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I just want to be Fucking, Happy?

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I see you at the club again.

Shouldn’t be surprised, it’s queer night after all and you’re top of the tower already. Just came out after your messy breakup with the girl Weasley, still so green to what it all means, to want a man to dance with you, or kiss you, or Merlin, fuck you.

I wonder if anyone’s had you proper yet. It’s only been a few weeks, but you’ve been here enough, face so recognizable that you could pull anyone in this godforsaken room just from that scar alone.

You head to the loos, and I watch. Of course I watch. Everyone in the club is watching that arse, dying to know what’s under those tight jeans.

You saw me the first night, you fucking prick. A nod and a smile across the dance floor and then you turned right back to those sluts, the ones who are practically begging to get on their knees for the Chosen One.

I thought that would make you sick, the way the men fawn all over you, but you don’t seem to mind. Happy enough to shoot them a smile and offer a dance. Fucking slag.

The bartender signals me, and I toss back my drink, nodding for another. The whisky burns, but I don’t care. The fire in my throat keeps me alert, heightens my senses. I'm ready.

Tonight, Potter. Tonight I’m going to make my move.

I try to wait until you return, tapping my foot against the legs of my barstool, but you’re sure as hell taking your time, aren’t you. I roll my eyes, annoyed that you don’t have the common decency to speed the fuck up with whatever you’re doing in there.

Finally, my impatience wins out. Not that patience was ever a virtue of mine. I can barely wait for dessert to be served.

It’s about time I got my dessert, isn’t it?

I swing open the door, not caring if I’m interrupting something, but you’re just washing your hands at the sink. I check under the stalls, and there’s nothing, no one zipping up their flies or dusting off their knees.

“Malfoy,” you have the audacity to murmur as you shake the water off your hands, and I smirk, aimlessly casting a drying spell.

“Magic does wonders, Potter,” I snarl. “Don’t you remember you’re a wizard?”

You shrug, like you haven’t a care in the world. And you probably don’t, rich boy with good looks, and of course that whole defeating the Dark Lord thing.

I’d hate you if I didn’t want you so bad.

“Haven’t forgotten, thanks Malfoy,” you say and damn . Ever since we were fourteen the way you say my name makes my cock ache. I close my eyes fiercely and try to breathe through my nose.

I want you to moan my name, Potter. I want you to scream it while you beg, on your knees, on your back. Against a wall — this wall — in this dirty bathroom, covered in jizz and spit and whatever other disgusting fluids land there.

The Boy Who Lived, covered in filth.

I want to make you filthy, Potter.

With that thought raging around in my head, I take a step forward. You don’t flinch, do you? You fucking prick. Just stand there all perfect like you have no idea what is going on. How I could defile you. How much I want to fucking take. You. Apart.

I don’t say anything, because the words in my head are too loud, too vicious, too palpable. A Malfoy doesn’t show their hand. Not until the time is right.

Timing. It requires patience though, and as previously mentioned, I have none.

So when you let your eyes drift down my waist, I can’t help but say-

“Like what you see?”

“Maybe.”

You little shit.

I take another step forward, and throw a hand back and lock the door, sending up privacy spells all over the fucking place.

You just raise your eyebrow in surprise, and I can’t look at you anymore.

“Turn around.”

“Malfoy.”

"Turn the fuck around, Potter, so I can fuck you into the wall. Unless you want to pretend you don't want that, in which case you can fuck off."

Damnit, why can’t I use another word than fuck. It’s clearly on my mind, on my tongue. Oh gods, what I want to do to you with my tongue.

You shiver, throwing me a look that tells me everything I need to know, and you turn, pressing your chest and your face against the dirty fucking wall. I almost want to make you lick it, thick stripes up and down the tile just so you know who’s in control here.

It’s me.

Instead, I strip you. Not casually, not seductively. With a swish of my wrists I rip the clothes off your back. You’re not the only one who can do wandless magic you little shit.

You shiver again, and this time I think it’s from the cold. The club is hot, burning hot on the dance floor, so many bodies rubbing against each other in syncopation, but this room is cold. Especially when it’s empty like this.

That’s fine. I like watching you shiver. I want to make you do it again.

“You’re such a slut for it, aren’t you?” I say as I drag my hand down your bare back, letting my fingers dip into the crease of your arse. I cast a strident Scourgify that makes you wince nicely.

It’s a fine arse, Potter. You should be proud. I can’t wait to absolutely devour it.

Another time.

“Maybe,” you say again, except this time the shakiness isn’t just in your legs or your hands. It’s in your voice.

I grab your hips and pull them towards mine, creating a beautiful angle with your back, and fuck,  even the way your spine curves turns me on.

I hate you for it.

Your cheek is still pressed against the wall, and your mouth hangs open. I shove my thumb in between your lips, and you instantly start sucking. What a little whore.

“Gods, you want this so bad, don’t you,” I grab your cock with my other hand and you moan around my thumb, your tongue lapping hungrily at it. That’s a good boy.

When I withdraw my thumb, you moan again, already so empty. It makes my cock twitch, listening to you whine. Damnit. Focus, Draco.

I plunge it into your hole, no grazing around the rim, no gentle prodding. Just my thick thumb right in there, and you buck against it, moaning your pathetic little moans.

You’re insatiable, Potter.

I twist, digging into your tight hole, and you moan again. I take pity on you, Potter, and add a little lube before withdrawing my thumb and shoving in again with two fingers.

You’re lucky that I know how to do this, find your spot after only a couple of thrusts. That’s what you get with an experienced lover such as myself.

Gods, Potter. That arse of yours. It’s practically eating my hand, your greedy little hole.

You’re so fucking  tight.

“Done this before?” I ask because I need to. Gods, I need to know.

You just laugh, and fuck you Potter, that will not do.

“Enough,” you finally whine, but only after I add a third finger, rough, fast, twisting in and out with the other two.

Enough isn’t enough  though. I’m cruel, I know, but I’m not so cruel as to take your arse for the first time here, in the loo, no matter how much my cock aches to plunge into your heat. No matter how hard I am. How good your hip feels rubbing up against me.

I take mercy on you, Potter. You can say thank you next time. Preferably on your knees with my cock on your tongue.

I curve my fingers again, finding that spot that should make your toes curl, and I press, hard. So hard that my wrist is hurting, and my other wrist is flying over your cock and I’m shamelessly grinding my dick against the solid heat of your hip.

You moan and buck and then, and then  you throw your head back and it rests on my shoulder, and oh gods, you turn to look at me and your damn eyes are on me — all green and innocent and hungry and oh fuck.

Your cock starts pulsing in my hand and you cover that filthy wall with your spunk and you moan, wanton and hungry and “Malfoy, fuck yes, Malfoy,” escapes your lips and I can’t help but buck into you. I’m pressed against your hip and one hand is in your arse, feeling it flutter and pulse and the other one is covered in your jizz and I’m coming in my pants like I’m thirteen and not twenty-five and my gods, Potter.

You’re gasping now, and I’m panting, but I withdraw my hands and cast a cleansing charm across my body. You’re still pressed against the wall, naked and gleaming with sweat, and your hips are still twitching, searching for my hungry hands.

I spank your arse, hard, because I want to see if you can take it.

You jump a little, and you yelp, but you don’t turn so I do it again.

And again. And again.

And soon I’m swatting your arse like it was made for it, and it’s growing pink under the swinging halogen bulbs, and I realize I want you to feel it. To feel this, my hand on your skin and the ghost of my fingers in your fucking hole and my fist tight around your cock for days.

I want you to feel me for days.

Then I leave you, breathing heavy against the wall. I release the privacy charms and I head out the door, and you’re still naked against the tile.

You’re a wizard, Potter. Figure it out.