Bottom Draco One Shots !Drarry!

Luckiest Fucking Queen Size (original ver.)

So, anyway, you’d think that after all the (accidental) acquisition of information and the highly cynical following of rumours later, I wouldn’t be... well, moved, when I finally, actually saw the thing.

Except one can’t not fucking be moved when one is faced with a fucking basilisk, can they? Who’d stand there and go, ‘oh, look, a basilisk, how incredibly normal, so what’s for breakfast’?!

Speaking of breakfast, god, I want that basilisk in my mouth.

Potter’s Brobdingnagian monster (that probably requires its own postal code, legally speaking) AKA the basilisk, that was probably the actual beast that had been lurking in the Chamber of Secrets. Ha, I knew Potter had just made it all up about there being a real basilisk. He’d just been hiding his cock down there.

Circling back to the point, the incident when I laid my eyes on it (or rather, when it sprang out with a mute ‘ta daaa!’ and filled my peripheral vision) for the first time.

Contrary to what that bint Pansy may regularly insinuate, I did not join the Ministry gym just so I could watch Potter lift weights the size of cauldrons like it’s nothing, do countless pull-ups from a bar ten feet off the floor, his ankles locked, and tirelessly run on those blasted treadmills with his shirt off, sweat pouring, all the while looking like someone I want on top of me, savagely fucking me into the mattress and through my bed, straight into hell where I clearly fucking belong.

Because I did not join that stupid, smelly gym only so I could silently slink into the adjoining showers behind Potter afterwards, and I most certainly do not wank on a (semi) regular basis under the shower in the stall next to his, and why the hell would you think that it’s anything but a coincidence that my locker is just one locker away from his?!

And when he’s standing there in his fluffy black towel, smelling of his minty soap and fruity shampoo, with water dripping onto his brawny shoulders and down his broad back from his horrible, mangy mane, I do not fantasise about pressing into him and touching him and tugging that towel off his lion waist and dropping to my knees and...

Stop interrupting me! What the hell was I even talking about?

Oh yes, that time when months of drooling over Potter in the gym while walking up those fucking simulated stairs later I finally catch a glimpse of the beast responsible for the destruction of Voldemort.

Because obviously Potter had somehow used his cock to kill the Dark Lord.

So there I was, minding my own business, standing in front of my locker (not posing in a way to make my arse look inviting), digging around for my belt (while not quietly gulping lungfuls of Potter’s scent), when Potter, humming to himself, humming, casual as fuck, pulls his fucking towel off and starts drying his hair with it.

He just. Fucking. Stood there, towelling his hair dry, naked as the goddamned fucking day he was born.

And so I stood there, drinking in the sight of his rock hard bare arse, and Merlin, that bloody giant cock, because, well, it was right there! What was I supposed to do, not stare?! You don’t work really hard to pay for a trip to India, travel through all the noise and heat, and then not drink in the sight of the truly lovely Taj Mahal, do you?!