEEE do some Ron x reader fics?

hey love! I don't currently write for Ron, nor do I imagine myself ever doing so. whenever I write 'weasley brothers' blurbs, he'll be included, but no full length fics.

sorry babe!

[aureateink]

Hey cutie. Pleaseeee more jealous/possessive draco with a sweet and innocent reader. Like he's your guard dog, walking behind you with his friends while you walk and wonder why no one even dares to stare at you. But when he's gone, people get their confidence back but it it so short lived once he finds out.

thanks so much for you request babe! appreciate your patience 🌹

teeth | draco malfoy

feat. auror!Draco Malfoy x reader

summary: 6k (whoops). you work in the department of records at the ministry of magic, and have made an unlikely friend in the wizarding world's most brutal auror.

cw: MDNI 18+, fluffy with some smut, afab!reader uses she/her pronouns, possessive!draco, scary dog privileges, shy!reader, mean coworkers, threats of violence, “use your words”, dom-sub dynamics, finger blasting as an act of dominance

an: can't tell if I love or hate this, but if i don't post it now, it'll rot in my drafts for all eternity, so eat up !!

| masterlist

It started with a chocolate croissant. You had reached for it in the break room at the same moment he did, the brush of his fingers like cool water. In the moment, you'd recoiled, heat scorching your cheeks, fear knotting in your sternum. Stammered out some halfwit apology.

Sorry, I didn't—please, you take it, Auror M-Malfoy.

Those glacial eyes fixed on your face for a second, the kind of blue found only in the coldest places, and for a moment, you thought he was actually going to reprimand you over a bit of pastry. But instead, he'd smiled and cut the croissant in half.

The following week, you'd found a paper bag and a latte waiting on your desk in the department of records. There was no note, no name anywhere, but nestled between flaxen parchment paper was a chocolate croissant dusted generously with powdered sugar. The only clue as to who left it for you was an angular ‘D’ scrawled onto the side of the coffee cup by the barista who made it.

You'd hardly believed it was real until you felt the sugar dissolve on your tongue. It was a kindness you hadn't experienced since you started at the Ministry over a year ago. It could be a dreadfully bureaucratic, unfeeling place. That sugar high had stuck with you the entire day, lightening your steps.

Another one appeared later in the week, again, anonymous, besides that tell-tale ‘D’.

There were lots of D’s at the Ministry, you told yourself. You had at least three coworkers named Daniel just in the Department of Records. But you knew none of them would have the taste to select such fine pastry, or the deduction skills to know how you liked your coffee based on a few fleeting observations in the break room.

On Friday of that week, you'd arrived early, hoping to knock out some filing before record requests started piling up for the day. The Department had been blissfully empty, and you'd gotten to work with a tune sung just under your breath.

“Ah, you're here early,” a brusk, masculine voice rolled through the quiet like an afternoon storm.

You were a bit embarrassed to admit it, but you knew exactly who that voice belonged to.

Nearly dropping the files in your hands, you whirled around. Your suspicions, and perhaps wildest imagination, were confirmed. Draco Malfoy, the most brutal, efficient Auror the Ministry had seen in decades, stood beside your desk, holding a pastry bag in one hand, a latte in the other. And he looked almost…sheepish, standing there in his heavy black uniform, platinum hair smoothed to perfection.

“Uh—I—yes, the, um, lots of filing,” you stammered, tongue-tied. In that moment, you swore no one had ever looked that good before in the history of forever. And you would know—it was your job to know everything.

The corner of his mouth lifted, and impossibly, he became even more devastating. “You'll need your energy, then,” he said, setting the treats onto your desk.

You had the inane impulse to ask him why. Why was he suddenly paying you any attention? What did he want from you?

But before you could untangle your words, he was turning on his heel and striding away, cloak billowing in his wake.

—

The breakfast deliveries continued, but more often Draco began delivering them in person, or, if he arrived before you, he'd leave a small note beside the bag, written on one of the little notepads you keep on your desk.

Thank you for finding that record yesterday.

They were out of cinnamon, thought you might like mocha instead.

Don't work too hard today.

Going away for a week. Keep an eye out for Potter.

You weren't sure what he meant by that. Harry Potter, obviously, his childhood enemy turned coworker after they both became Aurors, but why would you need to keep an eye out for him?

Then, the following morning, you found Harry looking a bit lost in the department, hovering by your desk. He had a pastry bag in one hand and a latte in the other.

“Can I help you, Mr. Potter?” You asked, approaching cautiously.

His eyes lit up. “There you are! I thought this was your desk, but wasn't sure—” he held out the bag and coffee cup to you. “Delivery from one Draco Malfoy.”

For a moment, you were too stunned to speak. You'd always been a bit shy, preferring books and records to socializing, but tried your best to be friendly and gracious at work. Now, you couldn't even manage a ‘thank you’ as you took the treats from him.

Harry didn't seem to mind. “Malfoy will be back next week, but he insisted I bring you this while he was gone.”

“Do you—um—” you struggled to find the words, suddenly feeling exposed, soft underbelly on display. “Do you know why he's—”

“Because you're kind and genuine,” Harry said with a sympathetic smile. “Draco’s not so mysterious as he looks,” he joked, smile turning conspiratorial. Then, smile faltering, added, “Don't tell him I said that.”

You found yourself giggling at the insanity of this new reality you'd found yourself in. “I won't,” you reassured him.

—

The following Thursday, you stayed late to catch up on the filing that had piled up throughout the week. All of your coworkers seemed to have decided you were the best at it, so you should handle it all moving forward, on top of fulfilling all the requests that came your way. Which was nearly double what the rest of them received.

It was fine, you didn't really mind. You liked being helpful, being needed. But two hours in, and your back was beginning to ache, your energy depleted from continuous magic usage.

“They said you were still here, but I was half-hoping they were wrong,” a low voice broke through the quiet.

You stumbled out from between the stacks, hardly believing your ears. But sure enough, there was Draco Malfoy perched on the edge of your desk, flipping through one of the records stacked high on its surface. He looked different, under eyes bruise-dark, his blond hair finger-tousled and uniform ruffled. There was a slash across his cheek, the skin an angry pink, going lilac at the edges.

Your stomach did a backflip over your lungs, forcing your heart into your throat. “Here I am,” you said meekly. “When did you get back?”

“This evening,” he said absently, a line forming between his brows as he read. He clapped the file shut and slid off the desk. “Krepski pulled this,” he said, dropping it onto your neighbor's desk.

You nodded, not sure what to say.

“Do you usually put everyone else's records away?” Draco asked, his voice softer than the look in his eyes.

“Well, uh, I wouldn't say usually, but—”

“How many of these are yours?” He turned back to your desk, rifling through the stack.

You grimaced. None of them were yours. You always put them away as soon as they were returned to you to avoid, well, this.

Apparently, the look on your face was answer enough. Something sharp glinted in his eyes, but he blinked it away, rolled out the stiffness that had accumulated in his shoulders.

“Let me help you,” he said, meeting your gaze.

“You just got back, I couldn't—”

“Please?”

You stared at him. Somewhere, a part of you knew this wasn't a word Draco Malfoy used often, if ever. You found that you couldn't deny him such a simple request.

And, if you were being entirely honest, the thought of actually spending some time with him cracked your heart like a glow stick.

“Alright.”

The two of you worked together, hardly speaking at first, to start sorting the files. But it wasn't an uncomfortable quiet like you'd come to expect from your other coworkers. This quiet was soft in the way that freshly fallen snow can be, a gentle muffling of the outside world. You found a steady rhythm, communicating without words. He seemed to know what file you were reaching for before you reached for it, just like you knew where he was about to step before he moved.

You'd never seen the Auror look so calm, his muscles loose, his stride languid. Even his voice, when he did use it, had softened to the coo of a dove, sending a tremor down your spine with every passing word.

But mainly, you were just happy to have given him a quiet space to land. From the snippets of information he gave you as the evening wore on, his trip hadn't been an easy one. Chasing dark wizards along the Scottish coastline didn't exactly sound like a holiday.

He'd asked about you more than anything: where you grew up, your Hogwarts house, your favorite music. You answered timidly, unsure about what to do with his interest. Usually, when people asked you those sorts of questions, it was so they could answer the questions themselves, but Draco wasn't like that. You'd even made him laugh a few times, the sound as pleasant a surprise as an afternoon sun shower.

He seemed genuinely intent on getting to know you, and spoke very little of himself. Though you couldn't exactly blame him for that, knowing what you did know about him.

When the last record had been filed, he leaned against the bookcase beside you, having to crane his neck to peer down at your face.

Saints, he was tall.

“So, have you eaten yet tonight?” He asked, adjusting the wrists of his uniform, fiddling with the ring on his middle finger. A signet etched with a coiled serpent.

Your stomach answered for you, growling audibly at the mere mention of food.

He tsked, shaking his head at you. Lips curling in opposite directions, displeased and relieved in equal measure. “I was going to stop at that pizza place on the corner on my way back to my flat. Would you like to join me?”

“S-sure, pizza sounds great,” you said, wondering if you'd somehow fallen asleep while sorting files and this was some insane, marvelous dream.

His smile widened. “C’mon, then. My treat.”

—

After that evening, you and Draco had built an unlikely partnership. You weren't sure you were friends, mainly because you didn't see one another outside of work beyond getting pizza, but he was always there to lend a helping hand. The breakfast deliveries became more frequent, and he started bringing you a cup of tea every afternoon. And, in exchange, you'd let him loiter at your desk whenever he needed a little escape, or to have his overactive mind numbed by the repetitive scribble stamp swoosh of your work.

Even with this new familiarity, your heart still did a little flip whenever he smiled at you, or appeared around the bend of a hallway you weren't expecting him to. But you never imagined he'd feel that way about you. He was Draco Malfoy. He could literally have anyone in the world he wanted.

Whatever the two of you were, you were just happy to have a companion. He made you feel less alone in this marble-crusted corporate hellscape.

And, you realized just a few weeks into this new dynamic, that having a notoriously vicious Auror in your life came with its own set of perks.

The second Junior Auror Lewis walked into the Department of Records, you knew there was going to be a problem. He was red-faced and sputtering, waving the records you had dispensed to him the previous morning like a war flag.

Anxiety prickled along your neck, palms going clammy against your wooden stamper. You set it down, folding your hands into your lap as the flustered man approached.

You gave him your most winning smile. “Can I help you, Auror Lewis?”

He slammed the files onto your desk with a reverberating whack, and you startled to your feet, chair screeching backwards. “What the fuck is this?” He snarled, jabbing a finger into the paper. “These aren't the records I requested.”

Heat built under your skin, heart hammering against your ribs. You could feel every eye in the Department on you, judging you. “I—uh—” you made a show of shuffling through the papers, despite knowing that these records were exactly what he had asked for. Evidently, he just wasn't skilled enough to actually use them.

Part of you wanted to say that, to humiliate him like he was humiliating you right now, but the words stuck in your throat. Choked you.

“Uh—what?” He mocked. “You work in the Department of Records and you can't fucking read?”

“Sir—I, if you could just—”

“This is a very important case, and I will not have some paper jockey fuck it up for me!”

Oh no, oh no. Your nose began to itch, moisture pooling along your lower lashes. Don't cry, don't cry.

“And here we go with the waterworks. How about you just do your fucking job instead of sniveling like a—”

“Like a what?” A low growl came from behind you.

Shit, you'd almost forgotten the Draco had been meandering through the stacks, taking a break between meetings.

Lewis paled. “Oh, uh—I—”

Draco moved to stand in front of you, his body warm and solid, traces of his evergreen cologne still lingering on his collar.

It made your head swim.

“Sir, she potentially compromised the mission with false inf—”

“Say another word about her, or her work, and I will be forced to use every weapon in my arsenal as punishment.” His wand whipped outward, verdant green magic spilling from the dark wood. His lips were pulled back in a snarl.

You sucked in a breath, and the Junior Auror staggered back a step.

“Draco, don't—” You weren't sure what came over you, but you placed a hand on his bicep, turning to look into his face. His eyes were blazing, molten glass, as he stared down the length of his wand. He was rigid beneath your touch, coiled like a snake able to strike. “Draco, please,” you tried again.

His eyes finally flicked to yours, and the harsh line of his mouth softened a fraction as he took in your fearful expression. The entire Department held its breath.

“What would you have me do?” He murmured finally, though his wand never wavered.

Your fingers inched down his arm, feeling the supple fabric of his uniform, the ropes of muscle concealed underneath, the slight tremor as you reached his forearm, then his wrist, until you finally brushed the leather glove covering his hand, pressing down gently until his shoulder loosened, and he lowered his wand. Never once did his eyes stray from your face.

“An apology is enough,” you whispered. “Please, Draco.”

He absorbed your words, jaw feathering with tension, until he gave you one stiff nod before turning his attention back to the quivering Junior Auror.

“You will apologize to her, and if I ever hear about you treating her, or any other coworker, this way again, I will see to it that you spend the rest of your simpering life in the bowels of Azkaban. Do I make myself clear?”

“I'm s-sorry,” Lewis sniffled. “I didn't—I’m sorry. Please—”

“I accept your apology,” you replied. “And in the future, if you're having trouble deciphering the information in the records, all you have to do is ask, and I’d be glad to assist you,” you added, flashing a smile.

Our coworkers chittered at that, and Lewis flushed a deep crimson, bowed his head, and fled. You never spoke like that, but having Draco at your side made you feel a little braver.

Draco glanced down at you, the warmth in his eyes almost tangible as it caressed your cheek. A giddy thrill ran through you.

“Clever girl,” he purred. “If anyone speaks to you like that again, come find me. Okay?”

You nodded, feeling like your lungs had turned into hot air balloons. “Okay.” You didn't even think about disagreeing.

“Good,” he smiled then, and it wasn't until he pulled away that you realized your hand was still resting on his. “I'm going to have a word with his supervisor, maybe the Minister, and you are going to take a half-day.”

He said the last part loudly enough that your boss, who was hovering in the wings, could overhear him.

“But I have so much—”

“Krepski will handle the rest of your work, won’t he?” Draco glanced over his shoulder at your desk neighbor, whose eyes widened to an almost comical degree.

“Yes, sir! Happy to!” Krepski blurted, jumping up to take the stack of files off your desk and over to his.

Draco turned back to you, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, brows raised expectantly.

“Why are you doing this?” You asked, voice lowering to barely a whisper. “I don't deserve—”

His expression sharpened. “What you don't deserve is to be overworked and underappreciated by the mindless goons that work here,” he said, voice low but not harsh. Restrained. Then, softer, “Someone has to look after you.”

No one’s ever looked after you before. Not like this. You'd always been independent, high-functioning. Never asked for anything, never needed anyone. If something needed to be taken care of, you were the one who took care of it. No questions asked.

If you were honest, you kind of liked this change of pace, even if it was a bit difficult to accept. And it didn't hurt that the person wanting to look after you was someone you genuinely liked, not to mention drop-dead gorgeous.

“Thank you, Draco,” you said, meeting his eyes.

“My pleasure. Now, go get some rest,” he ordered. “And all of that work better be finished by the time she clocks in tomorrow.” He directed this at Krepski, spinning his wand as if to punctuate his point.

“Of course!” Krepski squeaked.

Draco nodded in approval, flashed you a wink over his shoulder, and took his leave.

—

Word spread quickly about the altercation in the Department of Records, and suddenly everyone was wishing you a good morning or nodding in respectful greeting when you passed them in the hall. Your coworkers fielded work before it could even think about crossing your desk, and the line at the coffee station in the break room magically vanished whenever you stepped inside.

It was weird, and imposter syndrome still dogged at your heels, but you had to admit, it was a nice change. You finally felt like you could breathe again. And, despite yourself, your attraction to him had progressed into full-blown chest palpitations whenever he entered the room.

Sometimes, when he left an extra-sweet note or looked at you for a half-second too long, you thought maybe he could feel the same way about you.

But two weeks later, a gloomy, winter Friday, you hadn't seen Draco at all. No breakfast delivery, no afternoon tea, no five-minute break. Not even a glimpse in the hallway.

Your anxiety had mounted throughout the day, the knots tightening with each hour that passed until you could hardly breathe.

Was he mad at you? Avoiding you? Had you done something to upset him?

The thoughts were an endless loop, a train gone way off the tracks, and finally, when the bell struck 6 pm, and everyone was heading home, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

You were a bit ashamed to admit that you hadn't ever sought him out in his own office. He almost always came to you, except for when you strategically positioned yourself in the break room because you knew he'd be passing by. But even that was passive, an indirect maneuver born out of your own cowardice.

Now, standing outside his office door with a chocolate croissant, a black coffee, and your fist raised to knock, those insecurities came screaming back to you.

What if he doesn't want to see you? What if you're interrupting something? What if he's sick of you and now you look desperate because you can't take a hint?

What if, a quieter voice whispered, he needs you right now?

He'd done so much for you over the last few weeks; the least you could do was show him that you'd be there for him, too.

Knock knock. “Draco?” You called. “It's me.”

You couldn't hear anything through the door, weren't even entirely certain he was actually in here, when the knob unlocked with a soft click, and the door eased open.

Draco’s office was spacious, with large bookshelves and expensive-looking furniture. You could smell the leather polish and mahogany beneath the verdant top notes of the high-end cologne he wore. Emerald curtains were drawn over what had to be enormous windows, leaving the room dark except for the fireplace and fire-lit scones along the walls.

Draco was sitting at his desk, the surface strewn with papers and empty mugs of tea. He'd discarded the bulk of his uniform, leaving him in just a black long-sleeve shirt and pants. His hair was unruly, sticking up at odd angles from running his hands through it, and exhaustion hung from his shoulders like a shadow.

“What time is it?” He asked, though you weren't sure if he was directly asking you, and he spun in his chair to peer at the clock over his head.

“After 6,” you supplied, and he turned back to you, looking a little dazed.

“Fuck, really? I didn't realize—” his eye caught the coffee and paper bag in your hands, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “And what do you have there?”

You shrugged, heat climbing up your neck as you fought to suppress a smile. “Thought you might need a little something sweet.”

His mouth pulled into a borderline indecent smirk. “That so?” He asked, tilting his head slightly.

Your stomach swooped. “B-but I don't want to bother you if you're busy…” You back-peddled, fidgeting in place under the burn of his gaze.

“I am busy,” he agreed, watching you intently.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry—”

“Darling,” he cut you off. The new pet name was said gently, but it still felt like a tug at your collar. You straightened subconsciously. “If you wanted to see me, then all you had to do was ask.”

Your cheeks burned, lungs snagging against your ribs and hitching awkwardly. “I didn't—I don't—”

“Don't what?” He rose from his chair, moving around the desk to approach you. “Don't want to see me?” He asked, a faux frown on his face. Teasing you. Testing you.

“No, I—y-yes, of course I do, but—”

“But what?”

“But I know you're busy and…” you trailed off, throat closing as he loomed over you.

“And…?” He was so close you could feel the warmth of his skin, could smell the Earl Grey and lavender brew he was drinking, the ink he was using.

“I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me,” you admitted, looking down to avoid his gaze.

“Love—” his thumb and index finger caught your chin, tilting your head back up. “I always want to see you.”

Your heart thudded wildly against your sternum, mouth going dry at his confession.

“But you seem to have trouble asking for what you want.”

Indignation rose in you, an unfamiliar, acidic feeling. “No, I don't,” you argued. How could he always see straight through you?

He chuckled and took the coffee and pastry bag from you, taking a swig as he turned away and retreated to his desk chair.

“I came up here to check on you,” you continued. Even to your own ear, you sounded defensive.

“And I'm fine,” he said, reclining in his chair, casual as anything, but you could see the stiffness in his shoulders, the grip he had on the coffee cup. “Thank you very much for the coffee.”

Was he dismissing you? Your head spun at his sudden change in demeanor. The distance between you seemed enormous, cold creeping in where his warmth was moments before.

“Was there something else you wanted?” He asked, leaning forward to brace his elbows on the desk.

More, you thought, but didn’t say. You wanted more of that closeness, more of him, but the thought of asking for it stitched your mouth shut. You debated turning on your heel and opting out of whatever mind games he was playing with you, but the echo of his closeness kept you in place.

You met his eyes, and something in your expression must have given away your consternation.

Draco sighed. “You're stubborn, you know that?” He asked, but there was no real bite to it. “How about I tell you what I want?”

Your throat closed, palms growing sweaty. You forced yourself to look at him, to take in the smolder of his eyes.

“I’ve had a really long fucking day, and I'm feeling a bit reckless. I locked myself in here because I didn't want to push you.” He took a breath, mandibles flexing as he arranged his next words. “But what I want, darling, more than anything right now is to see what you’re hiding under that sweet little smile. I want to know what you really want—what keeps you awake at night, what makes your heart race—.”

“But why?” You whispered. You didn’t even want to acknowledge those parts of yourself. Why would he?

“Because that's what trust is.” His words stole whatever scant breath you had left.

“I do trust you,” you said, and meant it. You trusted him more than anyone else in your life. So why were you still hiding from him? Still holding back?

“You need to trust yourself,” he corrected gently. “To trust what your mind and body are telling you that you want and need.”

Clarity hit you square between the eyes.

This entire time, he'd been showing you all the ways you weren't showing up for yourself. All of the wants and needs you were failing to articulate. To claim. Starting with the damn croissant, and all the way to this moment, where you wanted him so desperately, it burned like lava through your bloodstream.

Hadn't he shown you that he was more than happy to deliver whatever you wanted? Whether it was pastries, tea, or an apology from someone who wronged you.

All you had to do was ask.

“Kiss me,” you blurted, spitting out the words before you could talk yourself out of it.

No sooner had the words left your mouth than he was on his feet, crossing the room towards you in three long strides. A hand slid into your hair, the other melting into the curve of your spine, and he kissed you so hard the floor fell out from beneath you.

He left no room for argument, no space for doubt. He was merciless in his claiming of you, lips making way for tongue and teeth, devouring you like a fervor you'd never experienced. But it wasn't reckless or messy. No, every press, every nip, every lick was deliberate. An intricate dance that he led with precision. Like he’d been planning this kiss in his head for a lifetime. You could do nothing but be swept up in the movements and luxuriate in the force that was Draco Malfoy.

He shifted forward, backing you against the bookshelf on the far wall. You gasped when your back hit the wood, and he grinned, tilting his head to drag his lips down your neck. Grinding the frenetic pace to a languid crawl.

His shoulders rose as he breathed you in, the hot muscle of his tongue laving across your hammering pulse. Your knees threatened to buckle as arousal surged through you, electric and exhilarating. If he kept this up, you feared you would melt between the floorboards.

“You're shaking,” he murmured, kissing his way back up to your face.

“S-sorry,” you breathed, struggling to remember a word that wasn't his name.

He shushed you with a peck on the lips. “I'm just making sure you're alright,” he said, his voice like velvet. His lips grazed your temple, heart-achingly tender. A dizzying contrast from the rip current he'd created just moments ago. “That you still want this.”

You nodded, fingers tightening into the folds of his shirt to draw him closer.

“Ah, ah—” he pulled back to look you in the eye. “Use your words.”

Your eyes gave you away, flicking down to where his fingers rested on your hip.

He smirked, lifting his hand. Flexing his fingers in the dim candlelight. “You want my fingers, darling?” He asked, caressing your cheek with the backs of them.

“Yes, please,” you whispered, blinking up at him, cheeks burning.

“Say it.” His hand fell to his side.

“I—” you took a steadying breath. “I want your f-fingers.”

His smirk turned lethally sharp, flashing an ivory canine. “You want my fingers where?”

“Draco,” you whined, dropping your face into his shoulder, and he tutted. You could feel his smile as he pressed a kiss to your hair. So affectionate, even when he was being firm with you.

Then, you felt the belt of your trousers pop open. Those dexterous fingers sliding along the elastic waistband of your panties. You clung to his shoulders, breath coming in short pants, and sent a silent thank you to your past self for wearing a cute pair that day.

“Here, baby?” He asked, fingers dipping lower, finding the pool of slick he'd coaxed from you.

You nodded, tilting the bowl of your pelvis into his palm. “Please.”

Fuck, you sounded so pathetic, but he made a low sound of approval in the back of his throat.

“Good girl,” he praised right as his middle finger stroked against your clit.

You gasped, that simple touch like a bolt of lightning up your spine. You could feel how wet you were, leaking into his palm as he traced slow circles over your bud, gauging what pressure you preferred, what speed. He took his time, spreading you open, teasing out every little sound, every twitch, he could get from your pyretic body.

You were like putty in his hands, completely boneless against him, pleasure saturating your mind, burning through your veins like fire whiskey.

“Draco,” you mewled, hips rolling against his hand, hungry for more.

“And suddenly she's demanding,” he teased, nipping at your shoulder. But he indulged you, finally easing one finger inside your heat, quickly followed by a second. You were more than ready for it, your pussy practically begging to be filled. Fluttering, clenching, coaxing him deeper. “So fucking tight, love. You're absolutely perfect, aren't you?”

You couldn't think, couldn't speak. His fingers had found your brain's off button in record speed, curling against your front wall with that unwavering, merciless intention he did everything with.

And he was going to make you cum embarrassingly quick because of it.

“Wait—I—” you grabbed at his wrist, head spinning as the plummet stretched out before you, and he froze in place.

“Too much?” He asked, leaning back to look at you, his free hand smoothing the hair from your face. He looked almost as wrecked as you felt, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy, hair a disheveled mess from your grabbing hands. So beautiful you could hardly believe he was flesh and blood, and not some horny fever dream. But he was real, muscle and bone and lips and teeth, and you wanted to eat him whole.

Fuck it.

Your hips started to rock against his fingers, that momentary panic twisting into urgency. “S’too good,” you slurred, pleasure-drunk.

He grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yeah?” He curled his fingers again, hitting that traitorous, magnificent spot inside of you, and you keened. “I can feel how close you are, soaking me to the wrist.” He pressed you harder into the wall, the wood digging into your back, but you didn't care so long as he kept driving his fingers into you just like that. The sound of your sopping pussy made your cheeks burn, lewd and loud, but it only seemed to draw your orgasm closer. “Show me, love. Show me how pretty you are when you let go—”

“Fuck, D—I’m gonna—want to—”

“Go on, love. Take whatever you want. It's all yours—good fucking girl, just like that—”

Your release crashed over you, white hot, and you buried your scream into his shoulder as he worked you through it, muttering praise in your ear while you bucked and twitched. Stars danced behind your eyes, under your skin as you came down, and you felt yourself smiling.

His motions slowed to languid strokes before he withdrew entirely. Brought his fingers to his mouth, stealing a taste before easing them between your own lips. You parted willingly, the taste of your release heady and sweet on your tongue as you sucked those magical digits clean.

“See what happens when you ask for what you want?” He murmured against the shell of your ear. “You did so well, love.”

You nodded, not having the energy to do much else. But his praise rang against your bones like church bells, and delight reverberated through you.

He withdrew his fingers and righted your clothes, then settled you into his desk chair, the most comfortable one in the room. The croissant you brought for him somehow ended up in your hand, and he was urging you to take a bite. Made you wash it down with a freshly cracked water bottle from his mini fridge.

“You look so beautiful right now,” he said, watching you chew from his perch at the edge of his desk.

The temptation to hide itched under your skin, but you resisted, smiling shyly at him instead. “Thank you, Draco. For all of this, everything.”

“It's an honor and my absolute pleasure,” he grinned, leaning down to kiss your forehead and steal a bite of the croissant. “How about we go get you some real food?”

“Is that pizza place still open?” You asked, and he looked ready to keel over with surprise and delight. You'd actually asked for something!

“If you want pizza, baby, a closed sign isn't going to stop me from getting you pizza. Hell, I'll apparate us to Italy right now—”

“You're ridiculous,” you giggled, rolling your eyes at him.

“And you're mine,” he said, sliding off the desk and offering you a hand. “So, get used to it.”

You slipped your fingers into his, letting him pull you onto still shaky legs. “I don't remember agreeing to that,” you teased, pecking his cheek so he knew you didn't mean it.

“Already spoiled, hm?” His grip on your hand tightened, his body shifting to press you against the desk. “One night with me and you've turned into a brat.” The word was hot at your neck, and a shiver rolled through you, fresh arousal dripping into your ruined underwear. Stirring something wild in you that you hadn't felt before.

“Maybe,” you flirted, leaning forward to nibble at the hard angle of his jaw, hand skimming down the front of his chest until your fingers hooked on his belt. Taking what you wanted, taking what was yours.

And from the rigid pulse against your hip, he was more than eager to give it all to you.

“Good—” his grip moved to your wrist, pinning it to the desk with a force that set your blood on fire, “—because I'm just getting started.”

© aureateink 2026. do not copy, post, or claim my writing as your own.

[aureateink]

i needddd more possessive draco plsss, your bad santa fic and flutterby baby fic are sooo good

heard 🫡

[aureateink]

Do you have a master list? Your talent is insane.

thank you sm 🫶 here you go bb: aureateink's library

[aureateink]

you had the audacity to change your username without announcing us first?? babe i almost had a heart attack thinking you deleted your account 😭😭

i'm sorry!! i'm terrible at social media admin 😭 but I am here!

[nondelphic]

you cannot convince me horror writers aren’t scared to sleep with their feet outside the covers. they KNOW what they wrote. they know what’s under the bed

[aureateink]

currently drafting my first horror novel. can confirm

[aureateink]

PLEASEEEE MORE POSSESSIVE JELOUS DRACO🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️YOUR BAD SANTA FIC WAS LITERALLY EVEYTHING. POSSESSIVE MEN GOT ME WEAK

thank you for the request!! hope this is satisfactory 🫶🏻

Flutterby Baby | D.M.

feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Draco finds out another student sabotaged your Herbology project.

CW: MDNI 18+, smut, draco’s pov, established relationship, possessive!draco, bullying, hurt/comfort, men suck, sort of rough fingering & piv, affectionate degradation if you squint (he refers to her as a plant), blood/fighting

Draco watched as you pushed your pasta around your plate, staring absently at the whirls of sauce on the porcelain. You’d been quiet the entire meal, only speaking when directly spoken to by your group of friends, and even then, it was half-hearted, brief answers.

Both were unusual for his talkative, carb-loving girl.

He placed a light hand on your thigh, leaning closer to you. The warmth of your skin, the sweetness of your perfume, beckoned him even closer, but he ignored his impulses. “Everything alright, darling?” He asked, low enough that your friends couldn’t hear.

“Yes, just not very hungry,” you said in your pretty little voice, placing your hand over his and pecking his cheek.

He didn’t buy it. “I can track down some takeaway and we can eat in my dorm, if you’d like,” he offered, wondering if the commotion in the Great Hall was a bit too much for you.

You shook your head, another stunning development. You never turned down takeaway. “I’m fine, baby. Thank you, though.”

“Well, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll make one of these sod’s fetch it for you,” he teased, hoping to get a smile out of you. He didn’t.

Draco sighed, pressing a kiss to your temple before turning back to the conversation he was in the middle of with Theo and Pansy. He continued to watch you in his periphery as you started to play with his fingers, twirling his signet ring around and around. As much as he enjoyed the mindless contact, the delicate brush of your skin, he knew this was a nervous habit of yours.

He had half-a-thought to excuse you both, but he knew that would only draw more attention to your melancholy state, which would likely make you feel even worse. He could pick your brain later. Right now, he needed to make sure you were fed.

Casually, he picked up his fork, twirling a bit of his own pasta around the tines. Without breaking away from his conversation, he held the fork up to you, hoping you’d take a bite without really thinking about it. It was a small ritual the two of you developed during lengthy family dinners, something you often did automatically if he offered food to you. He felt you shift forward, your mouth wrap around the small bite, and you ate it.

He squeezed your thigh, a flare of affection making his heart pound. Good girl, he thought, but refrained from saying aloud.

The rest of dinner continued like that, Draco keeping your friends talking and distracted while he fed you small bites of his own dinner, your fingers twined with his in your lap. When he held up a bite and you gave small shake of your head, he knew it was because you were actually full, and he set his fork down, satisfied. For now.

That night in the common room, you were curled up in your chair by the fire, a book open in your lap while everyone pretended to study around you. He watched your eyes, your hands curled around the cover, and you were motionless. No pages turned, no lines devoured.

His worry deepened. Blaise seemed to notice as well, and gave him a curious look, dark brow raised. And of course, Theo caught the exchange, but turned back to his work, pretending he didn’t.

A prickle of suspicion climbed Draco’s neck. Typically, Theo was the first one to make a fuss over someone being in a sour mood due to his inability to tolerate negative emotions, but this time, he stayed silent.

Very odd, indeed.

But he could worry about Theo later. Draco lifted himself from the couch and walked over to you, dropping onto the floor in front of your chair. He tilted his head back, resting it against your shins. You reached down, dragging your fingers through his hair while you continued “reading” your book. He let his eyes flutter closed at the sensation, and tried to think of a way to draw you out of your head.

Lips pressed against his forehead, your perfume wafting over him, and he hummed in appreciation, reaching up to cradle your face. You leaned your cheek into his palm, and he titled his head back a little further to connect your lips in a soft kiss.

Your lips moved against his, brief and tender, and some of his tension unwound. It didn’t seem that you were upset with him, which was a relief. But, he wasn’t any closer to figuring out what exactly was troubling you.

“I’m going to go to bed,” you murmured in his ear, and he blinked in surprise, checking his watch.

It wasn’t even nine o’clock.

“So early, love? Are you feeling alright?” He turned to face you, rising to his knees. The group noticed, but he was too concerned to care. He placed the back of his hand on your forehead, your cheek, your neck, but you waved him away.

“I’m fine, D. Just tired,” you said, averting your eyes from his and rising from your chair.

“Baby—”

You leaned down and kissed him again, cutting off his protest. “I love you, I’ll see you in the morning,” you said, pecking his cheek one more time before walking towards the girls dormitory and ascending the stairs.

Draco slumped back to the ground, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“What did you do to her?” Pansy accused after a moment of tense silence.

“Nothing,” he snapped, though it was mostly toothless.

“She was acting strangely at dinner too,” Blaise noted. “She didn’t even have dessert.”

“Yeah, and she loves those chocolate things—what are they called?” Theo chimed in.

“Cauldron cakes,” Draco answered, glaring at them, irked that they were paying that close of attention to you. That was his job.

“Are you going to follow her?” Blaise asked, glancing at the stairs.

“No, he should give her some space,” Pansy said, giving him a pointed look.

“I’m perfectly capable of managing my girlfriend’s needs. Thank you,” he bit, and they fell quiet. He would leave you be, for now, but if you were still in a funk tomorrow evening, he’d be forced to intervene.

You were decidedly still unlike yourself come the following morning, and when he saw you during your shared Potion’s class. He continued to monitor the situation, trying to be patient like you often asked him to be, but that went out the window when you returned from your Herbology class with Theo in tears.

As soon as Draco saw your red and puffy eyes, he was on his feet. You ran straight into his chest, burying your wet face in his robes and digging your chilled hands into his back, trembling as your tears returned in earnest.

“Darling, what’s happened? What’s going on?” He cooed, wrapping his arms around your shaking torso, petting your hair in an attempt to soothe you. You didn’t respond, just held him tighter as you cried.

Theo tried to slip around the two of you, but Draco pinned him with a glare.

“What happened?” Draco hissed at him.

“Her Flutterby bush is dying,” Theo whispered, and you started to cry harder.

Shit. You’d slaved half the semester over this Flutterby bush in Herbology, it was your pride and joy, and you often stayed after hours with Professor Sprout to tend to it and the rest of the greenhouse. You had the greenest thumb Draco had ever encountered, and that plant was your baby. There was no way it would just suddenly die.

Draco raised a brow, and Theo made a ‘tell you later’ face. He nodded his head to dismiss his friend and turned his attention back to you, his poor, sensitive girl.

“Baby, it’s going to be alright. I’m sure you’ll figure out what’s going on—”

You shook you head. “It doesn’t make sense,” you sniffled, your voice muffled by his shirt. “It was perfectly fine. There’s no bugs or blights, I don’t understand.” You lifted your face, cheeks streaked with tears and lashes spikey, your eyes rimmed with red. The state of you made his heart ache.

“It’ll be alright,” he whispered, wiping your cheeks with his thumbs and pressing a kiss to your nose. “If anyone can save it, you can. You’re brilliant, love.” He used his sleeve to wipe your eyes and your nose before bundling you into his side. “Come on, relax for a bit with Pansy. That’ll help you think a little more clearly, yeah?”

You nodded, letting him deposit you on the couch beside your friend, who immediately abandoned what she was doing to fuss over you.

He kissed the top of your head, satisfied that you were well looked after for the time being. “I love you, I’ll be right back, okay?” He murmured, and you nodded again.

Theo was waiting for him in the hall. “Okay, so don’t get mad,” he said, holding his hands up.

Draco’s anger instantly flared. “Don’t give me a reason to get mad then.”

“She told me not to tell you because she knew you’d get all—” Theo gestured vaguely at Draco. “All…this.”

“Out with it, Nott,” he growled, fully prepared to punch his best friends nose through the back of his skull. What could you possibly want to keep from him?

“We think someone poisoned her plant,” Theo said, grimacing.

Draco froze, rage flaring so suddenly it darkened his vision. “What?” he snarled.

“We can’t say for sure yet,” Theo said hurriedly, trying to get ahead of the oncoming storm. “But there’s this one guy—”

“Who?”

“Reinhardt? Renfield? Something like that, I don’t know, he’s a Gryffindor. But he—Draco, where are you going?”

Draco was already halfway down the hall, formulating a plan in his mind about how to find this guy, and how to make him wish he’d never been born.

Theo grabbed his shoulder. “Listen, I have a better idea than storming the Gryffindor common room,” he said, and Draco paused.

“Go on.”

Draco loitered outside the Greenhouse, hidden by some trees, a stupid plastic ear in his hand. Theo had the other tucked into his robes, and Draco could hear Sprout beginning her lecture through their connection.

Draco sighed. This was ridiculous, he should just waltz in there and figure out exactly who this—

“Hey, y/n,” he heard someone mutter, an unfamiliar male voice, and he immediately held up the ear to listen. “Flutterby’s not lookin’ so good. Maybe I could help clear away some of the dead stuff?”

Draco's ears started ringing so loudly, he almost missed your response.

“I'm killing it just fine on my own, Renley, I don't need any assistance from you.”

He heard Theo snicker in the background, and Draco smiled. Atta girl.

“My mandrakes are thriving, thank you,” Renley replied, his voice tight with indignation. “It's a real shame about yours, though. Probably would have gotten you top marks.”

You didn't respond, and Draco gripped a tree branch to stop himself from charging through the glass to get this audacious fucker.

“Fuck off, Renford,” Theo warned, the feed clouded by his robes rustling.

“It's Renley,” the prick corrected, his voice a little louder, and Draco could practically hear Theo roll his eyes. “So, what do you say, sweetheart?” Sweetheart? Oh, this fucker was a dead man walking. “I'm willing to stay after and help you out. I'm good with poisons—”

“Poison’s?” You asked, a snarky lilt to your voice, and Draco loosed a relieved exhale despite the implication. For the first time in days, you sounded like yourself. “Who said anything about poison?”

“Oh, I—uh—”

“Reindeer, how did you know her plant was poisoned?” Theo prodded, his smirk audible.

“I don't! It's obv—it’s probably not p-poison!” Renley stammered.

“What's this about poison?” Sprout interrupted at the same moment Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle emerged from the treeline.

“Check fucking mate,” Draco mouthed, grinning.

“Professor Sprout, I do believe Renley here just confessed to poisoning y/n’s beloved Flutterby bush,” Theo said.

“Is this true, dearie?” Sprout asked you.

“Yes ma’am, it explains the strange phenomena we noted, as well as the sudden nature of the ailment. Renley’s been taunting me for days, and finally his mouth got ahead of his brain,” you said, poised as a Queen, and Draco was so proud of you it hurt.

Sprout gasped. “Mr. Renley! To Dumbledore's office this instant!”

“Crabbe, Goyle, grab him,” Draco ordered, stuffing the ear into his robes.

The two of them lumbered over the door, staying out of sight until the culprit stepped out into the sunlight, and Goyle grabbed Renley by the shoulders and started to drag him back around the Greenhouse.

“Hey! What the fuck—” his words pinched to a strangled whine when he saw Draco and Blaise waiting a few feet away, arms folded over their chests, completely hidden from the rest of campus.

Goyle shoved him to the ground at Draco's feet, and the coward was already sniveling.

Draco crouched down, nose to nose with the fucker that made his girl miserable, and smiled. “Was it worth it, Renley?” Draco asked, his voice low.

“Look, Malfoy. I didn't mean to—”

Draco didn't give him a chance to finish his paltry excuse and cocked his fist back, slamming his knuckles square in the side of his jaw. The bone crunched under his fist, sending Renley flying sideways in a spray of spit and blood, and Draco rose, clenching and unclenching his aching hand.

Normally, he'd step back and let the others get their hands dirty, but you were his girl. And if anyone was going to defend your honor, it would be him.

“No, no please!” Renley begged when Goyle hauled him back up. Draco punched him again, dead on the nose, then the temple, then the sternum. Goyle let Renley fall, groveling and weeping as blood ran down his face, his eyes already half-swollen shut.

Draco grabbed him by the hair, lifting his head up so he could whisper in his ear. “You're lucky it wasn't poison,” he snarled, and dropped Renley’s head into the dirt. “Leave him on the front steps of the castle,” he said to Crabbe and Goyle, who immediately pulled the boy up and started dragging him back towards the castle.

Blaise chuckled. “That was fucking brutal, mate.”

Draco looked down at his bruised and bloody knuckles, the pain bright and deliciously satisfying, his signet ring splattered with red. “Like I said, he's lucky I didn't decide to poison him.”

The chatter of students filled the air, and he looked up to see the Greenhouse emptying. Theo headed straight for them, glancing at Draco's knuckles and the blood in the grass before breaking out in a wild grin.

“Sorry I missed it,” Theo laughed.

“Where is she?” Draco asked.

“Staying behind to administer the antidote. Sprout is leaving her to ensure Renley is dealt with accordingly.”

“Well, she certainly won't be disappointed,” Blaise snickered.

“So she’s alone?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. He was hoping to clean himself up before seeing you, but wasn't sure he could resist the temptation. Not with his blood still running hot and your smart little voice echoing in his mind.

“Yep.” Theo smirked. “See ya’ back in the common room.” He and Blaise turned and started heading back to the castle, leaving Draco alone.

He rounded the greenhouse, knocking with his sore knuckles so he didn't startle you.

“Draco? What are you—saints, your hands!” You cried, rushing over to open the door for him. You grabbed for his hands, face pinched with worry.

“I'm fine, love,” he cooed, letting you fuss. The air in the greenhouse was thick and warm, coaxing him in like a embrace. It smelled fresh and lush, sweet soil and green leaves, like you.

Merlin, he couldn't think straight with you looking at him like that.

“Who did—” you paused, eyes narrowing. “Renley?”

He smirked. “Maybe.”

“Draco!” You huffed, dropping his hands. “I had it under control!”

“I know you did! You were amazing! I just...accelerated the consequences.”

You glared at him, but he could see you softening by the second.

“Baby, I'm fine. And he'll be fine in like, four to five business days.”

“Draco!” You shouted, but you were smiling. He fucking loved what you called his name in that exasperated but undeniably affectionate voice. “You don't have to get involved all the time. I'm perfectly capable of fighting my own battles, and Professor Sprout was working with me to solve it and—”

Draco reached out, pinching your cheeks with one hand, pursing your pouting lips and dragging you closer to him. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat. No one fucks with you so long as I'm breathing, is that clear?”

You nodded, eyes round and sweet like honey.

He released your face, sliding his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck and craning your head upwards. “Can I kiss you now? Or would you like to keep telling me off?”

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his in a playful, smiley kiss. “Anything for my hero.”

“Anything?” Draco purred, walking you back into the long work table. You gasped, arching against his chest, and he caught the sound with another kiss, slipping his tongue past your lips to taste you.

Your tongue tangled with his, so eager as you pulled his tie to bring him closer. He guided your tongue into his mouth, sucking lightly before releasing you to bite your lip, toying with your mouth like he owned it.

And he could feel how much you loved it, your hips pressing against his as your hands wandered his chest, unable to pick a resting place.

He smiles, moving his hands to grip your hips. In a quick movement, he spun you around. Your hands slapped onto the table to catch yourself, your perfect ass pressing back against his rapidly hardening cock.

“Draco,” you whined, trying to look over your shoulder at him.

He tsked, sliding up your skirt, admiring the way his ruined knuckles looked against the soft flesh. “Do you want me to be gentle with you, darling?” He already knew what your answer would be, especially after a few stressful days, but he felt inclined to double check.

You shook your head side to side, pressing your ass back into his hands. “No.”

He smiled, squeezing the ample flesh, then delivered a swift slap that made you gasp. “That's my girl. You want me to scare away all those bad thoughts? Turn your brain off for a bit?” He slid his right hand between your legs, gliding two fingers over the damp spot on your panties.

You nodded, nails scratching along the wood when he applied a little pressure, moving his hand in a slow circle.

“Words, love,” he said, pausing his movement.

“Yes, baby. Please,” you whined, and his cock gave a painful lurch against his thigh.

“Colloportus,” he murmured, flicking his wand to lock the Greenhouse door. “Don't move,” he ordered, then walked over to the sink, washing the blood from his hands and muttering a quiet episkey to fix most of the damage on his skin. Some cuts remained, and his hands were still sore and slightly bruised, but it wasn't nearly as bad.

Satisfied, he turned his attention back to you, where you remained perfectly still, nibbling at your lower lip. In quick movement, he pulled down your panties, letting the fall around your ankles, and kicked your feet further apart, forcing you to lay your chest against the table.

“There we go,” he purred, bringing his hand back between your legs.

You were already soaked, hot and slick as his middle finger swiped through your sex. He started massaging your clit, quick, light circles that had you moaning breathlessly.

“Better, darling? Nothing to worry about besides being my good girl.” He moved away from your clit and eased his middle finger inside of you, his signet ring kissing your entrance before he curled his finger up. Your walls fluttered around him, sucking back against his finger when he pulled it out, only to graciously stretch for him when he added a second.

“Fuck, D,” you moaned, rocking your hips against his hand. “You said you wouldn't be gentle “

He smirked, enraptured with the way your pretty little cunt yielded for his battered hand. “Just so pretty,” he hummed, leaning down to whisper in your ear, pressing you harder against the table. “Can't help but worship you a little.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he slammed his fingers inside of you, drilling into your channel with sloppy, punishing strokes. You cried out, feet sliding around on the floor, but he had you pinned and at his mercy.

“This better, brat?” He growled, nipping at your ear when you keened for him, unable to formulate a response. “Oh, how that fucker wishes he could see you now,” he drawled, straightening while his fingers fucked into you. “What'd he call you? Sweetheart?” He chuckled. “Sweet doesn't begin to cover it.”

“How did you—”

He slipped his fingers out to work your clit, the bud swelling under his touch as your orgasm built, and your words twisted into a moan. He tried to stay focused, keep you on the edge until he was sheathed inside of you, but couldn't bring himself to stop just yet.

“Are you sweet, baby?” He asked, swatting your ass cheek, enjoying the way your flesh rippled.

“Only for you,” you gasped, starting to tremble as that knot wound tighter and tighter.

“That's right,” he praised, undoing his trousers and taking his cock in his hand. He was insanely hard, the head a deep pink, pearly precum beading from the slit. He pumped himself twice to relieve some of the ache, then notched himself at your entrance, not pausing his assault on your clit for a moment. “All fucking mine,” he growled at the same moment he thrust inside of you, burying himself to the hilt.

You cried out, muscles contracting hard around him, and he groaned low in his throat. You were so fucking tight, gooey and supple when you weren't squeezing the life out of him. He drew back a few inches before snapping his hips forward, gripping your ass cheek in his free hand to keep you spread for him as he pounded into you.

He felt your orgasm hit the second before you did, your cunt clamping down on him a heartbeat before you screamed, your whole body locking up before going completely limp. He didn't let up, no matter how much you shook, how much you begged. Your tears left damp spots on the wood, your knees trying to buckle inwards, but he planted his feet on the inside of yours, forcing you to stay upright.

“Good fucking girl,” he rasped, snaking a hand up your spine to grip your hair and pull your head back. “Doing so well for me, sweet thing.” He was panting, the heat of the greenhouse coupled with the exterior making sweat collect around his hairline and drip down his spine. His knuckles burned from the salt, hands ached from being used long past when they should have been bandaged, but he didn't give a single fuck.

“Draco, shit—fuck me so good.” You reached back for him, nails dragging along his forearm, and he felt himself teeter on the edge of release, his balls drawing up tight as liquid heat spread through his pelvis.

“Give me one more, baby. I know you can. Then I'll water my favorite plant.”

Your pussy clenched at his words, a wanton moan falling from your lips, and he smiled. You were such a little freak, his little freak, and he loved you all the more it.

“You like being my pretty little houseplant? All mine to take care of?” Fuck, he was close, rambling in an attempt to distract himself and spend just a little longer in the delicious heat of your body.

“Yes, yes—fuck!” You were coming again, your whole body convusling as it ripped through you, and he was done for. He came with a yell, hips stuttering against your ass as he pumped rope after rope of release into your spasming cunt.

“Bloody hell, baby,” he moaned, bracing his hands on the table as he came down, his hips involuntarily rocking into your greedy warmth. You, poor thing, were left drooling and trembling, completely boneless, held up entirely by the table and his hips. He leaned forward, pressing kisses into your hair. “Did so good, love. So fucking perfect,” he murmured, throat tight with affection.

“Squishin’ me,” you giggled, squirming beneath him, and he straightened, nearly toppling over himself at the weak feeling in his knees.

“Sorry, darling,” he chuckled, and you groaned, pushing yourself up on trembling arms. He moved his feet, letting you close your legs, and he hissed through his teeth at the new tightness around his softening cock, stealing a final thrust before slipping out of you.

“Mm, how did you know he called me sweetheart?” You asked, peeking over your shoulder at him while he grabbed his wand to clean you both up.

“I have my methods,” he replied, righting your clothes and helping you stand up, relishing in the lingering tremble in your limbs.

“Were you spying on me, Draco Malfoy?” You teased, tugging him down by the tie so you were face to face.

He smirked. “Perhaps.”

“What a horrible invasion of privacy,” you snickered, giving him a playful peck.

“You want to punish me for it?” He nipped at your lower lip and you grinned, pushing lightly on his chest.

“Enough you, I have to administer the antidote before my plant gets any sicker.”

“Good thing I already cured mine,” he teased, and you swatted him before slipping out of his arms.

“You're insufferable.”

“And you're adorable.”

You grabbed some items from the shelves and a watering can, then paused, turning to look at him, a deadly serious look on your face. “Can we get takeaway after this?”

He snorted, his heart doing a giddy little flip. “Of course we can.”

© aureateink 2026. do not copy, post, or claim my writing as your own.

[aureateink]

10k. 10K!!!!!!!!!!!!

[aureateink]

hi lovely <3 i was wondering if you have any fics for harry planned? i was looking through your account and ik that you’re a mood writer so there’s no concrete answer but ive been craving harry fics but dont have any particular requests in mind and i just love your writing style. also i LOVED the poly!marauders fic you posted you wrote all the characters so well and it the dynamic was so hot i love it 🐾

ahh thank you lovely!! i do have a harry fic rolling around in my mind but i'm not sure if i'll be able to get to it until after the holidays. but fingers crossed it'll be out in January!

(i'm thinking it'll be another man's best friend inspired fic 👀)