Epitome of Slytherin
Title: Epitome of Slytherin
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Rating: Heavy R, possibly NC17. Graphic slash.
Summary: Draco Malfoy is a Slytherin, and always gets his way.
Draco Malfoy seemed to emanate the true meaning of being a Slytherin: always moving with calculated poise, always speaking with collected superiority, always anticipating his enemies’ moves, always always always observing and coming up with shrewd and detailed plots to gain his personal desires - and accomplishing all of those things even when simply making himself a sandwich.
Draco hated sandwiches - ugly stacks of processed meat and bread? Oh, how his mother would laugh at him if she knew! - but unfortunately his flat was also occupied by a rather tasteless Gryffindor who demanded, of all things, a ham sandwich. A few months before, had he been given the same request, Draco would probably have told his lover to fuck off and make it for themselves: but now, Draco chose to take a more passive role, knowing in the end his swallowed pride and indignation would be permitted to surface in larger ways.
Sleeping with a Weasley was much like seducing a cactus, really - control was only wrought through subtle advances, and great care to avoid needles.
Ron Weasley wandered into the kitchen in all his scarlet-and-gold-boxers glory, rubbing at his eyes with a loose fist as a small child might; his otherwise naked body was peppered with freckles and Irish-induced red hair, which he bluntly refused to remove. “Oy, Malfoy, wuzzat?” the redhead questioned with a wide yawn, shrugging a shoulder in the direction of the bread and meats Draco had spread across the counter as he fashioned a sandwich.
“This, Weasel, is poisoned food I am going to kill you with,” Draco informed him smoothly, extending a perfectly constructed ham sandwich out to the bleary wizard. Ron blinked, slowly, before promptly stuffing more than half of it into his mouth like the barbaric, class-less man he was. Draco’s eyes narrowed at his display as he delicately licked a lingering drop of mayonnaise from his own thumb. “Oh, very intelligent, Ronald. I tell you it’s poisoned and you inhale it like a starved dog. Do take care not to die on my kitchen floor - I’ve just spelled it clean.”
“Wha’?” Ron questioned vaguely, a dribble of mustard at the corner of his mouth; he swayed slightly where he stood, being half-asleep and confused by Draco’s verbose speech.
“Perhaps I’ll shave your disgusting legs, after you’ve died,” Draco pondered out loud, turning as he gathered up the bread and meats to return them to the Muggle fridge, “Or spell off those foolish freckles you’ve accumulated from running around in the naked in the sun on your farm.”
“S’notta farm,” grunted Ron around his last mouthful of sandwich, his brows tucking together as he visibly struggled to wake up enough to keep up with the pristine blonde.
“Oh, no, of course; forgive me. The only thing your mother farmed was children. With your manners, I wouldn’t be surprised if she fed you from troth.” Draco fussed over his sleek, silken pajama bottoms, smoothing away a crease that had formed as he had been leaning against the counter. The top was somewhat large on him - he had always been of an effeminate build - and hung loosely about his waist.
“Malfoy -”
“Speaking of mothers,” Draco sliced Ron’s words off with a casually dominating tone, typical of a demanding Slytherin such as himself. He inspected his nails - sheen, pink, and well taken care of; so unlike Ron’s, which were chewed to the skin and distinctly unhealthy - as he spoke, “I’m going to visit Mother next weekend. And perhaps bring her some chocolates.”
Ron was suddenly scowling - and very, very much awake, all former stammerings shoved away. “I don’t want you going to Azkaban -”
“And I’ll be going alone,” concluded Draco, speaking over Ron as if he had not so much as opened his mouth.
“To hell you will!” Ron roared, his face turning a furious shade of red, “I’m not letting you fuck me over with this one, Malfoy! You always come back from that place all shaking and white, like you’re bloody dying. You’re not going without me!”
Draco’s thin lips quirked into a slight frown, his grey sky eyes remaining fixated on his own nails; the was truth in Weasley’s accusation, Draco nearly having fainted the last time he had returned from visiting his parents in Azkaban. In the aftermath of the war, Dementors had been reinstated, security calling for them to be present even when a visitor was in the cell. It was more than awful: between the Dementors, the disgusting jail conditions, and the screams of his own parents… begging, begging him to free them… Draco had suffered nightmares for weeks.
“You act as though you have any business telling me what I can and can not do, Ronald,” Draco said with a distinct note of mutiny in his whispered words; his gray eyes remained firmly fixed on the tiled floor beneath him.
“’Cos I love you, you stupid git!” Ron barked, “And -”
Draco severed his sentence with an impromptu and very un-Slytherin flash of impatience. “That doesn’t give you the right to hold me captive!” He drew in a shallow breath and looked away, attempting to control the flutter of his own heart. Ron wasn’t the most intelligent of wizards - but even he should have been able to see how much Draco needed to go alone. Needed to see his mother. “Please, Ron, just…”
If Draco Malfoy was the epitome of Slytherin, Ron Weasley was without a doubt the same for Gryffindor fools; the rather cheaply installed tile floor squeaked unbecomingly beneath his bare feet as he came to gather Draco into his arms, warm still from blanketed slumber. “Mmkay, you win, fuckin’ Ferret,” Ron rumbled into fine blonde hair, “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Draco said softly - not allowing the weakness of his gratitude to show. “I’ll be gone before you leave for work. I’ve already reserved a cab to take me to the coast.”
“You’re okay with going by yourself?” Sleep-sluggish fingers slid down the silken front of Draco’s pajama top, jaggedly chewed off nails working with Gryffindor persistence on the gold buttons; in spite of himself, Draco’s lithe form pressed against the redhead’s and allowed him to continue without comment.
“I assumed that was clear from the start, Weasel.”
“Ferret.”
“Hm.” As the last button was tugged from its tightly sewn hole, Ron’s work-roughened fingertips delved into Draco’s oversized shirt and fanned out across the soft pale skin of his lower stomach. His shoulders - feminine in their thin and narrow shape - were pressed against Weasley’s chest, Ron’s broader body familiar and muscled against his back; an embrace he allowed himself to melt against entirely, as no one else was around to witness his girlish show of vulnerability.
Sex was a common occurrence between them - Draco had once penned a letter to Pansy about the irony of the “Gryffindors are lions in bed” rumor being entirely true: the redhead was nearly insatiable, and was prone to lengthy periods of irate brooding when he was denied frequent sessions of rough sex. It was easily understandable for Molly Weasley to have birthed so many children if Arthur Weasley held even a fraction of Ron’s sexual appetite.
But Draco was in no mood to be fucked against the kitchen counter as though he were nothing more than Ron’s bitch - not with his mother wedged so deeply in the contours of his mind. Rather, the Slytherin tactfully twisted and adjusted his position, dropping gracefully to his knees against the chilly tile floor before his flat-mate and lover. A blowjob would suffice for now, he was certain.
“Draco…” growled Ron with something like possessiveness in his rough tone; Draco said nothing, merely reaching up to fix Ron’s hands to the counter’s edge above him, forever the puppet mastering Slytherin… even when on his knees. A nuzzle of his nose - a cute nose, Molly Weasley had once giggled, odd plump woman that she was - against the suddenly tight boxers before him earned him a shuddering intake of breath from above. Responsive; another “lion in bed” sort of trait.
The atrocious red-and-gold shorts were removed without further dallying, Draco’s sheen nails purposefully catching on freckled outer-thighs as he peeled the constricting material down, allowing it to slip and pool around Ron’s bare ankles. Molly had the bothersome habit of sneaking into their flat to do their laundry - or Draco would have long-since disposed of the Gryffindor Pride boxers of which Ron was so ignorantly fond. Ron’s cock was already attentive despite having received no attention, being the impossibly horny male that he was, and Draco felt inclined to indulge himself in a self-satisfied smirk directed up at the redhead.
“Fuck,” Ron said in a desperate whine, overly-eager as he forever would be, a measure of pleading crossing his freckled face. Which was precisely how it ought to have been: Draco reigning control at all angles, Ron shuddering and writhing in his puppet strings as Draco willed it to be so. Sexual manipulation worthy of a Slytherin’s shrewdness.
Draco tensed the tip of his agile tongue and flicked it along the bottom of Ron’s flushed cock, knowing full well the results of such a hard swipe: his victim - weren’t all Gryffindors only victims when coercing with a Slytherin? - hissed and thrusted forward on instinct, seeking more of Draco’s cruelty. And Draco almost pitied him as his lips closed over the softer head of his cock, the flat of his warm tongue rubbing over the slit, Ron letting out a sigh of both relief and of torture - his fingernails audibly scraping against the cheap wood of their countertop.
Draco artfully incline his head, allowing Ron’s cock to glide through his lips like hot marble. Skin, as Draco learned quite a long time before in the chilly recesses of the Slytherin dungeons with Blaise Zabini’s hands in his hair, tasted faintly of salty peanut oil regardless of who’s skin it was: but Ron’s was tinged with a vague hinting of chicken broth, as obscure as it was. Draco swirled his tongue along the flesh enclosed in his mouth and nearly smirked again - surely the taste was entirely Molly Weasley’s fault, with her stubborn resolve to fill even Draco to the brim with heaps of farmer’s food, like chicken soup.
Bobbing his head proved to make Ronald’s legs seize up - and, eventually, collapse entirely beneath him - and so Draco resisted the urge and only did so in small, disjointed speeds, instead proving his force by hard, persistent sucking around the cock in his mouth, cheeks hallowed out only slightly. When Ron attempted to finger his hair he merely smacked the hand away, taking his cock as deep into his mouth as he could manage before - smirking - humming around his length.
Ron shouted - as obnoxious and uncouth as he had been as a child, running like Tarzan in the wood nears his dilapidated excuse for a house - and came in a rush of brackish, slick cum that tasted nearly as brothy as Ron’s cock did. Not one to partake in the undignified mess of spitting, Draco patiently accepted Ron’s spurts of semen and swallowed neatly, forever an impeccable example of fine breeding and manners.
Draco Malfoy was the epitome of Slytherin values - right down to giving head to a abhorrent Gryffindor Auror on cheaply installed tile flooring.
- - - - - -
A week later found the Slytherin prince doubled over the rim of a porcelain toilet, finely manicured fingernails clutching the bowl for purchase as his stomach churned and attempted to heave stomach acid from his throat - narrow shoulders shivered weakly and Draco moaned.
The nightmares had been… persistent, in their lingering; wrapping cold fingers of dark reminiscence around the chasm of his dreams and weaving for him visions in which he was forced to join his mother and father in their hells, chained and unable to fend against the scaly hands of cloaked figures clawing for him. There were, of course, also the screams of his parents; once fine-boned purebloods at the height of power all Slytherins deserved, now screeching and digging at their own faces as their minds remained possessed with the nightmares of their past. Draco had known perfectly well that his unaccompanied visit to the Azkaban wizarding prison would leave him with nightmares - just as Ron had so belligerently reminded him it would - but being a Slytherin, he manipulated his situation and accepted the nasty repercussions with his blonde head held high.
He wouldn’t classify it as a mistake. It wasn’t a mistake. He had known with deep clarity the results - therefore he couldn’t deem his choice a mistake simply because of a few bad dreams. Draco was not to be crippled.
“Oy… you okay, Malfoy?”
Warm hands sought his pathetically trembling shoulders, palms and fingers coarse from beast-of-burden-styled labor oddly gentle as they clasp against his pale bare flesh. Draco resisted the urge to indulge himself with allowing his welling tears to fall - he would not be crippled, however, no. And Ron said nothing despite his lack of reply, merely stroking his thumbs against the fine features of Malfoy shoulders, delicate as the brush of butterfly wings against the breeze - and didn’t speak the words “it was a mistake, I told you so” because he had grown up.
Draco Malfoy was the personification of true Slytherin traits. Which might have been why he, unlike Ron, had not grown up.
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Rating: Heavy R, possibly NC17. Graphic slash.
Summary: Draco Malfoy is a Slytherin, and always gets his way.
Draco Malfoy seemed to emanate the true meaning of being a Slytherin: always moving with calculated poise, always speaking with collected superiority, always anticipating his enemies’ moves, always always always observing and coming up with shrewd and detailed plots to gain his personal desires - and accomplishing all of those things even when simply making himself a sandwich.
Draco hated sandwiches - ugly stacks of processed meat and bread? Oh, how his mother would laugh at him if she knew! - but unfortunately his flat was also occupied by a rather tasteless Gryffindor who demanded, of all things, a ham sandwich. A few months before, had he been given the same request, Draco would probably have told his lover to fuck off and make it for themselves: but now, Draco chose to take a more passive role, knowing in the end his swallowed pride and indignation would be permitted to surface in larger ways.
Sleeping with a Weasley was much like seducing a cactus, really - control was only wrought through subtle advances, and great care to avoid needles.
Ron Weasley wandered into the kitchen in all his scarlet-and-gold-boxers glory, rubbing at his eyes with a loose fist as a small child might; his otherwise naked body was peppered with freckles and Irish-induced red hair, which he bluntly refused to remove. “Oy, Malfoy, wuzzat?” the redhead questioned with a wide yawn, shrugging a shoulder in the direction of the bread and meats Draco had spread across the counter as he fashioned a sandwich.
“This, Weasel, is poisoned food I am going to kill you with,” Draco informed him smoothly, extending a perfectly constructed ham sandwich out to the bleary wizard. Ron blinked, slowly, before promptly stuffing more than half of it into his mouth like the barbaric, class-less man he was. Draco’s eyes narrowed at his display as he delicately licked a lingering drop of mayonnaise from his own thumb. “Oh, very intelligent, Ronald. I tell you it’s poisoned and you inhale it like a starved dog. Do take care not to die on my kitchen floor - I’ve just spelled it clean.”
“Wha’?” Ron questioned vaguely, a dribble of mustard at the corner of his mouth; he swayed slightly where he stood, being half-asleep and confused by Draco’s verbose speech.
“Perhaps I’ll shave your disgusting legs, after you’ve died,” Draco pondered out loud, turning as he gathered up the bread and meats to return them to the Muggle fridge, “Or spell off those foolish freckles you’ve accumulated from running around in the naked in the sun on your farm.”
“S’notta farm,” grunted Ron around his last mouthful of sandwich, his brows tucking together as he visibly struggled to wake up enough to keep up with the pristine blonde.
“Oh, no, of course; forgive me. The only thing your mother farmed was children. With your manners, I wouldn’t be surprised if she fed you from troth.” Draco fussed over his sleek, silken pajama bottoms, smoothing away a crease that had formed as he had been leaning against the counter. The top was somewhat large on him - he had always been of an effeminate build - and hung loosely about his waist.
“Malfoy -”
“Speaking of mothers,” Draco sliced Ron’s words off with a casually dominating tone, typical of a demanding Slytherin such as himself. He inspected his nails - sheen, pink, and well taken care of; so unlike Ron’s, which were chewed to the skin and distinctly unhealthy - as he spoke, “I’m going to visit Mother next weekend. And perhaps bring her some chocolates.”
Ron was suddenly scowling - and very, very much awake, all former stammerings shoved away. “I don’t want you going to Azkaban -”
“And I’ll be going alone,” concluded Draco, speaking over Ron as if he had not so much as opened his mouth.
“To hell you will!” Ron roared, his face turning a furious shade of red, “I’m not letting you fuck me over with this one, Malfoy! You always come back from that place all shaking and white, like you’re bloody dying. You’re not going without me!”
Draco’s thin lips quirked into a slight frown, his grey sky eyes remaining fixated on his own nails; the was truth in Weasley’s accusation, Draco nearly having fainted the last time he had returned from visiting his parents in Azkaban. In the aftermath of the war, Dementors had been reinstated, security calling for them to be present even when a visitor was in the cell. It was more than awful: between the Dementors, the disgusting jail conditions, and the screams of his own parents… begging, begging him to free them… Draco had suffered nightmares for weeks.
“You act as though you have any business telling me what I can and can not do, Ronald,” Draco said with a distinct note of mutiny in his whispered words; his gray eyes remained firmly fixed on the tiled floor beneath him.
“’Cos I love you, you stupid git!” Ron barked, “And -”
Draco severed his sentence with an impromptu and very un-Slytherin flash of impatience. “That doesn’t give you the right to hold me captive!” He drew in a shallow breath and looked away, attempting to control the flutter of his own heart. Ron wasn’t the most intelligent of wizards - but even he should have been able to see how much Draco needed to go alone. Needed to see his mother. “Please, Ron, just…”
If Draco Malfoy was the epitome of Slytherin, Ron Weasley was without a doubt the same for Gryffindor fools; the rather cheaply installed tile floor squeaked unbecomingly beneath his bare feet as he came to gather Draco into his arms, warm still from blanketed slumber. “Mmkay, you win, fuckin’ Ferret,” Ron rumbled into fine blonde hair, “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Draco said softly - not allowing the weakness of his gratitude to show. “I’ll be gone before you leave for work. I’ve already reserved a cab to take me to the coast.”
“You’re okay with going by yourself?” Sleep-sluggish fingers slid down the silken front of Draco’s pajama top, jaggedly chewed off nails working with Gryffindor persistence on the gold buttons; in spite of himself, Draco’s lithe form pressed against the redhead’s and allowed him to continue without comment.
“I assumed that was clear from the start, Weasel.”
“Ferret.”
“Hm.” As the last button was tugged from its tightly sewn hole, Ron’s work-roughened fingertips delved into Draco’s oversized shirt and fanned out across the soft pale skin of his lower stomach. His shoulders - feminine in their thin and narrow shape - were pressed against Weasley’s chest, Ron’s broader body familiar and muscled against his back; an embrace he allowed himself to melt against entirely, as no one else was around to witness his girlish show of vulnerability.
Sex was a common occurrence between them - Draco had once penned a letter to Pansy about the irony of the “Gryffindors are lions in bed” rumor being entirely true: the redhead was nearly insatiable, and was prone to lengthy periods of irate brooding when he was denied frequent sessions of rough sex. It was easily understandable for Molly Weasley to have birthed so many children if Arthur Weasley held even a fraction of Ron’s sexual appetite.
But Draco was in no mood to be fucked against the kitchen counter as though he were nothing more than Ron’s bitch - not with his mother wedged so deeply in the contours of his mind. Rather, the Slytherin tactfully twisted and adjusted his position, dropping gracefully to his knees against the chilly tile floor before his flat-mate and lover. A blowjob would suffice for now, he was certain.
“Draco…” growled Ron with something like possessiveness in his rough tone; Draco said nothing, merely reaching up to fix Ron’s hands to the counter’s edge above him, forever the puppet mastering Slytherin… even when on his knees. A nuzzle of his nose - a cute nose, Molly Weasley had once giggled, odd plump woman that she was - against the suddenly tight boxers before him earned him a shuddering intake of breath from above. Responsive; another “lion in bed” sort of trait.
The atrocious red-and-gold shorts were removed without further dallying, Draco’s sheen nails purposefully catching on freckled outer-thighs as he peeled the constricting material down, allowing it to slip and pool around Ron’s bare ankles. Molly had the bothersome habit of sneaking into their flat to do their laundry - or Draco would have long-since disposed of the Gryffindor Pride boxers of which Ron was so ignorantly fond. Ron’s cock was already attentive despite having received no attention, being the impossibly horny male that he was, and Draco felt inclined to indulge himself in a self-satisfied smirk directed up at the redhead.
“Fuck,” Ron said in a desperate whine, overly-eager as he forever would be, a measure of pleading crossing his freckled face. Which was precisely how it ought to have been: Draco reigning control at all angles, Ron shuddering and writhing in his puppet strings as Draco willed it to be so. Sexual manipulation worthy of a Slytherin’s shrewdness.
Draco tensed the tip of his agile tongue and flicked it along the bottom of Ron’s flushed cock, knowing full well the results of such a hard swipe: his victim - weren’t all Gryffindors only victims when coercing with a Slytherin? - hissed and thrusted forward on instinct, seeking more of Draco’s cruelty. And Draco almost pitied him as his lips closed over the softer head of his cock, the flat of his warm tongue rubbing over the slit, Ron letting out a sigh of both relief and of torture - his fingernails audibly scraping against the cheap wood of their countertop.
Draco artfully incline his head, allowing Ron’s cock to glide through his lips like hot marble. Skin, as Draco learned quite a long time before in the chilly recesses of the Slytherin dungeons with Blaise Zabini’s hands in his hair, tasted faintly of salty peanut oil regardless of who’s skin it was: but Ron’s was tinged with a vague hinting of chicken broth, as obscure as it was. Draco swirled his tongue along the flesh enclosed in his mouth and nearly smirked again - surely the taste was entirely Molly Weasley’s fault, with her stubborn resolve to fill even Draco to the brim with heaps of farmer’s food, like chicken soup.
Bobbing his head proved to make Ronald’s legs seize up - and, eventually, collapse entirely beneath him - and so Draco resisted the urge and only did so in small, disjointed speeds, instead proving his force by hard, persistent sucking around the cock in his mouth, cheeks hallowed out only slightly. When Ron attempted to finger his hair he merely smacked the hand away, taking his cock as deep into his mouth as he could manage before - smirking - humming around his length.
Ron shouted - as obnoxious and uncouth as he had been as a child, running like Tarzan in the wood nears his dilapidated excuse for a house - and came in a rush of brackish, slick cum that tasted nearly as brothy as Ron’s cock did. Not one to partake in the undignified mess of spitting, Draco patiently accepted Ron’s spurts of semen and swallowed neatly, forever an impeccable example of fine breeding and manners.
Draco Malfoy was the epitome of Slytherin values - right down to giving head to a abhorrent Gryffindor Auror on cheaply installed tile flooring.
- - - - - -
A week later found the Slytherin prince doubled over the rim of a porcelain toilet, finely manicured fingernails clutching the bowl for purchase as his stomach churned and attempted to heave stomach acid from his throat - narrow shoulders shivered weakly and Draco moaned.
The nightmares had been… persistent, in their lingering; wrapping cold fingers of dark reminiscence around the chasm of his dreams and weaving for him visions in which he was forced to join his mother and father in their hells, chained and unable to fend against the scaly hands of cloaked figures clawing for him. There were, of course, also the screams of his parents; once fine-boned purebloods at the height of power all Slytherins deserved, now screeching and digging at their own faces as their minds remained possessed with the nightmares of their past. Draco had known perfectly well that his unaccompanied visit to the Azkaban wizarding prison would leave him with nightmares - just as Ron had so belligerently reminded him it would - but being a Slytherin, he manipulated his situation and accepted the nasty repercussions with his blonde head held high.
He wouldn’t classify it as a mistake. It wasn’t a mistake. He had known with deep clarity the results - therefore he couldn’t deem his choice a mistake simply because of a few bad dreams. Draco was not to be crippled.
“Oy… you okay, Malfoy?”
Warm hands sought his pathetically trembling shoulders, palms and fingers coarse from beast-of-burden-styled labor oddly gentle as they clasp against his pale bare flesh. Draco resisted the urge to indulge himself with allowing his welling tears to fall - he would not be crippled, however, no. And Ron said nothing despite his lack of reply, merely stroking his thumbs against the fine features of Malfoy shoulders, delicate as the brush of butterfly wings against the breeze - and didn’t speak the words “it was a mistake, I told you so” because he had grown up.
Draco Malfoy was the personification of true Slytherin traits. Which might have been why he, unlike Ron, had not grown up.