Draco Malfoy x you. First times.
Synopsis: ( A story where both of you are engaged since kids) but neither of you have experience, and you are both two teenagers finding difficult to express your feelings.
Note: It’s been a while since I wrote the last one, because I struggled to portray that first-time experience in a romantic way. (This is the very first time I’ve ever written anything this explicit, so I really hope you like it.)
Warning: It starts off light-hearted but eventually turns explicit.
I was listening "Coming up roses by Harry Styles" while writing this one.
First times.
⋆The first time you had a quarrel, you were both five years old. You were in the garden playing with a new set of mini dragon figurines; you both wanted the same one – a black and red one. You flung the dragon into a rose bush and Draco pulled one of your pigtails, and you started crying – not so much because of the tug as because he’d ruined your lovely hairstyle.
When Narcissa realized what had happened, she told both of you off, and you were grounded in the music room, standing in opposite corners for half an hour. Later that same day, you slipped half a cherry-filled chocolate into his trouser pocket as a peace offering. After that day, the red-and-black dragon was yours and the green-and-black one was his.
⋆The first time the two of you stayed up all night together was on the first day of the holidays; you’d been given permission to stay at Hogwarts, so just after midnight you snuck off to the Astronomy Tower. You were excited – you’d heard there was going to be a meteor shower – and you both spent hours counting every one you saw, secretly closing your eyes to make silent wishes for one another, for the future.
⋆The first time Draco saw you in a different light, you’d let your hair down for the first time at the age of thirteen; the sun behind you shone, giving it a reddish hue. You turned to look at him whilst laughing at a bad joke he’d made.
⋆The first time you saw Draco in a new light, you were fourteen; he was coming back from Quidditch training, his hair tousled by the wind, his cheeks slightly flushed from the cold breeze. He was panting, smiling at you from a distance, and your heart skipped a beat.
⋆The first time you two shared a secret, Draco was feeling down; his father had been putting pressure on him all month to be the best, constantly reminding him of his responsibilities. You found him sitting on the floor of his room, trying not to cry. You sat down beside him, your little finger holding his – a small gesture. “I’m here.” “You’re not alone.”
You tried to cheer him up by telling him a ridiculous secret. “I’m scared of toads,” you confessed. He almost smiled. You carried on telling him things just for him, each one more ridiculous than the last, until you both started laughing. “I’d give up everything and go far, far away if I were braver… But I’d take you with me,” he finally confessed.
⋆The first time you both felt jealousy. Draco has always been possessive when it comes to you; even as a child, he didn’t want to share your company with other children, and when he saw you playing with others, he’d stare at you until you turned to look at him, and you’d realize at that moment that he was about to throw a tantrum, that he was upset – sometimes in a way that could even seem endearing: “A boy in love looking after his girl”, but at other times a bit selfish: “Just for me.”
You, on the other hand, were calmer and better able to control your emotions, to keep them in check, until one day when you were fifteen, after a Quidditch match where Slytherin had won and a crowd of girls were swarming around Draco trying to steal his attention, something changed inside you – specifically when one of them tried to put her arm around his. “Only I can put my arm around him; he’s mine.” Those thoughts began to flood your mind. Draco turned to look at you, and as astute as he’s always been, he noticed the change in your gaze; without a second thought, he pulled his arm away from the girl and looked you straight in the eyes, a reassuring look. “For me, it’s only you.” From him.
⋆The first time you and Draco danced together, you were hiding in a hall of mirrors, nervous about your debutante ball; Draco found you – of course, he always manages to find you, no matter where you hide; it’s like a sixth sense he has, sensing where you are.
“I knew I’d find you here,” he said mischievously. “Would you grant me the first dance, my lady?” He bowed his head in a ridiculously polite manner.
You took his hand; he placed his other hand on your waist and you placed your other hand on his chest, and you began to dance slowly and awkwardly. After you stepped on his feet three times in a row, he lifted you up and placed your feet on top of his to guide you.
“Much better,” he whispered in your ear, and you blushed.
The hall of mirrors was lit by the sun’s reflection streaming through the windows, bouncing off in various directions; a soft, humming melody began to flow from Draco’s lips, and you instinctively rested your head on his shoulders as he guided the two of you – a few minutes, perhaps an eternity. Alone. In that moment, which seemed to last forever, even the dust in the light seemed to move more slowly, dancing to the rhythm of the two of you.
⋆The first time you two got intimate was one afternoon at the manor, a few months after his 18th birthday. Autumn. You were lying together in his bedroom, just as you’d done all the time since childhood, afternoon light filters through the tall windows of Draco’s bedroom, casting long shadows across the silk sheets chatting about random things, laughing at badly told jokes, eating Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, while Draco lounges beside you, propped up on one elbow with that stupidly smug look he’s perfected since childhood.
You hold a suspicious Lime-green bean between thumb and forefinger “I dare you.”
Draco snorts, reaching over to pluck it from your grip. “Give it here, then. If its earwax you own me a Galleon.”
He pops the bean into his mouth with theatrical bravado, chews once, twice and his entire face screws up in disgust. He swallows with visible effort, the reaches for a glass of water on the nightstand.
You laugh. “Is your fault you picked it.”
“I picked it from your hand, which means you selected it. That’s on you. I should’ve known. The green ones are always a trap.”
He grabs a new one now, examine it. A pale yellowish. “Your turn.” He says mischievously.
You take it your fingers brushing his. There’s a beat of something unspoken between you. The kind of pause that’s become more frequent lately, as if the air itself holds its breath around you two.
“Hmm, I’ve got a cherry one,” you said.
“I don’t believe you, you’re lying,” he replied, narrowing his eyes with a playful laugh.
You turned onto your side, staring intently at him, you heart hammers as you lean closer to his lips. His grey eyes tracking your movement with sudden, sharp attention. You don’t break eye contact as you bring your lips to his, and he meets you there, half a beat of hesitation before instinct takes over. Your mouth opens against his, and you push the half melted candy across the seam of his lips. He blushed as he took the sweet, slowly opening his mouth; it’s cherry, of course. Sweet and tart all at once.
But he doesn’t seem to care about the flavor anymore.
His hands find your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens, the candy dissolving somewhere between your mouths, forgotten. His lips moves against yours in a hunger that catches you off guard
Your hands wrapped round his neck, running through his hair. His tongue slowly traced your lower lip. A question. An invitation to which you responded by parting your lips and letting him in, slowly turning into an exploration of your mouth; dancing tongues that, in an instant, became a battle for dominance.
There’s no room for questions. No space for clever retorts or Malfoy wit.
His other hand come up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing alone your cheekbone with a gentleness that seems almost foreign on someone so sharp- edged. You tilt into his touch, lips parting and the kiss deepens.
His mouth grows more insistent, more demanding, and you match him beat to beat. His tongue sweeps along your lower lips, causing a small sound—almost a moan—to escape your lips and he swallows the sound pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Your breaths growing increasingly ragged, your hands gripping each other’s skin ever tighter, as if trying to press yourselves closer together, to melt into one another
Your fingers stroke his blond hair, while his lips leave yours to explore other parts of you, moving down to your chin and your neck, leaving soft kisses and gentle suctions that send shivers through your whole body that has nothing to do with the cold.
He kisses the back of your ears, drawing a soft moan from you, and you can feel him smiling against your skin as he continues to move downwards.
Words fail. You answer with your body instead.
Your mouth finds his again, hungry, insistent, and he meets you with equal fervor. Your hips shift, rolling against his in a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing and a broken sound escapes his throat, swallowed by your kiss. His hands slide down your back, pressing you closer until there’s nothing between you but fabric and fevered skin.
The room fills with the slick sounds of your mouths meeting, parting, and meeting again. Ragged breaths. Quiet moans that neither of you can quiet contain. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging gently, angling your head to deepen the kiss and you let him, arching into him, your own hands gripping his shoulders, his chest, anywhere you can reach.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. Grey eyes dark, pupils blown, lips swollen, and slick. His chest rises and fall in quick, uneven breaths.
What exists right now is not just desire or lust; it is trust that has been built up over the years, a blend of desire and tenderness. Poison and antidote. A need to belong to one another completely.
Your lips reach his again and the world dissolves into sensation and heat.
Clothes become an unnecessary nuisance. The kiss stays locked as your fingers find the buttons of his shirt, fumbling, desperate. He laughs against your mouth, a breathless, broken sound, and helps you, shrugging out of the fabric with an impatient shove. Your hands find his chest, bare and warm, and you gasp at the feel of him, smooth skin over lean muscle, and the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm.
His hands find the zipper of your dress, unzip it and then he pulls it up and over your head in one smooth motion. The cool air hits your skin for only a moment before he’s pressing his body against you, chest to chest, warmth flooding through you like a spell.
“Merlin.” He breaths, lips trailing down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone. “You’re so beautiful. You...”
You cut him off with another kiss, deeper this time, your fingers tangling in his hair. His hands find the clasp of your bra, and with a dexterity that surprises you, it falls away. His breath itches when he feels you against him, bare and real.
Clothes vanish piece by piece, His trousers, your panties, fabrics pooled on the floor, amidst scattered Bertie Bott’s beans. When there’s nothing left between you, flesh against flesh, he pulls back just enough to look at you.
His grey eyes roam your body with a reverence that makes your chest ache. His hand cups your cheek, Thumb tracing your lower lip.
He whispers your name like a prayer. Like he’s been holding that word in his chest for years.
Then he lowers you onto the silk sheets, his body covering yours, and there’s no more space. No more distance. Just heat, breath and the weight of him, the taste of cherry still lingering on both of your tongues as you pull him closer, wanting to melt into him, wanting to disappear into this moment and never resurface.
There are no more words left in the world.
Only touch, heat, and the weight of him above you, the silk of the sheets beneath you, the ragged rhythm of his breathing matching yours.
He shifts above you and you feel him, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, teasing, sliding through your slick heat without entering. A chocked sound escapes your throat, your hips lifting instinctively, chasing him. But he holds back, hovering, drawing slow circles against you that makes your vision blur at the edges.
“Draco.” You gasp out broken and desperate.
“I know, just… let me feel you first.” He says in a strained tone. His forehead drops to yours, breath hot and uneven on your lips.
He keeps teasing, pressing just barely inside before pulling back, over and over, until your body is trembling with want, your nails dig into his shoulders, your hips rocking against him, wordlessly begging. The slick sound of him moving against you fills the room, mingling with your sharp breaths and his quiet groans.
Finally he pushes forward.
Slow. Inch by inch. Your body yields to him, stretching, welcoming, and the sound you make is swallowed by his mouth as he captures your lips again. He sinks into you fully, buried to the hilt, and for a moment neither of you moves.
He’s trembling above you. You realize, that you are too.
He whispers your names in your mouth, and the way he say it sounds like coming home.
Your head fall back against the pillow, a soft moan escaping your lips as you feel him fully inside you. The sensation is overwhelming, not just the physical fullness, but the weight of it. The years of tension, of almost-moments, of stolen glances across the Great Hall, all culminating in this single, sacred moment.
Draco doesn’t rush.
He, begins to move slowly, aching and torturously slow. Each roll of his hips is measured, as if he’s memorizing every inch of how you feel wrapped around him. His mouth finds your collarbone, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the bone, trailing up your neck, across your jaw.
You can feel every brush of his lips. Every gentle tremor in his body as he holds himself back.
He pulls out almost entirely, then sinks back in with excruciating patience, and your fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails leaving crescents in his skin. His lips find the swell of your breast, kissing the curve with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
It hurts. Not the physical but the devotion in every touch. The way he looks at you, like your something precious, something he’s afraid to break.
His pace stays slow, deep, and worshipful. Each thrust a whispered promise. Each kiss a confession.
Your eyes flitter open to find his, grey and dark and full of something neither of you has ever dared to name aloud. He’s holding your gaze, moving inside you and there no mask now. No Malfoy armor. Just Draco, stripped bare, wanting you in a way that goes far beyond this bed.
Your hands slide down the smooth expanse of his back, fingertips tracing the ridge of his spine, and your legs lock around his waist, hells pressing into the small of his back as you try to pull him impossibly deeper. The shift in angle draws a sharp gasp from both of you and Draco’s composure cracks.
The slow, worshipful rhythm stutters, breaks apart. His hips snap forward with a new urgency, harder, deeper, and the sound that punches from his throat is raw and unguarded. His forehead presses to yours, breath coming in ragged bursts.
His hand slides down, gripping your tight, hitching your leg higher around his waist. The new angle sends starts sparking behind your eyes. He drives into you with a rhythm that’s no longer measured, no longer careful, just pure, desperate need, years of want pouring out in every thrust.
The silk sheets twist beneath you. The headboard knock softly against the wall. His mouth finds yours again, messy and urgent, all teeth and tongue and gasping breaths.
His pace quickens, building, chasing something neither of you can name. The room narrows to just this. Him. You. The slick heat of your bodies moving together and the broken sounds you pull from each other.
You can feel it.
Not in a clumsy way, but in the way he moves. The slight tremor, in his thighs where they press against yours. The way his rhythm falters for half a second when you gasp a certain way, like he’s learning your body in real-time and trying not to get lost. The way his breath hitches when you clench around him.
He keeps moving with no hesitation. No careful restraint. Just instinct, two bodies learning each other, discovering what makes the other gasp, what makes them tighten, what makes them moan.
Rhythm is uneven, unpracticed. He fumbles, adjusts, find a new angle that makes stars burst behind your eyes, and he learns from it. Files away. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding you where you’re joined, and at your sharp intake of breath, he presses there, circles, experiment.
You pull him closer still, losing yourself in the heat of him, the weight of him, the ways he’s learning your body with a devotion that makes your chest ache.
His pace builds, grow more urgent, les controlled. His forehead presses yours, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight.
He’s close, you can feel it in the way he trembles, in the ragged edge of his breathing, in the desperate way his hips piston into yours.
Your teeth sink into his shoulder, muffling the moan that claws your throat. The sting of it makes him gasp, his hips stuttering against yours.
His mouth finds yours, desperate, hungry, devouring. The kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and ragged breaths shared between parted lips. His hands cups your jaw, tilting, your head back, deepening it as his body presses you into the mattress.
The wave builds. You feel it in the way his rhythm loses all pretense of control, in the way your body clenches around him, in the electric tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core.
The wave crashes over you both. His body tenses, a shudder wracking through him as he buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a chocked moan that he pours into your kiss. Your own release follows, pulsing around him, drawing him deeper still as pleasure ripples through you in waves.
For a long moments neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks.
There’s no need. Your bodies have already said everything there is to say.
Then his forehead drops to yours, limp and trembling. His thumb traces a lazy arc across your cheekbone, and when he finally opens his eyes, they’re soft. Vulnerable. Full of something he’s never put into words.
You kiss the mark your teeth left in his shoulder. An apology, a thank you, a claim, all at once, and his arm tighten around you pulling you closer into the crook of his body.
His hand begin to wander. Slowly. Reverently. Fingers trace the curve of your waist, the deep of your spine, the swell of your hip, mapping your nakedness like he’s memorizing a sacred text. He presses a kiss to your temple, in your cheekbone, then the corner of your mouth. Each kiss featherlight. Each one a sentence in a language only the two of you understand.
“Mine.” He says against your skin, so quiet you almost miss it. He doesn’t open his eyes. Just keep tracing, keeps kissing, keeps holding you like he’s afraid you might dissolve into mist if he lets go.
You shift slightly, and he makes a small sound of protest, pulling you tighter against his chest. His legs tangle with you beneath the silk sheets. His nose buries in your hair.
“mine.” He repeats. “Yours.” You reply.