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The Forbidden Fruit

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There are apples at lunch again. Beautiful apples, the kind that you might pick right off the tree. Bright, shiny, green, heavy. The sort of fruit that makes everyone happy, that makes you can't help but smile.

But Draco, he isn't so happy. Outside of his pants, that is. See, the poor boy has a hard-on for Malus domestica.

He tries to ignore it, to ignore the tantalizing fruit nearly begging him to munch on it. And, slowly, he does. His erection dies down as he busies himself in conversation.




That night, Draco lays awake in his bed. It's those stupid apples. Those wonderful… beautiful… erotic- no. He won't let himself think that.

When he sleeps that night, it's poor.




The scene: lunch, the next day.

He spent the morning talking himself into it. It's just a random obsession. He should just give into it. It'll go away. It will. It has to.

The boy is startled out of his thoughts by a rude, "Hey Draco! They're just apples! No need to drool."

Embarrassed, Draco returns his attention to his friends and sycophants.

On his way back to class, though, he pockets a particularly green apple.




It's Potions and Draco is doing unusually bad.

"Mr. Malfoy, explain yourself," Snape says in his usual drawl, though this time it has an undertone of concern.

Draco's startled to see that his potion is fizzy and smells of cucumber, when it should be mellow and sweet.

"I, uh, haven't been sleeping well, Sir." It isn't a lie, really, just not the right truth.

Professor Snape merely looks at him before telling him that he would get him a sleeping potion. "And do something about that mess."

Draco pats the fruit in his pocket for reassurance and goes off to find someone to finish the assignment with. He can clean up his things later - or get someone else to.




It's dark and the moon is full and bright outside, though the stars can hardly be seen through the clouds.

On a bed in a dorm under the castle is a young man. He is seated and sweating and impatiently waiting to hear the sleep-breathing of the other boys in the room.

When the other boys are breathing peacefully and evenly, and when he hears Crabbe's snoring, he reaches under his pillow and pulls out a slight warm, slightly dull apple.

Apple in hand, the boy-almost-man pulls shut his Slytherin-green bed-hangings and casts a silencing spell around him. He could have just done that, earlier, and not bothered about waiting for the others to sleep, but he wouldn't have felt safe if his roommates were still awake.

Laying back on his pillows, Draco settles himself and starts to polish the fruit with his sheet. He goes slowly, building anticipation and want. He's going to fully enjoy the experience.

Just polishing the fruit is a highly erotic experience, as noted by Malfoy's growing erection. Eventually, his apple's bright and shiny all over, as if it's been coated in wax, or silicone, or saliva…

"You really are the apple of my eye."

"Merlin's pants, I did not just say that."

And with that, he takes a bite.

His teeth sink lower and lower into the pale flesh as sweet-tart juices seep out and assault his taste buds. It is so, so much better than he could ever have expected that he nearly moans.

As it is, his manhood's hard, throbbing and insistent, and he can't ignore it any longer.

Holding the forbidden fruit in just one hand, the other starts to snake down. Down his throat and collarbones, brushing his nipples, ghosting over his abs, until it reaches his cock.

Stroking slowly, he takes another bite of apple, and another.

With every bite of the succulent apple, more juices drip down his lips and chin. In vain, he runs his tongue over his lips. The blond young man doesn't want to lose a speck of the fruit.

Draco can already feel heat pooling low in his stomach as he now laps and licks at the fruit still held in his hand.

He continues to devour it, and with a cry, he comes all over his hand and stomach.

Tiredly, Draco tries but can't quite reach his wand and soon gives up on it altogether.

He soon falls asleep, apple core at his side, come now dried on his body, and silencing wards still up.




The next day, his dorm-mates are up and he is not, which is unusual. So, curious, they peek behind his bed-hangings.

The don't mention what they saw, but they do take a picture and keep it for blackmail, in true Slytherin fashion.