Draco Malfoy x Reader
Word Count: 805
Draco wants to write her letters, but settles for bite marks instead. Digs the whorls of his fingers against her hips until his fingertips are like ink blots scattered across the page.
He wants to write her a sonnet, to proclaim his undying love, but they’re backs up on the Quidditch Pitch and she’s between his legs so all he can do is press his lips to her pulse and hope that she understands.
Because this - she tells him, time and time again, him and her and his hand between her legs, its nothing. A fling. A remnant of summer burning orange in the fall that will crunch like leaves beneath his boot.
She’s dating Potter and she’s wrong for him and what would his parents say?
There’s never a good enough answer. Only the stilling of his hips and the hitching of his breath as she reaches down to run her fingers along the scar ridged across his stomach. The scar that Potter had left, Potter had caused. The scar that his girlfriend takes to tracing with her tongue.
Somehow Draco always fails to mention that he sees her as more than a fuck.
And she’s right, he knows; his parents would be furious and Potter would pull fists, they don’t work and wouldn’t work and he doesn’t understand why there’s an aching in his chest whenever either one of them confirms that fact.
But he’s memorized the way that early light slants through the blinds to paint against her skin; wants to keep the image of their clothes mingled across his floor like a photograph in his mind; never forgets the way that her bones fit neatly against his and fuck if he isn’t digging his own grave.
He watches her across the Great Hall, sometimes. Catches her eyes and feels a thunderstorm kick up in his chest until Potter sits beside her and delivers a lion worthy snarl.
And he smirks when its later and her legs are tangled in his sheets and he’s coaxing a roar from her open mouth, with her claws dug across his back, with a dangerous sort of contentment swelling in his stomach because “this can’t happen,” she says, and yet it always does. Because the no’s meld into yes’s and Draco wants her, he does, despite her blood and despite her house and despite the flaws dug between them.
He wants her for more than just sex.
Wants to lace his fingers through hers without a mattress there to mold their knuckles, wants to kiss her cheek when she’s wide awake and laughing, wants to write her love letters in bleeding, dripping pen. He wants her and he wants her and he doesn’t anticipate them falling apart.
The last time never feels like the last time until it is.
Until the clang of his belt buckle is resounding in the hollow of his ear drums as she curls her fingers around the edge of the door and glances back at him with light breaking around her shoulders.
“This is the last time, Draco, ” she says. “I’m serious, this time.”
And he knows, somehow, that its true.
Understands in the marrow of his bones that this had to end, but he’d never thought and never considered and now he’s sitting on a moth bitten couch with something like heartbreak in his mouth.
Because he wants her, and she doesn’t want him back.
The end never feels like the end, and sometimes its not the end.
Because Draco is a white knuckled grip around his suitcase, is a sharp profile against the countryside rushing by and he’s locking eyes with her in the corridor of the train.
And he’s seen her undressed, has mapped his hands across the landscape of her body and allowed his mouth to follow. He’s seen her flayed open with live wires wrapped around the notches of his spine but there’s never been a moment more electric than this -
Her tucking her hair behind her ear and his loosening his grip.
A sigh that comes before a confession as she says, “I shouldn’t have picked him” and he can’t help but agree.
“I shouldn’t have picked him and I’m sorry that I did and -”
His suitcase thuds against the floor. He’s wrapping his arms around her shoulders in a way that he’s never done before. Because her ribs are cracking open and he’s looking her in the face in this - him and her and their clothes on while their chests are touching - this is right and this is perfect and this is what he’s wanted since that first time that he met her, six years ago with a hand outstretched on this very train.
“I know,” he murmurs, wants to be saying “I love you” instead.