I saw this waiter in galway that looked exactly like patrick feely but I don't know his name 😭 can anyone from galway help me find him? dm me please if you can 🙏
[academic rivals] [sex bets] [eight-year hogwarts] [quidditch captain draco] [smutty] [switchy] [tortured past] [idiots in love] [an overall sexy and emotional good time] [hogwarts in winter] [loss of virgnity] [pining]
Summary: When your no-strings-attached agreement to lose your virginity to the perfectly agreeable Theodore Nott falls through, you're in need of a substitute. And for some reason, your academic rival, long-time nemesis, and perpetual thorn in your side, Draco Malfoy, thinks he's the perfect one.
You're determined not to fall for whatever tricks he has up his sleeve, but as you start trading kisses like curses and sex wagers like blood oaths, things get...complicated.
And you're not sure how many more bets you can make with him before you lose much more than you bargained for.
18+ content. CW: so much smut. swearing. drinking. eight year at Hogwarts, post-war so characters are aged up.
chapter one - Your Rival
chapter two - The Plan
chapter three - A Kiss
chapter four - The Monster Within
chapter five - Let's Raise The Stakes
chapter six - A Lesson In Impulse
chapter seven - A Little Honey
chapter eight - Liar
chapter nine - The Most Unforgivable Curse
chapter ten - Ruinous Games
chapter eleven - One Of Many
chapter twelve - The Death Of Me
chapter thirteen - A Flame This Scorching
chapter fourteen - What If
chapter fifteen - A Silent Confession
chapter sixteen - His Birthright
chapter seventeen - The Twists of Fate
chapter eighteen - Chasing Fire
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
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Chapter Thirteen - A Flame This Scorching
An academic rivals to lovers story
{An intimate moment under dragon fire with Draco leaves you wondering who's really winning anymore.}
10k words (I know, I know) | go to landing page ✧ Sexual content (oral sex both receiving) MDNI
“Damn this skirt," you mutter under your breath, as you slip through the halls, heading for the side exit.
You tug on the hem for what feels like the thousandth time today, but it’s useless. Four inches shorter or not, you feel practically naked. Thank Merlin Transfiguration was cancelled for this afternoon, so you were able to hide out in your room and study instead of parading around Hogwarts like this for another class period.
You don’t know exactly why McGonagall chose to forgo the lesson today, but you have a feeling it might be due to the crystal-clear skies, with no breeze in sight. In other words, a perfect day for flying.
It wouldn’t surprise you at all if your Quidditch-obsessed headmaster seized the opportunity to give the Hogwarts teams a little extra time on the pitch, soaking up the rare winter sun. Especially with the season finals tomorrow night, it hardly seems like a coincidence.
You somehow manage to make it down the stairs without flashing anyone, and you remind yourself it's perfectly fine to be leaving the castle at this hour.
If someone tries to stop you, you’ll tell them the truth: you’re going to feed the dragons, per Hagrid’s request, and you’ll be back by curfew.
What you won’t tell them is what you plan to do to your rival out in the woods.
As you pass the entrance to the Great Hall, something pink flutters in the corner of your eye.
The double doors still stand open, though dinner’s already been served and cleaned up. The floating candles drift overhead, casting a warm, welcoming glow spreading out into the hallway.
Inside, a house-elf waves fervently at another perched high atop one of the corner pillars, carefully pinning the banner into place. At their signal, the thick paper unfurls, snapping crisply as it straightens. The elf above slides effortlessly down the banister, landing in a neat roll before hopping to their feet. Together, they pause to admire their work.
It’s another announcement for the approaching Affinity Ball.
To everyone else, it might look like a new decoration, meant to stir up conversation and excitement. But to you, it only tightens a knot in your stomach. Dread settles in, bitter and insistent.
Fifteen days.
How are you supposed to keep the promise you made to yourself by then? Everything feels so tangled now, especially with Malfoy, and you can hardly tell which way is up anymore.
You had such a good plan at the start. Simple, safe, and perfectly suited for your needs.
And now?
You don’t even really know why you’re stuck here, gaping up at the banner. It’s not like you’re planning on going to the ball anymore.
Besides, even if you did, you’d be dateless. And have nothing to wear. Your meager savings are disastrously low now, thanks to the purchase of these nylon stockings and boots from your housemate, who happened to have extra pair of each in your size.
Still, the image of a man and woman dancing together across the pink background pulls something tight in your chest. You can almost hear the swish of her dress against the floor, the shy laughter breaking from his chest. They’re smiling so softly at each other, lost to the world as they swirl around and around.
You want to know what it feels like to look at someone like that. To have someone gaze at you like you’re the very air they need to breathe.
But, you have a plan, remember? Stick to the plan.
The warm light spilling from the Great Hall cuts off harshly against your coat as you pass the doors, and you’re cloaked in darkness once more.
After Draco pushed you away last night, you didn’t go straight to your room.
The thought of returning to that lonely space, forced to stare at the stone ceiling as you tossed and turned, was torture. Instead, you strode right up the Astronomy tower steps.
You told yourself it was just to retrieve the books you’d left there before going to the Slytherin party. But you lingered at the balcony for a long time, fingers locked around the icy banister until they ached. Tears wouldn’t come. You were past that.
Instead, you just felt lonely. And cold.
It wasn’t until you spotted your new book, Spellbinding in Ancient Magical Theory, that any warmth seemed to return to your body. The textbook felt heavy in your hand, as if all his handwritten annotations cramming the margins had added weight to the manuscript itself.
Stupid.
When you flipped it open and started reading his notes, the words felt like both a burn and the salve for your wounds at the same time.
Everything was just so…him. You could hear him saying some of these things.
Especially the clipped, argumentative statements, as if criticizing the author to their face. Or, the intelligent and authoritative way he described what to do instead. Even down to his vocabulary choices.
When you saw the word Snitch, you slammed the book shut.
You promptly scampered back into the castle, successfully dodging Filch roaming the halls. You did have to shush a painting, and threaten a ghost into silence on the way to your common room, but apparently, that’s just what you have to do when you sneak in after curfew.
Once safely back in your bedroom, you breathed out a long sigh of relief and lit a single candle. As if too much light might somehow pollute the entire grounds and alert everyone that you were staying up far later than you should, hungrily pouring over your rival’s handwriting.
There was absolutely no reason for your heart to be hammering in your chest as you slipped into bed and opened the book again.
You told yourself, it was natural to be curious. Is this how he felt reading your journal? For a moment, a thrill ran through you at the thought of evening out the score. But it’s still not fair, since he gave you this book, and you certainly did not give him permission to read your journal.
You soon discovered your name wasn’t just in this book once. It appeared multiple times in the margins.
Many times, in fact.
Watch Snitch cast this next time.
Author assumes hesitation between syllables. Snitch doesn’t hesitate.
Snitch compensates for these weak spells by anchoring with control.
But more often, your “nickname” wasn’t even present at all.
Practice this to beat her in Charms.
She’s always steadier on the second attempt. Trusts her hands more than the incantation itself.
This solution works, but hers is better.
She did this before summer break. Same result.
That’s the adjustment she made in fifth year.
She’d hate this method. Not technical enough. Use instinct instead.
She. Her.
As if he’d re-read any of this, he’d instantly know who he meant. At some point, you realized your arms were crossed over your chest, as if that posture could protect your heart from how painfully the notes tugged at it.
She could teach this.
That last one made your breath catch.
There’s no reason to write that.
It isn’t instructional or informative — not in the slightest. Instead, it’s almost like…admiration. Physical evidence of how long his attention has lingered on you. And the fact that he personally placed it in your hands made your head spin.
Your skin felt hot and itchy, like it was stretched too tight across your body. You shoved the book away and leaned back against the headboard, scrubbing a hand over your face, frustrated. You needed to remind yourself of his anger.
You closed your eyes and drug yourself back to the cellar, replaying the memory of his low, furious voice as he lashed out at you, begging your body to respond to that. But instead, all you could think about was the expanse of his chest, heaving with heavy breaths. The racing heartbeat in his neck, fluttering beneath your tongue.
You caused that reaction in him.
And no matter what he says, those silver eyes glaring down at you on your knees weren’t full of disgust. He relies on his anger to make decisions — you know that about him.
And maybe…just maybe…you can use that to get what you want.
Your eyes flared open and you opened the book again. With every page you turned, an idea started to solidify.
He thinks he can push you away and pull you back in, while you just smile and say ‘thank you’ at the end of it all? Well, he’s an idiot.
The insecurities from the first time he pushed you away started to fade, and instead of feeling anxious and embarrassed, now you just wanted to prove him wrong.
You both agreed to be exclusive. And while that’s not exactly the definition of a relationship as confusing and twisted as yours, it’s close enough that you can absolutely take charge a bit more when it comes to what you want.
You flipped through the book, pages blurring together as you eagerly searched for a spell that could help your plan. You found it towards the back, and practiced until your eyes turned blurry. And only when the ache of exhaustion settled in your bones, did you finally blow out your candle.
And when your head hit the pillow, you had a plan.
Act One was successful this morning. Now for Act Two. And with a little luck, it might just work.
You stumble out of the side entrance without being noticed and toss a quick look around. The grounds are empty, and you breathe a sigh of relief. No one will see you sneak into the Forbidden Forest and start asking questions, even if you do have a legitimate reason to be there.
The sky reminds you of fire tonight. It looks as if someone dragged a paintbrush across the horizon, one long stripe of orange rimmed in gold. The chunky heel of your boots sink into the earth — no longer frozen like it was this morning — and you cringe.
The door to Hagrid’s hut is unlocked, just like he said it would be, and you quickly find the bucket and the key to the dragon cage door he left for you.
Thank Merlin the bucket has a lid. You’re not exactly an expert at walking in heels yet, and fond of dragons or not, you don’t particularly care to smell like their gruesome dinner.
The Forbidden Forest swallows your form in it’s shadow, but you don’t shy away from its clawing branches. You welcome their nails as they scrape against your coat, and every brush against the nylon stockings sends a shiver down your spine.
You feel like a new woman. Hips swaying under the tiny skirt, feet striding purposefully into the inky expanse. It doesn’t escape you that tonight, at least, the darkness is a choice you’re making.
But you’re not afraid of it. Never have been. After all, it’s in the dark that the stars shine brightest.
Your heartbeat quickens the closer you get to the dragons. There air hums with the same charged secrecy as the night in Restricted Section. Like that secret window is opening again. Just for the two of you.
The sun finishes its descent, and the very first star — Pyrelis tonight — glimmers faintly in the sky by the time you reach the cliff. Your stomach flips in anticipation, and your eyes dart around the tree line, half-expecting Malfoy to just materialize in front of you at any second.
The key clinks into the lock on the wood door and it groans open. The drakes are sleeping together in a tangled pile of wings, tails, and snouts. But at the sound of your entry — and no doubt the smell of the bucket — they stir awake.
You dump their dinner into the trough quickly, retreating before you’re overrun, and lock the door behind you.
They descend on their meal greedily, lips smacking, tails thumping against the ground. You glance toward the large enclosure, but you don’t see any of the adult dragons. Probably just curled into the cliff ledges, or maybe they’re piled together somewhere like the babies.
Snow crunches somewhere behind you and your pulse leaps.
You spin to find Malfoy leaning against a tree at the edge of the forest, across the clearing.
His white button-down shirt shines a dusky blue in the fading light. He’s forgone the robes and tie, opting instead for a long black coat over his dark slacks. Of course he’s standing as far away as possible, unwilling to get any closer to the dragons than absolutely necessary.
He’s too far away to speak to without raising your voice, so you just double-check that the dragon door is locked and leave the empty bucket near the enclosure before heading in his direction.
“Thanks for your help,” you call sarcastically as you approach, “Enjoy your extra credit points from my work.”
You somehow manage to stay upright as you march through the crunchy drifts that have since frozen from the powdery dust they were this morning.
He just smirks and leans his head back on the tree.
His gaze travels brazenly over you as you draw closer, and your stomach flips.
You can’t help but notice the pink in his cheeks and the windswept state of his hair — evidence of those extra hours on the pitch today with his team, you’re sure.
The swelling on his lip has gone down considerably, even if the cut is still visible. The bruise on his nose, however, has darkened from fuchsia to a deep, angry purple.
“What’d the boys have to say about that?” You gesture to his face.
For a moment, you think he might deflect your question, or tell you to fuck off. Snarl that it’s none of your business, that they aren’t your friends.
But, he just shrugs.
“Torin was pissed. Alaric offered to finish the job for me, but he’s still wrecked from last match.”
You snort despite yourself, thinking about the Beater. “He’s always jacked up, isn’t he?”
“Completely forgotten what he looks like without a black eye.” Draco dips his head to run a hand through his hair, lips tipping up into a smirk that’s almost companionable before the familiar mask of indifference slides back into place.
You’re about to respond when something catches beneath your foot. Your ankle wobbles, and suddenly, you’re falling. Your hands shoot out, but he’s already there. His cold hand grips your bicep, fingers pressing into your shoulder as he steadies you.
“Damn it, Snitch,” he huffs. “Lose those heels before you break an ankle.”
You stumble back, breath caught in your throat. The silver in his eyes winks at you under the emerging starlight.
“I-I can’t…” you stammer, a bit caught off guard, “There’s snow. I don’t—”
“I don’t mean right now, idiot,” he snaps, rolling his eyes. “Just —what are you trying to do with this outfit anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“This!” He gestures up and down, motioning to your entire ensemble. “All of this.”
Butterflies erupt in your stomach as his eyes snag on you for a beat too long. So, he had noticed. You couldn’t quite tell if he did earlier this morning, or not. He was too busy trying to keep his busted up face away from your prying eyes.
“Do you like it?” you ask.
He inhales sharply, eyes snapping to yours. He studies your expression, then his face melts into a haughty smirk.
“You’re really trying to seduce me, aren’t you?” He expects you to immediately disagree, but you just look up at him.
“Is it working?”
His lips part, shock flickering across his face at your boldness. Good. He’s not getting the blushing virgin girl he thinks he knows, tonight.
Tonight, he’s getting the dragon.
His gaze drops, catching on something at your feet. “Your boot laces are untied.”
It’s a quiet observation, but there’s something in the cadence of his voice — in the breath he pulls in afterward— that sends molten heat flooding through you. And you don’t miss the way he doesn’t answer your question.
“Then what are you waiting for?” you whisper.
He looks at you. Really looks at you. He’s trying to puzzle you out. Anticipate your next move so he can beat you to it.
And for a second, you almost crumble beneath the weight of his gaze. The breathy laugh on his lips, the masculine slope of his bruised nose, the stray snowflake just there on the edge of his lashes — it all pulls you in like a boulder chained to your ankle, dragging you into the depths of the sea.
But you can’t drown in it. In him. You have a plan.
So you just smirk and flick your eyes down to your boots and back up, giving him the hint again.
His chin dips obediently, eyes returning to your laces, and a thrill runs through you. That lock of hair falls over his forehead, brushing the bruise on his face, and your fingers twitch at your side, desperate to reach out and smooth it back for him.
“If you wanted me on my knees for you again, Snitch,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that you feel his breath on your cheek, “All you have to do is ask.”
He’s trying to reclaim control by putting you on the defense. He still thinks you’ll deny it. It’s cute.
Then, he drops to his knees in the snow.
His long fingers reach for your laces, retying them, so steady and sure. And it’s pretty obvious who’s in control.
Your head spins at the sight before you. It wasn’t that long ago he was secretly hexing your shoelaces together while you were on the staircase to purposefully make you trip down them.
And now—
You don’t know what comes over you, but something powerful and dominating takes hold, and you hook your fingers under his chin, tilting his face up just as he finishes the last knot.
When his gaze meets yours underneath the stars, he smirks dismissively, but the cruelty doesn’t reach his eyes.
Your thumb brushes over his lower lip, lingering over the cut.
“Tell me,” you murmur. “Was this because of me?”
His answer is immediate. “Who else?”
“Good.”
His mouth quirks in response, but something dangerous flickers in his eyes. The darkness presses in around you now, and the silence of the forest makes your own heartbeat obvious as it whooshes in your ears.
He’s still kneeling, staring up at you. Waiting. Curious.
A sliver of insecurity wedges into your ribs. Even though you didn’t have a specific bet, you still won against him in class today. That means something, right? Still, you need to hear him say it.
“Whatever the winner wants,” you whisper. “Right?”
“You’re the winner,” he says easily. “What do you want?”
Your breath hitches. “Say that again.”
“What do you want?”
“No. The other part.”
He smiles. “You’re the winner."
Hearing that shouldn’t affect you like it does, but heat coils through you all the same, sharp and electric.
He shifts to stand, but you place a heel against his chest, stopping him. He huffs, eyes dropping to the mark your shoe leaves on his white shirt. It’s always so clean. So perfect.
Not anymore.
He hesitates under you, knees still pressing into the snow, like he doesn’t know what you’ll do if he tries to disobey you.
You like that.
“I want— ” you start.
A rumbling roar interrupts you, cutting through the clearing, followed by a burst of firelight. You glance back to see one of the dragons clambering around the inside of the metal cage, flames bursting skyward and briefly eclipsing the moon.
When you turn back to him, the sight before you makes your core throb. Firelight dances across his features, catching on the silver in his eyes, and the torturous curve of his lips.
He looks…dangerous like this.
Like he could steal every last piece of your heart and soul, and never give it back. The thought scares you a little. And you don’t know what to make of that, because Draco Malfoy might be a monster, but he’s never scared you before.
“Tell me,” he says.
“I want you to teach me.” The words tumble out before you even get to taste them. Rushed and breathless, with a thread of pleading that makes you blush.
He looks pleased at your outburst, and you just want to wipe that smug smirk right off his face.
“Teach you what?”
He’s so infuriating. Embarrassment threatens to flood your cheeks but you stand firm, unwilling to let him get you flustered.
“You know what,” you snap.
He bites the inside of his cheek and you track the movement. “Say it.”
“Malfoy, if I remember correctly, you lost today,” you say sharply. “So, you’re not giving the orders here, and I —”
The rest of your sentence dies on your tongue when he shivers underneath you.
It’s a small, involuntary shake of his shoulders, but you see it. His eyes give no hint if he’s uncomfortable, knee-deep in the snow, but his hands clench into fists against his thighs. He’d never admit it, but he’s cold.
And this is why you learned that blasted spell in the first place.
You lower your foot, and his chest caves on a sharp exhale. He takes advantage of the space instantly, rising to his feet and rubbing his chest as if he can still feel the pressure of your heel there.
You reach into your coat pocket and his eyes track the movement. When you withdraw your wand, his soft silver gaze disappears, hardening into that iron wall you know so well, before you can even protest.
No.
Absently, you scuff your boot against the snow, as if you could erase the memory of his quick breaths beneath your sole. You had him right where you wanted him for a fleeting second. Willing. Wanting.
But now, as he looks down at you, the lingering desire is gone, replaced with a furious anger that catches you off guard.
“Fuck you,” he mutters, “I should’ve known —”
You narrow your eyes at him. “What are you —?”
Behind you, the dragon roars again, another stream of fire tearing through the night sky. The orange glow hits the trees surrounding you, casting everything in long, harsh shadows.
He looks around at the empty forest and laughs once. It’s a hollow, bitter sound that seems to echo inside your very bones.
“So, this is was the plan, yeah?” he snaps. “Lure me far enough away, you could carve the Dark Mark out of me without anyone hearing me scream? Give me a scar no one’ll ever see? Go on, Snitch!” He gestures towards his body as if it were a punching bag. “Do your worst.”
His anger drives you back a step, and your mouth falls open in shock at the insinuation. First, he blames you for throwing him mercilessly off the pitch last match, and tonight, he thinks you’ll…what? Torture him? You know you’ve done some shit to each other over the years, but never anything like this.
There’s a haunted look in his eyes that makes your skin prickle. Like he’s lived through things far worse than you ever allowed yourself to imagine. Is he talking about Voldemort? Or something to do with his family? You’ve had that thought before, but never seemed to care. You don’t care.
But, how cruel is his Father, really?
If you were smart, you’d defend yourself. Argue with him that he’s not being rational, or say something equally cutting. But instead, all you want to do is bring him back to you.
“Draco—” you start.
He closes the distance in a single stride. Your chests brush with every breath and you try to meet his gaze. But he screws his eyes shut against your visible concern, pressing his forehead against yours so hard it almost hurts. Almost.
“You can’t hurt me.” He growls.
The words sound so self-assured coming from his mouth, but you know him.
“Now, who’s the liar?” You whisper.
When he doesn’t move, you rise up on your tiptoes and gently bump your nose against his. It’s a small, playful touch, meant to draw him back from whatever dark place he’s spiraling into. But it ends up saying more than that. It’s a touch full of passion, reassurance, promise, and everything you’re too afraid to say.
He exhales shakily, his warm breath ghosting across your lips.
“Don’t.” He murmurs.
Don’t. Don’t…what? Despite yourself, you can’t help the effect his tone has on your body. So achingly low and desperate. He could ask for anything in that voice and you’d give it to him.
You press the tip of your wand gently into his chest and he flinches. The sight breaks something in your chest.
“Thermoconduco.”
His eyes flare open and anger flashes bright, before quickly fading into recognition. The tension drains from his shoulders, and the hands gripping your waist loosen, their shivering slowing.
“That’s why you…” he breathes. “You didn’t learn that warming spell for the dragons.”
The insinuation is there, clear as day, threaded through his surprised tone. He can’t know how many hours you spent perfecting it last night under the light of your single candle, in preparation for tonight.
“I didn’t do anything for you,” you whisper, forehead still pressed against his. “It’s for me, really. Didn’t want to have to worry about you shivering the whole time I —”
You trail off as he grips your waist tighter, pulling you flush against his chest. His nose brushes yours again, and your head tips back in anticipation, eyes fluttering shut.
“Look at you,” he chuckles. His fingertips skim over your cheek, the touch so gentle you swear you must’ve imagined it. “So desperate for my kiss.”
Your eyes flare open. “No, I’m not.”
You step back to prove it, causing his hands to fall from you, and you immediately miss them.
He smirks at you, knowingly. All swagger now that he’s not under threat, and not cold in the slightest. Thanks to you. That flicker of insecurity disappears, buried beneath pride and arrogance, and suddenly, you want to shove him.
Kiss him.
Ruin him.
Your palm slams into his hard, muscled stomach, and you shove him back hard. He stumbles and crashes against a tree behind him.
“Bloody hell— ” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. It falls perfectly back into place after his fingers leave, moonlight gleaming over the silky platinum strands.
Something about that irritates you. Why does it have to slip back in place so perfectly like that?
Even with his shirt rumpled from your hands, stained with dirt from your shoe, he’s just so…perfect.
He’s perfect.
And it’s positively maddening.
“You’re not being very cooperative,” you mutter condescendingly.
“Oh,” he scoffs, “And you were cooperative when I dragged you to Hogsmeade? When we went into the Restricted Section —”
“You coerced me!”
“I didn’t,” he argues, crossing his arms over his chest. “You wanted it. I just had to make you see that you wanted it.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing Malfoy?” you exclaim, gesturing to your outfit. “I’ve walked around in this short-ass skirt all fucking day — fuck’s sake!”
He smirks, head tipping back against the tree. “Knew it.”
You huff, irritation rising in you quick and sharp. He’s pushing you. Testing how far you’ll take this. Curious about the shift in your usual dynamic. And while part of you wants to walk away and let him regret pushing you…the other part wants to give into it.
You glance at him, trying to decide which urge is greater, when your gaze snags on the way his chest rises and falls beneath his folded arms, how his tongue slips out to wet his bottom lip in the moonlight.
Fuck it.
You surge forward, and he meets you halfway, slanting his mouth over yours eagerly.
You sigh at the taste of him, and push him back until he slams into the tree again. He groans, fingers gripping the back of your neck while his other hand slides down to dip beneath your short skirt and palm your ass, like he’s been dying to do that all day.
He’s so warm— thanks to your fantastic spell-casting — and you whimper against him, clawing to get closer.
His tongue meets yours in a meltingly hot stroke that makes your head go fuzzy. In an effort to keep any wits at all, you tear yourself from his mouth, dragging your lips along his jaw and down his corded neck instead. But, when your tongue circles his fluttering pulse, you can fucking tastehis whimper.
And it soaks your panties instantly.
Your fingers fly to his shirt, unbuttoning it with a frantic urgency. Your stomach flips in anticipation as moonlight spills over his warm, creamy skin, revealed inch by torturous inch.
You’ve never actually done this before — taken off someone’s clothes. But if you’re doing it wrong, Draco doesn’t seem to notice or care.
He’s breathing hard beneath your palms, mouth open against your neck, his kisses so unrestrained, they have you swaying into him.
When you undo the last button, you try to stand back and admire your work, but he catches your waist and drags you right back to him, unwilling to let the space exist.
So instead, you arch your neck further for him, and he hums his approval, blunt nails digging into your scalp as he tries to loosen your hair tie.
He’s certainly warm enough, that’s for sure.
Your fingers explore his chest, brushing over the ridges and valleys of his toned body. When your middle finger grazes something puckered on one of his pecs, like an old scar, he jerks in your hold and shrugs his shoulder, shifting your hand down. You don’t push it.
A heartbeat later, he wins the war against the hair tie, and your hair spills over your shoulders. He immediately sinks both hands into it, tilting your head back to kiss you again, like he’s just as obsessed with your hair as you are with his.
You don’t know why that makes your heart skip a beat, but it does.
Your fingers drift lower, tracing over taut abs and down through the narrow line of trimmed hair that has your teeth sinking into his bottom lip without thinking.
“Oh, shit!” you pull back in horror as you realize you bit his busted lip, “Sorry— I don’t want to hurt you.”
“’S fine,” he breathes. His skin stretches under your hand and you realize he’s arching into your touch. “Never thought I’d hear those words come out of your mouth, Snitch.”
A soft, breathy laugh escapes you. “Don’t worry, I won’t make a habit of it.”
He pulls you back into another bruising kiss, like every second your mouth’s apart from his is unacceptable. When the hell did you start worrying about hurting him?
“Don’t push m-me away this time, Draco,” you say against his mouth, breath mingling with his.
It’s meant to be a command, but it comes out sounding like a pleading question. Because, you really do want his permission to keep going.
You need it. You hate that you do — but you do.
“This is really what you’re choosing?” he murmurs.
It’s technically a question, clarifying the winner’s reward, but it comes out sounding like a breathy observation, brimming on disbelief. His chin dips to his chest to watch as you sink to your knees in front of him.
You nod.
He doesn’t lecture you. Doesn’t reach out to yank you back up. He just lets his head fall back against the rough bark, and moans a quiet, ‘holy shit.’
You’re taking that as permission.
The buttons of his slacks fall open beneath your fingers, revealing the hard bulge straining against his black briefs.
You swallow hard. All that intense confidence you had earlier wavers under the weight of what you’re about to do, and your fingers hover uncertainly, inches from touching him. Are you just supposed to…what should you do?
He’s letting you. He wants this. And that fact alone is enough to halt your breathing entirely. So, you try to urge your hands to just…do it. But, you don’t want to do the wrong thing.
He notices your hesitation, and his brows draw together, eyes sharpening in that infuriating way that you’ve come to recognize as his thinkinglook.
Panic flares under your ribs, and you scramble for a way out of this — a path forward that doesn’t leave you feeling so utterly wrung out and exposed.
See? You and your stupid inexperience ruined the moment. You brace for his sneering remark, or a cutting word, something to put you back in your place.
His warm fingers close around your wrist, and the back of your nose burns. He’s going to shove you away. You know he is. You’re not drunk this time, so he’ll probably come up with something that has to do with your new outfit. Call you a slut, a whore for attention, an imposter.
You watch numbly as he brings your hand up past his chest.
This is it. Why did you ever think you could —
But under his guiding palm, your hand suddenly changes direction. You stare, dumbfounded, as he drags your fingers purposefully over his warm stomach again.
He moans, head tipping back, abs flexing as his hips rock forward in a small, involuntary motion.
Oh.
You stare up at him, wide-eyed. God, he’s gorgeous. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, eyes dark in the moonlight as he pulls your hand even lower.
You try not to breathe, afraid one sound might snap him back to his senses. But instead, he tightens his grip on your wrist, steady and sure, guiding both of your hands beneath the waistband of his underwear.
And then your fingers brush the hot, velvety skin of his cock.
You inhale sharply, your pulse racing, heat flooding your body and warming you from the inside out. He groans at your touch and the vibration of his voice run through your palms, rattling you in more ways than one.
Why does this feel so much more intimate than when his mouth was between your legs in the library? You’re almost certain you could think more clearly then than you can right now.
Your fingers curl around him curiously, still hidden beneath his briefs. Above you, he rakes a hand through his hair forcefully, like he’s fighting himself for control, or trying to clear his head.
“Take it out,” he says.
You’re thankful for the cover of darkness as you blush furiously. When you tug the waistband down, his cock springs free. It’s long and heavy, slightly darker than the rest of his skin.
Your mouth drops open at the sight, and he lets out a choked sound. A bead of precum glistens at the flushed tip, and your tongue swirls against the back of your teeth, like it already knows exactly what to do and is just waiting for your brain to catch up.
Long fingers catch your chin, tilting your face up. His core tenses under your gaze and that lock of hair falls over his eyes.
Fuck.
It’s not fair that the bruises on his face just make him that much more gorgeous.
“I—I don’t want to teach you this,” he pants, “for any other bloke. Only what I like.”
You study him through your lashes.
What is he talking about? What does he really want?
You agreed to be exclusive with him last night. At least, until the bets end and you finally fulfill your promise to yourself by your birthday. In fifteen days. The thought drops into your stomach like a stone.
What will things look like between you after that?
Merlin, why did you ever think this was a good idea?
It’s the worst plan you’ve ever had. Reckless. Incorrigible. And it’s going to break you apart in the end. But you want this more than anything, and you’re powerless to do anything but enjoy him while you can. While he still lets you close to him.
“Say it,” he says, grip tightening on your face. “Only me.”
“Only you,” you repeat dutifully.
You both know it’s not true. But it doesn’t matter right now. And you’ll let him have the fantasy that he’s the only man you’ll ever have in your mouth, even with how ludicrous that is. Even if it confuses you, on why he would even want that in the first place.
Plus, you’d say anything he wants you to right now, mesmerized by the sight of him bobbing above you, so flushed and heavy.
He releases your chin and you take that as a signal, wrapping both hands around his cock. He turns to stone underneath you, breathing deep and slow through his nose, and you bite your lip, worried you’ve hurt him or something.
“You okay?” you ask.
He huffs out a strained laugh. “Bloody brilliant, Snitch. Just trying not to embarrass myself, here.”
You drag your gaze back to his leaking cock and swallow hard. It’s so big— so intimidating — and you feel like shrinking back under his watchful gaze.
Then warm fingers slide through your hair, and your lashes flutter at his touch.
“Start slow,” he says, voice low and tight. “Kiss up the shaft.”
Encouraged by his instruction, you lean forward and press a tentative kiss to his molten skin. It’s softer than you imagined, silky and warm against your lips.
A breath punches out of his chest above you as he watches, so you do it again, higher up this time.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Make me fucking desperate for it, yeah?”
His words send heat spiraling through you. You part your lips and place a third kiss on the tip, your tongue darting out to taste him.
“Oh, fuck,” he grunts, hand tightening in your hair as he pulls backwards, drawing you back. The force is gentle but firm, so you go with him, eyes lifting to his. “Remember…when I teased you in the Restricted Section?”
“No, Malfoy,” you deadpan. “Totally forgot.”
“Brat,” he smirks. “I’m trying to teach you.”
You can’t stop the smile that tugs at your mouth. “Okay, but be quick about it — I’m kind of trying to give a blowjob here if you haven’t notic—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groans, brushing his length across your mouth to silence you. “If you pay attention to my body, it’ll tell you everything. Like…when to tease—”
You flick your tongue out as he passes over your lips again and he stutters over his words.
“— and when to give m-me what I w-want.”
You hum your understanding, and he loosens his grip in your hair, still holding your head, but not guiding it anymore. You adjust your grip him on him, tracing your tongue along the ridge beneath the head.
He thrusts forward for more, but you pull back deliberately, eyes snapping up to gauge his reaction. His head’s thrown back against the tree, eyes screwed shut.
“Mmhhmm,” he breathes.
He likes being teased.
That realization floods you with heat, confidence surging back into your veins like magic. It turns your senses sharper, your grip stronger, and it makes you want to drive him mad.
You slide one hand up his length and back down as you flutter your tongue along the underside of his shaft. He shivers, but not from the cold this time. So you do it again. And again. You can feel how much he’s holding himself back in the hard flex of his thigh beneath your chest. The tension’s obvious in his clenched fist in your hair.
He’s going easy on you.
“Give me that bratty mouth,” he groans, hips rocking gently into your hand.
You hum noncommittally, like you haven’t decided if you’re done teasing him yet and he lets out a sound somewhere between a weak laugh and a whine.
“Fuck you, Snitch,” he says.
But there’s no bite to it at all. Rather, it’s almost adoring, the way he says it. Sweet, even. To you, he might as well have said, you’re incredible at this.
You decide to reward that by parting your lips and enveloping him in the warm, wet heat of your mouth. His thumb moves from your hair to just below your ear, and he presses small circles into the hinge of your jaw. You take the hint, opening wider, and he hums his approval.
You think back to how his tongue moved on you in the Restricted Section. The teasing licks. The broad, confident stokes. The way he built you up slowly and deliberately.
You mirror it now, letting your tongue shift from teasing licks to firm, sweeping motions along the underside of his cock, tracing the veins thrumming beneath your mouth.
“That’s it,” he sighs, “You can go harder, y-you won’t hurt me—”
Your mouth waters as you grip him tighter, feeling his blood pulse beneath your palm. Your thighs press together unconsciously, chasing friction to relieve the ache in your core, but it does nothing to slake your thirst, just driving you mad with desire.
You slick him with your tongue and drop your jaw further to avoid your teeth touching him as you hollow your cheeks and suck gently. He holds your hair so patiently, and he’s restraining himself beautifully. You decide to reward him again by taking him a little deeper.
And he fucking whimpers.
If you thought you were soaked before, it’s nothing compared to now.
Feeling him slide along your tongue like this? Using your body to bring him pleasure? It’s overwhelmingly amazing. Is this how he felt doing it to you?
His thighs tremble beneath your palms from the effort it takes to hold himself still so you can explore at your own pace. But, when you press deeper again, he gasps sharply, hips bucking into your mouth on instinct. The movement makes him hit the back of your throat, triggering your gag reflex.
You pull back coughing, eyes watering. His grip in your hair loosens instantly, and he pulls back to tilt your face up, but you avert your eyes from his, suddenly embarrassed.
He doesn’t tease you. Doesn’t say anything, actually. Just wipes the tear from the corner of your eye with a gentleness completely foreign to you. You don’t know why, but you feel the need to explain yourself to him.
“I wasn’t —”
He shushes you. “Stop overthinking.”
You nod mutely, silently fuming at yourself. It’s unfortunate that this has to be your first time doing this. With him. Because if you knew what you were doing, you could bring him to his fucking knees. But that’s why you’re doing this in the first place, remember? It’s not about him.
“Bet that pussy’s so fuckin’ wet,” he muses.
“Fuck you.”
“Oh it’s not?” he smirks haughtily. “You’re going to tell me it’s not?”
You shake your head, focusing in on one of his pearl-white buttons to distract yourself from his heated gaze.
“Don’t go shy on me now,” he says, voice softer, quieter. “I know you like it. Just do what feels good to you. And watch me.”
His cock still bobs between you, flushed and aching and you take a deep breath. With his assurance still ringing in your ears, you grip him again — harder this time — and when your mouth envelops him once more, he shudders.
Your throat spasms again, but you breathe through your nose, and keep going, sucking him through the discomfort until it fades into something else entirely. Something that makes you consider slipping a hand beneath your skirt to relieve the tension — but that would just prove him right about the state of your panties at the moment.
Everything about this feels incredibly intimate in a way that his tongue on you didn’t. Maybe it was because he was challenging you, and teasing you the whole time, and this time…it’s different. Something deep in the recesses of your brain scrambles for attention, reminding you that this is your rival.
And you have his dick down your throat.
For some reason, you feel the need to remind him of that. Or, maybe, you need to remind yourself.
You pull back just enough to mutter, “I still hate you, you know,” before swallowing around him.
“Yes,” he grits out, “Tell me how much you hate me — between chokes — holy sh-shit.”
With each pass of your hot mouth along his length, his sounds grow louder, rougher, and the result is a dizzying mix of arousal and power.
He groans like you’re hurting him, but the tension in his brow and they way his eyes squeeze shut tell a very different story. You watch, transfixed, as his mouth drops open on a silent cry, breath ghosting up into the cold air, and you moan around him without meaning to.
The sight of him like this — unraveling beneath you — is hotter than any dragon’s flame.
“Oh fuck, yeah,” he groans, eyes dropping back to you. “Moan around my cock, Snitch — fuck, that’s it.”
His words shoot straight through you. Heat blooms so intensely you shut your eyes, a whimper slipping free, and he curses again. He’s so warm that, between his body and the heat pooling low in your belly, you almost forget it’s freezing outside.
When his gaze catches yours again, your breath stutters. His silver eyes look nearly black now, pupils blown wide, teeth glinting faintly in the moonlight.
You grip the back of his thighs, anchoring yourself, and under his gaze you widen your jaw, relax your throat, and let him all the way in.
“Ah, fuck — fuck, Snitch,” he whines, tipping his head back and tearing his eyes away. “I…I can’t fuckin’ think—”
Good. He thinks too much anyways.
You keep the pace he seems to like, continuing your warm, even strokes to bring him to the edge. Your hand — slick with saliva and precum— slides easily over his hot length and the thought of him sinking inside you makes you moan and clench around nothing.
“Gonna come,” he gasps. His hand slides into your hair again, tugging backwards, but this time, you don’t follow. “I need to — tell me where you—”
You don’t let him finish his sentence. Instead, you double down, licking and sucking like you could draw the orgasm straight through him. You’re eager to taste him, curious to see what it feels like to have him come undone in your mouth.
“Snitch…” he pleads, both hands in your hair now. But he only succeeds in tipping your head back and forcing your eyes to meet his.
You see the moment it happens. His abs tense, chest heaving, hips jerking forward in shallow, broken thrusts. You cling to his thighs to stay close.
He groans, the sound loud and wrecked. His cock pulses against your tongue, and you’re swallowing around him before his release hits your throat. It’s hot and salty, and you love the taste of it. You hum softly as his body slackens against you.
He tugs on your hair again, and his cock slips from your lips. He’s staring at you, breathing hard, like he can’t believe what just happened.
You don’t know what you expected afterward. Maybe a scoff of indifference, some joke to break the moment, or maybe just his walls snapping back into place. But as he looks down at you, still catching your breath, he looks utterly undone.
As reality beings to settle in around you, your sensations return and you feel a strand of your hair stuck to your lip, saliva cooling at the corner of your mouth. You swipe at it, furious and embarrassed, but he’s faster, gently tucking it back behind your ear.
Your breath catches.
His lips part like he might say something, and you lean in without realizing it, desperate to hear what he will say. But then he glances around the dark forest, as if remembering where he is for the first time.
He reaches to button himself up, and you rush to stand, giving him space to do so.
You smooth your skirt down and look around. The forest is silent, dragons long since settled back down.
Your thighs press together subconsciously, and you bite your lip at that smallest hint of pressure against your clit.
That was the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever done.
You’re desperate to see if he feels the same way, but why should you care? He obviously liked it well enough, and that’s all that should matter. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need his praise. You shouldn’t want him to tell you that’s the best he ever had.
But you’re a greedy, competitive son-of-a-bitch.
And you do want it.
Badly.
The next thing you know, his hand clamps around your bicep, and your lips are on his. The forest tilts and spins, and then your back slams into the tree as he reverses you positions.
“Should’ve known you’d study every page of that book the day I brought it to you,” he mutters against your mouth.
You can feel the smile in his kiss as his lips brush yours again, teasing. The warming spell will probably be wearing off soon, but the ache in your core tightens, embedding into your hips.
You want to argue with him, tell him it’s definitely not because of his notes, but you only succeed in biting back the whimper rising in your throat. Your head swims as his tongue dips into your mouth, warm and eager, and part of that surprises you. He’s not turned off by the taste of himself on your tongue.
“Stop mocking me, Malfoy,” you pant. “Your mouth is better used for other things.”
“Oh yeah?” he leans back just far enough to quirk a brow at you.
“Yeah.”
“Well then, I’d better use it, shouldn’t I?”
He grips your shoulders and spins you around. Your palms scrape against the rough bark as he presses you into the tree, pinning your chest to it.
Your heart slams against your chest and you arch back into him greedily, demanding he give you what you want. What you need.
His hands trail down your back, slow and deliberate, following the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, until they settle just beneath the edge of your skirt that doesn’t cover your ass.
“Fuckin’ knew it,” he teases, running a finger over your soaked panties.
Snow crunches behind you but you can’t turn to see him. Not when he’s squeezing your thighs, tugging your tights and underwear down to your knees, baring you to him.
Cold air rushes under your skirt, but you’re panting, too consumed with raw anticipation to even really notice the chill.
“Don’t make me beg,” you say. The words drag from your chest, hard and heavy. You’re not used to asking for what you want. “Don’t tease m-me tonight— fuck, Draco, I need—”
He doesn’t answer. He just dives beneath your skirt, tongue stroking through you like a man starved. You cry out, arching your back to chase his mouth, and he whines into you, like he just can’t fucking get enough of your taste
He’s licks and sucks with reckless desire, like it’s hardly even for you at all.
“Good girl,” he encourages against your clit. “Telling me what you want. What you like. Merlin, I’ve been trying to — t-teach you—”
The ache is already too much, the impending rush of pleasure so heavy you know this won’t take long. A couple more passes of his tongue just like that, probably.
So you dig your hands into the bark and close your eyes, giving in to the fleeting fantasy that this is real. That this is just two people who actually want each other. Desperately. That he could be yours, without thinking about all the mess, or the inevitable fallout.
His fingers dig into your thighs as he spreads you open like his own personal feast under his tongue. You moan into the darkness, wordlessly begging for more as you near your peak.
“I have you,” he whispers.
I have you.
And just he way he says it— so soft, so reverently, almost like he’s surprised the words are even leaving his mouth — makes you shake.
For a split second, you imagine him lining himself up behind you, whispering soft praises in your ear as he fills you. Hands roaming your skin like he’s memorized it. Like he would if you were really his. And just the thought of belonging to him makes your orgasm take hold.
You cry out and throw your head back, grinding into his mouth as your pussy clenches around nothing, achingly empty.
When the pleasure fades and your limbs start to go boneless with relief, you open your eyes to the dark forest.
Malfoy is already stepping back, breath ragged, hands gone from your skin. Heat floods your cheeks as you rush to pull your clothes back into place.
When you turn around, he’s staring off into the distance. His shirt is buttoned up again, along with his coat, so you can’t see that shoe print you left earlier.
He looks back at you.
For a moment, neither or you speaks. A thousand unsaid things hang between you.
He breaks the moment by reaching into his front coat pocket, and pulling out two small scraps of parchment.
You eye them hesitantly, but he presses them into your hand. They are two tickets to the Highwatch for the finals match tomorrow.
He clears his throat. “Thought you’d…thought you might want some company up there.”
You frown. “What?”
“Ginny,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Ginny?”
“Yes, you know— short, ginger, kind of —”
“Wait, she’s….?” you interrupt, staring up at him. There’s no way he doesn’t know that she’s not at school, right?
He nods, eyes widening, like he’s waiting on you to get the hint. “She’s coming. Tomorrow.”
A rush of excitement zips through you. “She is?”
“Last she told me.”
“She must’ve been trying to surprise me, then!”
He rolls his eyes. “Her and her secrets. I tried to tell her—”
Your arms fly around his neck before he can finish, pressing your body to his as you bury your face in his shoulder. He stiffens for a beat, before slowly bringing his arms around you, holding you there.
You’re hugging him. You’ve never done that, before. It’s awkward. And somehow, it feels completely natural.
An overwhelming emotion floods your chest, too deep to think about fully, so you just press your face into his coat and breathe in his familiar scent.
“Thank you,” you whisper against his neck.
He clears his throat again, and drops a sweet, lingering kiss to the top of your head.
That emotion brims over, and then a familiar burn tickles the back of your nose.
Oh no.
Oh, fuck no.
You pull back from him like he’s burned you. He steps back at the same time, running a hand over his coat, like he can brush off the heat of your body.
“Well,” you state awkwardly, “Goodnight.”
He nods, blank gaze fixed past you in the direction of the castle.
Unsure of what else to do, you stare down at your stupid heeled boots in the snow, trying to steady yourself. When you look up again, he’s gone.
Relief and frustration twist together under your ribs as you lean back against the tree, hands pressed to your face.
You can’t do this. You absolutely cannot fall for your rival.
Panic swirls in your gut as you realize, somewhere along the way, your fantasy changed.
What used to be watching him yield to you on the dueling mat, turned into wanting to hear him say your name with that wrecked tone that makes you feel like there’s something real between you.
He’s going to be the death of you.
Because in a life full of spells and fire and dragons, in a world built on danger and darkness, you’ve never felt a flame this scorching.
And if you aren’t careful, it won’t just blister your heart.
It will burn you alive.
a/n: Thanks for reading!! I love this chapter. I love the notes, the shoe on his shirt, his defensiveness from the way she sees him. UGHHHH. Re-blogs and likes are always appreciated. Love you all!
Tags: angst, swearing, insults, bad blood, mentions of reckless driving which you should not do!!!!! Angst, fluff, they may be broken up physically but not in spirit, mentions of death
Im a hard-working man. Everything I have, the penthouse, the cars, the kid, I worked my ass off for. Which is why I think I deserve rest too, once in a while, from getting my jaw smashed by overgrown, temperamental toddlers—not being hyperbolic either; Vaughn’s got better emotional regulation than some of my ‘opponents.’
I'm sprawled out on the couch in my underwear while shovelling Jalapeño chicken popper flavoured Doritos into my mouth like a teenager—don’t judge me, someone’s got to finish them. I have a massive package of them since they’re my collab flavour. The crunching of the chips muffles Arnold Schwarzenegger's unintelligible yelling on my screen.
Now is it kinda boring? Yeah. But boredom is good, means my muscles and shit can relax for once, so I ain’t complaining. Or at least, I wasn’t until my phone rings, jolting me back into reality and forcing me to read [user]’s name light up my screen. I swallow the chips in my mouth and swipe to answer.
"Yo, what’s up?" I say, biting another chip.
“Dad!?” Vaughn cries on the line, panic exuding from every syllable that reaches my ear.
I sit up. The bag of chips falls off my stomach and to the floor.
"Whoa. Whoa, buddy, slow down," I say. "What's the matter? What's wrong?"
I already start pulling on a shirt and sweatpants, shoving my feet into slippers, while balancing the phone against my shoulder—not an easy feat with one hand but I manage.
The panic in his voice makes my heart pound even harder when he cries shrilly, “Dada! I think mama’s dying.”
For a single, horrifying moment, time just stops. Like all of existence just slams to a standstill. Then my brain snaps into hyperdrive. No more lounging. I'm on my feet now, grabbing my keys and sprinting out of the penthouse.
Worry beats at my heart, making me feel as though it's caving in, while my blood rushes to my head so fast I get lightheaded.
"Where are you?" My voice comes out sharp and I make an effort to soften it back down. "Vaughn, listen to me—where is she? Tell me where you are right now."
I don't wait for an answer as I'm already yanking open a drawer and shoving cash and car keys into my pocket with one hand before sprinting out of the door and taking the elevator to my private garage.
"Did she fall? Is there blood?"
“We’re at home. There was a lot of blood.”
I'm already in the garage, jumping into my SUV and starting the car.
"A lot?" I ask. My brain is already racing with the worst-case scenarios—blood, pain, hospital rooms. I can barely keep my voice steady.
I shove the keys into the slot and turn the engine on, not even trying to get the seatbelt on as I'm peeling out of the parking lot and speeding down the road towards home.
"Okay, it’s okay. Just keep talking to me, kid, okay?” I manage to stay calm around my panic.
My hands clench the wheel tightly as I weave through traffic, breaking more than a few laws in the process with my reckless driving—God, my accountants are gonna be up my ass because of it.
The image of my ex-fiancé in pain flashes in my head—with fat globs of tears sitting on her lower lash line, her body writhing in agony—and it hurts more than any punch I’ve ever taken in the ring. I swallow the urge to throw up.
"I'm almost there, Vaughn. Just hang on," I tell him, my voice steady. "I'm gonna make it better, okay? I promise."
I blow out a ragged breath, "You get Mom a towel. Press it where she's bleeding, okay? Like we practised with your boo-boos."
“Oh…okay.” He mumbles, filling the line with rustling. “Okay, I got my towel.”
“Don’t use your bath towel, V.”
“Oh.”
I almost smile at the kid—he was so fucking tooth-rottingy sweet, it never ceased to amaze me that he was a product of two of the most dysfunctional and toxic people alive.
“Alright, Da, I got a new one.”
“Atta boy, I’m nearly there okay? I’m outside the gate.” Pulling up to the ornate metal barrier that was lodged between tall walls of brick that circled [name]’s estate. My baby mama was not subtle or one for the ‘quaint’ lifestyle.
I push in Vaughn’s birth time, not date because date would’ve been too obvious according to her. God, she’s a paranoid cook. I really hope she isn’t dead.
“Vaughn! What’re you doing!” Serafina screeches.
“Dad said to press on the wound with a towel to stop the blood, Maa!”
“No, don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Vaughn.”
“Cus’ what?”
I'm halfway out the car door when I hear that, my stomach lurching.
"[Name]?" I shout as soon as the gate clicks open, abandoning all decorum and sprinting up the front stone steps. "The fuck is going on in there?!"
I don't even bother knocking—I just shove through her stupidly expensive oak door with enough force to make it rattle against its frame. Running up the stairs, taking two at a time, I ignore the way her butler gapes at me or how her housemaid yelps as I run past her.
My eyes immediately land on Vaughn clutching a towel like it's his lifeline while Serafina stands there looking perplexed.
"What," I pant, hands braced on my knees for balance from running so fast, "happened."
I look her up and down, clad in a satin red nightgown with a matching robe with her hands on her hips with a scowl adorning her features directed at me like I did something wrong.
"You're fine." I accuse, scowling back at her. "This is some dramatic bullshit you pulled just to get me over here?"
[Name] gapes at him, her eyes wide as she stares me down. “You fucking wish, asshole.” Her hands clamp down on the sides of our son’s head, covering Vaughn’s ears.
I huff out a frustrated breath, rubbing my forehead. There's a throbbing headache forming behind my eyes from all her bullshit. My eyes dart to Vaughn who is looking at me with worry and curiosity, which only makes the knot in my stomach even worse. I manage to plaster a smile onto my face.
"Go wait in the living room, bud," I say quietly. "Momma and I got some boring adult things we need to discuss, mmkay? I'll join you in a bit. Promise."
He hesitates. "O-okay."
We both watch out as our son scurries outside and all attempts at civility burn to the ground. “What’s wrong with you, you freak?”
My temper flares as her sharp tone hits me, the worry for her safety quickly morphing into frustration at her attitude. I'm still breathing hard from running here and my muscles are still taut from the adrenaline, only adding fuel to the flame.
"I'm the freak? You're the one who got our kid to call me in a panic, thinking you were dying! Jesus Christ, is attention really that much of a life necessity for you, [Name]?"
The woman scoffs at me, “First of all, I didn’t fucking call you, Vaughn did. And secondly, he did think that I was dying because my period came early and I woke up all fucking bloody—“ her voice consistently rises in tandem with her temper.
“—And now I have the worst cramps ever and they hurt so bad and my crazy toxic baby daddy burst my door down and accuses me of being obsessed with him as if I would ever need to look in his direction again! Look at me, I feel like shit and the people you look up to, still couldn’t pull me!” She cries—because she’s now crying—and throwing her pillow at me in frustration.
I barely manage to catch the pillow before it smacks me in the face, and just stand there for a few long seconds, blinking blankly, while her words land.
Oh. Okay. Well, now I feel like a jackass.
My shoulders sag a bit and the anger quickly leaves my body, only to be replaced with a weird sensation in the pit of my stomach. Her cramps were always really bad—I remember staying up all night with her while she moaned about them.
“Oh, baby.”
And instantly, the fire melts from her body and she pads over to and into my open arms.
My arms automatically open to wrap around my ex-fiancé and I pull her close, cradling her against my chest. She's smaller than me—barely comes up to my chin—and I can feel her body trembling against mine.
I hold her like a doll, her head tucked into the crook of my neck, and gently rock her back and forth while my hand moves up and down her spine in long, slow caresses in an attempt to console her. Even as angry as she makes me, I can never handle it when she cries.
"I'm sorry," I murmur into her hair. "I'm a dick."
“You are.” She hiccups before wailing again, “Everything hurts so bad, Dom!”
My grip tightens instinctively, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head while the other presses firmly against her lower back—like I can physically shield her from the pain.
"Shhh, I know," I mutter into her hair. "Fuckin' hate when it gets this bad for you."
I don't even question it—just lift a hand and start rubbing slow circles over where she's clenching in pain through that stupidly expensive silk robe.
"You want me to get you something? Tea? Painkillers?" My voice is rough but softer than usual as my thumb brushes along a tear track on her cheek before wiping it away with my knuckles.
"Or do you just need me here like this?"
When she doesn't reply, I nudge her cheek with my nose and then she shakes her head.
Tags: Pregnancy, Sexual language, cursing, fluff, a itsy bitsy amount of angst, not fully proofread
Twenty minutes ago, I was signing the contract that’s gonna change my entire life. My palm was still clammy and shaking from when I shook Jameson Aster—Carter’s dad’s—hand and he grinned at me, welcoming me to the pros.
The big fucking leagues.
The league I was gonna climb tooth and nail, risking everything I have to give, just so I can shout, “I made it, fuckers!” And hear it echo around the world and straight to my folks’ heads when they see me, Dominick Ryan Kardos being everything they never thought I could be.
That was everything all those years of underground fights, shitty gyms, busted ribs, my blood marring sparring mats were about. All I could think about was that, this is it, Dom, the beginning of the rest of my life.
And all I wanted to do was go home and kiss my woman stupid. I shut the door to my dingy, cheap apartment with its squeaky doors and creaky floorboards and a fire escape that rattled every time big Mrs Junice from upstairs went on it for a smoke. A massive signing bonus was also part of the contract, meaning that I could move [name] and me to a slightly less shitty place that’s not in the heart of the Vegas underground—somewhere closer to the house she grew up in.
It took me a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness that bathed the place, bar the yellow light spilling out of the cracked door leading from the bathroom; the rest was pitch black.
“Baby?” I call, dropping my keys onto the console and making my way over to her. When there’s no reply, I thump my still wrapped knuckles against the door, worry beginning to crawl up my spine. “You good if I come in, gorgeous?” I wait for the, albeit hesitant, agreement before opening the bathroom door.
My girl was sitting on the toilet seat, bent in half with her chest pressed up against her thighs with her head in her hands—her shirt slipping off one shoulder and her hair a mess in a way that wasn’t usual for my little rich girl. She may be slumming it with me but she was never going to abandon who she was.
My eyes rake over her, the worry that had begun boiling in me feeling vindicated, and that’s when my eyes catch it. A white stick is being clutched in her left palm with two pink lines sticking out from the top of her balled fist.
Holy fucking shit.
“Hey, hey,” I say, rushing over to crouch down in front of her. “What’s—what’s going on? You hurt?”
[name] doesn’t answer, instead just lifts her head to look up at me for the first time this evening, and it’s all there. Her fear and shock and disbelief.
Reaching out, I pry the stick out of her hand to take a look at the world-changing two lines that stained it. Then, I check again. And again for a third time. Maybe she’s fucking with me and it’ll change if I stare hard enough. But my woman ain’t the type to joke about shit like this.
“Is this—you’re—“ I can’t even finish the sentence. “Holy Fuck, baby.”
She nods again, “I know.” Her voice was so hoarse it made a pang of pain bolt through me and I pressed a kiss to her bare knee in a feeble attempt to soothe her.
It’s like someone ripped the mat out from under me—just when I thought it was gonna solidify. Everything I thought I knew about tonight—about what was gonna come next for us—gone.
My brain starts firing off a hundred thoughts at once:
How?
When?
Are we ready?
Is she okay?
What if she doesn’t want it?
What if she does?
The last question was the scariest prospect. [name] finally breaks the silence again, saving me from gaping like a fish at her. “I didn’t plan it.”
“Yeah, no shit, mama,” I breathe out a laugh automatically, trying to make her smile. She doesn’t.
I needed to pull myself the fuck together. We were both shocked. We both had no idea what to do or what was going on. We were on the same boat and I found comfort in that. As pussy as it sounds, I don’t like being alone and that’s why we work. Even with all that money, she was alone. I had nothing to lose and still nobody stayed—not my parents, not six siblings, nobody. For two people who felt so alone in this cruel, cold world, we found ourselves filling that emptiness with the last person either would’ve ever expected. A beautiful woman who thought Hamburger Helper was a made up Simpson’s cartoon restaurant, wasn’t the type of person I thought possible to see me, the hoodrat, best.
So I reach for her cold, shaky hand and I press it against my chest. “You’re good, yeah? You’re breathing, right?”
[name] nods again.
“Then we’re good.” I grin, she again doesn’t reflect it and I reach up to hold her pretty face. “‘Right, look at me,” I whisper. She does, barely, but her do eyes meet my own. “I ain’t mad.”
Her lip trembles. “You’re not?”
“The fuck do I have to be about?” I chuckle. “Baby, I’ve been punched by men twice my size. You think this scares me?”
Truth is, it does. It fucking terrified me. But not in the way she thinks. I’m not scared because of what this meant for us—relationship-wise—but rather I’m petrified about what it meant for us and our lives as one. Because I already know, I already felt it, from the first night I spent with this woman six months ago to when those lines showed up, it stopped just being about me and boxing and contracts or any of the goals that I set out with when I dropped out of high school and ran away from home with.
I look at [name]—the woman who made me believe in something bigger and better than fighting. This was it, my next fight and possibly the biggest one I’ll ever be a part of.
I rest my forehead against her knee. She’s shaking. I’m shaking. And neither of us knows what comes next. But at least we’re in it together, you know? Not a bad place to be.
[name] finally lets out that sob she was holding in. “I didn’t know what you’d think, Dom. You don’t even like hospitals. You barely sleep. You just got your shot at the title—”
“Stop,” I say, because hearing her talk like that makes me feel sick. “Stop talking like this is a problem.”
“You’re pregnant,” I say, mostly to hear it out loud. “With my kid.”
She nods, her tears spilling again.
And I laugh, it’s this stunned, cracked sound that leaves my throat but I’m trying to get her to laugh as well. “Holy fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “Did I get lucky or what?”
Vegas keeps moving.
Which it always does.
And so will [name] and I and our baby. If Vegas is moving, we’re fucking soaring.
My girl finally relents, letting out a choked laugh. “How is any of this luck, Dom?”
I lift my head just enough to look at her properly, still smiling.
"You're serious?" I raise one brow, taking in her tear-stained face for a moment. "How isn't this lucky?" I counter, reaching out to take one of her trembling hands in mine. "I was born in the shit-filled crack of Brooklyn to a family who couldn't stand me and I'm here, signing a contract that's gonna make me a millionaire tomorrow. And the woman of my fucking dreams, is pregnant with my kid."
“I’m the woman of your dreams?” She sniffles.
I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh—like she just asked me if the sky was blue.
"Baby, are you kidding me? Six months ago You walked into that shitty club and watched me fight some stupid bastard in the back alley for chump change and called me 'wasted potential,’ and fuck, baby, even if we didn’t go home together that night I don’t think I would’ve been able to stop thinking about you."
My voice drops lower as the disbelief fully overcomes me. "You wore this little black dress with all those diamonds spilling down your tits and I thought—fuckin' hell—that's who I wanna come home to every night for the rest of my life."
A pause as I press a kiss to her knuckles before adding with a smirk, "And you suck cock like you’re trying to win an Olympic medal for it. So yeah, dream girl, dream life."
I let her sink into me, pulling her tight against my chest, my arms encircling her waist as I hold her as close as I can. I bury my face in her hair and inhale the same scent that always feels like home.
"Come here," I mutter, pulling her in against my chest. She presses her warm face into the crook of my neck, and her breath feels like a gentle caress on my skin. She's trembling in my arms.
"A fenébe, you're freezing." I murmur, rubbing a hand up and down her back.
I was scared shitless for our future, for what could lie ahead of us, but in this moment I needed to focus on the present, on keeping her calm and safe.
A soft, contented sigh falls from my lips when she nuzzles closer, her hand curling against the nape of my neck. When she’s quiet for a while, I nudge her lightly. "Hey," I whisper, my fingers absently tracing down her spine. "We're good, yeah?"
⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ | Naughty times on a tractor with Patrick Feely (
Boys of Tommen: Patrick Feely
Tags: Smut. Minors DNI!!!!!!!!!!!!. Spice. Freaky farmer Feely. Hair pulling. Marking. First time writing spice. All characters are at least 18 years old — as per canon for 2006. Swearing. Obsessive behaviour? Semi-public. Pathetic boy Yearners existing for his girlfriend’s love and attention. Behaviour some may consider as patronising but the girls who get it, get it.
Our mouths work feverishly against one another, her tongue swiping my bottom lip and mine reciprocating; playing. She was perched on my lap, my hand palming the skin of her thigh, messaging and pulling the flesh absentmindedly.
The day had started normally, she’d come over under the pretence of helping me do my chores on the farm but ended up being nothing but a gorgeous distraction. Not that I’m ungrateful about it by any means.
Fucking my stunning girlfriend on a tractor just as a mental fuck you to my father is a great way to spend a Saturday in my opinion. Her nimble fingers begin to creep up the hem of my t-shirt, her nails grazing my abs in the way she knows I love. And I wrap her hair around my fist, tugging her hair back and handling her in the way I know she likes.
The tractor was parked up behind the barn so nobody could see us, and I could just focus on the walking sex appeal caged in my arms. Everything about her was alluring and attractive as fuck, down to the breathy noises she made when I sucked particularly hard on the side of her neck—leaving an oozing purple mark—to her name itself that always made jolts of electricity spark from the top of my spine to the base of my—
“Patrick.” She gaps, cutting off my thought. My eyes shot open, her voice was harsher, more urgent and for a moment I was worried that I’d hurt her. Then I realised that my body seemingly had a mind of its own and had begun sliding up her shirt—palming her chest over the material of her bra which made her cry out so sweetly for me.
“Mhmm..” she whimpers, this time it was her turn to sink her teeth into my throat, her body absentmindedly rocking over mine.
I hissed softly at the sudden pain from her biting me. I had really had a love hate relationship with her obsession with marking my skin. I love the way it looks on me; little red and purple bruises littering my body just to show who I belong to-but I also hate the way it looks when it starts to fade. The way it gets replaced by a soft yellow and then eventually fades entirely. I don't like it, I want them to last forever.
"F-fuck—baby," I hiss, head falling back as her teeth drag over my pulse point, her hips grinding down in a slow, filthy roll that makes my eyes roll back in their sockets. She was too good, so unbelievably perfect. The engine's still warm beneath us, but she’s hotter—everywhere she touches me burns.
She releases my skin with a wet pop, leaning back to admire her craftsmanship decorating the expanse of my slim, tan neck. Her thumb runs over the blossoming hickey, simply so she can watch me shudder under her—my eyes peaking open after a moment, aiding her in revelling in the desperation that fills them. All for her. Big, bad, face of teenage heartbreak, Patrick Feely was really a pathetic creature made for his girlfriend’s love and adoration. I craved her like a poet's love for rhyme or a writer's love for prose. At times, it truly felt like there was no world where a boy named Patrick Feely could exist without a girl named [name] existing too.
I could watch her stare at the hickeys on my neck forever. Her pretty lips parted softly, her eyes hooded with lust and adoration as her dainty fingers traced them like a painter creating a masterpiece. I felt like a piece of art under her hands, every stroke of her fingertips was painting me, like she was bringing me to life. I always felt my best under her—both gaze and touch. She made me feel like I was worth more than an heir to a farm I didn't give a cow’s ass about. A mistake that came too late. One of God’s low-life problem kids he sent off to parents incapable of seeing him as anything more than a ghost.
She made me feel beautiful.
And because of that, I was hers to do with as she pleased, a willing canvas to a prodigy of an artist.
"What are you thinking?" I murmur, her name falling like a prayer from my lips.
She shakes her head but a teasing smile plays on her lips. “Just admiring.”
A soft huff of air escapes me, not surprised that she wasn't going to indulge me and tell me what was going through that pretty head of hers.
I lift my hips, just slightly, grinding up against her and chuckling softly when her eyes darkened with a rough shiver making goosebumps erupt down her arms. "Admiring what? How handsome I look all marked up like a work of art?" I tease, my hands slipping down to grip her bare thighs—my thumb prodding under her knock off Penny’s daisy dukes she'd worn to ‘help out’ at the farm. I had to get her out of the house immediately when she came. They were stretched out so nicely over her thighs—making her ass look plumper, and my hands had physically twitched, and warmed imagining the weight of it in my hands.
My girl fakes boredom, stroking his dark, thick hair out of his face. “Nothing in particular, pretty boy.”
Pretty boy.
That word was like a physical caress on my skin. Every time she called me by that name, my body shivered in response. The word that rolled off her tongue so easily, with such adoration.
I lean forward until my lips ghost over hers—not quite kissing—just breathing the same air, as if it’s all we need to survive. I catch her wrist, pressing a rough kiss into her palm. “Liar,” I mutter.
Then my lips crack into a grin and I bite into the skin. Because she thinks that she’s Miss Slick—but I can see it in her eyes. The way her breath hitches just slightly when my other thumb brushes the tender skin where her thigh creases into her ass. She’s not bored. She’s fucking eager.
But, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't indulge my beautiful girlfriend’s fantasies?
"Nothing?" I hum, though my tone makes it obvious that I am unconvinced. My hands travel up to her waist fingers tucking under the thin white cropped tank top she was wearing; that reached the indent of her waist and read, ‘live fast, die young’ in an old Americana font. I'd bought it for her when we went out riding on my motorcycle two weekends ago. "Nothing at all? Is your head empty, princess? I haven't even made you come once yet.” I coo at her.
She gasps softly at my words, her eyes going black. I can see the effect they have on her, the flush that starts to spread down her chest. She liked it, she liked being my princess. I'd made a habit of calling her all sorts of nicknames—babe, baby, gorgeous, sweets, pretty girl. But princess was always Miss Primadonna’s favourite.
I pull her in, crushing our lips together and licking her tongue into my mouth. "Haven't even tasted my sweet girl yet." I rasp.
Then her mouth is coming down on mine, and her hands are feverishly tugging at his shirt, urging Patrick impatiently to remove it. He pulls away with a breathy chuckle, “Okay, okay, I get it.”
I pull my shirt over my head, dropping it to the floor by my feet—taking in the way her eyes darken as she looks at my naked chest. I was a lot of things—cocky, smug, overconfident, arrogant—but one thing I was not was unearned. I had every reason to be cocky about my body. My broad shoulders, chest and back, the sharp vee that dipped down to my waistband and the lean lines of muscles down my stomach that were hard earned from years of working on the farm, running and hockey. She liked to compare me to a Roman statue. I like to say she's being hyperbolic.
I'm barely able to get the shirt over my head between her mouth on me, nipping at my shoulders and collarbones and her hands pulling me back by my hair. Once off, her hands and lips immediately begin to travel over the expanse of bare, tan skin, her kisses wet and open-mouthed.
I gasp softly, fingers tangling in her hair to pull her back and capture her lips again. "So needy," I breathe against her lips.
“Impatient.” she corrects me but I barely register, my focus predominantly on evening us both out and discarding her top as she did mine. Soon enough, she's left clad in a navy lacy little bra and the tiniest shorts known to man.
I let out a rough noise—half groan, half growl—as her tank top joins mine on the tractor floor. My eyes rake over her: that delicate collarbone dusted with freckles, the soft swell of her tits pushed up by navy lace, the smooth plane of her stomach that tenses when I drag my thumb across it.
I don't wait—I close the space between us again, kissing down her neck and along her shoulder before sucking a mark into the soft skin next to her bra strap. Then, my teeth tug at the band, liking the way she hisses out a breath when it snaps back against her shoulder because it makes her arch into me with a whimper and I smirk against her skin.
"Look at you," I breathe. "So fucking wanton, sat on a farm machine in broad daylight, baby. What would your parents say if they saw their baby girl like this?” I faux tut. Her parents didn't like me. Not that I blamed them. Most wouldn't like a motorbike-riding, music-obsessed, big, tall rugby player with enough money and trauma to warrant a alchohol addiction, to sniff around their precious little mass-attending angels.
Too bad that neither she, nor I give a shit about her parents.
My hands slide around to cup under that perfect little arse through those sinful shorts—lifting slightly so she grinds harder against my lap. I knew she was soaked. Practically drenched. And I was a dickhead who was willing to let her soak through her shorts, just so she'd have to change into my clothes afterwards.
She lets out another breathy whimper and I'm a goner. She's practically mewling like a cat, grinding down on my lap like this is something she needs to do—like she'll die if she stops. I grip her harder, my hands digging a little too hard until my nails are probably leaving marks.
"So greedy, baby. So desperate." I whisper, my breath coming out a little rough. I'm just as desperate as her. More. I'm aching, my cock straining in my jeans—rock hard and aching to sink into her tight, wet heat. I almost hate how needy she makes me, and it's only her. I've had plenty of girls before—more than most—but my princess?
She's the one who always turns me into a pathetic idiot in a matter of minutes simply with a look, a touch, a word. And I never want her to stop.
"Patrick." She whines, her tone pleading in a way that makes my dick twitch. God, she was everything. So sweet, so dirty, so mine. I needed to have her.
And she needed to feel it. She needed to know just how much I wanted her. How my life started and stopped with her. How the world began and ended at her eyes. How I would get down on my knees and carve my heart out of my chest if it'd make her smile.
With a quick flick of my wrist, I unclasp her bra and help her out of her shorts.
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