Draco to Theo

You thrust into him like he’s done something wrong, and you like every hiss of pain that escapes from between his lips. His legs are wrapped around your neck, and you love that you can see his face. You want to see the agony it is for him, being fucked. You want to see the rope tied too tightly around his wrists, anchoring him to the bed so securely that his fingers are turning blue. You want to see the bites and bruises you’ve left up and down his torso. You want to see the tears shining in his dark eyes.

You want to ask him if he’s just in pain or if he’s disgusted by what he lets you do to him. You want to, but you don’t. You want to hurt him now, but you don’t want to hurt him forever, and sometimes you’re afraid of what you’ll do.

You slam into him again and again, and the headboard creaks and moans from the incessant beating. You punctuate the sound of him breathing your name with every thrust, and you know every time he says it, he’s working up the courage to stop. And you know that every time, he fails.

He hates this, but it’s all anyone has now. These are dark times, even – if not especially for –
those who have aligned themselves with the dark. You have to fuck whoever you can find when the moon hangs too high and white in the sky. Otherwise you have to sleep and dream of the nightmares that breathe in the daylight.

He comes before you, spilling white seed onto his stomach, a thousand children never to be born. You’re happy because children should never be brought into a world where red-eyed men rule and the boy supposed to save you is the same boy who tried to murder you. But you’re angry too, because you always want to come first, and you never do.

No matter what you do, you’re never important enough to come first.

You fuck him, and he bites his lip to keep from screaming. He’s never shouted for you and probably for anyone else either. He is a quiet boy. You fuck him until his teeth sink into his bottom lip and blood spills down his chin. It’s only at the sight of red that you can come.

You shudder and moan and try not to think of who you’re becoming.

Then you slump to the ground and roll off him, tumbling to the bed to lie beside him. You contemplate leaving him tied up like that, but you decide to be kind in the haze of afterglow. The ropes vanish, and he starts to shy away from you, but you never let him. You sling an arm over his chest to draw him near. You say you’ll mend the wounds, but you both know better. You love the color of bruises too much.

Eventually, he curls into you because you’re the only warm body in the room. You let him bury his head in your chest and entwine his legs with yours. You even let him press his lips against your collarbone, though you never know why he bothers with such gestures of affection. It’s not as if you care for one another.

He’s not the one you want, and he’s not the one you really need. But he’s the one you take because you can.

And he lets you because that is the desperation of war.

Blaise to Draco

You’re patrolling with him only because you have to. You don’t like him – you didn’t like him before Sixth Year and you like him even less for turning your school into a prison. You know you’ll never think of him as anything more than the fallen heir to the Malfoy throne, and you hate him for that too, for letting himself fall. You hate him for not knowing better, for not being like his mother who cuts the weakness out of her life when it is no longer tolerable. You hate him so much that sometimes it feels like you’ll die of it, and you think that maybe, just maybe it will be a good death.

So you’re patrolling with him because you have to. You wish you could keep your head down and stay out of the Carrow’s regime like Theo has managed to do, but you’ve always stood out in a crowd. You’re the sinewy shadow in a sea of light, just like Malfoy is the diamond shining among smoky quartz. You’re both too present, too noticeable. And you get lumped together for it, even on assignment.

You hate him for that, and for a thousand other things, but mostly you hate him for Theo.

You know you’re a cliché to feel this way, but you decide it’s all right because – well, it’s you, isn’t it, and you’re different. Theo is quite possibly the one person of age in your house who would not gladly spread his legs for you and beg for more. He doesn’t want to be fucked, nor does he want to fuck you. He’s never said so, but you can tell from how polite he is. No one is polite to someone they want to screw, or so you’ve found.

And since he doesn’t want you, you want him so bad it sets your teeth on edge. You want to grab his dark curls in your fists and pull. You want to rub your cock against his until you come all over each other. You want to taste him, swallow him, spank him, ride him, and maybe even let him ride you. When it comes to Theo Nott, you think perhaps you’re up for anything.

He won’t have you, but he’ll take Draco, and all Draco does is bruise him. He’s the only one who deserves to bruise that barely tanned skin. The fact that it’s Malfoy who does what you cannot adds insult to grievous injury.

None of the army is out tonight, and for that, you are grateful. You feel as though they’ve holed up inside the walls like rats waiting to feast on the scraps of the dying. You’ve become paranoid of hidden traps and sudden explosions. You’ve never been afraid of one of your classmates wanting to kill you, but now you taste it, bitter like old coffee grounds and cigarettes. You want to hurt them back, want to make them bleed. But, in those rare moments when you are perfectly honest with yourself, you know that they’re better than you are. After all, they’ve been training for war while you were under the impression that you were at school.

You can’t beat them. You can’t hurt them. All you can hope for is the speed to dodge and the rare nights when they’re too busy planning to strike. You know it means there’s trouble coming, but all you care about is the here and now.

And who is with you in the here and now: the weak little Slytherin prince who thought he would be king, now in exile.

You can hurt him. You can maybe even kill him if you want to. But you’ve seen his aunt with her wild eyes and her skin stained red from something you don’t want to know about. You decide not to kill him.

But you can hurt him because it’s what he deserves.

You push him hard, pushing his chest against the wall. You bite out a French spell that anchors his wrists and ankles to the wall. You spread his legs apart and stand behind him, letting him feel the erection against his thigh.

“Blaise,” Draco whispers, and the fear in his voice makes you harder than you thought possible. It’s so painful that your usually nimble fingers fumble at the zip in your trousers, and exposing your cock to the open air has never been sweeter. “What are you doing?”

You purr in his ear because you know he wants you – everybody does. “What do you think I’m doing, Malfoy?” you whisper, running your fingers against the sharp curve of his jaw.

He swallows, and you can just barely see his Adam’s apple bobbing from over his shoulder. You want to bite it until he screams. “Fine. I know what you’re doing.”

“Such a clever boy,” you hiss, your fingers slipping down his chest.

“But what if I don’t want you to—“

You scoff, far more dignified than he could ever manage. “As if you wouldn’t.”

He inhales, and for a moment, you think he just might refuse after all.

You slip your hand into his trousers like a snake striking at its prey. You wrap your hand around his cock, surprised by its thickness. You are surprised not at all by how it begins to stiffen in your hand.

“I know you want me, Draco,” you whisper languidly. “I know that you think of me when you’re wanking off in the shower. And I know that every night when you’re touching yourself, you wish I was in bed with you, filling you up and driving you over the edge.” You squeeze the shaft harder than you should, and he swears, predictably vulgar. “I think I’ll do that now.”

He stares at you, and he looks so deliciously afraid. “But—“

Before he can launch into a protest, his trousers have fallen around his ankles. You spread his arse cheeks, opening him as wide as he’ll allow. And then you push your cock into him without an ounce of lube.

He shouts, and it echoes across the vaulted ceilings of the castle. You lock the sound in your mind to savor it later, when you can let the flavor of his fear linger on your tongue like a fine wine.

You push into him again. You’re kind enough to go slowly, but that’s all the kindness you’re willing to give. “You think no one knows about what you do to Theo every night?” you murmur, running your dark hands up his long white arms until you grip his wrists. “You think I don’t see the bruises or the way he walks? You think I don’t know why?

“You want to hurt him,” you tell him, with just a little bit of a snarl. “Theo, who’s never hurt anyone in his life. You and I, we’re two of a kind. We take and take and never give anything back. We do more harm than healing, and we get off on it. But Theo was never like us, and he deserves better than you give him.

“Do you take from him because he’s the one person left in this castle weaker then you?” you ask with a wicked swivel of your hips. He whimpers, and you know he’s weeping. You want to drink his tears. “Does it make you feel like a man?” You lean forward and your teeth graze his ear. “Or does it make you feel like a monster?”

He tries to deny it, but you both know you’ve come far too close to the truth. You laugh and reach down with one hand, grasping his cock again. You rub him off while you thrust faster and harder, and he cries out with every vicious move you make. “Can’t back out now, Draco. You wanted this. You’ve always wanted this.”

He has, and he still does, but you know he hates himself for it. You see it in his eyes, and it makes you come, hard. It’s a relief to empty yourself into him.

“You’re mine, Draco Malfoy,” you tell him. “You’re mine to hurt. You deserve it after everything you’ve done. You’re weak. You’re a coward. You were a fool to think you’d be anything more than an idiotic lackey stumbling along trying to be more than he is.”

And then Draco crests, spilling over your hand. You hear him moan in disgust at his own weakness, and now you’ve gotten what you’ve wanted. You vanish away the semen with a sneering incantation and dress yourself again. You remember the counterspell to release Draco, and it’s on your lips.

But you think better of it.

“It would do you well to remember your place, Malfoy,” you say, sauntering off into the dark. “You have fallen very far for letting the devils into Hogwarts. Do not think you will ever have a chance to ascend.”

You leave him there in disbelieving silence as you straighten your cuffs, and you’ve never been more satisfied.

Theo to Draco

You don’t laugh when Blaise tells you how he left Draco. You don’t thank him for taking care of a problem you didn’t realize was known. You’re sorely tempted to hit him, but you realize now just how dangerous Blaise is to cross, and you’re too much of a Slytherin to give in to Gryffindor impulses. So instead you just shake your head and leave, running along the hallways until you find Draco.

He’s splayed across the cold stone wall, wrists and feet magically bound to the bricks. He’s naked from the waist down, his cock hanging sad and shrunken between his thighs. There’s white smeared across the grey and something shines against his cheeks. He turns away from you when he sees.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Draco whispers, hoarse.

“Someone had to get you down,” you tell him.

“You don’t know how.”

You smile at him, but not entirely warmly. You whisper the right words in French, and his flesh peels off the wall a bit painfully. He stumbles backward, nearly tripping over his trousers, but you catch him.

“Never underestimate my researching abilities,” you chide him. You expect him to make a snide comment, as is his wont, and the fact that he doesn’t do so means that Blaise has left deep scars behind. You want to beat him even though you’re secretly grateful.

He stands there, half-naked and freezing, and makes no attempt to remedy it. You bend down to grab his trousers, and you know things are bad when he lets you pull them up. You are more relieved than you can imagine when he does the fly himself.

“Come on,” you say as gently as you can manage. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He leads you to the Prefect’s bathroom and says the password you didn’t realize he still knew. You step in, amazed by the grandeur hidden in a place you’ve never seen. You stare at the pool – not the tub, but the pool – and wonder why you didn’t try harder to become Prefect after Draco left the position.

But he walks right past the pool, around the corner to the showers. They’re nice enough with brass faucets featuring open-mouthed lions and snakes and ravens and badgers to spill water from their gaping lips. You still prefer the pool, but you’re pleased to see that these are spacious.

You turn the water on, testing the temperature so that it’s neither too hot nor too cold. Then you turn back to Draco and vanish his clothing before you can change your mind. You do the same to yours.

You hold out your hand, beckoning slowly. He hesitates before he moves towards you, but he does. He doesn’t let you hold him, but then you didn’t particularly want to anyway. He simply walks until he’s standing directly underneath the spray and sits so that the spray pounds against his back. He hugs his knees to his chest.

You crouch in front of him. “Blaise shouldn’t have done that.”

He snorts. “He’s Blaise. He does what he wants.”

You tactfully do not mention this similarity between the two of them. “Still.”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. He’s right. I did want him to…” he trails off, avoiding your eyes. You’re both thinking the same thing and neither of you want to talk about it.

You say it because he needs it. “You haven’t been that way with me.”

He shakes his head. “I hurt you. I liked it. How is that different?”

“You never left me alone, naked, and tied to a wall.”

Even Draco at his most self-pitying has to concede this. “Still.”

You know there’s no convincing him. A better man might keep trying, and even though you think yourself a fairly good man, ultimately, you stay out of conflict at all cost. So instead you rise into the spray and reach for the fragrant soaps. You select one that reminds you of sandalwood and pour it into your hands. Then you turn and lay your hands against his shoulders.

His skin is wet and slick beneath your fingers, and it’s hard to keep your grip on flesh. They slide too quickly for you to regulate, but at least the small amount of soap you took seems to last. You work it over his shoulders and down each arm. You wash his back, working out the knotted tension as best as you can. Then you reach around from behind and run your hands across his chest and down his stomach. He seems smaller than you remember.

“Stand up,” you say, knowing this is a mistake, not sure if it’s one you want to make, but deciding to do it anyway.

He does, and he doesn’t argue because he’s not really able to just now. He stands with his back to you, and you’re too quiet to let him hear you sink to your knees again. He doesn’t know what you’re doing until you lick the cleft of his arse, long and slow.

He trembles underneath your touch and starts to pull away. “I’m not—"

“I can help,” you say, with your eyes widened just so to the point of earnestness. Everyone thinks you’re so innocent, and you are in a way. But you’re Slytherin, so you use it to your advantage.

It works now as it always does, and Draco believes you because it’s true. He turns around and braces himself against the ivory tiles.

You smile to yourself because they just make it so easy for you sometimes. You grasp each cheek of his arse with one hand, squeezing and kneading with a deep tissue massage. You know just the right pressure to use, just how to roll your thumbs, just how to work from the forearm, not the wrist. He sighs, and you feel him begin to finally relax.

You dip your head again, licking the entire cleft of his arse again, leaving a love bite on his lower back just above the rounded curves. You lick and suckle your way back down, letting your tongue lead the way. Then when you find his entrance, you flick your tongue against it, circling the opening and dipping your tongue ever so slightly inside. And all the while you squeeze his arse, leaving white handprints against the flesh flushed pink from the shower.

You see his cock start to twitch and then harden, and you know you’re doing the right thing.

You circle around to the front, grasping his arse once again from the front. Then you flick your tongue against the head of his penis, over and over again. You look up at him through your eyelashes and see his mouth, open wide and panting. So you wrap your mouth around the tip of his cock and suck. It jerks inside your mouth, and a spurt of pre-come lands on your tongue.

You pull away and lick along the underside of the shaft, slowly running your tongue along the vein. And then you take as much of him as you can into your mouth, moving your head back and forth. You lick and you suck and you swallow until he comes – not earth-shattering but deep and satisfying. You spit out what fills your mouth, but you do it kindly.

Then you get to your feet, and you decide to kiss him. For all your coupling, you’ve never done it before, and you’re curious now. You lean forward, tentatively pressing your lips to his, slightly surprised when he moves against yours. It is soft but not-quite yielding. You expect it to hurt because things with him always do. Though you suspect that it never will again.

You’ll never know for sure though.

You back out of the shower.

“This is the last time,” you say for the first time. You’ve been waiting until you could mean it.

And now that you finally do, the look in his eyes makes you wish that you didn’t.

He lets you go because he knows it’s for the best.

But you can’t help but shake the feeling that you’ve painted the moon black.