Hey guys, yes I'm not dead. But I wish I was. I've been not that active on wattpad and it probably will be a while when I do. I don't feel good in my life anymore, and I just wish that I could just sleep to never wake up.
Anyways, it has been a while that I came to watt pad, and checked on my own stories. But when I did I noticed a comment I don't remember the exact words but I remember it saying that "this story is disrespectful to the original author". So I felt kinda bad as never try to offend or hurt anyone and then I wanted to know what was the reason behind someone saying that. So I got into it and saw that there were errors on the story part "Luckiest Fucking Queen Size" and then I started to read it and then realised that I uploaded a translated version of the real story and at that moment I realized I fucked up. So I tried to edit that one-shot but for some fucktard wattpad-is-an-asshole reason it won't budge. So anyone who felt offended or didn't like the way that one-shot was translated...I'm sorry. And take this one-shot for kind of compensation.
And I did not post this one-shot as a new one so that I could get more votes, but if you feel that way you can even ignore that star button if you want. But my intentions are seriously not to get the votes if anyone of you even thought about it. And I do not wish to harm or offend any author. Again guys I'm sorry
I’d heard rumours, of course; Potter and his colossal cock.
I’d overheard Jamie Sanders in the break room whispering and giggling to Barbara Whittle about how he kept giving himself an erection simply by recalling his night with Potter and his massive cock. It had been an accident of course, my overhearing that, because, well... I’d been eavesdropping (but by accident).
I’d watched as Frank Larson, up in Control of Magical Creatures, limped around heavily after he’d apparently managed to achieve his biggest ambition of making it into Potter’s bed (where I suppose the legendary beast had emerged in all its glory). He’d looked incredibly content, the smug bastard, I saw it. But only because I’d happened to be on Level Four at the time because I had to voice my doubts to somebody there about the possibility of my neighbour being an...um, werewolf or something. Not because I was looking for an excuse to go over there to confirm the rumours, excuse you.
I’d noticed Dan Callaghan, the new security wizard, shooting Cushioning Charms at his chair for days after his encounter with Potter’s (low-key) famous cock. I’d had a lot of running back and forth across the Atrium to do, which is how I happened to notice him doing so, thanks for not asking.
...Oh alright.
I know what you’re thinking; Draco Malfoy, proud Slytherin, Senior Undersecretary to the Head of International Magical Cooperation, blond perfection, never one to follow the herd, hardly the type to be swayed by superficial things like the girth and length of objects, even less when said objects are attached to strangely handsome wizards, especially wizards who just happened to have saved and liberated the wizarding world before turning twenty even.
Draco Malfoy, twenty-seven and pretty darn attractive (if you ask me), who absolutely, definitely, almost certainly, probably didn’t, maybe did have a infinitesimal, itsy-bitsy, fair sized, shamefully gigantic, likely unhealthy crush on the aforementioned wizard.
Draco Malfoy who is also a sucker (occasionally, a downright slut) for sizeable cocks.
Oh, sue me, you judgemental, sanctimonious wretch. And go get a haircut.
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?!
Except Potter’s cock could probably knock down the lovely Taj Mahal, holy fuck.
I honest to god doubt a cock that big is even allowed to exist. Potter shouldn’t be able to stand upright and not regularly keel over and fall onto his face, what with his cock probably weighing more than my left leg.
I’m not stupid, alright? And neither is Potter. We both knew it, that I was looking; he had to have fucking known it. He has to know that when his cock is exposed, that’s all anybody in the room will look at.
Except it was just us at the time. Alone. Potter, his cock and me.
His utterly stunning, truly magnificent cock, rosy-peach, heavy and smooth, with its perfect, pink head peeking out from under the incredibly soft looking foreskin, the astounding girth of it, the nearly frightening length.
I don’t remember for sure but I think I sort of...squeaked. At his cock. Like a fucking jerboa.
And Potter, by then fucking whistling away, the cocky son of a bitch, had casually stepped into his trousers and pulled his flies closed over his pet python. He hadn’t put on pants. The unrefined swine hadn’t put on any pants.
He’d shrugged into his neatly pressed uniform, sprayed himself with that truly ghastly, spicy Muggle cologne (the scent of which absolutely did not turn me on), hand combed his blasted hair and had turned to me while slamming his locker shut with an awful crash, lifting his chin in a casual head bob with a nonchalant ‘Alright there, Malfoy?’
I mean, the temerity.
I didn’t think he merited a polite reply after flashing me so rudely and then behaving like he hadn’t.
So I’d gurgled wetly at him.
And once he’d left, I’d pondered over the effectiveness of a self-inflicted Killing Curse.
‘You going to eat that?’
I start in my seat, and then remember to glare. Potter stands there grinning, pleased as a peach, his hands in his pockets, viridescent eyes twinkling.
‘Go ahead,’ I say on a sniff, because I’m well brought up and was taught to share. Potter grabs the chocolate biscuit off my plate and shoves it into his mouth whole before plonking himself in the seat opposite me.
‘You work during your tea break too?’ He sprays me with crumbs.
I purse my lips, shake crumbs out of my hair, and Vanish the rest of it off my files.
‘Sometimes,’ I deign to reply, sipping my tea.
‘Come here and bend over, Malfoy.’
I spill my tea all over the U.S Meet reports. ‘Ex-excuse me?’ I think I got some tea up my nose; I desperately want to snort it out.
‘Bend over so I can help you pull out whatever it is that you have stuck up your arse.’ Potter grins, flicks his wand at the ruined files before me, and fixes the mess that was his fault in the first place.
‘I’ve encountered wild dogs in heat with more class than you, Potter.’ I fish out my handkerchief and wiggle my nose into it.
Potter laughs.
And it should not be such an attractive sound, that booming guffaw.
‘Typical,’ he chortles, shaking his head. And then he leans forward and steals my tea.
He steals my tea! Hey, fucker, I was drinking that!
‘Is there something you wanted, Potter?’ I say instead, staring at his bobbing Adam’s apple as he downs the rest of my tea in a single gulp.
‘Yeah, I had this doubt about Purebloods.’
I wait for him to snort, point and laugh, grin wickedly; but he simply places my (empty) tea cup down as he licks his lips contently, puts his elbows on the table (how gauche, honestly), and stares at me very seriously.
I decide to bite.
‘Okay...?’ I say slowly. ‘What doubt?’
‘Do Purebloods eat dinner?’
I wait once more for a teasing twitch of his lips or a telltale glimmer in his stupidly pretty eyes.
‘Of- of course we do.’ I frown when he continues to blink solemnly at me.
‘Everyday?’
‘Yes, Potter. What the hell is the matter with you?’
‘Nothing!’ he says quickly, shrugging. ‘Will they have dinner at Pane e Vino at eight o’ clock on Friday?’
I blink. ‘What?’ I ask after a few seconds of blank staring.
Potter sighs wearily. ‘I thought you’re like... smart and all,’ he remarks, rolling his eyes.
Bloody bastard.
‘What?’ I repeat, just to spite him by proving his assumption about my superior intelligence wrong.
‘Malfoy, would you care to have dinner with me on Friday?’
He looks like he actually fucking means it.
I realise my mouth is open only when a trickle of drool threatens to make itself known several seconds later.
‘Is- is this a work thing?’ I ask eventually, genuinely confused.
‘No, it’s a personal thing.’
‘Personal?’
‘Yes, Malfoy.’
‘...Like a date?’
Potter finally grins.
‘Exactly like a date.’
Then he springs to his feet, grazes a broad knuckle across my cheek in a feather-light touch and chimes, ‘Right, I’ll see you then, gorgeous. Dress formal!’
And he’s gone.
I run to the fucking loo, lock myself in a stall and hyperventilate for a full five minutes.
‘I need to talk to you.’
I fancy myself to be quite the entrance-maker. And so when I burst into Potter’s fancy Head Auror office without even knocking (how crass of me, I know), and he jumps in his pretentious, high-backed chair (one of those showy swivel ones), accidentally squirting ink over an official and terribly important looking document (I snort), I feel exceedingly satisfied.
His maroon robes are slung over the back of his chair and he sits there only in his white shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his wide, sturdy forearms, deep charcoal grey trousers and a figure-hugging, matching waistcoat, top shirt button undone, rich scarlet tie loosened to reveal a triangle of his tanned skin and highly lickable looking collarbones.
Merlin, I want to climb into his lap and vigorously rub myself all over him.
‘What the hell?’ He frowns, not at me, but at the puddle of ink in front of him. I point my wand and take further satisfaction at easily cleaning the mess with a casual flick.
Yeah, I can do it too, you wanker.
‘Potter,’ I say with my nose in the air. ‘I demand to know what that whole imbroglio in the cafeteria yesterday was all about.’
Potter blinks. ‘Did you eat a dictionary for lunch?’
I scowl. ‘Potter!’
‘Alright, what the hell are you on about?’
I roll my eyes. ‘That dinner date on Friday.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, are you not free Friday? We’ll reschedule. When are you free?’
I stare, and I swear I’m this close to hyperventilating again. ‘Why...are you--’ I’m quite at a loss for words.
‘I like you,’ Potter informs me with a small frown, his tone, his expression, giving the impression that it was the most obvious fucking fact in the world.
‘Oh?’ is all I can come up with in reply.
‘Aren’t you free, Friday night?’
‘I—I am.’
‘Good. Oh, shit, I’m supposed to meet with the Minister.’
He scrambles around, pulling on his robes, the gold insignia over the left breast glinting in the light, pocketing his wand and grabbing files and knocking over the quill stand and scattering a pouch of owl treats and creating a holy fucking mess.
‘Okay.’ I, on the other hand, am busy growing roots on the spot.
‘I’ll see you.’ He rounds his desk and approaches me hurriedly, his sturdy boots clacking bluntly against the tile.
And then he presses a kiss to my cheek, all fresh-breathed, spicy-scented and warm-lipped, and sweeps out of his office.
I Floo home and hyperventilate into my fucking sofa cushions for a whole hour.
Potter gets us a charming little private table tucked away in a fairy-lit nook.
Potter knows his wines.
Potter picks us the best, most overpriced items off the menu at Pane e Vino.
Potter wears splendid, perfectly tailored dress robes in jet black and deep green with matching emerald cuff links.
Potter plays footsie with me under the table.
Potter feeds me chocolate soufflé with his bare fingers (yup, nearly fainted right there).
Potter escorts me home, presses me into my front door and kisses me with a ferocity that’s exhilarating.
And then Potter asks me (while gripping my arse savagely), in a growl that makes my cock throw a wet tantrum in my pants, how many more dates I would deem mandatory before I let him fuck me.
I drag Potter to bed.
I don’t know what I was expecting.
Nearly a year of positively stalking the man, months fantasising about his cock that’s roughly the size of my ego (hahaha), innumerable wanks to mental images of him, and one surprisingly lovely dinner date later, I’m finally in bed with him.
And I have no words.
He’s halfway through undressing me, pressing me into the mattress, and I swear I’m bare seconds away from coming and all we’ve done so far is kiss, and then I decide that everything else can go fuck itself because I must see him naked now.
‘Strip,’ I break away and demand, my voice a tremulous whisper. He quirks a darling little smile at me and lifts off, sitting up with his knees on either side of my thighs, my cock tenting my trousers between us.
With neat, calm movements, he divests himself of his superb robes, his silk shirt, his socks and shoes and then, his snug trousers.
And, fuck. Harry Potter is a fucking sight to behold.
It’s not the same, you see, seeing him half naked and gleaming with sweat at the gym, then fully naked and calm as anything in the locker room; and now seeing him here, completely naked once more, but this time looming over me with those fucking eyes of his with this look in them, moonlight swathing his tanned, hard, muscled (gorgeous) body in broad beams. And his cock, well, Merlin.
That virtual wall of meat is staring right at me, great big dribbles of pre-come oozing out the eye. I vaguely wonder how much of it I can force into my mouth and down my throat.
Potter is looking at me too, his head tilted slightly, that annoyingly attractive smile still in place.
‘Not the first eyeful you’re getting, so stop staring,’ he says amusedly.
I don’t even care enough to pretend to be outraged and/or deny the allegation.
‘You’re going to fuck me with that eyeful, Potter,’ I say slightly breathlessly.
Potter finally stops smiling.
I sit up, curl a hand around the back of his neck and yank his mouth down to mine, kissing him fervently.
He kisses me back so hard that I honestly cannot get my brain to work through it. All I can do is part my lips, feebly twist my tongue around his, and let him ravage my mouth. I do moan though, inadvertently – loudly. And it seems to rile him up into an unbridled frenzy.
He’s pressing large, warm hands all over me, pulling at my clothes, ripping and tearing them off me, and I want to laugh because of course I’d chosen to wear my most expensive set of robes tonight and Potter, being the Neanderthal that he is, has reduced them to a pile of tattered rags on the floor.
I feel like I should comment on the careless treatment of my seven hundred Galleon Italian designer robes as he attacks my collar bones, nibbling and sucking, marking me. But all I can do is cradle his shaggy head, throw my head back and purr because, god, it’s fucking hot the way he’s seemingly lost control, the way he bites at my lips, relentlessly sucking on them so that I can actually feel them swelling up.
‘To think all it took was Ron remarking that you’d never agree to go out with me,’ he suddenly pants, wrenching his mouth off of mine and licking his way into the crook of my neck.
‘You’re so damn gullible, Potter,’ I breathe, tangling my fingers into his fragrant, surprisingly silky hair.
‘Some would find that endearing, you know.’ He bites under my ear and I whine. ‘Don’t you?’
‘What?’ I don’t even know what the prat is on about.
‘Don’t you find that endearing?’ He pulls back and grins. His lips are red and wet, his hair in his sparkling eyes. He’s fucking glorious is what he is.
‘I’ll call you whatever you want as long as you fuck me in the next five minutes,’ I tell him before grinding my cock against his monstrosity.
His breath catches as he throws his head back and huffs out a puff of warm, wine scented breath. And then he looks down at me, his pupils blown wide, tongue flicking over his lips, and places his mouth gently over mine once more, kissing me slowly.
‘Going to savour this,’ he whispers, kissing his way down my chest.
‘Potter.’ I shiver as his tongue moves over my nipple in a way that simply cannot be described, not even by the most articulate. ‘Savour what?’ I ask as an afterthought.
‘This,’ he mumbles over my other nipple, biting at it, sucking on it. ‘Fucking you. God knows I’ve wanted it long enough. Your nipples taste like honey,’ he adds as he laps at the first one again, curling his tongue around it.
I can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes me as I push into his mouth, my hands still caught in his hair. ‘You’re joking, right?’ I gasp as he pokes his tongue into my navel.
‘Not even a little bit.' He bites sharply into the curve of my waist and I’m gasping again. ‘I’ve fancied you for ages now, Malfoy. And you should know, your arse is not... it’s not natural, it’s not real.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I’m laughing properly now, though not because Potter is placing moist little butterfly kisses all over my stomach, but because of the fucking irony of it all.
‘It’s unnaturally hot. It’s torture to watch you work out.’
‘My arse?’
‘Your arse. It’s bloody breathtaking.’ His mouth slides lower.
‘My arse.’
‘Your arse.’ Potter swallows my cock.
My back bows off the bed; I sob raggedly and kick him away.
‘I’m going to come, don’t you fucking see that?!’ I’m fucking furious suddenly, clutching handfuls of the bed cover, my balls throbbing agonisingly.
Potter laughs, the satanic bastard.
‘I want to eat your arse,’ he says hopefully.
‘You’ll be eating my fist if you don’t fuck me right now.’ I press a foot between his round, coppery nipples, curling my toes into the hard plane of his chest.
Potter smiles slowly, curling his fingers around my ankle, bringing my foot to his mouth and kissing it softly, bringing his other hand between my legs—
I spread open my other leg as the first finger breaches me, Potter worming his digit into me with a gentle ease. I sigh in gratitude.
‘More, please,’ I request. Potter pulls his finger out, taps the rim of my arsehole once muttering under his breath about my tightest fucking arse, and then my channel is flowing with lube, so much of it that it’s leaking out of me and wetting the sheet under my bum. It smells sweet and feels cool and Potter very matter-of-factly pushes two fingers into me up to the last knuckle.
‘Yesss!’ I’m hissing, I’m actually fucking hissing. Like a snake. Hissing.
I’m also on the verge of coming. So I grab the base of my cock with both hands and squeeze, desperately looking up at Potter who’s biting his lip and urgently wriggling a third finger into me.
‘Almost there,’ he’s saying soothingly, kissing my ankle again, and then licking a stripe up my calf.
‘Not soon enough,’ I grit, twisting onto his hand as he shoves in a fourth finger.
‘I don’t want to hurt you, Malfoy.’
Potter speaks gently, sweetly, his eyes round with anxiety. And I suppose he has a point. The biggest thing I’ve had inside me is that ludicrously pink dildo that’s wrapped in several old cloaks and sits in a corner on the floor of my wardrobe. And that dildo is a twig compared to Potter’s cock.
His cock that’s leaking onto my bed (and making my mouth water).
‘I don’t even care anymore, just fuck me, please,’ I say with forced calm when in fact I can feel tears of sheer desperation prickling behind my eyelids. I really don’t care. I’ve waited too long for this. If it hurts, which it most certainly will, I’ll fucking savour it, because that’s just how badly in need of help I clearly am.
Potter is vigorously thrusting and squelching his fingers into me now, my thighs smeared with lube, my balls dripping with it. His muscled biceps flex with each thrust in and out of me, because - oh fuck, that was close – because that’s how hard, how thoroughly he’s fingering me open.
‘Such a shame,’ I pant, hurriedly increasing the pressure around my cock for the third time.
‘What is, Malfoy?’
‘You defeating Voldemort, landing your dream job, being promoted to head of department while still so young,’ I’ve involuntarily arched off the bed again, ‘only to end up being killed by me tonight.’
Potter laughs throatily and I shove my foot so hard into his shoulder that he falls back with a yelp, his slick fingers going with him.
‘In me, now!' I order fiercely, tugging my knees up to my shoulders and clenching my arsehole at him with an arrant lack of shame.
Potter’s breath shudders out of him as he sits back up and kneels again, his eyes firmly fixed on my wantonly displayed, sufficiently loosened, arsehole, his hand wrapping around his cock and coating it.
‘Jesus,’ he whimpers, but my eyes have fallen shut, because the enormous, engorged head of his cock is nudging my hole open, and I can just feel the blissful nirvana I’m about to attain.
It starts to press in and I bite my lip before I involuntarily make a sound and cause Potter to stop what he’s doing because, oh yes God, I want that. I grip his shoulder with one hand and squeeze, my breath caught in my chest, Potter’s mouth fluttering over my chin, along my jaw.
Then the head slips in, Potter’s breath whooshing out of him, and I jerk, but manage to stay silent; the shaft begins its endless slide into me, Potter cussing steadily, and I break out in gooseflesh; his hoarse groan rents the air and I give into the vicious shudders that ripple over me; more lube squelches thickly through my crack and soaks the sheets, Potter’s body thrumming in and over me, and I bite my lip bloody.
His cock splits me in two, his silken balls coming to press against my arse, and I come.
I come and come and come, and it’s all I can do when, horrifyingly enough, I burst into tears against his shoulder.
‘I’ve got you,’ is all Potter says on a calm loop, holding me pressed to him, staying still and warm and heavy above me while I sob and shudder like a fucking moron, trying my best to keep up with my nearly vicious orgasm.
‘God!’ I hiccup, my cock still spitting out spurts of come, splattering my chest stickily. ‘Potter. Oh god, Potter.’
My voice comes out a disgracefully plaintive whimper. And I can only continue to whimper as Potter gently moves his mouth along the stupid tear tracks on my face, murmuring quietly, placing chaste kisses on my mouth, my forehead, the tip of my nose, wiping my eyes, carefully brushing my hair off my face. Merlin, such a bloody prince, this one.
I reach up to kiss him properly and the movement causes him to slip imperceptibly further into me. We moan against each other’s mouths, lips parting, breath stuttering.
‘Come on, Potter,’ I breathe, urging him by lifting my hips in a gentle buck that instantly makes my eyes roll back. Potter makes a low, desperate sound, reaching for my legs and hooking my knees over his shoulders as he finally, finally starts to move.
With a soft grunt he pulls out in a torturously slow drag before he slams back into me and god, please help me, because I feel like I’m going to come apart at the seams; like I’m going to disintegrate and never be whole again.
I’m stuffed so full that I genuinely can’t breathe; he’s everywhere, inside me, around me, on top of me. I can feel him in the thudding lump in my throat, the tightness in my chest, the burning pool gathering in my belly, the dull twinge in my lower back. He’s stretching out and filling me up in a way that, honestly, despite my near round-the-clock fantasies, is nothing like I could have ever really imagined.
Trembling and fighting for air, I cling on to him, moaning and gasping blindly into his neck as he ruts dirtily into me, his sighed murmurs rustling across my skin, his whimpered ‘god, Malfoy, so good, so good’ making my insides tingle pleasantly.
I’m already hard again.
I skate my hands down his back, reaching up to taste that honey hued skin. I suck and bite on his neck between breaths, licking up each new trickle of sweat that drips down, licking over his Adam’s apple, licking along his jaw, licking over his rippling shoulders as Potter pounds, pounds, and pounds into me.
‘Oh fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop!’ I beg hoarsely into his ear as he zeroes in on my prostate, roughly clenching a hand in his hair and sucking a soft earlobe into my mouth. ‘Merlin, I think I’m fucking dying, Potter.’
Potter’s thrusts speed up as he turns his face to catch my mouth in his, kissing me in a way that makes me scrabble uselessly at his back.
‘You’re incredible,’ he breaks away to whisper, running the tip of his tongue along the shell of my ear. ‘You’re beautiful.’
‘I feel so sorry for myself for not getting you to fuck me sooner,’ I sob out, throwing my head back, my shoulders pressing into the mattress as he rams into my prostate. ‘Poor me.’
Potter snorts. ‘Poor Malfoy,’ he croons, licking up my neck. ‘You going to come again?’
‘Oh god, yes!' I wail as my balls draw up tight and painful. ‘Going to come and then most likely pass out.’
Potter laughs through his rough panting, his arms trembling next to me as he lunges incessantly, ruthlessly driving his goddamn blessing of a cock into me, his thrusts shoving me higher and higher up the bed, higher and higher towards sweet catastrophe.
I think we come together, I can’t be sure. There’s only white noise in my ears, and I have been rendered temporarily incapable of opening my eyes - not that I try too hard, mind you.
Thankfully enough, I don’t cry like a blubbering idiot this time. I simply wrap myself around his shuddering body, like a koala, and come endlessly, kissing him desperately, bucking up into him, through the screaming burn, the nearly unbearable ache in my arse, my cock finally wrung dry from the feel of it.
And I must have stayed true to my word and passed out, because when I next come to, I’m on my side with Potter curled around me like a great big fire breathing dragon or something (I mean, his breath is scalding hot on the back of my neck), and the sun cracking open the day outside the window.
I stir and then I’m groaning, my tender arse protesting fiercely in a way that it probably thinks is cautionary, but which only serves to make my gut clench in a sudden flare of arousal.
Potter makes a soft noise of protest behind me.
‘Lie still,’ he mumbles, suddenly licking the nape of my neck wetly. ‘I had a hard night.’
‘Oh, you had a hard night.’ I bite back a smile, instantly struggling out of his grasp and turning over to face him, ignoring the continued throbbing ache in my arse. ‘You had a hard night?!’
Potter chuckles, his eyes still closed, his hair a bloody awful pile on and around his head. ‘Hey, you begged me for it.' He opens one eye, reaches out in a sudden move and hauls me back towards him.
‘I’m officially the easiest person in history.’ I shake my head as he pins me down under one tightly muscled leg of his. ‘I put out on the first fucking date.’
‘And thank Merlin for that,’ Potter says drily. ‘Or there would have been this whole question of consent, and me not having had yours, and I can’t have something like that on my record.’
I grin, reaching out and gently combing his hair off his face. ‘You’ll always have my consent, you fool,’ I say softly. Then after a pause, ‘So is this how it generally works with you and all the others too? One fancy dinner date, and then you fuck ‘em nearly dead?’
I really do try to keep the jealousy out of my voice. What sort of a “proud Slytherin” would I be if I let my emotions get in the way of this?
Potter opens his eyes and then his flaming gaze is holding me in place with no effort at all.
‘I’ve never taken the others to dinner,’ he finally says, his mouth slowly curling into a smile.
‘Liar.’
‘I have no reason to lie,’ he says, looking amused. ‘I’m no monk. I love to fuck just as much as the next guy.’
‘Well, I’m flattered.’ I cock a brow. ‘Why do I merit the special treatment then?’
‘Because you’re no one-time-fuck, Malfoy.’ He pulls me even closer; it shouldn’t be possible really, to be pressed up this close to someone. ‘You’re fucking spectacular.' He nuzzles my hair.
I snort, sliding a hand over and around his waist, feeling the smooth, sleep-warmed skin. ‘Oh right, me and my spectacular arse.’
‘That’s right.’ He grins, immediately cupping my arse and gently kneading, making my breath catch the teensiest bit.
I exhale slowly, tracing his sharp collar bones lightly. ‘You couldn’t come to me sooner, you big buffoon?’ I suddenly blurt out.
‘I had to be sure you’d agree to go out with me.’ And then with a mischievous twinkle, ‘I have my pride too, you know.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You seemed pretty sure when you basically just informed me that I would be going to dinner with you.’
He shrugs. ‘I was sure by then.’
‘How?’
‘You didn’t run away screaming, that day by the lockers.' He winks. ‘On the contrary...’ He grins crookedly.
I feel my face heat even as I glare at him. ‘You flashed me on purpose?”
‘Oh please, like you weren’t gagging for it!’
‘I was not, and I resent the implica—fffnnnnnpp’.
Potter is kissing me again. And he’s kissing me as if we’ve been kissing each other all our lives; like he’s so used to waking up next to me, naked and warm, groping me as and how he pleases, and kissing me into silence, into plaint submission, mid-argument.
And it’s already beginning to feel pretty damn familiar when he lifts my legs up, murmurs charms to Heal me and lube me up in quick succession and pushes into me with the slow, sure, inexorable force of a habit that I suddenly realise I might never end up shaking.
I’ve been lightheaded for two months now. I wonder if it’s something I should have checked.
Maybe it’s one of the side-effects of having a pillar of a cock fucked into you on a daily basis. Or maybe it’s because the person said pillar is attached to just so happens to be a pretty darn fantastic guy.
Either way, it’s a side-effect I’m willing to live with. More than happily.
My life now revolves around, along with work, the odd handful of friends and a strangely delighted mother (I had to tell her about Harry; I’d gone visiting and she’d eyed the few dozen, unHealable love bites all over me with alarm), the human-squid that is Harry Potter, with his long, terrifyingly strong arms randomly flying out of various doorways and his grabby-gropey hands closing around whatever part of my body he touches, hauling me into cramped closets, cluttered storage rooms, deserted offices and loo stalls, pulling me into his arms or his lap (wheee!), where he enthusiastically proceeds to have his gleefully wicked way with me.
And of course I let him, why the fuck wouldn’t I?
There are thirty-two scratches across the gleaming surface of Harry’s (yes, he’s now Harry) mahogany desk. There are three moisture rings, and one small, jagged gouge mark, no doubt the result of stray sparks from a carelessly placed wand.
How do I know all this? I have had to take to carefully and repeatedly counting and noting all of this in the recurrent attempts to stave off my orgasm every time Harry strips me completely fucking naked right there in his office (literally, including my fucking socks and shoes, the tiresome bastard that he is), bends me over his desk and loudly eats my arse for lunch, his tongue doing things to my arsehole that ought to be declared illegal, his hungry sucking and wet, vulgar slurping enough to make me repeatedly vow to hide my face for eternity.
I’ve become intimately familiar with the feel of the cool metal of his drawer handles against my upper thighs. I have also added several scratches of my own across the desk, because when Harry ultimately takes mercy on me, stands up and fucks me into the dark, polished wood, I need something to scratch and scrabble at, don’t I?
God, my poor arse.
Now I’m the one giving himself spontaneous erections at sex-drenched memories, I’m the one limping around and throwing Cushioning Charms on chairs.
Because I’m the one Harry Potter is fucking now. Exclusively. (And, good lord, I think we’re boyfriends now.)
I’m the one who goes on weekly dates with Harry (I know, right?!). I’m the one he starts kissing publicly. It’s my waist he keeps a possessive arm around at Ministry functions and social soirees. It’s me he comes looking for every time he has a free moment or two at work. I’m the one who sits squashed into him when we go drinking with his troop of rowdy, loudmouthed friends and I’m the one he chats with in quiet murmurs on the sofa, his head in my lap, my fingers carding through his hair, for hours together.
I’m the one he eventually admits to being in love with, the words whispered reverently into my forehead, calloused hands tenderly cupping my face, his eyes soft and honest; and I’m the one he asks to move in with him six months later (golly!). I’m the one he makes breakfast for everyday, and I’m the one for whom he wakes up early on Saturdays to go buy fresh-from-the-oven pain au chocolat from that French place in Mayfair. It’s my face he sees and kisses first thing every morning and I’m the one he falls asleep pressed against every damn night.
Me, the luckiest fucking size queen alive.
(an/ If you guys don't get it, a size queen is basically a person who loves big dic*s. And Draco calls himself lucky here because he is a size queen and he's got a boyfriend with a big cock that he gets to fuck everyday.)
~end~
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Author of the above work ~ loveglowsinthedark