You came from a well-off family, one that had never had to put their children in danger with tesserae, one that got the freshest bread, one that had no idea about their eldest daughter's after-school activities; heading to the hob as often as possible, paying anyone she could for a bottle of spirits. You began when you were 16.

Your only true drinking competition was Haymitch Abernathy- he had known your family for years, but as close as he was with your father, he had never known you. You never cared to approach him when he entered your house or when your parents spotted him in the square.

When you became a regular Hob attendee, you saw much more of him. Drinking competitions became a regular occurrence between the two of you when you were 17, praises of your tolerance always boosting your ego at 18. This lasted until you were 19.

Your father had a rough day at work. He had visited the Hob for the first time in year, accompanied by Haymitch. He had come to try and spot you before your father could and tell you to book it. It didn't work out that way.

Haymitch spotted you two seconds too late, after hearing the deafening screech of your father yelling your name across the Hob. You froze in place, glass in hand and arm on a man who's name you couldn't remember. The sounds around you died around somewhat, all eyes on the father-daughter exchange.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He hissed, approaching rapidly.

"I'm 19, dad, I'm allowed to have fun," you huffed.

"Since when is 'fun' illegal drinking in the black market?"

"A while now, actually."

"You're grounded."

"I'm 19."

"Then get your shit," he snatched the drink from your hand, throwing it back like water. "And get the fuck out of the house." He slammed the glass against the table, turning tail and leaving.

You sat, stunned at the confrontation. You slipped off your barstool and followed your father's path in a haze. You jumped when a hand clamped around your wrist, eyes flickering to Haymitch standing there, concern splashed through his features.

"What happened, sweetheart?" He questioned genuinely.

"Nothing, Haymitch, don't worry about it," you sighed, trying to pull away and not drag him into family business.

"I said 'what happened', kid. Not 'do you want to tell me'," he demanded.

"I- nothing," you stopped yourself. It was none of his business!

"I want to help you, let me, please." Well you never thought you'd hear him say please.

"My dad kicked me out- happy?" You fumed, a sudden rage building in your belly as you yanked your wrist away from him with all your might and began stomping off.

"You can stay with me," he called after you. "The couch is comfy." You turned on your heel back to him.

"You're kidding," you blanched. "Seriously? You'd let me stay with you? Why?" The questions spilled out, confusion and appreciation mingling.

"Because I care about your wellbeing, kid," he chuckled. "And if you're living with me you ain't gotta head all the way to the Hob for a drink or two."

And so began the complicated relationship between the two of you. Two unemployed day drinkers with no hobbies, no friends, and no family. You found out that your mother wanted nothing to do with you, and they wouldn't allow your siblings to see you. Haymitch had no family left alive. You were both stuck drinking away your sorrows together.

He didn't make you get a job- just run errands. Get food, get living supplies, relax. He got the liquor. He kept you from drinking too much, usually limiting you to three glasses at a time. A good majority of your time was spent cuddling. It wasn't weird. It was just.. comforting. For the both of you. Nothing weird.

The night you had moved in with him was the first time. You were vulnerable, and ended up sobbing on the floor with a bottle in your hand. He slipped it out gently, setting it on the ground next to you. He leaned down and picked you up off the ground with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist and your arms around his neck. He laid down on the couch with you in that position, letting you blubber and yap until you fell asleep.

When you awoke, you were squished between the back cushions and his body comfortably. His arms laced around your waist, holding you to his chest, his face in the crook of your neck. You dozed back off and when you awoke he was sitting at his armchair, unphased and watching the news.

it had been 6 months since that night. You drank with him almost every day, had two friends which were men you had drank with at the hob, and had hobbies and a black cat that roamed freely through Haymitch's house. Things were.. good.

And you were falling for your housemate.

He was nothing more than someone who you cared for. You were legal, yes, but he was so much older than you. He was a respectable man- sure, drinking the days away with a friend's disowned daughter wasn't exactly mature behavior, but at least he held you close every time you cried. But that was purely platonic affection, him caring for your well-being and holding you through the night being the only way he knew to comfort you.

That night, you drank your feelings away with him. He was getting louder and you were getting quieter, watching him carefully. Trying not to expose the vile thoughts running your mind into the dirt as he blabbed about his favorite liquor.

The heat in your tummy only got worse as you drank more, giving him professional fuck-me eyes by your 4th. If he noticed, he didn't say anything. But by the way his eyes never left yours, even when you looked away, you were sure he had.

"H-Haymitch," you hiccuped, certain you were bordering alcohol poisoning. You never drank this much- either you had enough or he stopped you. Not tonight. "I'm not, I'm really, uh," you couldn't get your thoughts straight. "Take me to our room, please." You managed to get out.

"Our room?" He questioned, brighter than you'd ever seen him. "Last I checked, we've never slept in it at the same time. If anything, the living room is our room." He sauntered over to you slowly, placing his bottle on the table in front of you. You reached for it and got your hand smacked. You were already feeling a little green.

"Just take me," you groaned, choking back a gag. "I'm sleepy." You whined at him.

"Sure you don't need to vomit, sweetheart? Do it before I tuck you in, if you would be ever-so-kind," you shook your head no, but then stood swiftly and shook your head yes. He guided you to the sink as you emptied the contents of your stomach in it. He held your hair. You tilted your head back up and turned the water on, washing the liquid away.

"Atta girl, let's get you some water, why don't we," you groaned and nodded, washing your hands and turning back to him as he handed you a bottled water. You chugged it, feeling a tad more sober, and you began to walk to the bathroom. Haymitch sat back down and swirled his finger around the lip of his cheap whiskey bottle.

You brushed your teeth and tongue thoroughly. You wouldn't have cared, you didn't. But something in the way Haymitch's fingers continued to linger on your skin made you start to. You exited the bathroom, swishing a bit of mouthwash through your teeth before walking to the kitchen sink and spitting it out there.

"Take me to bed." You requested, standing in front of haymitch in your big tee-shirt and shorts.

"Awfully bold now, aren't you sweetheart?" He rasped, standing almost as soon as you had asked. He walked towards you, leaning down and scooping you up bridal style. You were not expecting this- a belly laugh escaping from you as he began to walk you up the stairs.

You were drenched. Absolutely soaked through your panties. You just prayed he wouldn't notice anything off about your demeanor- maybe he would just chalk it down to the abundance of alcohol in your system?

"Haymitch! Do you have to be so rough?" You gasped as he nearly threw you and himself onto the bed. As you recollected yourself, he stood. "Leaving so soon?" You whined playfully.

"Not if you don't want me to, doll," he chuckled. His raspy voice sent a chill down your spine.

"Well, I mean," you sputtered. "I would- I don't, no. I don't." You finally got your words out, pursing your lips and peering up at him through your lashes as he laughed at you.

"God, you're a mess, aren't you sweetheart?" He mocked, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to you. "I would almost think it's more than just the alcohol at this point, wouldn't you?" You inhaled sharply through your nose at the insinuation.

"What? No, I'm just really drunk, that's all-" he pressed his thumb to your lips.

"Quiet," he whispered, leaning closer to you. "Lying won't get you anywhere in life, sweetheart." God, he was so close. You could smell him, more than usual. Pine and whiskey, mingling into the sexiest thing you had ever had the pleasure to smell.

You whimpered out loud when he pulled away. He smirked at you. Your eyes went wide as he began stripping. "Wh- why, what-" You tripped over your words, nearly beginning to crawl towards him. He was clearly relishing in your newfound behavior.

"Calm yourself, doll," he chuckled, flopping down next to you on his bed. "I'm just getting comfortable- you wanted to sleep after all. Right?" He was asking for your honesty.

This was the make-it-or-break-it of the night- he was giving you the chance to tell him what you were feeling. "I, uhm," you began with so much confidence and hope. But then, your critical thinking kicked in. He didn't actually want you to respond like that! He was warning you not to act on your obvious desires.

"Yes, just want to sleep," you muttered, beginning to pull your shirt from your body. You stood before you could finish. "I'll go to the bathroom, sorry." You apologized, melancholy. He grabbed your wrist.

"You're fine, sweetheart," he was serious. Your heartbeat increased and you suspected he was feeling at your pulse with the way he was squeezing. "Lying won't get you anywhere." He intentionally repeated his words from earlier. A shiver ran down your spine and settled in your bones. You were on edge and dripping wet. You whimpered.

"Haymitch, please," you whispered. "Don't make me say it." You pouted at him with glazed eyes and he pulled you back onto the bed in front of him. You were looking at him with need in your eyes, and he nearly matched your expression.

"Well, if you're so tired, you'd better get ready for bed, right, sweetheart?" He rasped, and you felt disappointment settle in your gut.

"Oh, uhm, yeah, I guess," you spoke quietly, scooting yourself to be more comfortable as you reached under your shirt to unclasp your bra. You were looking away from him, trying to avoid facing the cause of the weight on your chest.

A featherlight touch on your abdomen drug your attention away from your failed attempt, arms falling to your sides as he replaced your hands, unhooking the garment with ease. The straps fell from your shoulders as he reached to the bottom of your shirt. You raised your arms and let him lift it, leaving you in nothing but shorts and your loose and unsecured bra.

You looked at him in curiosity. He noticed and smirked. "You have to be comfortable to sleep, don't you, sweetheart?" His gentle grip turned demanding and you gasped as he snatched the only thing covering your breasts. Your arms flew to cover yourself and he slowly reached to restrain your wrists, shifting his weight so he was holding himself over you, pinning your wrists into the mattress.

"H-Haymitch," you whispered, barely audible.

"Yes, love?" He matched your volume, leaning so close that you could taste the whiskey on his breath.

"Kiss me," you asked. "Please." He looked from your eyes to your lips, silent for a moment.

"There's no going back if we do this," he warned, staring into your eyes for any tell of your thoughts. All he could see was desire. The same burning desire that fuelled the hard-on in his briefs. "I won't pretend anymore, especially not if you let me do what I want right n-"

"Shut up and kiss me, Haymitch," you groaned, bucking your hips up and rubbing yourself against his clothed erection. "Before I change my mind." You giggled.

He pressed his lips to yours fervently, touching you in a way that all the hours you had spent together could have never prepared you for. His hands flew from your wrists and his weight shifted to his knees, pressing your heat to his cock as he practically dry-humped you through your makeout. He was rubbing his thumb into your hip, squeezing it so tightly but you relished in it. His other free arm was pressed into the pillow next to your head, keeping him from crushing you under his weight.

"Good God," he groaned out needily, pulling away from your lips to begin kissing and sucking on your throat. He threaded his fingers through your hair, tilting your head for more access to your quickly purpling neck. "Sweeter than candy, you know that?" He grumbled against your skin. Your hands were settled in his hair and on his broad shoulders, taking in every sensation.

"There's something I would like to taste," you smirked slyly, pushing at his shoulders gently, sitting up with him.

"Oh, really? And what might that be, darling?" He reached up and held your hands as they sat on his shoulders. You reached down to his briefs and pulled them until his cock sprung from the waistband. You gasped at the size of it, watching it slap against his stomach with a soft sound.

"Y-You're so," you stammered. "I'm not sure I can take all of that, Haymitch.." He chuckled, replacing his hand in your hair as he pushed you towards his cock, pulling you with him as he readjusted against the headboard.

"You'll learn." Was all he said as he pulled you until your lips were wrapping around his broad head.

"You're so," you spoke around his tip. "So girthy, Haymitch.." He laughed at your muffled words, spoken with his cock bumped against your cheek. You began to swirl your tongue around his tip and he sighed, letting his laughter die down. He shifted his hand and shoved his dick straight into the back of your throat. You gagged and sputtered, pulling off and coughing with your cheek against his rigid member.

"It ain't Haymitch to you anymore, sweetheart," he growled. Your eyes widened, not sure what his next words would be. "It's daddy. Got that, doll?" You gasped- how vulgar, why would he ever think you would call him something so, so-

"Yes, daddy," your own words caught you off guard. You picked your head up and proceeded to gag on his cock until you felt as though you could throw up. A few times, you were enveloped in pure bliss. Those were the moments when he groaned and shoved your head down so far that your nose buried in the thick hair at the base of his cock. You felt so used and proud of yourself.

"Atta girl," he praised, lifting your head off his cock and smirking at you. You were panting, saliva and precum coating your chin. "So gorgeous like this, should get you drunk like this more often." He kissed you gently, contrasting the roughness of which he just fucked your throat.

"Please," You begged quietly. "Please fuck me." Haymitch chuckled at you.

"Say my name, darling," he growled. You began to say Haymitch, but he interrupted you. "Not that name, doll." He corrected, grabbing you and pulling you on top of himself until you were straddling him. You were slightly caught off guard, grinding down on him and moaning. You were still clad in your shorts and panties.

"Please, daddy," you whimpered. He chuckled, gripping your hips and pressing you harder against him. "Please fuck me, daddy!" You cried out, throwing yourself forward into a kiss. He flipped you over, pressing your back into the mattress. He sat up and yanked your shorts down before ripping both sides of your underwear. You yelped in surprise and scolded him.

"Consider it a souvenir, sweetheart," he chuckled at you. "A souvenir from the first time you're getting fucked by me." You gasped, feeling him begin to align his thick head with your entrance. He pushed in slowly, and you cried out.

"Daddy! Be gentle, plea-" You were cut off by a silent moan getting caught in your throat as he bottomed out. "Mmhm, please wait a- a momen- mm." You could barely speak, he wasn't thrusting but he was circling his hips ever so slightly, giving you friction in parts of your pussy you didn't even know you had.

"Oh, I'll be gentle for now, sweetheart," he groaned, beginning to thrust gently. "But I can't promise that'll last." He kept a slow and rhythmic pace, bottoming out with every lingering thrust. You let out a sharp breath every time.

He picked up his pace, your breath hitching with every thrust. You did your best to hide any moans, but could barely contain yourself. He began suckling on your neck and unintentionally digging his fingers into your hips.

Then, he pulled out. You whined at the unwanted emptiness, but then he grabbed your hips and flipped you onto your stomach. He began pounding into you, faster and harder and deeper than before. You became a slurred, moaning mess. He didn't stop, ignoring all of your moans and pleas of pure pleasure.

He had already begun to bruise your hips, squeezing and pushing and pulling to fuck you oh-so-nicely, penetrating you over and over.

He started getting rough, leaning over you and removing his hands from your hips. He started fucking you with the force of his whole body weight, leaving you moaning like a whore underneath him.

"I'm close, sweetheart," he growled. "You?" Not taking a break to let you answer, if anything going faster.

"Ah, uh, mm-mhm!" You cried. "K-keep, nn, going! Please daddy!" and with that, he lost all tempo and fucked you ruthlessly. He picked you up, put you on your back, pressed your knees into your chest, and slid back in one smooth motion.

This new angle was so deep, hitting your G-spot with every thrust. You cried out, reaching to Haymitch and gripping your hands in his hair.

"Daddy! Please, please, please, PLEASE," you screamed, begging for release with all your might. He reached down, playing with your clit for a moment, and you burst.

You felt the heat in your tummy rush to all your pleasure points, overwhelming you. Haymitch didn't slow down, but when you began to squeeze his cock like a vice, he pulled you close and started with short, deep thrusts.

You fell asleep immediately.

When you awoke, you were alone in the bed. You looked around groggily, no sign of your newfound lover. You slipped your feet to the side of the bed, attempting to stand. Your knees gave out, but you caught yourself on the bed.

You noticed that there was no trace of your earlier activities- a clean bed that you had just been tucked nicely into, your legs had no residue of either yours or his juices. Your hair was neatly combed.

You heard the sound of water shutting off, and figured Haymitch had been showering. A few minutes later, he exited with damp hair and a towel around his waist. You were intrigued.

"Good mornin', darlin'," he chuckled at the way you were looking at him. "Looking so eager for another round, huh?" He teased. You settled back into bed.

"Soon," you told him. " But for now, come lay with me." You smiled, scooting further into the bed to give him space. He dropped his towel and walked towards you. You dampened at the sight of his semi-hard cock.

He slipped into bed next to you, flipping you over so your back was to his chest. His cock rested between your legs, the head bumping your clit.

"Go back to sleep, sweetheart," he whispered, moving his hips and making his cock bump your sensitive nub. "That's what you wanted, right dear?"

He'd always been told that caring about things, about people was supposed to be beneath him. That it's not what Malfoys do. That sort of thing belongs to the muggle born and the weak.

But what's taught is not instinct. Instinct cannot be controlled. It comes from within.

It's strange how caring for someone made him feel akin to a predator staying true to it's instincts.

He didn't even know you properly. You kept to yourself mostly and when you didn't you'd be with Potter, Granger and Weasel.

All the more reason for him to hate you. To not care.

And yet when he'd stumbled upon his own people picking on you, he'd halted. He'd felt something. It wasn't uncommon for pure bloods to pick on people like you. And yet it lit a gnarly fury in him and he'd struck one of his own.

Something his father had practically bit his ears off with rambles of “disgraceful behavior,” “betrayal to house unity,” “violence is common and beneath them” and how “Malfoy's don't get their hands dirty without a true purpose.”

But still not a single part of him regretted it.

Because you'd looked at him. Not with disgust, not with fury, not with annoyance.

With gratefulness. With admiration. And that alone was worth any scolding from his father.

You went to find him later, outside the Slytherin common room at night while he was walking around. Risky business. You hated being around his house. So the fact that you were here meant something.

You waited for him to come back from his walk and sure enough he appeared as though the shadows spat him right out to you.

He'd stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you. Confused, his guard goes straight up. He couldn't help it, it was a defense mechanism.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, interrogating. You'd have missed the soft undertone if you weren't staring in his eyes.

Eyes don't lie.

Your heart beat is unmistakably fast and, your stomach flutters. You genuinely don't know how to talk to him but you try anyway.

“I wanted to... thank you. For earlier. You didn't have to do that. I–” you paused, choosing your next words careful, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. “I know it must've gotten you in trouble with– with your–” you pause again when you see his breath hitch slightly.

Again, you would've missed it if you weren't standing so close.

“Father.” he finished it for you. “You need not concern yourself with that. It's an usual thing for me.” he says, tone sharp and defensive but not unkind.

He cleared his throat, “Besides, they were being idiots.” he offered, now more gently.

You were not an idiot. Nor were you oblivious. You knew Draco Malfoy didn't really care about bullying or morality. Not much anyway. He knew he did that because he wanted to. Because he cared. For you.

Only thing that seemed to baffle you and throw you off was the why.

Why did this pure-blood boy who cared for no one, care for you? You did not know. And it seemed, neither did he.

But that marked the beginning of something tender. Something special.

From many unprompted meetings in the library where y'all talked, or rather you talked while he listened or offered remarks and sarcasm; to secret, planned meetings and rendezvous in your respective common rooms or the room of requirement when y'all really craved that quiet, soft intimate time.

It would transform into something you both considered a safe space. To talk, to share.

The first kiss happened three weeks later, in the very room of requirement when it appeared as a small, firelit room with one bed. You’d both been hiding after curfew; the door sealed behind you and suddenly it was just the two of you, breathing the same air.

Both of you just knew what was coming. Instinct. And he'd looked... troubled. Nervous, even.

He'd spoken your name with such tenderness, warmth flooded you like summer.

“I'm not good at being gentle.” he'd admitted, letting you in on his thoughts.

You offered him a small smile, “It's okay. I can help you learn.” you soothed.

His hand found it's way to your face, thumb grazing your jaw before he pulled you in.

Your mouths met in unison and he kissed you like he was scared you'd vanish. Like you were made of glass. You discovered you didn't want him to be too gentle so you took the initiative to deepen the kiss. As best as you could.

He licked the inside of your mouth and let out a soft moan, surprising himself.

It did something to you.

Again, you were not oblivious. You knew where this was leading. And as much as it made you feel nervous, you craved it.

You craved it when his hand gently wandered over your back, fingers grazing the clasp of your bra.

You pulled away from the kiss to lean your forehead against his. Catching your breath, you whispered, “Draco.. I- I’ve never...” you confessed.

He halted his hand, and brought it back to your face to caress you, “Never?” he repeated softly.

You shook your head.

He swallowed and nodded, “Do you want to?” he asked

“Yes.” you answered instantly and he let out a low chuckle at your eagerness. Your cheeks warmed at the realisation.

His mouth found yours again before either of you spoke. The kiss was deeper now, hungrier, but still careful. And you grew bolder by the second as you tugged on his tie. He let you pull it free and then unbutton his shirt.

You pulled away from the kiss once again; this time to stare at his pale, smooth beautiful skin. Your fingertips followed a trail down from his chest, to his abs, to his stomach. You halted right above his belt buckle. Eyes immediately finding his in hesitance, and what you saw sent a shiver down your spine.

Draco was already looking at you like he was starving. Leaning back on both of his hands, fingers digging into the soft mattress as if he had to physically restrain himself from grabbing you and touching you.

“Do it.” he whispered.

But, instead of unbuckling him you retreat your hand to your own shirt. His breath hitches in anticipation. Biting your lip, not breaking eye contact once as you move down the buttons of your blouse until you bare your breasts to him. Soft, clad in a black cotton bra.

“Fuck– beautiful.” he whispers.

You leave the shirt still on for him to take off and he reaches forward to slip it off your shoulders with trembling fingers.

“Lie back.”

You did. Your warm spine hit the cool sheets with a soft thud. He kissed down your throat to your chest in slow open mouthed presses that made you dizzy.

When he finally reached your bra, he looked up at you and asked. “May I?”

You took a deep, fortifying breath before nodding and arching your back enough so he could reach behind and unclasp. The bra loosened and he slipped it off with a gasp.

“You– you don't need to ask. Do whatever you want to me.” you say and you can't see it, nor can you feel it but you just know Instinctually that he twitches in his pants when, “Fuck.” he groans.

“Don't say it like that.” he warns, although it's not much of a warning. More like pleading. “You don't know what it does to me.” he says.

“What does it do to you, Draco?” you quip, breathless.

And he grabs your hips gently and finally presses himself into you to show you. Clothed core to clothed core.

But you can feel him. Hard, wanting and pleading against you. You gasp, harsh, surprised. “Ohmygod.” you whisper, fingers digging into his half- bare, half-clothed shoulder.

His mouth curves into a smirk which is vanished as quickly as it comes on when you experimentally grind your hips into his to feel more of him and he groans. Faltering, and dropping down to his elbows, placed at each side of your head, forehead falling to yours.

You moan into his neck with how good the brush of his cock felt against you.

“Draco, please.” you finally beg, no longer able to hold back.

He knows exactly what you're asking for, however, It's your first time and he wants it to be perfect for you. He always was a sucker for perfectionism.

He nods at you before moving down, between your legs. One arm going under your thigh to hold it while his free hand reached under your skirt to take off your panties.

The cool air hit your wet core and did the engulfing warmth of Draco's mouth all at once.

It was a surprise to you. One that left you breathless and arching and writhing against his mouth. He mouthed at your slick folds before settling on your clit to suck. Blinding your senses until you were a solid mess of whines and whimpers and cries.

He wanted to make sure you were prepped and ready to take him.

It didn't take long for him to make you orgasm for the first time with how turned on you already were. He'd reached up to touch and tease your nipples with a free hand all while he sucked and lapped at your slick folds, humming in content.

Him touching your nipples, sucking on your clit and the vibrations against you all felt like sensory deprivation and it threw you off the edge instantly.

You clenched your thighs around his head and with a loud cry of his name, you came. Arching off the bed, helplessly, uncontrollably. You could sob with how good it felt. And you couldn't help the grind of your hips, riding out that sweet, delicious, Malfoy induced bliss.

And with the way Draco's fingers dug into your thighs– hard enough to leave bruises later on, it was so obvious that Draco Malfoy enjoyed eating you out. And that was an understatement.

He kept going even after you came and that was a whole different kind of pleasure. You had to literally sob out and beg him to stop or else you were sure you'd squirt all over.

With trembling hands you reached for him to come up and he did with a self satisfied grin on his face, he held onto you. Your arms wrapped around his neck like you needed him. And you did.

Once again, you begged. “Draco, please. I need you. I'm– I'm ready.” that was your sweet, sweet way of asking him to fuck you.

And in all honesty he was sure he couldn't wait any longer either. His cock was hard and fighting against his trousers to be freed.

“Free me, my love. I want you to do it.” he asks, still breathless from earlier.

You wasted no time and fumble to unbuckle him and he could almost chuckle at how endearing he found your need if he wasn't in the same desperate, pathetic state of mind.

The cool air hit his cock as it was finally free and you gazed at it in wonder. You bit your lip in want and anticipation before staring back at him in a, ‘how the hell is that gonna fit in me’ way and in a ‘i need you right now’ way.

He pressed himself, bare, against you. Hard, hot, dragging the length of him against your slick folds.

He let out the filthiest, sweetest groan at the contact along with you.

“Tell me again. Tell me you want this.” he pleaded.

“I want this.” you whispered, “I want you– I want you– I want y–” he shushed your babble by slowly easing into you. Just the tip to start.

Your fingernails dug into his shoulders, etching crescents into his skin. “Please, more.” you begged for more than you knew you could handle.

He complied to your pleads and slowly pushed in. “Breathe with me, my love.” he said as he saw your breath hitch.

He waited. He kissed you across the face, on the base of your neck, atop your breasts and cooed at you gently when you whined at the painful, beautiful stretch.

He waited, until your breathing matched his. Until you gave him the green light to finally push another inch in, slowly, watchfully.

When he was fully seated in, he stayed buried, waiting once more to let you adjust fully. It was not easy on him either. Your warm, wet tightness was making it especially hard on him to hold back. He was literally trembling against you.

Once the sharpness faded, you, ever the curious little dove, rocked experimentally to see how both of you would feel and react to that.

You, for one buried your head into his neck, needy, squirming against his skin.

He, let out a broken sound before finally giving into shallow, careful little thrusts. Like instinct, your legs wrapped around his slender waist, urging him to go deeper, faster.

He was more than happy to oblige, he did not go faster but he did go deeper with a particular sinful roll of his hips. His pelvis grazed against your clit during the motion and had you crying out. You were especially sensitive there.

You were also trying to be quiet but he was having none of that as he reached between your thighs to circle your most sensitive area.

“Don't you dare silence yourself. Let me hear you. Let me look at you.” he breathed the words into the air, low, commanding.

And you obeyed. Your back arched off the bed and your hips rolled deeper into his as you no longer could contain your cries.

His thrusts now fastened, as did the movement of his hand. Wanting to pull you over the edge one last time before he himself did.

“Let go for me, love. Want to feel you, one more time.” he breathed in desperation, his voice not seemingly like his own at this point.

He was unmistakably, yours, in this very moment.

You shattered finally when he rubbed your clit just right and hit that sweet spot within you. Clenching hard around him, offering little rolls of your hips, kissing down his pale chest, fingers running through the mop of his white hair.

And he finally followed with a wrecked, riveting groan. His hips did not stutter– they snapped harder, faster. Like they're aimed to destroy you and fill you with love all at once.

He buried himself to a halt inside of you, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix as he finally spilled inside you. “Gods. You'll be the death of me.” he cried, face buried in your neck. Arms snug around your waist, holding you onto him.

You squirmed and whined like you wanted to be in his skin and he cooed at you in between his aftershocks.

“I'm still here, love.” he whispers. “I'm still here.”

“I'm not good at being gentle.” he'd told you and perhaps it was true. But he knew how to follow his instincts. And his primary instinct was to be gentle towards you.

The following week, you'd found a paper bag and a latte waiting on your desk in the department of records. There was no note, no name anywhere, but nestled between flaxen parchment paper was a chocolate croissant dusted generously with powdered sugar. The only clue as to who left it for you was an angular ‘D’ scrawled onto the side of the coffee cup by the barista who made it.

You'd hardly believed it was real until you felt the sugar dissolve on your tongue. It was a kindness you hadn't experienced since you started at the Ministry over a year ago. It could be a dreadfully bureaucratic, unfeeling place. That sugar high had stuck with you the entire day, lightening your steps.

Another one appeared later in the week, again, anonymous, besides that tell-tale ‘D’.

There were lots of D’s at the Ministry, you told yourself. You had at least three coworkers named Daniel just in the Department of Records. But you knew none of them would have the taste to select such fine pastry, or the deduction skills to know how you liked your coffee based on a few fleeting observations in the break room.

On Friday of that week, you'd arrived early, hoping to knock out some filing before record requests started piling up for the day. The Department had been blissfully empty, and you'd gotten to work with a tune sung just under your breath.

“Ah, you're here early,” a brusk, masculine voice rolled through the quiet like an afternoon storm.

You were a bit embarrassed to admit it, but you knew exactly who that voice belonged to.

Nearly dropping the files in your hands, you whirled around. Your suspicions, and perhaps wildest imagination, were confirmed. Draco Malfoy, the most brutal, efficient Auror the Ministry had seen in decades, stood beside your desk, holding a pastry bag in one hand, a latte in the other. And he looked almost…sheepish, standing there in his heavy black uniform, platinum hair smoothed to perfection.

“Uh—I—yes, the, um, lots of filing,” you stammered, tongue-tied. In that moment, you swore no one had ever looked that good before in the history of forever. And you would know—it was your job to know everything.

The corner of his mouth lifted, and impossibly, he became even more devastating. “You'll need your energy, then,” he said, setting the treats onto your desk.

You had the inane impulse to ask him why. Why was he suddenly paying you any attention? What did he want from you?

But before you could untangle your words, he was turning on his heel and striding away, cloak billowing in his wake.

—

The breakfast deliveries continued, but more often Draco began delivering them in person, or, if he arrived before you, he'd leave a small note beside the bag, written on one of the little notepads you keep on your desk.

Thank you for finding that record yesterday.

They were out of cinnamon, thought you might like mocha instead.

Don't work too hard today.

Going away for a week. Keep an eye out for Potter.

You weren't sure what he meant by that. Harry Potter, obviously, his childhood enemy turned coworker after they both became Aurors, but why would you need to keep an eye out for him?

Then, the following morning, you found Harry looking a bit lost in the department, hovering by your desk. He had a pastry bag in one hand and a latte in the other.

“Can I help you, Mr. Potter?” You asked, approaching cautiously.

His eyes lit up. “There you are! I thought this was your desk, but wasn't sure—” he held out the bag and coffee cup to you. “Delivery from one Draco Malfoy.”

For a moment, you were too stunned to speak. You'd always been a bit shy, preferring books and records to socializing, but tried your best to be friendly and gracious at work. Now, you couldn't even manage a ‘thank you’ as you took the treats from him.

Harry didn't seem to mind. “Malfoy will be back next week, but he insisted I bring you this while he was gone.”

“Do you—um—” you struggled to find the words, suddenly feeling exposed, soft underbelly on display. “Do you know why he's—”

“Because you're kind and genuine,” Harry said with a sympathetic smile. “Draco’s not so mysterious as he looks,” he joked, smile turning conspiratorial. Then, smile faltering, added, “Don't tell him I said that.”

You found yourself giggling at the insanity of this new reality you'd found yourself in. “I won't,” you reassured him.

—

The following Thursday, you stayed late to catch up on the filing that had piled up throughout the week. All of your coworkers seemed to have decided you were the best at it, so you should handle it all moving forward, on top of fulfilling all the requests that came your way. Which was nearly double what the rest of them received.

It was fine, you didn't really mind. You liked being helpful, being needed. But two hours in, and your back was beginning to ache, your energy depleted from continuous magic usage.

“They said you were still here, but I was half-hoping they were wrong,” a low voice broke through the quiet.

You stumbled out from between the stacks, hardly believing your ears. But sure enough, there was Draco Malfoy perched on the edge of your desk, flipping through one of the records stacked high on its surface. He looked different, under eyes bruise-dark, his blond hair finger-tousled and uniform ruffled. There was a slash across his cheek, the skin an angry pink, going lilac at the edges.

Your stomach did a backflip over your lungs, forcing your heart into your throat. “Here I am,” you said meekly. “When did you get back?”

“This evening,” he said absently, a line forming between his brows as he read. He clapped the file shut and slid off the desk. “Krepski pulled this,” he said, dropping it onto your neighbor's desk.

You nodded, not sure what to say.

“Do you usually put everyone else's records away?” Draco asked, his voice softer than the look in his eyes.

“Well, uh, I wouldn't say usually, but—”

“How many of these are yours?” He turned back to your desk, rifling through the stack.

You grimaced. None of them were yours. You always put them away as soon as they were returned to you to avoid, well, this.

Apparently, the look on your face was answer enough. Something sharp glinted in his eyes, but he blinked it away, rolled out the stiffness that had accumulated in his shoulders.

“Let me help you,” he said, meeting your gaze.

“You just got back, I couldn't—”

“Please?”

You stared at him. Somewhere, a part of you knew this wasn't a word Draco Malfoy used often, if ever. You found that you couldn't deny him such a simple request.

And, if you were being entirely honest, the thought of actually spending some time with him cracked your heart like a glow stick.

“Alright.”

The two of you worked together, hardly speaking at first, to start sorting the files. But it wasn't an uncomfortable quiet like you'd come to expect from your other coworkers. This quiet was soft in the way that freshly fallen snow can be, a gentle muffling of the outside world. You found a steady rhythm, communicating without words. He seemed to know what file you were reaching for before you reached for it, just like you knew where he was about to step before he moved.

You'd never seen the Auror look so calm, his muscles loose, his stride languid. Even his voice, when he did use it, had softened to the coo of a dove, sending a tremor down your spine with every passing word.

But mainly, you were just happy to have given him a quiet space to land. From the snippets of information he gave you as the evening wore on, his trip hadn't been an easy one. Chasing dark wizards along the Scottish coastline didn't exactly sound like a holiday.

He'd asked about you more than anything: where you grew up, your Hogwarts house, your favorite music. You answered timidly, unsure about what to do with his interest. Usually, when people asked you those sorts of questions, it was so they could answer the questions themselves, but Draco wasn't like that. You'd even made him laugh a few times, the sound as pleasant a surprise as an afternoon sun shower.

He seemed genuinely intent on getting to know you, and spoke very little of himself. Though you couldn't exactly blame him for that, knowing what you did know about him.

When the last record had been filed, he leaned against the bookcase beside you, having to crane his neck to peer down at your face.

Saints, he was tall.

“So, have you eaten yet tonight?” He asked, adjusting the wrists of his uniform, fiddling with the ring on his middle finger. A signet etched with a coiled serpent.

Your stomach answered for you, growling audibly at the mere mention of food.

He tsked, shaking his head at you. Lips curling in opposite directions, displeased and relieved in equal measure. “I was going to stop at that pizza place on the corner on my way back to my flat. Would you like to join me?”

“S-sure, pizza sounds great,” you said, wondering if you'd somehow fallen asleep while sorting files and this was some insane, marvelous dream.

His smile widened. “C’mon, then. My treat.”

—

After that evening, you and Draco had built an unlikely partnership. You weren't sure you were friends, mainly because you didn't see one another outside of work beyond getting pizza, but he was always there to lend a helping hand. The breakfast deliveries became more frequent, and he started bringing you a cup of tea every afternoon. And, in exchange, you'd let him loiter at your desk whenever he needed a little escape, or to have his overactive mind numbed by the repetitive scribble stamp swoosh of your work.

Even with this new familiarity, your heart still did a little flip whenever he smiled at you, or appeared around the bend of a hallway you weren't expecting him to. But you never imagined he'd feel that way about you. He was Draco Malfoy. He could literally have anyone in the world he wanted.

Whatever the two of you were, you were just happy to have a companion. He made you feel less alone in this marble-crusted corporate hellscape.

And, you realized just a few weeks into this new dynamic, that having a notoriously vicious Auror in your life came with its own set of perks.

The second Junior Auror Lewis walked into the Department of Records, you knew there was going to be a problem. He was red-faced and sputtering, waving the records you had dispensed to him the previous morning like a war flag.

Anxiety prickled along your neck, palms going clammy against your wooden stamper. You set it down, folding your hands into your lap as the flustered man approached.

You gave him your most winning smile. “Can I help you, Auror Lewis?”

He slammed the files onto your desk with a reverberating whack, and you startled to your feet, chair screeching backwards. “What the fuck is this?” He snarled, jabbing a finger into the paper. “These aren't the records I requested.”

Heat built under your skin, heart hammering against your ribs. You could feel every eye in the Department on you, judging you. “I—uh—” you made a show of shuffling through the papers, despite knowing that these records were exactly what he had asked for. Evidently, he just wasn't skilled enough to actually use them.

Part of you wanted to say that, to humiliate him like he was humiliating you right now, but the words stuck in your throat. Choked you.

“Uh—what?” He mocked. “You work in the Department of Records and you can't fucking read?”

“Sir—I, if you could just—”

“This is a very important case, and I will not have some paper jockey fuck it up for me!”

Oh no, oh no. Your nose began to itch, moisture pooling along your lower lashes. Don't cry, don't cry.

“And here we go with the waterworks. How about you just do your fucking job instead of sniveling like a—”

“Like a what?” A low growl came from behind you.

Shit, you'd almost forgotten the Draco had been meandering through the stacks, taking a break between meetings.

Lewis paled. “Oh, uh—I—”

Draco moved to stand in front of you, his body warm and solid, traces of his evergreen cologne still lingering on his collar.

It made your head swim.

“Sir, she potentially compromised the mission with false inf—”

“Say another word about her, or her work, and I will be forced to use every weapon in my arsenal as punishment.” His wand whipped outward, verdant green magic spilling from the dark wood. His lips were pulled back in a snarl.

You sucked in a breath, and the Junior Auror staggered back a step.

“Draco, don't—” You weren't sure what came over you, but you placed a hand on his bicep, turning to look into his face. His eyes were blazing, molten glass, as he stared down the length of his wand. He was rigid beneath your touch, coiled like a snake able to strike. “Draco, please,” you tried again.

His eyes finally flicked to yours, and the harsh line of his mouth softened a fraction as he took in your fearful expression. The entire Department held its breath.

“What would you have me do?” He murmured finally, though his wand never wavered.

Your fingers inched down his arm, feeling the supple fabric of his uniform, the ropes of muscle concealed underneath, the slight tremor as you reached his forearm, then his wrist, until you finally brushed the leather glove covering his hand, pressing down gently until his shoulder loosened, and he lowered his wand. Never once did his eyes stray from your face.

“An apology is enough,” you whispered. “Please, Draco.”

He absorbed your words, jaw feathering with tension, until he gave you one stiff nod before turning his attention back to the quivering Junior Auror.

“You will apologize to her, and if I ever hear about you treating her, or any other coworker, this way again, I will see to it that you spend the rest of your simpering life in the bowels of Azkaban. Do I make myself clear?”

“I'm s-sorry,” Lewis sniffled. “I didn't—I’m sorry. Please—”

“I accept your apology,” you replied. “And in the future, if you're having trouble deciphering the information in the records, all you have to do is ask, and I’d be glad to assist you,” you added, flashing a smile.

Our coworkers chittered at that, and Lewis flushed a deep crimson, bowed his head, and fled. You never spoke like that, but having Draco at your side made you feel a little braver.

Draco glanced down at you, the warmth in his eyes almost tangible as it caressed your cheek. A giddy thrill ran through you.

“Clever girl,” he purred. “If anyone speaks to you like that again, come find me. Okay?”

You nodded, feeling like your lungs had turned into hot air balloons. “Okay.” You didn't even think about disagreeing.

“Good,” he smiled then, and it wasn't until he pulled away that you realized your hand was still resting on his. “I'm going to have a word with his supervisor, maybe the Minister, and you are going to take a half-day.”

He said the last part loudly enough that your boss, who was hovering in the wings, could overhear him.

“But I have so much—”

“Krepski will handle the rest of your work, won’t he?” Draco glanced over his shoulder at your desk neighbor, whose eyes widened to an almost comical degree.

“Yes, sir! Happy to!” Krepski blurted, jumping up to take the stack of files off your desk and over to his.

Draco turned back to you, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, brows raised expectantly.

“Why are you doing this?” You asked, voice lowering to barely a whisper. “I don't deserve—”

His expression sharpened. “What you don't deserve is to be overworked and underappreciated by the mindless goons that work here,” he said, voice low but not harsh. Restrained. Then, softer, “Someone has to look after you.”

No one’s ever looked after you before. Not like this. You'd always been independent, high-functioning. Never asked for anything, never needed anyone. If something needed to be taken care of, you were the one who took care of it. No questions asked.

If you were honest, you kind of liked this change of pace, even if it was a bit difficult to accept. And it didn't hurt that the person wanting to look after you was someone you genuinely liked, not to mention drop-dead gorgeous.

“Thank you, Draco,” you said, meeting his eyes.

“My pleasure. Now, go get some rest,” he ordered. “And all of that work better be finished by the time she clocks in tomorrow.” He directed this at Krepski, spinning his wand as if to punctuate his point.

“Of course!” Krepski squeaked.

Draco nodded in approval, flashed you a wink over his shoulder, and took his leave.

—

Word spread quickly about the altercation in the Department of Records, and suddenly everyone was wishing you a good morning or nodding in respectful greeting when you passed them in the hall. Your coworkers fielded work before it could even think about crossing your desk, and the line at the coffee station in the break room magically vanished whenever you stepped inside.

It was weird, and imposter syndrome still dogged at your heels, but you had to admit, it was a nice change. You finally felt like you could breathe again. And, despite yourself, your attraction to him had progressed into full-blown chest palpitations whenever he entered the room.

Sometimes, when he left an extra-sweet note or looked at you for a half-second too long, you thought maybe he could feel the same way about you.

But two weeks later, a gloomy, winter Friday, you hadn't seen Draco at all. No breakfast delivery, no afternoon tea, no five-minute break. Not even a glimpse in the hallway.

Your anxiety had mounted throughout the day, the knots tightening with each hour that passed until you could hardly breathe.

Was he mad at you? Avoiding you? Had you done something to upset him?

The thoughts were an endless loop, a train gone way off the tracks, and finally, when the bell struck 6 pm, and everyone was heading home, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

You were a bit ashamed to admit that you hadn't ever sought him out in his own office. He almost always came to you, except for when you strategically positioned yourself in the break room because you knew he'd be passing by. But even that was passive, an indirect maneuver born out of your own cowardice.

Now, standing outside his office door with a chocolate croissant, a black coffee, and your fist raised to knock, those insecurities came screaming back to you.

What if he doesn't want to see you? What if you're interrupting something? What if he's sick of you and now you look desperate because you can't take a hint?

What if, a quieter voice whispered, he needs you right now?

He'd done so much for you over the last few weeks; the least you could do was show him that you'd be there for him, too.

Knock knock. “Draco?” You called. “It's me.”

You couldn't hear anything through the door, weren't even entirely certain he was actually in here, when the knob unlocked with a soft click, and the door eased open.

Draco’s office was spacious, with large bookshelves and expensive-looking furniture. You could smell the leather polish and mahogany beneath the verdant top notes of the high-end cologne he wore. Emerald curtains were drawn over what had to be enormous windows, leaving the room dark except for the fireplace and fire-lit scones along the walls.

Draco was sitting at his desk, the surface strewn with papers and empty mugs of tea. He'd discarded the bulk of his uniform, leaving him in just a black long-sleeve shirt and pants. His hair was unruly, sticking up at odd angles from running his hands through it, and exhaustion hung from his shoulders like a shadow.

“What time is it?” He asked, though you weren't sure if he was directly asking you, and he spun in his chair to peer at the clock over his head.

“After 6,” you supplied, and he turned back to you, looking a little dazed.

“Fuck, really? I didn't realize—” his eye caught the coffee and paper bag in your hands, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “And what do you have there?”

You shrugged, heat climbing up your neck as you fought to suppress a smile. “Thought you might need a little something sweet.”

His mouth pulled into a borderline indecent smirk. “That so?” He asked, tilting his head slightly.

Your stomach swooped. “B-but I don't want to bother you if you're busy…” You back-peddled, fidgeting in place under the burn of his gaze.

“I am busy,” he agreed, watching you intently.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry—”

“Darling,” he cut you off. The new pet name was said gently, but it still felt like a tug at your collar. You straightened subconsciously. “If you wanted to see me, then all you had to do was ask.”

Your cheeks burned, lungs snagging against your ribs and hitching awkwardly. “I didn't—I don't—”

“Don't what?” He rose from his chair, moving around the desk to approach you. “Don't want to see me?” He asked, a faux frown on his face. Teasing you. Testing you.

“No, I—y-yes, of course I do, but—”

“But what?”

“But I know you're busy and…” you trailed off, throat closing as he loomed over you.

“And…?” He was so close you could feel the warmth of his skin, could smell the Earl Grey and lavender brew he was drinking, the ink he was using.

“I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me,” you admitted, looking down to avoid his gaze.

“Love—” his thumb and index finger caught your chin, tilting your head back up. “I always want to see you.”

Your heart thudded wildly against your sternum, mouth going dry at his confession.

“But you seem to have trouble asking for what you want.”

Indignation rose in you, an unfamiliar, acidic feeling. “No, I don't,” you argued. How could he always see straight through you?

He chuckled and took the coffee and pastry bag from you, taking a swig as he turned away and retreated to his desk chair.

“I came up here to check on you,” you continued. Even to your own ear, you sounded defensive.

“And I'm fine,” he said, reclining in his chair, casual as anything, but you could see the stiffness in his shoulders, the grip he had on the coffee cup. “Thank you very much for the coffee.”

Was he dismissing you? Your head spun at his sudden change in demeanor. The distance between you seemed enormous, cold creeping in where his warmth was moments before.

“Was there something else you wanted?” He asked, leaning forward to brace his elbows on the desk.

More, you thought, but didn’t say. You wanted more of that closeness, more of him, but the thought of asking for it stitched your mouth shut. You debated turning on your heel and opting out of whatever mind games he was playing with you, but the echo of his closeness kept you in place.

You met his eyes, and something in your expression must have given away your consternation.

Draco sighed. “You're stubborn, you know that?” He asked, but there was no real bite to it. “How about I tell you what I want?”

Your throat closed, palms growing sweaty. You forced yourself to look at him, to take in the smolder of his eyes.

“I’ve had a really long fucking day, and I'm feeling a bit reckless. I locked myself in here because I didn't want to push you.” He took a breath, mandibles flexing as he arranged his next words. “But what I want, darling, more than anything right now is to see what you’re hiding under that sweet little smile. I want to know what you really want—what keeps you awake at night, what makes your heart race—.”

“But why?” You whispered. You didn’t even want to acknowledge those parts of yourself. Why would he?

“Because that's what trust is.” His words stole whatever scant breath you had left.

“I do trust you,” you said, and meant it. You trusted him more than anyone else in your life. So why were you still hiding from him? Still holding back?

“You need to trust yourself,” he corrected gently. “To trust what your mind and body are telling you that you want and need.”

Clarity hit you square between the eyes.

This entire time, he'd been showing you all the ways you weren't showing up for yourself. All of the wants and needs you were failing to articulate. To claim. Starting with the damn croissant, and all the way to this moment, where you wanted him so desperately, it burned like lava through your bloodstream.

Hadn't he shown you that he was more than happy to deliver whatever you wanted? Whether it was pastries, tea, or an apology from someone who wronged you.

All you had to do was ask.

“Kiss me,” you blurted, spitting out the words before you could talk yourself out of it.

No sooner had the words left your mouth than he was on his feet, crossing the room towards you in three long strides. A hand slid into your hair, the other melting into the curve of your spine, and he kissed you so hard the floor fell out from beneath you.

He left no room for argument, no space for doubt. He was merciless in his claiming of you, lips making way for tongue and teeth, devouring you like a fervor you'd never experienced. But it wasn't reckless or messy. No, every press, every nip, every lick was deliberate. An intricate dance that he led with precision. Like he’d been planning this kiss in his head for a lifetime. You could do nothing but be swept up in the movements and luxuriate in the force that was Draco Malfoy.

He shifted forward, backing you against the bookshelf on the far wall. You gasped when your back hit the wood, and he grinned, tilting his head to drag his lips down your neck. Grinding the frenetic pace to a languid crawl.

His shoulders rose as he breathed you in, the hot muscle of his tongue laving across your hammering pulse. Your knees threatened to buckle as arousal surged through you, electric and exhilarating. If he kept this up, you feared you would melt between the floorboards.

“You're shaking,” he murmured, kissing his way back up to your face.

“S-sorry,” you breathed, struggling to remember a word that wasn't his name.

He shushed you with a peck on the lips. “I'm just making sure you're alright,” he said, his voice like velvet. His lips grazed your temple, heart-achingly tender. A dizzying contrast from the rip current he'd created just moments ago. “That you still want this.”

You nodded, fingers tightening into the folds of his shirt to draw him closer.

“Ah, ah—” he pulled back to look you in the eye. “Use your words.”

Your eyes gave you away, flicking down to where his fingers rested on your hip.

He smirked, lifting his hand. Flexing his fingers in the dim candlelight. “You want my fingers, darling?” He asked, caressing your cheek with the backs of them.

“Yes, please,” you whispered, blinking up at him, cheeks burning.

“Say it.” His hand fell to his side.

“I—” you took a steadying breath. “I want your f-fingers.”

His smirk turned lethally sharp, flashing an ivory canine. “You want my fingers where?”

“Draco,” you whined, dropping your face into his shoulder, and he tutted. You could feel his smile as he pressed a kiss to your hair. So affectionate, even when he was being firm with you.

Then, you felt the belt of your trousers pop open. Those dexterous fingers sliding along the elastic waistband of your panties. You clung to his shoulders, breath coming in short pants, and sent a silent thank you to your past self for wearing a cute pair that day.

“Here, baby?” He asked, fingers dipping lower, finding the pool of slick he'd coaxed from you.

You nodded, tilting the bowl of your pelvis into his palm. “Please.”

Fuck, you sounded so pathetic, but he made a low sound of approval in the back of his throat.

“Good girl,” he praised right as his middle finger stroked against your clit.

You gasped, that simple touch like a bolt of lightning up your spine. You could feel how wet you were, leaking into his palm as he traced slow circles over your bud, gauging what pressure you preferred, what speed. He took his time, spreading you open, teasing out every little sound, every twitch, he could get from your pyretic body.

You were like putty in his hands, completely boneless against him, pleasure saturating your mind, burning through your veins like fire whiskey.

“Draco,” you mewled, hips rolling against his hand, hungry for more.

“And suddenly she's demanding,” he teased, nipping at your shoulder. But he indulged you, finally easing one finger inside your heat, quickly followed by a second. You were more than ready for it, your pussy practically begging to be filled. Fluttering, clenching, coaxing him deeper. “So fucking tight, love. You're absolutely perfect, aren't you?”

You couldn't think, couldn't speak. His fingers had found your brain's off button in record speed, curling against your front wall with that unwavering, merciless intention he did everything with.

And he was going to make you cum embarrassingly quick because of it.

“Wait—I—” you grabbed at his wrist, head spinning as the plummet stretched out before you, and he froze in place.

“Too much?” He asked, leaning back to look at you, his free hand smoothing the hair from your face. He looked almost as wrecked as you felt, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy, hair a disheveled mess from your grabbing hands. So beautiful you could hardly believe he was flesh and blood, and not some horny fever dream. But he was real, muscle and bone and lips and teeth, and you wanted to eat him whole.

Fuck it.

Your hips started to rock against his fingers, that momentary panic twisting into urgency. “S’too good,” you slurred, pleasure-drunk.

He grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yeah?” He curled his fingers again, hitting that traitorous, magnificent spot inside of you, and you keened. “I can feel how close you are, soaking me to the wrist.” He pressed you harder into the wall, the wood digging into your back, but you didn't care so long as he kept driving his fingers into you just like that. The sound of your sopping pussy made your cheeks burn, lewd and loud, but it only seemed to draw your orgasm closer. “Show me, love. Show me how pretty you are when you let go—”

“Fuck, D—I’m gonna—want to—”

“Go on, love. Take whatever you want. It's all yours—good fucking girl, just like that—”

Your release crashed over you, white hot, and you buried your scream into his shoulder as he worked you through it, muttering praise in your ear while you bucked and twitched. Stars danced behind your eyes, under your skin as you came down, and you felt yourself smiling.

His motions slowed to languid strokes before he withdrew entirely. Brought his fingers to his mouth, stealing a taste before easing them between your own lips. You parted willingly, the taste of your release heady and sweet on your tongue as you sucked those magical digits clean.

“See what happens when you ask for what you want?” He murmured against the shell of your ear. “You did so well, love.”

You nodded, not having the energy to do much else. But his praise rang against your bones like church bells, and delight reverberated through you.

He withdrew his fingers and righted your clothes, then settled you into his desk chair, the most comfortable one in the room. The croissant you brought for him somehow ended up in your hand, and he was urging you to take a bite. Made you wash it down with a freshly cracked water bottle from his mini fridge.

“You look so beautiful right now,” he said, watching you chew from his perch at the edge of his desk.

The temptation to hide itched under your skin, but you resisted, smiling shyly at him instead. “Thank you, Draco. For all of this, everything.”

“It's an honor and my absolute pleasure,” he grinned, leaning down to kiss your forehead and steal a bite of the croissant. “How about we go get you some real food?”

“Is that pizza place still open?” You asked, and he looked ready to keel over with surprise and delight. You'd actually asked for something!

“If you want pizza, baby, a closed sign isn't going to stop me from getting you pizza. Hell, I'll apparate us to Italy right now—”

“You're ridiculous,” you giggled, rolling your eyes at him.

“And you're mine,” he said, sliding off the desk and offering you a hand. “So, get used to it.”

You slipped your fingers into his, letting him pull you onto still shaky legs. “I don't remember agreeing to that,” you teased, pecking his cheek so he knew you didn't mean it.

“Already spoiled, hm?” His grip on your hand tightened, his body shifting to press you against the desk. “One night with me and you've turned into a brat.” The word was hot at your neck, and a shiver rolled through you, fresh arousal dripping into your ruined underwear. Stirring something wild in you that you hadn't felt before.

“Maybe,” you flirted, leaning forward to nibble at the hard angle of his jaw, hand skimming down the front of his chest until your fingers hooked on his belt. Taking what you wanted, taking what was yours.

And from the rigid pulse against your hip, he was more than eager to give it all to you.

“Good—” his grip moved to your wrist, pinning it to the desk with a force that set your blood on fire, “—because I'm just getting started.”