You’d be bent over in the kitchen, picking up something you’d dropped or peering into the pan, when suddenly—
You gasp at the sharp snap of his hips against your upturned ass, nearly pitching you forward. You had to brace your palms flat on the counter.
“Hey!”
Before he simply laughs, wandering off.
Or in bed, when he’s draped lazily on top of you like you were a pillow, drowsily sucking on your tongue.
“Mmmm..” Murmuring and humming as he went. His little night cap before going to sleep.
When your thigh, tangled with his legs, grows hot against the half-hard thickness pressing—no, dragging—against it.
And he'd keep going on and on. Languidly grinding with his mouth devotedly slipping against yours until they bruised and you grew dizzy and hot. And wet.
“Do you want to fuck or not?” Sexual frustration blunting your voice.
“No.” He'd say with a scoff, looking unbearably smug.
Thereafter, his hand slides up your waist almost affectionately while his hips give another heady roll against your thigh, watching your face twist hotter and meaner under him.
“Just this turns you on?”
You nearly call him an asshole.
But you’d stopped yourself because you knew he was just like this.
Touchy. Playful with his affection.
To him, it's the same as pulling you into his lap or rubbing his nose against your cheek or squeezing your breasts for comfort.
It was the constant instinctive need to just feel you.
Heart-achingly loving. And annoyingly innocent.
You’d have to bite your tongue, then, at your teasing boyfriend who was all sleepy hips, needy little kisses and mindless friction.
summary: On the verge of failing Potions thanks to your idiotic lab partner and Quidditch rival Draco Malfoy, the two of you are forced to sneak into the greenhouse at night for a final ingredient, only to stumble into some strange plants along the way.
tags: 18+ MDNI, [sex pollen] [enemies to lovers] [quidditch rivals] [eighth-year at hogwarts] [mutual masturbation] [dubcon but only because it's sex pollen lol ] [oral sex] [malfoy whimpers] [hate sex] [switchy] [penetrative sex] [multiple orgasms]
author's note: It felt weird not writing Draco & Snitch from Lessons in Losing, but i hope you like Nineteen :) Title is inspired by the song Fatal Attraction by Reed Wonder. 9k words
“This is a terrible idea,” you hiss, rounding the corner toward the side exit of the castle.
Draco scoffs. “Like you have a better one.”
While he draws his wand from his robes, you cast another wary glance over your shoulder. The hallway is empty behind you, lit with dim floating candles. The castle sleeps, blissfully unaware of the plans you and your Quidditch rival have in store tonight.
Sadly, you don't. Have a better plan, that is. That's why you're out after curfew, dodging prefects and paintings like it's your full-time job.
"There's just got to be another way," you say, checking behind you again.
"There's not. Unless you count failing an option. You want to fail tomorrow, Nineteen?”
Draco Malfoy has never called you by your real name—only your Quidditch number. Because that’s all you are to him. Not a person. Just an obstacle on the pitch. But you know the truth: you’re the only Seeker in the entire school who gives him a run for his money.
“No—but I think it’s important for you to remember how it’s your fault we’re in this predicament in the first place!”
“I beg to differ,” Draco says, opening the door with a flick of his wand and stepping out into the night. “I’m quite good at potions.”
You rush to slip after him before the door swings shut behind you with a heavy thud.
Prick.
You’re not sure why Draco really even gives a shit about this assignment. All he cares about is winning Quidditch matches and getting the hell out of this school.
And why should he care?
It’s not like anything bad will happen to him if he gets one bad grade. You, on the other hand, have a bit more to lose. As a trainee healer, you need to score well on the NEWTs this year to secure your spot in the coveted apprentice slots. Needless to say, failing your Potions final just simply isn’t an option.
The air outside is muggy and warm—an unusually humid night for early April. The sky is clear, though, boasting a bright full moon. A perfect night for harvesting a nocturnal plant. An owl hoots somewhere in the Forbidden Forest beyond, and the tall grass tickles your ankles as you make your way to the cluster of greenhouses on the grounds.
You yank on Draco's sleeve as he walks straight past the entrance to Greenhouse Three.
He shrugs off your hand and gestures impatiently to the latticed door. “Hurry up and open it.”
“One of us should stay on the lookout,” you huff. Your fingers brush your wand in your pocket. “I’ll go and grab the sample, and you signal me if there’s any—”
“Wait.” He stops you. “Why do you get to go inside?”
You stare at him, jaw slack. “Because I’m the healer?”
“Not yet, you’re not.”
Sometimes, you take comfort in your fantasies about Draco Malfoy.
You’re up to ten different ways you might be able to knock him off his broom. Make him suffer in a way he never saw coming. And thanks to that comment, you’re now trying to come up with the eleventh.
“Why don’t you be the lookout, and I retrieve the sample?” He asks pointedly.
You sigh, irritated. “Because, Malfoy, I don’t trust you to get an accurate sample, okay? You couldn’t even keep our original sprig alive long enough for us to use it tomorrow!”
“You know, that’s a good point.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Perhaps I don’t trust you, either. You know, we never did specify which of us was supposed to give the plant the appropriate amount of moonlight…”
You squint up at him. “Oh? We didn’t? That’s right. Maybe that’s because when we got assigned this potion, I stole the Snitch from under your nose at finals, and you didn’t speak to me for a week!”
Normally, you wouldn't complain about that. Being Quidditch rivals was one thing. Mouthing off to each other on the Pitch? That was a given. Outside of that, you didn't talk. It was a hard line.
That week just happened to be the one week you actually needed him to speak to you.
Because while he was busy trying to salvage his pride and keep his ego somewhat intact, you were actually doing all the heavy lifting for the assignment in Potions. The one Snape assigned to the both of you.
He huffs, irritated. He’s obviously annoyed you keep bringing that loss of his up, but you won’t stop anytime soon.
“We both go in, or I’m out," he says, his jaw set in determination.
You weigh your options. You could probably get the sample on your own, but you’re not willing to risk getting caught by yourself. If you get caught with him, you can do the obvious.
Blame him.
Turns out, it’s not much of a decision after all.
“Fine,” you mutter through grit teeth. “Let’s just get this over with.”
You unlock the door with a few precise spins of your wand and whisper the password low enough that Malfoy can’t hear it. The door unlatches with a hiss, and a warm, earthy smell hits you in the face. It’s familiar to you, and soothing in a way.
Malfoy shifts on his feet, eager to enter, but right before he pushes the door open, you bar his chest with your arm, wand at the ready.
You level his gaze. “Whatever you do—don’t touch anything.”
He scoffs, slipping past you and through the door with a flick of his robes. “Scared of a few plants, Nineteen?” He looks over his shoulder. “Bit concerning for a future healer and all. You might not make the cut.”
He shrugs with false sympathy before disappearing into the darkness beyond.
Nevermind. Gone are the thoughts of making his death a swift and easy one. Now, you’re envisioning something longer, slower, your hands around his neck—
You wonder if he begs half as prettily as he flies.
You’ve never really understood it.
The strange utopia that is Greenhouse Three. It’s always felt more like a portal to another dimension, rather than a plant nursery. But seeing it under the night sky is an otherworldly experience.
The tall domed ceiling stretches high above you, and dimmer disks fly from their assigned pots to line the narrow walkway upon your arrival.
There’s a silence about the place, but beneath it all, something living without breathing. As you walk among the taller plants lining the path, it feels like walking through a graveyard. But instead of the bones turning to dust under the earth—they’re watching.
The Nightbell Stalk lives all the way at the back of the greenhouse, in a secret locker called the Lumen Garden. You’ve never seen this garden, given the fact that it magically appears only when the moon is at its peak, and disappears again before the sun rises. Even despite the blatant breaking of curfew, you’ve been warned never to enter, given the dangerous nature of the plants one might encounter.
But, as they say, dangerous times call for desperate measures. Or, desperate times call for dangerous measures. Something like that.
All you know is it’s as desperate as it is dangerous, or you would never be so reckless.
Soon enough, the Lumen Garden door looms over you. It’s tall and black, and it sparkles in the light of the skimmer dimmers, like it’s made of crushed black diamond.
You turn to Malfoy. “Do you have it?”
He pulls an aged piece of parchment from his pocket. You reach for it but he snatches it back just in time.
“I didn’t risk my life in the Restricted Section, so you could show off your poor Mermish,” he says.
“‘Risking your life,’” you roll your eyes, unimpressed. “As if you don’t practically live there. Get on with it, then.”
He clears his throat. You try not to watch the way his fingers carefully unfold the paper, holding it like it’s something valuable. He’s always been like that when it comes to ancient scripts.
“Vaelith mora selune,” he whispers.
By moonlight reveal.
Your pulse leaps as the scrape of stone on stone reverberates throughout the silent room, bouncing off the glass panes above you.
As the stone door rolls back, it reveals a room so beautiful it nearly takes your breath away.
Opal stones guide you forward, leading to a circular pool in the center. The water lies perfectly still, glassy and undisturbed, yet the plants rooted beneath its surface sway gently in some unseen current.
Overhead, moonlight spills through the curved glass dome, and the panes are cloudy on purpose, filtering and diffusing the moonlight into something stronger and more even.
You tiptoe onto the landing, barely noting the black mossy walls surrounding you before the stone rolls shut behind you. Malfoy’s polished shoes click decisively down the opal stones, not the least bit fased.
You swallow and follow after him. Mist rises up from the pond, and when you lean closer, curiosity pulling you in, you catch sight of movement. Thin, glowing threads streak by under the glassy surface. Jilly bugs. They help the plants thrive in the lowlight conditions.
“Keep up, will you?” Draco hisses, drawing your attention to him.
He’s standing over a garden bed beyond the pond, half swallowed by the shadowed wall behind him.
These nocturnal plants only bloom at night, and they die without it. Because of this, these plants have different colors than normal ones. Most of them are varying shades of black, purple, or blue, evolved to camouflage with the night or their natural habitats.
As you step closer, the vines come into view. There are tons of them, growing along a nearly imperceptible trellis that spans the full length of the back wall, their long stems twirling and looping, spilling out across the floor and crawling up the dome above.
You’re just reaching his side when something moves out of the corner of your eye. Your head whips towards the wall, eyes narrowing through the gray haze.
But there’s nothing. Just vines, their leaves sitting so still they could almost pass as wax.
“Where’s the bloody vial…?” Draco mutters to himself, patting down the pockets of his robes.
His features catch the light as he looks down. Your eyes drift over the edge of his nose, the slope of his brow, that strong jaw. You look away when his chin tips up.
Reaching into your pocket, you retrieve the small glass bottle, holding it out for him to see.
Draco frowns. “Thief.”
You shrug, glancing down at the Nightbell Stalk in front of you.
It’s a deep violet, with small, downward-facing flowers. Inside each one, the stems glow a faint gold. You can smell the nectar from where you stand--sweet, like honey, but heavier. Thicker.
When Malfoy reaches for the vial, you snap it back in the last second.
“I’m doing it,” you say.
“Like hell you are.” He scoffs. “Just because you’re a healer doesn’t give you the right to fuck this up. It’s my project too, you know.”
Anger sparks in your gut and you turn on him. “You haven’t given a shit about this potion the entire semester, and I’m supposed to believe you actually care now? Besides, you don’t have the experience required—”
“Oh, I have the experience. Stand aside.” He reaches for the sample vial. “I can handle something as simple as—”
You snatch it back again. “Oh, so you know that the bells ring when disturbed, so you only touch the stem. Did you know that Malfoy?”
“I—yes! I know more than—”
“So, obviously, you’d be cautious around the petals, since they’re so sticky they can leave a residue on your hands for a week.” Your lips set in a taunting line and narrow your eyes at him. “But you knew that, huh?”
Draco glares down at you. “I’m well aware of the difficulties with this plant. And by the way, I suggested this plan. So, I’ll do it.”
Your argument continues, words overlapping, while your voices ring eerily loud in the silence of the greenhouse.
Push, pull, counter, strike.
You fight the same way you fly on the pitch, chasing the same goal. Competitive to a fault.
The exact fault being that while the two of you are too busy arguing over who gets to hold the stem—and where the vial goes exactly—you don’t realize one vine unfurling from the wall behind you, growing curious in the moonlight.
“My hands are steadier,” Draco says from his place over your shoulder.
You bite your lip, ignoring the way his breath ghosts across your ear, focusing your energy on getting the ingredient.
You accidentally graze the edge of the downward-turned petal with the rim of the glass and the flowers on the Nightbell Stalk ring softly.
“Shit,” you mutter.
“You know it’s true,” he continues, voice low. “How many times have you lost the Snitch because of your poor grip, hmm? I haven’t. Not once.”
With one sharp movement of your fingers, you scoop up the drop of nectar from the stems inside. It slides down the glass, glowing a deep orange. Satisfaction curls warm under your ribs like your feline familiar back in your dorm room.
You grin. “Got it.”
Reveling in your win, you turn, ready to shove your success in his face, but the movement only presses your back further into his chest.
“Move, would you?” You bite, trying to slide around him, but the tight space doesn’t allow for much wiggle room.
He shifts to let you through, but the narrow corridor between the wall and the garden bed seems to get tighter with his body pressed against yours. Somewhere, your feet get tangled and he stumbles, sprawling back against the garden bed, which pushes you flat against the ivy wall, glaring up at him.
His head blocks the moonlight, his silhouette falling over you like a living shadow. His lips part like he might say something, and you find yourself leaning forward, waiting breathlessly, when something brushes your ankle.
You leap forward. Draco’s arm wraps around you out of instinct. The two of you stare at each other before he seems to remember who you are and drop his arm like you’ve burned him.
“Throwing yourself at me, are you?” He drawls, breaking the silent tension.
“No!” You look down at the ground, but there’s nothing there. Just mossy stone under your feet, the shadow of the vine wall at your heels. “Something just…grabbed me.”
Draco shakes his head and shoves past you. “It’s always drama with you, isn’t it?”
“I’m serious!” you snap. “It almost tripped me!”
“Ah, yes. Do me a favor and twist that pretty little ankle would you? Just secure me a win next match, thanks.”
His words make you pause, forgetting all about the mysterious touch. A smile steals across your face before you can stop it. “So, you admit I need to be taken out for you to have a shot at the Cup, then?”
He spins on the spot, a shadow etched between his brows as he scowls at you under the moonlight. “You’re twisting my words.”
“I am not! Merlin, Malfoy, do you ever just shut up—” Something brushes your shoulder. You freeze. “What was that?”
To your surprise, Draco actually shuts his mouth to listen. There’s nothing. No frogs, no crickets, no owl, no water dripping, no jilly bugs splashing in the pond.
It’s…silent.
Suddenly, something moves above you. Both your gazes jerk up at the same time. A leafy vine—so green it’s almost black—drops down from the wall and brushes Draco’s hair.
He flinches, and as the light catches on the small, glass-like beads growing between the leaves, your stomach drops.
You know exactly what that is.
The Veleroux Vine. Some call it Sirenlace. But it’s best known for another name.
Sex pollen.
You recognize it from your studies. The pollen pods contain a powerful aphrodisiac, said to heighten biological desire to mate in extreme ways. The more you resist, the worse the fever gets, making you wild with lust.
“Draco—don’t touch—” You throw a hand out to stop him.
But it’s too late.
Malfoy rears back and slaps the invading greenery away like he’s swatting a fly.
Shit.
“Dammit, Malfoy, what did I say about not touching anything?” You shriek, surging forward and shoving at his chest. “Get away from th—”
The first bead snaps open in a plume of dust. Fear rushes through your limbs and you try to jerk the both of you away, but you’re not quick enough.
One after another, the pollen pods pop in sequence, traveling down the vine, dusting your hair, your robes, and filling the air.
You jerk back, furiously rubbing at your skin, but it’s no use. It settles on you like a thin glitter, small enough to even to slip into your pores.
“Oh, shit. Fucking—fuck. Fuck!” you holler, but you shouldn’t have opened your mouth. Now the back of your throat feels like when you stuck your head in the sugar jar as a kid.
Draco sends you a withering look, brushing down his robes. “Calm down, will you? Bloody hell—just a little plant dust.”
“Just a plant—” You scoff, throwing your hands up in the air. “Merlin help me, you can’t just fucking listen for one second. I know what I’m talking about! Hurry! We have to get out of here before it—”
The vine slips around your shoulder at the very same moment Draco glances down to find another one winding around his ankle.
“—grabs us,” you finish weakly.
You try to scramble away, but the leaves thread around your arm in a silky vice.
Draco curses loudly at the thing, hopping on one foot, losing his robes in the process of trying to extricate himself.
“You have the wrong…pair,” you tell the inky leaves while you fumble for your wand. “We aren’t—we can’t…do what you want.”
“It wants something?” Draco casts a disbelieving look at the vine now wrapped around his dark slacks, settling around his knee. “Merlin—what?”
“It wants us to have sex,” you say, matter-of-factly.
He looks at you like you’ve grown two heads. Then his gaze darkens, snagging on the way your hard nipples strain against your shirt.
Already? This shit works fast. You finally free your wand and cross your arms over your chest.
“Sex?” he sneers.
“Yes. It’s an aphrodisiac plant, native to rare jungles. Its job is to encourage mating between compatible species.”
“Compatible.” He scoffs. “You and me? Farthest thing from it.”
“It doesn’t know that..." You gasp as your wand is whisked out of your hands by a particularly strong leaf.
“Talk to it again. Tell it!” Draco shouts. He looks down and shakes his leg violently. The vine doesn’t budge. “Shit—just get it off me!”
Whispers of leaves dragging against stone make you turn to face the corner of the room behind you. A cluster of vines has begun to twist together, the husky hush of plants twining and looping filling the air. Vines slide across the floor, retracting into the dark corner, while more gather from the ceiling, shifting the beams of moonlight through the dusty air.
You inhale sharply. “Oh no.”
Draco curses somewhere behind you. “What now?”
“It’s building its nest,” you reply, eyes on the plant.
“It’s…what?”
You turn to see Draco fighting tooth and nail. He’s got his wand out now. Streaks of light bounce across the room, flames erupt in the air but they bounce off the leaves like they’re nothing but a few stray sparks. Across the room, past the pool, some of the other plants wither and shrink away from the light.
Adrenaline surges through you as your mind scrambles for a solution. You’re already beginning to feel it, a tugging deep in your core.
That familiar tight ache that blooms in the dark, alone, in your bed. But unlike then, right now, you can’t give into it. You try not think about how the longer you resist, the worse it will get. From your brief research, sex pollen isn’t fatal, but it certainly isn’t pleasant.
Unless you give in.
Then, of course, it’s rumored to be the best sex of your entire life.
You don’t have the luxury of finding that out.
There is an antidote, of course, but it is completely and totally, one-hundred percent, without a doubt—out of the question.
Sex with Malfoy? Not happening.
There’s only one answer. You have to escape.
Your gaze swings to the stone door, framed in elegant iron bars that allow climbers to reach moonlight.
Maybe if you could get out of the vine’s reach, it wouldn’t be able to chase you.
It only takes a second to form a plan.
Tipping back, you let your weight fall backwards into the vine, hoping to catch it off guard and force it to loosen its hold. Instead, you trip over a stray pot and go tumbling to the ground.
But before you hit the stone, the Veleroux is there.
Your breath catches, heart pounding, suspended in the air. Then the vine pushes gently into your lower back, guiding you forward util your feet find solid ground again. You stare, openmouthed, as the leaves brush along your leg, almost as if checking for injury, before nudging you toward the corner of the room.
“Oh, Merlin. Yes, I see your nest,” you say weakly, watching as the vine curls in on itself to form a sort of ball—more of a fist, really—and uses it to push softly against the heels of your shoes, urging you forward. It uncurls when you take a step, leaves fluttering as if pleased. Then it spins in the air, gesturing as if to say, look, I made this for you. A cozy, safe place to mate. “Very nice. Lovely, really. But you see, we can’t—”
“Blimey! Get back!” Draco’s voice interrupts your one-sided conversation.
You look over your shoulder, wobbling a bit as the plant continues to nudge you towards the silky hammock in the corner. He’s covered in vines, now. His wand has fallen somewhere off to the side, out of both your reach. He’s still flailing, hair mussed, trying and—failing— to break free.
You look down. The vine’s not even holding onto you anymore. Is it because you’re not fighting as hard?
You take a step towards the door. Nothing happens. You take another, and the vine edges closer. On the third, it finds your ankle again. But it doesn’t squeeze you or cinch tight enough to sting. It just curls softly around your leg, firm enough to stop you from running, but gentle enough that you start to suspect it doesn’t want you damaged.
Malfoy, on the other hand, looks almost black and blue.
“Stop!” You call. “The harder you fight, the tighter it tries to hold you. Just—watch. Walk towards me.”
“You’re insane. You know that?” he spits. But his eyes catch on your vineless body anyway.
“Trust me, Malfoy.”
That’s a phrase you never imagined yourself saying to him.
“It doesn’t want to hurt us,” you whisper. “I don’t think.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not good enough for me.”
Despite his words, Draco takes one step towards you. The vine’s hold loosens. Another step and it slips from his chest entirely.
“See?” you say, encouraged. “It’s biological nature is to keep its prey alive and well. It can’t force us to mate. It just…heavily suggests it.”
“Of course it doesn’t force it,” Draco sneers. “A plant can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.” But even as the words leave his lips, his eyes drop to the edge of your skirt. The hem suddenly feels six inches shorter, though you know it hasn’t shrunk.
Draco moves closer and the vines start to retreat, but he keeps a wary eye on them until they disappear into the Nest.
He glares at it, then at you. “What is that?”
“It’s a hammock,” you answer, eyes darting around for another escape route. “The vine thinks it will make us more comfortable. Since it’s not all over us anymore, I say we try to appease it. Just a little.”
“Appease it?” He gasps. “You want to—I can’t believe this. That—” he gestures towards the jumble of vines. “Could be a swan down comforter with silk sheets. I don’t care, I’m not going near it.”
You roll your eyes. “Merlin, you don’t listen. I’m not saying we go in the Nest. I’m saying we just…pretend. Then we can make a run for it.”
He doesn’t look convinced, so you turn to face him. “This plant spreads pollen to encourage mating, right? But how does it know when it’s worked? It’s not aware like we are.”
His eyes narrow. “Your point?”
“My point is…it’s pheromones, right? With our heightened hormones right now, we might be able to trick it into thinking we're on board, and it will let it's guard down.” Your stomach swoops with the words about to leave your tongue. “So maybe if you—if we—”
Draco’s eyes snap to yours. “If we what?”
His tongue swipes over his lower lip, leaving it glistening in the moonlight.
Stupid fucking pollen.
You swallow hard. “I think we should kiss.”
A beat of silence passes, the only sound your heartbeat kicking up, drumming in your ears.
“Fine,” he agrees.
That surprises you. You thought he’d gag at the very idea.
It must be the pollen, overriding his blatant hate for you and digging into his more urgent needs.
A shiver rolls down your spine at what those needs of his might be. You’re feeling it too, of course. The effect of being so close to him.
It’s only biological. To be drawn to a specimen of the opposite sex.
And why not Draco? He’s tall, healthy, miles of lean muscle. He smells good, and he’s not bad to look at. Especially when his eyes do that—flashing over at you thing, while his mouth quirks into a crooked smirk…
No other reason. Right?
You don’t have time to debate this, however, because Draco’s moving.
You’re vaguely aware of the vine brushing your ankle, keeping you steady as he crowds your space, and then—
Your lips meet his.
Your breath catches at the warmth you weren’t expecting. And that warmth…blooms. Your lashes fall shut as your whole body seems to sigh at the touch, like he’s the cure to the dull ache in your limbs, the antidote to the burning in your core. Just a gentle caress turns the sharp heat into a molten lava that invades your bloodstream.
He groans softly into your mouth, and the sound alone makes you gasp. Next thing you know, you’re pressed against his chest. Whether by his arms around you, or your own feet carrying you, or the stupid fucking vine playing matchmaker, all you know is he smells like green apples and teakwood. Cold luxury, but with a hint of…home.
At the first taste of his tongue, your stomach swoops dangerously. As he slants his mouth further, exploring, kissing you deeper, your heart feels like it’s beating as fast as a Snitch’s wings.
Your hands find his hair. It’s soft as silk between your fingers. A whimper escapes him and he breaks the kiss, head dropping back instinctively.
You watch through half-lidded eyes, taking in the way his wet lips gleam in the moonlight, blond lashes fluttering.
Merlin, he’s gorgeous.
His throat bobs on a swallow, and before you know it, your mouth is on his neck. He lets out a choked sound, something between a gasp and a groan, before jerking suddenly in your hold.
You stumble away, already missing the heat of his hands, lips buzzing like you’ve just downed a shot of fire-whiskey.
It’s him, you realize. He’s your drug. And when he lurches backward, breathing hard, you feel as if he’s just taken your last fix.
His eyes stay pinned on you as he retreats. The vine stops him with a gentle pressure at his back, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He lets it guide him toward the nest, stopping just beside it, his back hitting the wall.
You scramble back until your heels knock into the stone wall opposite him. The Nest sits between you, off to the right, tucked in the dark corner of the room.
“Brilliant plan,” he grits out. “Bloody brilliant.”
And you’re back to square one.
“Ah!” Draco shouts, pointing at his wand lying on the ground between you. “You crossed the boundary.”
“I did not!” you snap at him, eyes flashing. “I was just adjusting. My foot kicked it accidentally—shit—would you just shut up? Your voice makes it worse.”
Over the last several minutes, you and Draco have tried everything under the sun to escape. The farthest you ever made it was all of ten feet. You did manage to retrieve Draco’s wand, though. Which then started the slew of fire spells, sharp object summoning charms, and so on. An earthquake hex was threatened, but that could’ve brought the whole school down, so you couldn’t risk that.
Although it was considered for one brief—and selfish—moment.
But none of it did a thing.
Turns out, this plant has some sort of magical resistance. It’s so bad that he couldn’t even make a force field or proper line divider between you, so he placed his wand there instead.
You’ve slowly slid down into a heap on the floor, attempting to make yourself smaller, as if that might ease the ache building deep in your core. It’s relentless, hot and gnawing, and you know it’s only going to get worse if you don’t come up with another plan soon.
Draco’s sitting now too, half draped in shadow. His arms crossed over his crisp white button-down, and he’s still glaring at you as if this is all your fault. The one knee strategically placed in front of his groan is the only sign you’ve gotten that the pollen is effecting him at all.
Bastard.
His tie is loose though, and his hair is tousled. Like it always is after a match. There’s no wind in here though, just the whisper of leaves and the steady drip of water.
No. Your hands are the only thing to blame for that.
Shit.
Now all you can think about is how soft his hair felt, how easily your fingers sank into it, and all the ways you could drag him closer by it, yanking his hot, wet mouth to your—
“What did I tell you about thinking those things?” Draco says. You peek up to see his head hit the wall, eyes sliding shut.
“I’m not thinking anything—”
“Stop lying, Nineteen.” His nostrils flare, and his eyes snap open. Somehow, his pupils have grown even larger. “You're so wet I can practically taste it from here.”
Merlin. Your thighs press together instinctively.
“I’m not thinking anything that has to do with you,” you snap. “Except how much I hate you. How much I despise your face, how much I want to steal that Snitch from you every damn day, and how if I had to be here, I would rather it be anyone else other than you!”
Your chest heaves as you catch your breath. But the way he looks at you makes your pulse spike all over again.
“Is that right?”
His cheeks are flushed, the same way they are when he’s hot on the Snitch’s trail. Your slick walls flutter at the sight. You’ve always thought he looked good like that. All sweaty and warm, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes bright with a fire that matches yours.
Not that you would ever tell him, of course.
“Who would you want instead?” he rasps. “Montague? Flint? I see the way you look at them on the pitch.” He looks away for a second and drags his knuckles across his lips before his gaze snaps back to yours. “Lucky for you, you’re trapped here with someone who can show a little restraint.”
You bark out a laugh. “You think you’re the only one here with restraint? Take one step toward me, Malfoy, and I swear I’ll hex you.”
He grunts. “You don’t have a wand.”
Your head tips back with a quiet groan, your clit aching to be touched. You make another weak attempt to get away, but the vine catches you.
It doesn’t snap, claw, or hold you against your will. Rather it settles around your shoulders, brushing a waxy leaf along your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear before retreating again, as if to say, Stop fighting. Just look at him. Don’t you want to?
And somehow, that’s worse.
Because you do.
Badly.
You find yourself looking at his hands. Your gaze drifts over the curve of his palms, the long lines of his fingers, the tension there, the veins, the control he’s barely holding onto and—you’re salivating.
Snap out of it.
“It’s so hot in here, f-fuck,” you whine, pawing at the collar of your shirt.
Draco eyes lock on you fingers. “Take that off and I swear—don’t.”
But your tie feels like it’s choking you, and your pulse booms in your ears. Your fingers keep loosening it. Draco curses.
You whimper. “That’s not fair, you took yours off!”
“Stop talking. Merlin, just—” he cuts himself off with a rough breath, his large palm grinding down into his erection beneath his slacks. “Shut up.”
You try to stay quiet. You really do.
But every shift of your body sends heat spiraling lower, making it harder to think. Every brush of your thighs squeezes your swollen clit, and has you gasping into the wall behind you.
Draco’s breathing is uneven now, too, echoing faintly off the stone. He hasn’t been able to keep his hand off his dick, still hidden under his clothes.
Not that you’ve been watching.
“I think—‘ you swallow. “I think I have a plan.”
Draco moans. “Fine. Enlighten me.”
“Remember what I said about the pheromones?” You manage. “It’s clear kissing wa—shit—wasn’t enough. Maybe…” Your eyes drop to his erection.
“No.”
“Draco, we’re going to have to touch ourselves. It’s the only way.”
You expect him to be glaring at you, but when you look up, his eyes are on your legs—that bare skin between your shoe and your skirt.
“Fine.” His throat bobs on a swallow. “You first.”
You barely have time to debate the ramifications of your actions. Your body burns, thick pressure building low and sharp.
You slip your hand under your skirt, straight under your panties. You inhale shakily, trying to steady yourself, but when your fingers meet a slickness like nothing you’ve ever felt before, the breath leaves your lungs.
The sound of of your wetness fills the silence between you and Draco makes a low, strained sound.
You glance over at him and immediately wish you hadn’t.
He’s taken his cock out, and he’s stroking it from base to tip. It’s long. Thick enough to fill up his palm, and veiny. The tip is darker than the rest, and you just know, if you were to take him in your mouth and suck—you’d feel his heartbeat against your tongue.
His jaw is tight, eyes half-lidded, like he tried to close them but his body won’t let him. When he sighs and bucks his hips into his own fist your mouth runs dry.
Whatever cavern of distance used to exist between you is crumbling now. It’s being burned away. There’s no space for it in this heat, this constant pull towards each other. Your skirt rides higher up on your thighs, and the cool air brushes your wet inner thighs.
After a minute, the relief starts to fade. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus. But your body won’t cooperate. Your hips jerk back from your own touch, your clit bordering on overstimulation. You frown, plunging two fingers inside yourself to rub the ache away. But they feel like cold pencils in your pulsing channel.
The heat drags through your veins like hot cotton, begging for a deep release. But every brush of your arms against the cold stone behind you makes your elbows start to itch, and your very skin start to feel like a husk.
You need water. No—not water.
You need him.
It’s almost as if your body is punishing you for doing it to yourself.
“It’s not w-working,” you whimper, helpless.
Draco groans, his frustration evident in the bulging vein in his neck. His cock looks so angry in the dim light. He bites his lip in determination, and you watch his fist grip tighter. He only gets to three more strokes before he’s hissing with discomfort.
“There’s got to be another way,” he rasps, his hand dropping away.
You huff, so needy you’re almost on the verge of tears. “I’m thinking!”
“Well, think harder.”
You glare at him, dimly aware of how on display you are right now. Legs open and spread towards him, skirt barely concealing the way your fingers move against yourself. “Maybe I could if you could just shut your mouth for one damn second!”
His voice is not helping. All low and deep, with a hint of a rasp curling around his accent, making your belly tighten.
In fact, none of this is helping. Silence fills the space between you, only broken by uneven breathing and the quiet rustle of the Nest.
When his eyes drop to your dripping cunt and you don’t even have the decency to close your legs, it’s like the pollen has overridden your higher thinking. Your knees widen instinctively, begging for him to look. To touch…
Your composure slips further. And when he licks his lips, your lips actually part in preparation to ask for him.
Merlin, if this keeps up much longer, you’re not above begging if that what it takes. And begging Draco Malfoy for anything is beyond the lowest you’d ever thought you’d go.
You work yourself harder, but your fingertips feel like sandpaper against your soft folds, even as your arousal continues to leak steadily from you, your pussy desperate to be filled.
But that feels impossible.
A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and you’re helpless to stop it. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away from him, still chasing any kind of relief, begging for it to feel like something worth grabbing onto.
Somewhere, distantly, you think Draco might be saying something, but you’re not sure what. Your body’s honed in on the vibrations of his voice, the way he smells—
“Nineteen.”
Hearing your nickname snaps you back to reality.
You open your mouth to answer him, but no words come out. Little gasps punch out of your parted lips, hips twisting and writhing, searching for friction. For heat. For him.
“Tell me,” he says firmly.
You turn your head. You can barely see him, your eyes refusing to open more than a sliver. He’s leaning forward now, one knee planted on the ground.
“W-what?” you rasp.
“Your plan—the pheromones—shit.” Then, quieter, he adds. “Tell me how to make it stop hurting you.”
Your eyes snap to his. He’s watching you with that sharp focus you’ve always admired about him. The look that says nothing is getting in the way of what he wants.
You’re not sure exactly what makes him give in.
Maybe it’s the way your breaths come in soft pants that make the rise and fall of your breasts visible beneath your loosened tie. Maybe it’s the way your eyes drop to his lips, his neck, your tongue running over your teeth like you’re imagining how he tastes. It might be the ways your hips slant forward, knees falling open, your body begging even if you don’t have the words to.
But he must see it.
Because, he just says, “Fuck.”
His shoulders catch the moonlight as he shrugs out of his shirt in one smooth motion. Lines of lean muscle come into view, and you feel as if you’ve been presented with a feast after almost starving to death.
Malfoy’s always had a very determined walk. A powerful stride, one that commands attention. You’ve seen in in the halls, backed by his loyal little following. You’ve watched him stride towards the Quidditch cup, shoulders back, chest high.
But right now—he’s not walking.
He’s crawling.
Towards you.
“Close your eyes. If it helps,” he says before his hand meets your ankle and he’s bowing in front of you.
Something deep in your mind catches on those words, but he’s yanking your panties the rest of the way down your legs, and the heat of his mouth against your core whisks your thoughts away.
The second his tongue finds your clit you can’t help but cry out. Your head tips back against the stone, the relief so immediate it’s almost staggering. Draco attacks you with warm, lascivious licks that aren’t meant to soothe, despite his words. They’re meant to claim.
Your hands dig into the mossy floor beneath you, arching your hips up for him. His strong, hot tongue parts your folds like it’s his life’s work. The view of his back muscles shifting and stretching in the moonlight as he makes out with your pussy is so seductive to you it’s nearly frightening.
In fact, it is.
Frightening.
“I hate you,” you grit out, not even entirely sure where it came from. Just a need to set things back in order, even as he’s unraveling you.
He groans against your clit, the vibration licking up your spine.
“Say it again.”
You gasp, caught between resisting and wanting more, even as your pelvis shoves forward and you grind into him like you’re in heat. His tongue dives lower and when his nose nudges your clit, you nearly scream. Your orgasm rises like something sharp. It’s so powerful of a burn, of an ache, you find yourself scrambling backwards in an attempt to get away from the promise of such delirious pleasure.
Merlin, you need it. More than you’ve ever needed anything in your entire fucking life—
It scares you how much.
But Draco just hums against the pulls on his hair and follows you anyway, scuffling forward on the stone ground, gripping your hips and spearing his tongue deep inside you.
“Malfoy, I’m gonna—oh, fuckkk—”
“That’s it,” he says, and the sound of him quietly speaking against your slick folds nearly does you in. “Scream my name, Nineteen. N-need—fuck—wanna hear you say it like that.”
The soft rasp of his voice, and the two long fingers being pushed inside you send you straight over the edge.
The release pulls you under in waves. Dark, pulsing tidal waves that drive deep through your pelvis, erasing through your body until the pleasure nearly blinds you. You feel yourself going rigid in his hands, thighs trembling against his soft hair, but he just hauls you through it, like a lighthouse in a storm. Strong, steady, and never stopping until you’re jolting and gasping, crying out in relief.
But the second your orgasm fades, the heat rushes in again. The fever. It’s back, and with vengeance this time.
Sweat beads your forehead and your vision swims, but you look up just in time to see Malfoy scramble backwards like you burned him.
You frown. “Dra—what?”
He throws a hand out, pressing himself against the opposite wall. “Don’t come closer.”
A whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it. The heat is different now. Instead of feeling like a thread about to snap, your body has narrowed down to one singular need.
Breed.
Your fingers fly to your shirt without you telling them to, unbuttoning your shirt with ease. You feel the way your breasts move with your harsh breaths, but your gaze is locked on him. And when you drop down to all fours and slink forward, Draco looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.
“Merlin—I can’t.” he chokes out. “I can’t even think about it.”
Your gut feels like it’s been punched. Is he so disgusted by the thought that he can’t even look at you?
Does he truly not want you? Was that some sort of…pity—
You can’t even finish that thought.
You slink backwards until you’re half in shadow. He must see the look on your face because his head falls back against the wall on a groan. You can smell his sweat in the air and it’s making you downright feral even though you can barely look at him from embarrasement.
“I can’t think about it, because if I do, then I’ll do it,” he says. “And if I do it…I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”
Control. That’s always been Malfoy’s vice, hasn’t it?
This situation is probably his worst nightmare.
Not for the first time, something plucks on your heart strings deep under your ribs. He’s scared of losing it? You can give it back to him.
Slowly, and with deliberate care, you cross the boundary. The wand clatters somewhere to the side. Draco watches as you crawl to him, his eyes raking over you, a mixture of pain and hunger in his eyes.
You can only imagine what you look like.
Hair mussed, left in just a lace bra and soaked panties, your skirt hanging loose on your hips.
“Then don’t,” you murmur.
Your voice is so quiet in the stillness, but it spears through him all the same. Your gazes click together like magnets.
He shakes his head, chest heaving. “You don’t mean that. It’s just the fucking plant dust—”
He stops short when your hands settle on his knees, gently forcing them apart to make room for yourself. Your breath catches when you drop your gaze to see his cock sitting heavy and hard against his lower stomach. It twitches under your watchful gaze and your mouth waters.
Carefully, you settle into his lap.
He exhales sharply, and his hands find your soft skin, undoing your bra before you can even blink. Testament to a lot of practice, you’re sure.
You don’t have the strength to be self-conscious. You just need him. Now. Even so, somewhere through the lust-filled haze, you remember his words.
“The plant just lowers—” your breath hitches as his teeth find the soft skin of your neck. “—your inhibitions. It can’t make you fuck someone you don’t…w-want.”
“How do you know so much about this?” he groans into your hair. “Why are you so—”
“What? So smart?”
“You wish.”
The words barely brush your ear before you lean back to get a better look at him. You’ve barely straightened by the time his mouth is on your tits.
You cry out as he swirls his hot, greedy tongue around your nipples, sucking on the hard buds until you’re panting. Your clit swells and you bite your lip, threading your fingers through his hair. The first rock of your hips has you both groaning.
You grind down on him again and you nearly black out at the feeling of his bare length sliding through your slick folds. You reach between you to tug his slacks down further. His balls are heavy in your hand, and he grunts, shoving himself up into you.
“Merlin—I can’t—” he chokes out, mouth leaving your tits as his palms fly up and dig into his eye sockets.
Without thinking, you lean forward and kiss his fingers one by one. His bare chest stutters against yours at the softness of it, and when you slip his thumb into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it eagerly, he drops his hands.
You look down to find him staring up at you with a familiar expression. You make that face. When you're seconds away from catching the Snitch.
You swear you can feel every vein in his dick, so hot and hard against you as you grind your slick cunt against him. It’s instinct to drop your head and search for his mouth with yours, but you pull back at the last second. That last thread of lucidity coming back to haunt you.
This is your rival.
For a second you just breathe each other in, mouths parted, groaning and writhing into the other, but when the blunt head of his cock catches on your entrance, your hips react on their own—circling, pelvis arching, body begging in a primal, secret language you don’t fully understand.
And he moves with you—meeting you there with the deep urges of his own.
His hips don’t snap into you, brutal and deep. Instead, they slide. Back and forth. His hands clamp onto your hips, holding you still in his lap as he eases the tip in and out, letting your slick coat him until you’re ready to take the whole thing.
The way his body moves speaks to something primal and powerful in you. How his sweaty muscles bunch and tense, and his hands dig into your skin at your hips, your thighs, your waist— it’s better than anything you could’ve imagined.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he growls into your ear.
You nod frantically, clenching around him.
In one long thrust, Draco fills you up. The stretch is breathtaking. Literally. He’s so long that his tip kisses your cervix with every thrust, sending you mewing and clawing at his hair, his shoulders, just to stay afloat through the pleasure.
He’s not fairing much better.
He’s growling and moaning, his cock jerking desperately in your slick walls as he pulls back just far enough to yank your hips back down to meet his.
Sounds spill out of you. They might be words, you’re not sure. But the next thing you know, cold stone meets your back, and Draco’s warm body is spread out over you. His thrusts grow heavier and deeper. You can feel the way your body tries to hold onto him, clenching and fluttering desperately, even as your arousal makes it easy for him to slide so deep.
You’ve never been this wet in your life. And now, you’re wondering, if it’s from the pollen, or if it’s just from him. Because you’ve never had sex this good, and that’s saying something.
Your bodies just…move together. Like they’re one of a kind puzzle pieces meant to fit. The give and take is so instinctual it’s almost unbearable how good it is.
“Fuck, you take me so well,” Draco pants, a lock of hair falling over his sweaty brow. “Knew you would.”
You throw your head back, your ankle finding solace in his lower back, sealing him to you and begging for more. Your body gives into the heat, the pleasure cresting and pulling you into something dangerously strong. So strong you’re worried your body might not survive it.
“So pretty on the pitch,” he groans, seemingly unable to stop from talking. “Merlin, I just—I lose the bloody Snitch every time you look at me.”
That does it.
Your orgasm rushes through your body like lightning. Your spine snaps straight, muscles clenching down with a pulse you feel everywhere. A moan leaves your chest, so loud you’ve probably woken the whole damn castle, but you’re too gone to care.
Draco makes a rough sound against the skin of your neck. “Holy—fuck, I’m gonna—where should I—”
“Inside,” you gasp. “Please. Please, Draco. I need it. P-please—”
“Ah, fuck—” His mouth seals against your throat, nose brushing the pulse point below your ear. “Need you.”
He jerks hard, once, twice, and then he’s spilling inside you. Your body seems to understand, back arching, pulling him deeper with your ankle as he stills and lets out a groan that curls low in your belly, and will certainly live on in every wet dream you have from here on out.
The fever fades like a receding tide. You blink, slowly coming back to yourself. Your clit is throbbing, and your pulse is still hammering, but strangely you feel...lighter somehow.
Like maybe the last few years of tension between you and your rival finally needed to snap.
You turn to him. He’s on his knees, breathing hard, buttoning up his pants. He looks up at you, and something in his eyes softens.
“What did you mean?” You find yourself asking. “When you told me to close my eyes earlier?”
He shrugs, reaching for his shirt.
“Well, you said you’d rather be here with anyone else. I just—” he looks away, suddenly seeming very interested in the way the Nest is unraveling like it did its job, and the stray vine that’s currently retrieving his wand for him.
You don’t let him finish.
You lurch forward and grab his face, pulling his lips to yours.
This time, he doesn’t hesitate a second before meeting your mouth. He kisses you back, long and hard, digging his fingers through your hair to pull you closer. You exhale into it, something long unsaid passing between you. But it’s not enough. You still need to say the words.
So, you break the kiss first. He blinks down at you, eyes dark, hair mussed.
“I only think about you, Malfoy,” you whisper in the shared air between you. “On or off the pitch, it’s only you.”
He leans down and brushes his lips across yours. “I still hate you, Nineteen.”
You reward him by deepening the kiss. He answers it, slower this time, but no less intense. When he finally pulls back, you’re already smiling.
summary: Draco Malfoy would literally die for you—unfortunately, asking you to the Yule Ball might just kill him first. When he finally gathers the courage to do it, you politely decline… thanks to a spectacular misunderstanding. Now, with his pride bruised and his heart set, Draco is determined to win you over—properly, this time.
wc: 2.6k+
cw: DOWN BAD DRACO! awkward Draco who gets shy around reader, feat. Pansy, Blaise, & Theo as Draco's backup.
A/N: I love shy Draco. I AM SO SORRY THAT I HAVE BEEN INACTIVE LATELY. Aghhh I haven't posted anything in sooo long, I've been busy hihi.
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
Draco Malfoy was many things: a Slytherin, a menace on the Quidditch pitch, and the heir to one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain—but he had never felt this pathetic before. Not even the time he fell off his broom second year and cried because his wrist bent funny.
No, this was worse. Because he hadn’t just fallen—he’d plummeted, in front of you, with a flower in one hand and all his dignity left wilting somewhere between the Charms and Transfiguration section at the library.
You hadn’t looked back.
Not once.
Not even when he’d called after you, your name barely leaving his mouth before it got stuck in his throat with the taste of regret and disbelief.
He knew what it must’ve looked like. You thought it was a joke. That he was the joke. And for once, he couldn’t even blame you.
This catastrophe had all began the night before.
The Slytherin common room was filled only with the sound of crackling fire and the soft chatter of students with the scratch of quills against their parchment—until their heads turn to a yell that broke the silence.
"DRACO! We've been on this for over an hour now," Pansy sighed as she sat down on the couch between Theo and Blaise. "And for the millionth time, you are not going to DIE asking a girl to the Yule Ball!"
Pansy's "How to Woo a Girl 101" was clearly very hard for Draco to comprehend. Because based on the look on Theo's and Blaise's faces, it was not going well. At all.
Draco dramatically gasped as if he was being accused of murder, he then put a hand over his heart and then started rambling. "She isn't just any girl. She's the most perfect witch to ever exist! Gosh, do you guys even see how beautiful and smart and—" but, before he could continue, he was cut off by Blaise.
"We get it mate! You're bewitched by her." Blaise groaned loudly, throwing his head back and resting it on the backrest of the couch.
Theo sighed, "Mate, look," he said sternly, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You just have to ask her a simple eleven word question, 'Would. you. like. to. go. to. the. Yule. Ball. with. me.?' see? Easier than brewing Felix Felicis!"
Draco was suddenly hot and started to fidget with his fingers all because of that eleven word question. "Easy for you to say, Theo. You don't have a big fat crush o—" he was cut off yet again. This time, by Pansy.
"Alright, Malfoy. We're done," she announced, crossing her arms. "Either you tell her—or we will!" Pansy smirked, now putting her hands on her hips, trying to hide her laugh as she stood up. The two boys beside her started snickering as they followed Pansy towards the dormitories, leaving Draco in a very difficult position.
Theo suddenly stopped in front of Draco, "You better ask her soon or you know what's coming." He teased, then continued to follow Blaise and Pansy.
"Wait! I'll do it!" He stammered, his hand reaching out, a hopeless attempt to let them stay. "But—uh—is 'You looked like a powdered donut and still managed to be gorgeous.' a good compliment? Because the potion she was brewing blew up last week."
All he got in reply was loud groans and sighs as three of his friends continued walking away from him.
"Guys?!"
Silence.
Draco sighed as he looked down at his feet. "Hey! You looked like a powdered donut and still managed to be gorgeous." He quietly muttered to himself.
⸻
The next day, Draco's heart felt like it was going to come out of his chest and his feet felt like rubber as he saw you strolling through the library. This was it. This was the day he's going to ask you the eleven word question.
Naturally, he brought backup—just in case of a stutter, a horrible nosebleed, or, Merlin forbid, passing out. He had to full-on beg them to come with him, since, in Pansy's own words:
“How are you even going to dance with her if you need us just to ask her to the ball? What—are we going to do a group dance in case you pass out?”
She may be right...
But he badly needed emotional support or he'll die of a heart attack before he could even talk to you.
"Alright. I'm going to go up to her, compliment her pretty face, ask her the question, and hope for the best." He whispered, his grip tightening on the stem of your favorite flower.
The four of them were currently formed in a circle at the corner of the library, three pairs of eyes staring at the blonde boy as he told them his plan.
Theo gave him a flat look, unimpressed. “That’s the plan? That’s it?”
“Well, do you have a better one?” Draco snapped, slightly louder than he intended, which earned them all a sharp shhh! from Madam Pince across the room. They all winced and lowered their heads like scolded toddlers.
Blaise leaned in, voice a murmur. “Yes. Literally anything other than blurting out powdered donut compliments in the library.” He rubbed his temples. “Just… try not to be weird, mate.”
“I’m not weird,” Draco muttered, offended.
“Yeah?” Pansy raised a brow. “You practiced your line in the mirror seven times this morning and then gave the flower a pep talk.”
Draco blushed furiously. “It’s her favorite flower. It needs to be… emotionally prepared.”
Theo shook his head, muttering, “We’re emotionally exhausted.”
Still, despite their teasing, the trio gave him nods of encouragement as he squared his shoulders, tucked the flower carefully behind his back, and began the slow, risky walk toward where you sat—cross-legged on the carpet between two shelves, surrounded by a sea of books and parchment, humming softly to yourself as you scribbled into your notes.
He froze halfway.
You were chewing on the end of your quill, a bit of ink on your chin, your eyes narrowed in concentration. You wore a flower crown made of daises again today—different colors if he may add—the yellows, oranges, and whites complimenting your face. Draco thought he might pass out on the spot.
'Gosh how can she be so beautiful while doing nothing.'
"GO!" Pansy whisper yelled as she pushed Draco toward you.
"Wait n—" he stumbled toward you. He was begging his feet to go back to his safe cocoon where he wouldn't get humiliated or possibly pass out, but they were stuck on the ground—unable to move.
"Hey!" he gulped, his cheeks rapidly turning red for being flustered but mostly from embarrassment.
You glanced up at the sudden noise and there he was. He looked... hot.
HOT! as in sweating hot—not the kind of hot where his hair was pushed back after a shower in the quidditch lockers and definitely not the time when—
Stop it!
“Oh! Hello, Draco." You said, offering him a warm smile as you stood, brushing the creases from your skirt to face him properly.
He smiled back—but it wasn’t the kind of smile most people gave. It was lopsided, almost shaky, like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be confident or terrified. His hands fidgeted behind his back, and then—
"ELEVENWORDQUESTION!" he blurted.
You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”
Draco swallowed hard, his cheeks rapidly turning pink. “What I meant to say is… you look like a powdered donut.”
What.
The.
Hell?
Your smile faltered. You looked down at your shoes, heart sinking a little. Was that… was that supposed to be an insult?
“Oh,” you murmured, suddenly self-conscious. A quiet, uncertain panic started to rise in your chest.
“No, no, no, wait—!” Draco rushed forward, eyes wide. He reached out and placed his hands gently on your shoulders, his voice frantic now. “That came out wrong. I mean—you looked like a powdered donut last week—when the potion exploded—and you still looked… you still looked gorgeous.”
You looked up at him, stunned.
He took a breath, then, with trembling fingers, pulled a flower from behind his back. Your flower. The one he’d somehow remembered you loved.
“Would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me?” he asked, quieter now—earnest, vulnerable, the chaos gone from his voice.
And that was when everything seemed to stand still. You stare at him, your mouth agape. You could feel blood rushing through your cheeks.
And then… from behind the nearest shelf came the unmistakable sound of stifled laughter.
You glanced past Draco and saw them—Pansy, Blaise, Theo—all doubled over, failing miserably at hiding. Pansy wiped a tear from her eye. Blaise was wheezing. And Theo was clutching his stomach, trying to breathe.
Oh.
Of course.
It was a dare. A prank. A joke at your expense.
The flower in Draco’s hand suddenly felt like a knife.
Your chest clenched. You took a step back.
“I’m sorry, Draco,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady even as your throat tightened. “I… I have to say no.”
His face crumpled in confusion as you turned away, blinking back tears you refused to let fall—not here, not in front of them.
Not when your heart had almost believed him.
⸻
“Mate,” Blaise had said later, tentatively, from the foot of Draco’s bed, where Draco had buried himself under his emerald blanket like a disgraced ghost. “She didn’t even see the part where you were being sincere.”
“She saw enough,” Draco mumbled.
Pansy kicked his mattress. “She saw us laughing, you dolt. She thinks we were laughing at her. Do you know what that does to a girl?” she added sharply, voice rising with frustration and—Draco noticed—genuine guilt. “You’ve got less than a week till the Yule Ball, and if you want any chance of fixing this, you better stop acting like a sad house-elf and do something.”
Draco’s next plan of action was, to put it bluntly, disastrous.
If he couldn’t speak to you like a normal person, then maybe he could… gesture grandly instead. Show, not tell, right?
Wrong. So very wrong.
It began with him walking—strutting—past your table in the courtyard three times in one lunch period, each time pretending he just happened to be passing by. The first time, he loudly commented to Blaise about how some people had “really excellent taste in flower crowns.” The second time, he tripped on a root and faceplanted into a bush. The third time, he tried to recover by dramatically pulling out a textbook and reading upside down while sneakily peeking at you over the pages.
You didn’t look up once.
“Subtle,” Blaise had deadpanned as he helped pick leaves out of Draco’s hair.
Then came the grand gestures. One morning, you opened your Transfiguration book and found—inside it—a single, freshly pressed forget-me-not. The ink on the page was slightly smudged as if someone had fumbled it with nervous fingers. Tucked next to the flower was a piece of parchment with a single line in jagged, uptight handwriting:
I never forgot. - D
The next day? A little paper crane fluttered down onto your lap during Charms. No one else noticed—except you. It unfolded itself midair to reveal another message:
I’d say something. But every time I try, I ruin it.
He was trying. You could feel it, in all his awkward, dramatic glory.
Then, during Care of Magical Creatures, he nearly sacrificed himself trying to separate you from a cranky Murtlap. You didn’t even ask for help, but there he was, sprinting across the paddock like a knight in shining robes, yelling, “DON’T WORRY, I’VE GOT IT!” before the Murtlap turned and promptly bit his wrist.
You rushed forward instinctively, wand already out, muttering a healing charm with a furrow in your brow. And Draco… Draco smiled like he’d just been kissed.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, half-annoyed, half-worried, as he flexed his hand and hissed.
“Worth it,” he said, eyes locked on you.
That night, you found another note tucked into the folds of your Herbology textbook:
Still an idiot. Still hoping. Still not giving up.
You rolled your eyes.
But you smiled.
⸻
It wasn’t until three days before the ball that he finally had a chance to explain.
You were walking back from dinner, your hands tucked into your robes, eyes on the frost glittering across the windows, when you heard it:
“Wait—please.”
Draco’s voice. Real. Sincere. Clear.
You turned, surprised to see him without backup, no Pansy whispering strategies in his ear, no Blaise with the emergency escape plan, no Theo who can tease him to no end.
Just Draco.
Alone.
Face flushed from the cold—or nerves. Maybe both.
You folded your arms. “Going to call me a pastry again?”
He winced. “Gods, no. Never again.” A beat passed. Then: “Well, unless you start working at Honeydukes. Then maybe once. Or twice.”
You didn’t laugh. But the corner of your mouth twitched.
He took that as a good sign.
“I know what you thought,” Draco said, stepping forward. “When they laughed. You thought it was a joke. That I was making fun of you.” His eyes were painfully honest, gray and glinting like wet stone. “But they weren’t laughing at you. They were laughing at me.”
You blinked. “Why?”
“Because I’d been practicing that line since breakfast. Because I’d stammered like an idiot and spilled ink on my cuff and given a flower a motivational speech. Because I was absolutely pathetic. For you.” He let out a nervous huff.
“You make me stupid.”
Your heart did a little leap.
Draco stepped closer. “And you know what? I don’t care if I look stupid. I’d rather look stupid in front of the entire school than let you go to the Yule Ball without knowing the truth.”
There was a long, breathless pause.
“I like you. I’ve liked you since the first time you made that little dandelion braid and stuck it in your scroll instead of using a bookmark. I like how you hum to yourself when you’re thinking. I like that you stay up after curfew just to stargaze and name constellations like they’re your personal pets. I like that you make everything around you feel… lighter.”
He stepped closer again, now inches from you.
“And if you’ll let me… I want to make you feel that way too.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. For once, you were the one struck speechless.
Draco reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a a bouquet of your favorite flower. Blooming. Vibrant. Alive.
“I grew this,” he said quietly. “Chose the seed, studied the soil, made sure it got the exact right light. It took weeks. But it’s yours.”
He gently held it out.
You stared at the flower. Then up at him.
Finally, your voice found its way back.
“…You didn’t stutter,” you whispered.
Draco smirked. It was slow, confident—flirty.
“No. Not when it really matters.”
And then, with a wicked gleam in his eyes, he added, “So. Would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me?”
You smiled.
Not just because the flower was perfect.
Not just because his voice was steady.
But because, for the first time, it felt real. No nerves. No games. Just Draco. Asking you.
Properly.
“Yes,” you said, cheeks glowing.
His grin was immediate.
“And I expect a dance,” you added, pretending to be stern. “A real one. No passing out. No backup dancers.”
Draco leaned in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath.
“Only if you promise not to look like a powdered donut this time.”
You laughed—finally, laughed—and shoved his shoulder.
summary: You and Draco have been yearning for one another for so long but never acted upon it until one of the Malfoy's infamous New Year's Party—and a little nudge from Narcissa and Lucius.
pairing: Draco Malfoy x fem!reader
warnings: Y/N is used, reader's last name is Voss, drinking and getting high, fluff, angst if you squint, pureblood nonsense, lmk if I’m missing any
a/n: based off olivia rodrigo's song :)
The Malfoy’s hosted a New Year’s Party every single year. And every single year, you were expected to attend—courtesy of your pureblood last name. It wasn’t necessarily the worst thing, but the older you got, you realized how easy it was to bypass the boredom of parents bragging about their own treasures and heirlooms.
Under the darkening blue sky, you and the other heirs snuck out for your own New Year's Party in Narcissa's garden. A couple of heirs were smoking blunts by the roses, laughing and jeering at the other heirs who were throwing up from all the supplied firewhiskey.
It truly was all good fun, but something inside you began to bother you.
You were sitting by the fountain and nursing your own cup of firewhiskey, simply watching all the different kinds of couples surrounding you. Some of them were your friends, like Blaise and Pansy, and Theodore and Daphne, but it was weird. Well, at least to you.
If you told them that they were going to get together a year ago, they would curse you out until they lost their voices. Now, they were making out and giggling about random things couples in love would giggle about.
Daphne had told you once that honest love was a cage that makes you feel free, but you weren't sure if you believed that yet. Besides, your eyes couldn't help but wander to the blonde heir that always made time for you.
You've known Draco for as long as you could remember. And with every passing year, the knot in your stomach seemed to tighten progressively whenever you got closer to him. When you were at your lowest, he was your spark in the darkness—the one to keep you sane whenever your parents were controlling your every move. And when he was in need, you were there, supporting him in whatever he needed help in.
But right now, he was the sole heir of the Malfoy riches, the one every family wants their daughter to marry. In fact, he was currently being paraded around inside the manor while his father talked his ear off about potential ladies.
That was the one problem that seemed like you weren't able to help with.
"Of course, the Parkinson family has a very acceptable daughter."
"Nonsense, she's dating the Zabini boy." Narcissa waved Lucius off, eyes shifting around the vast ballroom. "What about the Greengrass family?"
"Both daughters are blood traitors, I think not." He scoffed before turning to Draco, raising a brow when he caught the boy staring outside with a dazed expression. His expression softened by a millimeter, knowing that look all too well from years of staring at his wife.
A small smirk grew on Lucius' lips, voice finally tearing through the bubble Draco had surrounded himself with. "Though, I'm sure the Voss family name would pique someone's interest."
Draco tore his eyes away from your face, meeting his father's. The mention of your name was enough to bring him out of a coma—even if it was merely your family name. He cleared his throat, "Come again?"
"My darling, it seems you already have your heart set on someone." Narcissa smiled softly and cupped her son's cheek, laughing when he meet her eyes with flamed cheeks. "You have three minutes until midnight." She suggested with a tilt of her head. "You should go to her."
He looked between his parents, observing as his father watched his mother lovingly—like she was the only woman standing in the entire room. Draco nodded once and quickly made his way out to the garden, passing all the power hungry girls eyeing him and the drunk guys trying to get him to drink as well.
"Voss." Draco appeared in front of you without warning, slightly breathless. "Do you want to go for a walk?"
"Wha—? Uhm, sure. I have nothing better to do." You agree with little hesitation, surprised by the sudden invitation but still taking his hand he offered you. You tuck your hand in his arm and follow his lead, stepping around a puddle of vomit before speaking a little more freely now that you were away from the fanatic heirs.
"Finally got tired of Lucius and his speech of finding the right woman?" You ask in amusement, staring at the cracked concrete on the pathway.
"Something like that." His lips curled into one of mirth before it quickly faded, the moon highlighting the sudden sheen of sweat on his forehead. Honestly, Draco felt like wax, melting on the spot after pulling you away from the masses that praised the very floor he walked on.
Sure, he was used to being alone with you, but now he had an objective that could make or break his entire world.
And he wasn't sure if any of this was right, or wrong, or if he was just insane for suddenly springing it on to you—but he wanted you to feel how he felt when somebody says your name. Even if it meant risking your entire friendship.
“It must’ve been dreadful if you wanted to go for a walk and not have a shot of firewhiskey with Blaise and Theo—“
"Y/N?" Draco stopped walking, turning to face you.
You look up and meet his eyes, sensing the reluctant tone in his voice. You tilt your head, your own eyes reassuring him—even for a split second. "Yeah?"
His heart was nearly beating out of his chest, and before he could even stop himself, he felt his mouth move—his mind catching up moment later. "Y/N. I love you—I've always loved you. Every night, I swear you're in my dreams. You're the woman I want to fall asleep next to and still wake up to. And I have never wanted somebody as much as I want you. I've tried to shove the feeling down thinking you don't feel the same, but I can't ignore it—not anymore." His chest heaved with every word. "I swear, with my whole heart and being, that I love you. I want to be able to tell everyone there that you're mine and I'm yours—" He cut himself off and tilted his head, staring at the moon.
"Y/N, I want you more than anything my family name has to offer." He whispered and slowly lowered his head again, his gray eyes piercing straight into your soul.
You stare at him, completely at a loss of words.
"Say something… please." He looked between your eyes, watching as they began to glaze over.
A wet smile appeared on your face as tears began to fall, cupping his face and kissing him, the new year fireworks going off. Draco blinked before reciprocating the kiss, his hands moving to pull you closer by the waist to deepen it. You separated just as the fireworks died down, Draco wiping your tears while you leaned into his touch.
"I love you too, you idiot." You laugh and kiss his palm, heart beat finally matching his after ages of not knowing whether or not they would ever sync up. "I've been wanting you for ages."
"We were a bit thick, weren't we?" He chuckled.
You nod before teasing him, nudging his ribs with your elbow. "You were a poet for a second, Malfoy."
He scoffs, "I'm sorry for pouring out my heart for you."
stepbro!draco fucking you with your parents in the next room
NSFW content ahead, +18
the filthy sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the bathroom as draco pounds your tight little hole from behind, his tall frame pinning you against the sink while he watches you intently through the mirror, your pretty bambi eyes looking right back at him.
"shh, love," he coos, fingers gripping your hair tighter as he yanks your head back, lips pressing against your pulse point. "you gotta be quiet f'me, yeah?"
your parents are home at this moment, sitting in the living room within a few feet, so the chances of getting caught are high, and draco can't risk it. if his father finds him fucking you —his wife's innocent and polite daughter, he'll definitely kill him. that fact hasn't stopped either of you though, the thrill of getting caught just making the two of you hornier, his cock throbbing inside your warm cunt as you coat him in your arousal.
you can barely hold back your pretty moans as you feel the delicious drag of his fat cockhead across your inner walls, his dick hitting all the right spots inside you so easily.
"i— i can't..." you stutter between little whimpers, cheeks flushed while you arch your back, hips moving backwards to meet his thrusts.
a slow smirk spreads across draco's face at your response, fingers trailing from your hair down to your neck, roughly pressing his palm against the front of your throat as he slams forcefully against you.
"you can't, huh?" he'd taunt, his other hand gripping your hip to keep you still. "can't stay fucking quiet?"
a loud, strangled moan leaves your throat despite your efforts not to make a sound, your pussy tingling too nicely for you to be able to hold them back. you shake your head in response, lips parting as your gasp for air.
"feels too good," you whimper, eyes rolling back.
your noises would force him to reach out and cover your mouth, his palm muffling every pretty sound you make while he keeps thrusting in and out of your quivering cunt. you can feel yourself clenching tighter around him as you near the edge, the coil in your belly tightening.
"honey, is everything okay?" your mother's voice asks from the other side of the door suddenly, while she knocks softly. you both freeze for a second, but then draco starts pounding into you again. "you've been there for a while."
your brows knit together in a frown, pretty face scrunched in pleasure as you reach up to tug his hand away from your mouth, pulling it downwards to encourage him to rub your little clit. you have to be quick.
"yes, mum, i'll be right out," you answer, and your voice is clearly breathy and agitated.
⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ summary ; draco jerks off to an image of his best friend
⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ pairing ; draco malfoy + fem!reader
⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ content warning(s) ; masturbating, mentions of sex toys, food, smut no plot
⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ author’s note ; lovely dividers from @uzmacchiato !
wc ; 1.9k | m.list | nav | taglist | pt 2
𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐎 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 he was fine on his own. he was even happy alone. he had very good friends such as; Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, his two goons and of course his dear best friend— Y/N Y/L/N. But he didn’t need them to survive, he can do just fine without them. If he didn’t really need friends, he certainly didn’t need a girlfriend whatsoever.
Oh but being accompanied by another hand would feel so good too
Draco stopped his tracks and hesitated placing his hands on his member before he could correct his rhythm again. He didn’t need anyone else. His hand always did the job just fine.
He’d use different charms to enhance the experience, claiming that it’ll make it feel better. but he still found himself wanting needing more.
Which wasn’t unlikely, he didn’t touch himself often. A few times a week, only when he had difficulties with sleeping or was just flat out bored.
One quick jerkoff session and an orgasm had always helped Draco fall into a peaceful slumber ever since he discovered this when he hit puberty.
But in this particular jerkoff session had him thinking about tits.
Draco looked at the dark ceiling shutting his eyes as he imagined a faceless girl. He imagined a beautiful girl, having a sleek figure, on top of him right now.
He groaned at this thought, and his member stiffened. His imagination went wild, adding more features to this faceless girl. His eye wandered to the unknown girl, landing on her breasts being kept behind a pretty lacy bra.
Draco focused on the image as her hands, wrapped around her own body, unclipping the clasps of her brassière and exposing her tits to him, bouncing up and down and Draco felt his own hand tighten on his dick as his pace fastened.
“shit..” he whimpered from his lips as he pumped and pumped. His eyes were screwed shut, but mentally he was watching a curvy, oh so perfect mounds in his face. Draco was beginning to feel the need to fuck.
He groaned outwardly, his hand getting sloppy in terms of pace so he switched to his other. Draco’s head deepened back into his pillow, hips bucking into his hand. “Fuck, it feels so good.”
No one was there to witness him. No one was there to hear him. Or touch him. Or kiss along his collarbone. His mind followed his dick’s head and pictured the girl leaning forward, face still hidden, using both her teeth and tongue to coat Draco’s imaginary collars in that glorious feeling of lips and skin clashing.
Her (Y/H/C) hair was falling into Draco’s face blocking his view in the fantasy, and he used his imagined hand to push it away. The second he pushed the imaginary hair away, the girl pulled back
“Y/N..” Draco half moaned-half realized and jolted forward, hand still around his stiffened cock. “What the fuck?” He mumbled, eyes wide, staring into his dark room. He’d just pictured Y/N fucking Y/L/N while wanking. His best friend of 12 years, The same Y/N who he teased for being afraid of frogs when they were younger.
“Fuck— shes my friend i cant do this” he argued with himself, but there was a tiny voice in Draco’s head urging him to continue.
Wanking off to an topless image of his best friend wasn’t planned. And he never dared to, thats his best friend we’re talking about.
But on the other hand, his shaft was throbbing in his hand every time he thought about the picture again. He groaned, eyes shutting tightly at what he was about to do.
Draco Malfoy was about to jerk off to Y/N Y/L/N.
He didn’t lay back down but instead stayed upright, he took a deep breath before closing his eyes as his hand returned to a soft movement. Up, down, up, down.
“Fuck,” the curse fell from his lips with ease. He whispered a lubrication spell, immediately letting out another moan when he felt the slickness that resulted. His hand was pumping, as his mind disconnected from reality and back into a vision of a girl with her breasts free.
It was….Y/N…again. Her face was coy and playful as her hands were wrapped about her own breasts.
Draco felt his cock jerk at the imagined sight of her body, naked and on top of him. He sighed, but perhaps it was more of a whimper. He lied back into his bed with a thump, falling further into his mind.
Draco’s hand flicked around his tip, his breath catching in his throat. “Y/N..” he moaned out. He’d expected to feel dirty letting her name roll from his lips as if her name was a prayer a dirty prayer. He felt the need to do it again…and again, and again.
Imaginary Y/N leaned forward slowly and Draco felt that he knew where this vision was going. Sure, it was in his head and so of course, he’d know, but Y/N sported the look in her eye and Draco just about cum from that alone.
He’d fucking give anything to see that look in person.
You did not just think that, he scolded himself. Y/N is not someone-
Before he could stop himself, Draco recalled a memory of where Y/N replied to him in such a bratty manner. Her bratty and cocky voice ringing inside his mind made him groan.
He drifted back to his filthy imagination; Y/N’s lips were on his member in his head and he let out a soft moan at the sight.
He’d never thought about Y/N like this— why had he never thought of Y/N like this before?
He pumped, faster and faster as he kept in time with Y/N swallowing his cock in his fantasy. It was a fast, desperate dream of Draco’s and his hips were immediately flicking up into his hand, needing a release.
“Salazar, Y/N/N, look at me with those pretty eyes while you suck me off” His voice was pleading and soft, praying to all the wizarding gods that his mother was not about, wandering the manor at night. “Yeah, darling.”
In his thoughts, Y/N used her hand to finish pumping whatever part of Draco’s shaft couldnt fit in her mouth, no matter how far she pushed into her throat. He was squirming on his bed, against his satin sheets. “Shit..” he panted. He needed more, to fuck the living daylights out of her.
He snapped his unoccupied hand, and grabbed his wand. Mumbling Accio under his uneven breaths, and a fleshlight appearing on his bed shortly after. Draco positioned himself off of the bed, taking his pillows and placing the toy in between. The contraption was set and Draco kneeled on his bed, his dick twitching in his hand, ready for more contact.
He lined his dick up with the pocket pussy, mumbling the same charm he’d. said before to wetten the inside. Draco’s eyes glossed over thinking of the imagined version of his bestfriend again. Her boobs, her figure, her face whenever she pouted at him for not buying her sugar quills.
Unconsciously, his fingers felt around the toy. It resembled a pussy, obviously, and with his eyes shut, he imagined his fingers playing at Y/N warmth. He could almost hear the way she’d pant for him, begging for him to give her more. His head dropped, wishing that he could just have her for just one night - just one time.
He continued, his finger pushing into the lubricated fake pussy and his cock jumped. Draco couldn't help the frustrated grunt he let out, ripping his hand free and using the lube he’d acquired to slick his dick again. “I’ll fuck you one day, Y/N.” He promised as he lined his cock to the pocket pussy’s entrance.
Pushing his hips, his member entered into the wet tightness immediately. He let out a erotic groan and pushed completely in. He imagined the way that Y/N would gasp, her eyes widening as he’d take her completely.
He wished that it was real so bad, so badly he wanted Y/N under his grasp, pinned to the bed while his cock took up every inch of her.
Draco pulled his hips back, keeping his hands pressed firmly onto the pillows to keep the flashlight in place. Forward , he snapped his hips. He moaned as his cock felt completely covered and he pulled out back once more.
He began his pace slowly, fucking into the object as his eyes remained softly shut as he imagined the gorgeous, gorgeous witch.
Y/N with perfect tits, just below him, bobbing each time Draco fucked into her. His dick would please her, make her whimper and gasp as he had his way with her. Draco could easily picture the purely euphoric faces that she would have as she laid back, letting Draco fuck her.
“Merlin,” he panted, his pace quickening. “You’re such a fucking good girl, Y/N. I want to fuck you so bad.”
“Please fuck me dray— fuck me until im swollen with your babies.” The imaginary Y/N said, he moaned as her voice rang through his mind.
“Fuck Y/N.” Draco moaned.
She wasn’t there to hear him and he wasn’t ever going to tell anyone that this happened. No one would ever know that Draco Malfoy was wanking to Y/N Y/L/N - his best friend.
No one would ever find out that Draco Malfoy was imagining Y/N naked under him. Perhaps he would have her wear her old school uniform skirt-
Oh god, Draco gasped.
He shouldn’t have pictured that. He shouldn’t have pictured her cunt covered, thighs exposed by the skirt, the fabric riding up her thighs as he pounded into her. He couldn't help but picture the knee high socks - those god forsaken knee highs she was so fond of in fifth year.
“Y/N, I’m going to cum in you” Draco whimpered under his breath, his hips stuttering as he felt close.
“Fuck, fuck.” Draco panted, his hands gripping the pillow hard enough that he’s sure his knuckles were turning white. “Y/N, holy fuck.” With that, and the mental image of Y/N biting her lip as if shes trying to contain moans from her lips. Draco pushed into the pocket pussy desperately once more before he abruptly came, spilling into the toy.
His groans were loud and wanting. He wanted Y/N. He decided that he was quite the opposite of satisfied and banished the pocket pussy from his sight, throwing the used pillows to the side for a washing.
Damn you, Y/N, he thought as he lay back down into bed, his heart still racing from his finish.
Ron: Please tell me you’re not saying you like Malfoy now!
You pulled a face.
You: Oh, dear Merlin, no. How could I possibly like that spoiled arsehole?
Your tone dripped disgust. Then casually
You: I just wouldn’t mind bouncing on him if he buys me flowers.
Ron froze, fork halfway to his mouth.
Ron: Merlin’s fucking beard.
You burst out laughing at his expression, but the laugh caught in your throat when, exactly five seconds later, your owl dropped a bouquet of dark roses onto your breakfast plate.
A slow, indulgent smile curves across Draco’s sharp features as he gazes up at you from between your trembling thighs. His pale hair falls forward in soft strands, brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs like cool silk. One long elegant finger traces lazy, maddening circles around your fluttering entrance. Never dipping inside, never giving you the stretch you’re aching for—just enough pressure to make your slick walls clench uselessly around nothing.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. The little hitch in your breath, the way your hips twitch toward his mouth, the soft, broken whimpers that spill from your lips. He drinks them down like fine wine. Every sound you make is deliberate fuel for his ego, and the low, pleased hum that vibrates in his throat tells you he’s savoring every single one.
Your wide, glassy doe eyes lock onto his silver ones, pleading, shimmering with unshed tears of frustration. Something softens in his expression—just for a heartbeat—before that familiar wicked glint returns. He leans in without breaking eye contact and seals his mouth over your swollen clit in one hot, open-mouthed kiss.
The sudden wet heat makes your spine bow off the sheets. His lips are plush and firm at once, sucking gently, then harder, tongue flicking once against the oversensitive bud until your thighs quake around his ears. You chase the pressure instinctively, hips rolling up in a desperate grind, but he’s already pulling back with a slow, obscene pop, leaving your clit throbbing and glistening with his spit.
A pitiful whine tears out of you before you can stop it. You huff in frustration, chest heaving, and the sound of his deep, velvet chuckle rolls over your overheated skin like a physical caress.
“Patience, darling,” he drawls, voice low and syrupy with amusement. “Y'know I always give you what you want.”
He makes a deliberate performance of it then—long fingers moving to the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. He rolls each sleeve up with agonizing slowness, revealing inch after inch of corded forearm. The pale skin is dusted with fine golden hair; thick blue veins snake beneath the surface, flexing subtly as he works the fabric higher until it bunches at his elbows. The sight alone sends a fresh gush of wetness dripping down your slit—your greedy little cunt clenching so hard it almost hurts.
“Beg a little prettier, baby.”
Draco settles back between your spread thighs like he owns the space and you. His broad shoulders nudging your knees even wider. He’s a vision in the low light, pale skin kissed with a faint flush high on his cheekbones, silver-blond hair slightly mussed from your earlier fingers, those storm-grey eyes locked on yours with lazy, predatory patience. The tip of his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and the sight makes your cunt clench so hard a fresh bead of slick wells up and trickles down.
“‘S’pretty, Draco,” you breathe, eyes wide and shining with pure, helpless adoration as you stare down at him. You know it’s not enough, he loves making you work for it, but the words tumble out anyway, soft and reverent.
He huffs a quiet, amused sound against your skin, the warm puff of breath making your swollen clit twitch. “Sweet girl,” he murmurs, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You think batting those pretty lashes is going to get you what you want?”
His fingers never stop their cruel circuit. Long, elegant digits gliding through your drenched folds, circling your fluttering entrance with feather-light pressure. You’re soaked, obscenely so; every slow pass of his fingertips drags more of your slick downward until it’s coating the sensitive skin between your cheeks, pooling cool and slippery against your puckered hole. The wet sounds are filthy in the quiet room. Soft, rhythmic schlick-schlick as he toys with you, never pushing inside, never giving you the stretch or friction you’re dying for.
He dips his head and starts trailing open-mouthed kisses up the tender inside of your thigh slow, deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. First one thigh, then the other, lips plush and hot, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. He’s close, so close, his sharp nose brushing the crease where thigh meets cunt, but he skirts around your aching center every time, leaving your clit throbbing untouched, pulsing with every heartbeat.
“Please, Draco,” you whimper, voice cracking on his name. “Need your mouth—or—or your fingers—plea—oh!”
The plea breaks into a sharp, needy gasp as he finally—finally—presses the flat of his tongue against your entrance in one long, languid lick. He groans low in his throat at the taste of you, the sound vibrating straight through your core. Then he pulls back just enough to speak, lips shiny with your arousal, voice rougher now.
“Louder, darling. Tell me exactly what this greedy little cunt needs.” His middle finger dips just inside you—barely past the first knuckle—curling once, teasing your fluttering walls before slipping free again. “Use your words, or I’ll keep you like this all night. Dripping, clenching, begging, and getting nothing but my tongue on your thighs.”
Your hips jerk helplessly toward his face; another pathetic whine spills from your throat as more slick leaks out, warm and sticky, sliding down to dampen the sheets beneath you.
His smirk is devastating, like he’s savoring the exact moment your composure cracks. He watches you with hooded silver eyes: your lashes fluttering, squeezed shut in pure, trembling frustration; your lips swollen dark and glossy, bitten raw from trying to stifle the pathetic little sounds spilling out of you.
“Want t'come, Draco, please.”
The words come out high and broken, a full-on whine that curls straight through him. Warm, liquid satisfaction slithers down his spine, pooling low in his gut. His cock is achingly hard beneath the strained fabric of his trousers and has been for the last half hour, throbbing in time with every squirm of your hips, every fresh gush of slick that coats his hand. He hasn’t even touched himself, hasn’t needed to; your wrecked little pleas and the obscene wet sounds of your cunt are more than enough to keep him on the razor’s edge.
“Yeah?” His voice is low, rougher now, velvet fraying at the seams.
Without warning he pushes one long finger inside you—all the way, slow and deliberate—until the cold bite of his signet ring presses flush against your soaked entrance. You gasp, hips jerking up instinctively, trying to chase more, but he twists the digit once, curling it hard against that spongy spot that makes your thighs shake… then stills it completely.
Just… lets it sit there.
Thick and unmoving, stretching you open just enough to remind you what you’re missing. Your walls flutter desperately around the single intrusion, clenching and releasing in frantic little pulses, trying to pull him deeper, but he doesn’t budge. The contrast is torture: the cool metal of his ring biting into your overheated flesh, the heavy, unyielding pressure of his knuckle against your entrance, the slick heat of your own arousal dripping down his wrist in slow, sticky rivulets.
“Why should I let you come?” he murmurs, tilting his head like he’s genuinely curious. His free hand slides up your thigh, thumb brushing feather-light over the trembling muscle there, smearing your wetness across your skin in a lazy, possessive arc. “You’ve been such a good, whiny little thing tonight… but good girls earn it, don’t they?”
He leans in closer, breath hot against your clit close enough that every exhale sends a fresh jolt through the swollen bud, but still not touching. Your hips roll uselessly, chasing the ghost of friction, and another pitiful whimper escapes you.
“Look at this mess you’re making,” he continues, voice dripping with mock sympathy as he watches another bead of slick slide down to join the growing wet spot beneath you. “Dripping all over my hand, clenching around one finger like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. Such a pretty little thing.”
He finally gives the smallest, cruelest curl of his finger, just enough to graze that spot again, before going still once more.
“Tell me exactly why this greedy cunt deserves to come on my fingers, darling. Make it convincing.” His eyes flick up to yours, dark with want. “I could just leave you like this, empty until you’re crying for real.”
Your breath hitches on a sob; your whole body is trembling now, thighs quaking around his shoulders, cunt spasming uselessly around that single, unmoving finger.
He waits.
Patient. Smug. Utterly in control.
And loving every second of your unraveling.
Then, finally—mercifully—he moves after watching an angry tear slip onto your cheek. Oh, he could be so mean. Maybe you had earned it after all.
Two more fingers join the first in one brutal, slick thrust, stretching you wide around the thick intrusion. The cold bite of his rings drag along your fluttering walls; the stretch burns so good it makes your eyes roll back. He doesn’t give you time to adjust—just curls all three deep, pads grinding ruthlessly against that swollen, spongy spot inside you while his thumb finds your clit and starts circling with firm, relentless pressure.
“ah!—fuck—Draco—!” The words come out slurred, high and wrecked.
He growls low against your thigh, the sound vibrating straight to your core. “That’s it. Let me hear how stupid this pretty cunt gets when I finally fuck it right.”
His pace turns punishing, long, rough strokes that piston in and out, curling on every drag out to bully that spot until your hips are bucking wildly, chasing the brutal rhythm. Wet, obscene squelches fill the room with every thrust; your slick coats his hand to the wrist, dripping in thick strings down his forearm, soaking the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. The mess is everywhere, cool and sticky between your cheeks, pooling beneath you, making the sheets cling to your ass.
You come hard and fast on the third brutal grind against your g-spot—back arching off the bed, a strangled scream tearing from your throat as your walls clamp down like a vice around his fingers. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Just keeps fucking you through it, thumb grinding merciless circles on your clit until the pleasure twists sharp and painful, tipping into overstimulation.
“Draco—s'too much—can’t—!”
“You can,” he snarls, voice rough with his own fraying restraint. “And you will.”
He scissors his fingers on the next thrust, stretching you wider, making room for the obscene gush of slick that follows. Your second orgasm builds terrifyingly fast—coiling low and tight, different this time, almost too intense. Your thighs clamp around his head; your hands fist the sheets so hard your knuckles bleach white.
“C'mon, baby,” he coos mockingly, lips brushing your pulsing clit. “Give me another one. Make a fucking mess all over my hand.”
One more cruel curl, one more punishing grind of his thumb and you shatter. This one rips through you like lightning. Your whole body locks up, then convulses; a hot, gushing rush floods out around his fingers as you come so hard your vision whites out. You’re shaking, sobbing his name in broken little gasps, cunt pulsing and fluttering so violently it almost pushes his fingers out. He works you through every aftershock, slowing only when your cries turn truly wrecked and your hips start jerking away from the overstimulation.
When he finally pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, you’re boneless—limbs heavy, chest heaving, cunt still twitching with aftershocks. A thick string of your release connects his glistening fingers to your swollen entrance before it snaps. He brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean with slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, eyes never leaving yours.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with dark satisfaction and something all too fond. “Fucked dumb already and I haven’t even put my cock in you yet.”
He rises onto his knees between your spread thighs, finally undoing his trousers with shaking hands. Proof he’s been just as wrecked by this as you have. His cock springs free: thick, flushed dark at the tip, veins standing out stark against pale skin, already leaking steadily. It looks obscene next to your smaller, trembling body—too big, almost, for how swollen and sensitive you already are.
He grips the base and drags the fat head through your soaked folds, coating himself in your release. The blunt pressure against your entrance makes you whimper, hips twitching toward him even though you’re oversensitive and shaking.
“Beg one more time,” he rasps, voice strained now, control hanging by a thread. “Tell me how badly this tight little cunt needs to be split open on my cock.”
“Please Draco, need it—need you—fuck me p–”
That does it.
He snaps his hips forward in one deep, ruthless thrust, burying every thick inch inside you until his hips meet yours with a wet slap. The stretch is overwhelming; you feel split open, stuffed full, the head of him nudging so deep it presses against your cervix. Your walls flutter wildly around him, still spasming from the overstimulation, trying to adjust to the impossible girth.
“Fuck,” he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fights not to come right then. “So fucking tight—even after all that.”
He starts moving slow at first, savoring the drag of your slick walls clinging to every ridge and vein Then meaner, harder, hips snapping with bruising force. The bed creaks under the onslaught; your tits bounce with every thrust; the wet slap of skin on skin mixes with your broken moans and his ragged breathing.
You’re gone. Mind blank, body nothing but sensation. Overstimulated, oversensitive, coming again almost immediately on the first few brutal strokes, walls milking him so hard he curses under his breath.
“Again,” he growls, angling his hips to grind against your clit with every thrust. “Come on my cock again, pretty girl. Milk me dry.”
Somehow you do, shaking, sobbing, coming so hard tears leak from the corners of your eyes. He fucks you through it, pace turning sloppy and desperate, chasing his own release now.
“Gonna fill this greedy cunt up,” he pants against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. “Mark you inside and out—make sure you feel me for days.”
One final, punishing thrust and he buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing as he comes with a low, guttural groan. Hot, thick spurts flood you, so much it leaks out around his base, mixing with your own mess. He grinds slow circles through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor from your overworked body until you’re both trembling, spent, and dripping.
He stays inside you for long moments after. Softening slowly, still twitching while he presses lazy, hot kisses along your jaw.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and tender now. “Took everything I gave you so perfectly.”
You can only manage a weak, blissed-out whimper in response—fucked dumb, just like he promised.
