Draco is hungry. Hermione helps. A leisurely burn culminating in the library sex of your dreams. Featuring Sanskrit erotic poetry, a new DADA professor, and prophetic dreams.
Eighth year. Complete, with afterword. EXPLICIT - for mature audiences on...
Give me your mouth to soften, love; ah, your hair is all in idleness.
—Rainer Maria Rilke, "What Fields Are As Fragrant As Your Hands?"
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"So did you win," he says, after another round with her on top (because McLaggen was right, he does like the bottom), and more dessert for him (because he's gone without for so long) — "or did I win?"
"We both won," she says graciously, folding her hands behind her head and sharing victory while still, absolutely, constitutionally unable to admit defeat. "You proved your point that sex can be slightly more enjoyable than detention."
She looks at him sternly. "But you only proved it in one instance. Your own."
"Wuffever oo you meem," he garbles, resting on his stomach and practicing his new favorite hobby: lapping at her peaked, rosy nipples until they glisten with indecency. It turns out that, with their owner's permission, they also respond extremely well to a light breeze from his wand.
Then, lifting his head reluctantly: "I'm extremely stupid right now. Please explain more."
"I concede that sex — oral sex — all of it — can be very necessary and wonderful," she says sagely. "You've convinced me. But it doesn't mean that it holds true in all cases."
He sits up again in a panic. "You mean you didn't come every time?"
She rolls her eyes. "I came every time, you fool."
He lies back slowly. "Do you mean you need to test it out with other people?" he asks mournfully.
Then quickly corrects: "It's all right if you want to. This is — it was just — "
His insides curl with misery and a solemn oath. If she doesn't want to see me again, I will drown myself in whatever pudding they put out tonight.
He's too forlorn to put her breast back in his mouth, which she recognizes as the sign of crushing despair that it is.
"Draco, you prat," she says, tracing his frown with amusement. "I'm asking you to consider being my sole provider of all sexual favors."
He inhales sharply with joy. Then, quick as lightning, he rolls on top of her and proceeds to lie there, motionless, like a sack of straw in the barn.
An inert golden bundle, weighing her tenderly down. His sweaty arse on display. His cock contented between her legs. His face in her shoulder. Claiming her.
He doesn't care what it looks like. Not to the world. Not to the gods. Not even to the bewitching (and unavailable) Professor Varunkumar.
He dimly remembers thinking fuck cozy a few hours ago and decides to fuck his fucking of cozy. At last, he is rested. At last, he is full.
