Is this it?- I think. Because Potter's looking down at me, smirking. I'm sitting against the edge of the washbasins at this bar- and I'm sure the lipstick isn't off me yet. Can't possibly have been four hours yet. It's Saturday, blokes are legal game, and I'm at my gay bar of preference. And just because he owns the universe, I, along with my many other companions here, cannot choose their option of co-existence with Potter interfering.

I suppose it's only fair. I'll tell you what's not- not even by an inch: Potter smirking down at me, baring his straight- boy lips and unbent face and altogether straight attitude towards me , while I, Draco Malfoy of all beings bent, am at the edge of the washbasins at the washroom here, not just freshly hard from a five minute snog session, but also:

red lipstick

most of my upper chest, revealing my tattoo

3. Wearing a collar

Eyeliner

a boner

I can't even fathom what the likes of Wonder Boy is doing at a gay bar. He's even sporting the green tag on his shirt- the bar has indicators for what type of a customer you are. There's wristbands- blue and red- to indicate top/bottom, tags (just these colored stickers for your shirt) to indicate if you're a new customer- to be frank, inexperienced- or old, and then, wristbands on your opposite hand- black and white- for if you've got kinks.

I've got a pink tag on my collar,- old customer- a blue wristband on my right hand- bottom- and a black wristband on my left- kinky. Potter here sports a green tag- inexperienced, new to the bar- a red wristband –top- and a black one.

He's got to be fucking kidding me, because what the fuck.

But he continues staring down at me like some creepy, half-assed horny tosser who just can't keep it in the pants. That's when I gather he's long since left me at our eye contact and has ventured to burn the skin of my chest just by looking at it. What I can't shake off is that Wonder Boy is straight- the papers don't mention a thing about him being bent, he had a ginger girlfriend he brought to Nott's wedding last year, and he's just so fucking straight it hurts.

I wonder if he's just here to have at me. All a big fucking joke, that's granted, he's going to the papers and telling everyone all about how slutty I am- he just saw me beg a bloke while letting him ravish me seven minutes ago.

But I'm so done, I'm so sick of him that I just button myself up, not looking at him, moving my gaze instead to the door- it's open, and I can see this couple- both at least eight years older than me, fucking.

The bar's quite open for exhibitionism- it's up to the customers to choose a room or make a spectacle.

I'm always a room bloke. The guy I had last week told me while we were zipping up that I probably couldn't moan like a bitch in the heat or beg him like I do if we were outside. I'm quoting.

But this is a Muggle bar, and although I'm so much already known as a queer slut in the wizarding world, Muggles are so much more open about this and really, they take a look at my arm and think it's my other cool tattoo. The Dark Mark and the arrow on my chest are by no means the same.

Potter's still eyeing me madly, and I lick my lips and pull my pants a bit up- over my ass- before sneering at him.

'Hey, Malfoy,' like he hasn't been fucking me with his stupid green eyes.

'What the fuck,' I ask, 'are you doing?'

He looks at the door again, then at my crotch- I yell at him for that- then says, 'I'm new.' Almost quietly, but still smirking.

'Bullshit you are. You're not even gay.'

And Merlin, I'd rather have kidnapped myself and stayed shut in my flat rather than be here because Potter moves closer to me, our bodies syncing- just a centimeter apart- and takes a breath from the air that should be mine.

'Tell me that again, and I'll have to contradict you,' and he's purring! I can't fucking believe Harry Potter, and I'm about to spit in his face- quite thumping literally- when he moves one of his hands and touches my back.

'The lipstick I like, the eyeliner I like, the collar's well and good- what does your tattoo mean, hmm?'

Fuck you, Potter, I think with whatever force I've left. Truth is, I've been fucked too much tonight, and Potter takes more energy out of me with just an exchange of words, so I really don't have an force at all. I'm a little kitten trying to look on offence with probably a ball of yarn in my paws.

This is the weird kink Dom tried on me couple hours ago speaking.

I'm so exhausted, but I really want to go join over outside and get fucked nice and slick because what the fuck, this week has been too tiring.

The Prophet featured me again, front page, how the Malfoy heir fucked with four ministry officials at a time in their office.

I can't help it sometimes- they find me.

I couldn't help giving Weasley that lap dance either- the oldest one, married for god's sake, is too fucking hot. And I'd been dared. By myself, though I suppose I don't have to mention who if Weasley went along with it. I think he's bisexual- Delacour's a handful anyway, bloke like him ought to loosen up.

'Why are you here, Potter? Cut the crap. I want to go get fucked, and you're in my way as always.'

I've no trouble saying these things to anyone- it's been seven years since the Hogwarts party, since the orgy I'm sure Potter remembers- his best mate was part of it- seven years in which I've no trouble at all proclaiming myself as a slut. I've stopped caring. Fuck society, I think every time a witch or wizard looks in my way while I'm drunk off a road and driving another bloke home.

Even Granger's seen me. She helped me out a bit when I got fucked in this alley and was too drunk to put on robes. We've been friends since, mind you, but she never talks about Potter.

I haven't asked. Because seldom does the Chosen One's name ever find a need to cross my thoughts. Or lips.

But Potter is about to send me screaming- he leans against the wall like he was born for the sole purpose, and shrugs, says, 'I'm here for a fuck. I haven't been to a Muggle club before. This was the first I found.'

That's when it strikes me that the ensemble Potter's in: crinkled pale pistachio green button down, black, elegant trousers, polished shoes, hair wild in a way that drives one's libido, eye so fucking green I they root trees- all of this is barely how a celebrity managed himself- it's too gay.

I've met all sorts of tops and doms- the wild, unkempt kind, the casual kind, and the kind that just fucking intimidate you with their suits and shoes and business attire. It's as if dressing so crisply for a job so dirty just… cheapens you further. I've been with so many of these, I can't count it. It's a dirty, torrid affair. Just my type.

'Potter, are you gay?'

He looks at me like I'm daft. Which I'm not. So I let my shoulder slide and realize I've been bowing down a little- my submissive taking over in front of him. fuck, I want to roast myself for the giants. I might be too dirty for them to eat. It occurs to me that's a line I'd like one of my doms to use while we're fucking.

'Malfoy, look at me,' he says, and starts trailing my body with his eyes instead. Every where he looks, I can feel an ache- that's when my cock fills further and he notices it. He smiles.

'I'm wearing a tag and the,' holding his wrists up, ' bands. What the fuck would I be doing in a gay bar, Malfoy?'

'you're exceedingly thick. I suppose you might have just walked in expecting a restaurant. Don't suggest I've an idea as to how your brain works, Potter.'

'troublesome mouth. I like the idea.'

Really, do believe me, I want Potter to stop saying these things. Before I throw myself ass-first at him. I'm such a slut, I have no confidence in myself. And I'm so hard I'd let anyone with a cock and a dirty mouth fuck me.

I start to move, take a step out of his way but he corners me.

'Malfoy,' he says, drawling slowly, 'I'd like to put you up there, on the sink again, and snog you.'

'Snog me? Potter, your eyes are fucking me. You're not all that innocent. Now let go,' I try to move again, but the prat holds my wrist in a grip that really, really weakens my knees.

He ignore the let go completely. 'I was trying to be delicate,' he says, 'but your wrist should've told me you're not into that.' He's picking at the black band. Fuck. I won't be able to hold this any longer. I don't want to.

'Potter, I can't say this any straighter – you don't have my consent. Is that understood?'

Immediately, tosser Potter lets my wrists go and looks to my chest. Then flicks his green fucking eyes at mine. He steps back. Languidly. Leans his shoulder into the wall on my side, and shrugs.

I don't walk out.

Potter licks his bottom lip absentminded, and he's looking me up and down.

I can see him inhale sharply when he looks at my face- I know my eyes look greyer, more vulnerable with the eyeliner- definitely sexier- and it flushes my cheeks, seeing myself the way he's seeing me.

I can almost feel his twitch when he notices the come still in my hair, the sweat pooling up just slightly over my spine, and I'm still hard of course, and then he smiles. The nerve.

'Malfoy, do you want to be raped?' and the tosser is trying to be casual and idle but I fucking know he'll toss his head back if I get a go at his cock- he'd be at my mercy, not he other way round.

Potter isn't a fucking Dom.

He hasn't got the stomach for it.

I ignore him, and lean against the washbasin. His forehead shifts to these wrinkles. It's just my thing.

'Because that's the one need I can't comply to,' he adds, still smirking, still making me want to rut into the fucking sink. I close my eyes. and feel him move forward.

He won't do anything to me, because he's Golden Boy. Wonder Boy. Wonder Boy who couldn't join in on a gay orgy at eighteen while inebriated , Wonder Boy who tells me he's queer.

Like fuck he is. I will every ounce I have to keep my lids closed, and even when Potter places an arm just next to mine, beside mine, leaning it on the sink, I keep my eyes closed.

'Malfoy,'he breathes, and I open my eyes.

He's staring at me, inches away from my face, and his hands are cornering me. I'm a walking hard-on.

He is too.

He shifts a hand and dips it to my arse, the bit of it that's just barely on the edge of the basin, and trails it up. He stops at my shoulder.

'When you're getting fucked,' he says, 'How do you like it?'

He hand vanishes off my shoulder and I feel his fingers instead, pressing into a knot on the base of my neck. I arc into him.

'Do you like it slow?'

Of course I don't, he's seen me, but I can't say it because my nerve ending are fucking dumb and I can't even tell myself I need my eyes shut because watching him, watching him whisper things like that, watching the curve of his lips and the glint of saliva on them, watching his chin do a jut and watching his eyes become these otherworldly luminescent things, that's what's undoing me.

'Would you rather I build the pressure on you achingly, softly, murmuring into your ear about how beautiful you are?'

And I have to moan just then, because of course while saying this, Potter's been untying every aching knot on my shoulder.

He laughs, and it's short.

It distracts him, and me.

'I don't have a praise kink, Potter,' and I have to grunt out the words because just.

'Shame,' he grins, 'Almost no one to praise.'

I say something I forget in the next second, and I know it's a barb because Potter pulls me closer by my neck and tells me , 'You can do better with these,' and licks along my lips, which part in a breath, and reach for him.

He pulls back, and he's still making fun of me.

He lets go of my arms then, and I lean into his face.

He's not dazed, he's waiting.

I kiss him pathetically.

Because I'm moaning into his mouth and making sure he enjoys it and I find myself pathetic.

But the self-loathing is a swerve I'm not getting off of.

'Do I have your consent?' he says the word like it's a joke.

I gather my self-respect up.

Because I'd rather let Lestrange fuck me again.

I start to move out of his way- it's harder because he's pressing me down, practically. Push him off and he tries to touch me again.

'This is called forcing yourself on me, Potter,' and I just barely keep myself from wheezing, 'I haven't given any consent.'

'You're a real piece of work, Malfoy.'

'Is that how you get people to fuck with you?'

'No.'

'God, Potter, good talk and all, alright. I'm leaving.'

The thing that surprises me is that he lets me.

It's not till Friday that I meet Potter again.

I'm at my flat in London. I'm eating this rich pasta my neighbor- Selene- makes superbly. And I'm all fucked out. This week's been worse than the last, and I've already had Seamus and a couple of other doms pass my flat in the evening.

I'm at my couch, wearing nothing but track bottoms and slippers. My hair's slicked with sweat even though the room's cold. I keep fiddling with my necklace. I rub my eyes and some of my eyeliner smudges, and I have to put it right with a beauty charm.

It's perfectly mundane, until the bell rings in.

No one ever rings my bell.

It's always knocking. Or Apparating right in. I've written outside to not ring.

Fuck pizza, I think, and I'm sure I haven't ordered any. Selene orders it to my place sometimes, and we eat it together and watch sappy Muggle television.

I'm too fucked to care about the neighborly code.

The bell rings again and again, and i want to rip it out. If the pizza guy is hot, I could just let him fuck me.

I reach out of my blanket for the door, shoving in my slippers. I delay my walk as long as possible because apart from the fucking, I'm just too bloody pissed.

When I open the door, I'm throwing myself at whoever it is.

It's Potter.

Fuck.

He looks surprised, but he's holding me and I'm not even trying, at this point, to hold my weight up. It's all him. I'm just staring at him, wide eyed, and he's staring back. I can feel air around me sucked in- he's taking insanely long breaths. I realize I still smell like cum, cum and probably pasta sauce.

His eyes don't un-widen or whatever. He's still staring and I realize his lips have parted and god, do I want Potter to snog me senseless. I reach a hand out and take his glasses off- slowly.

He doesn't let me go like I'm hoping, instead tightens the arm holding my back.

He looks unnerving. His eyes are so much more vibrant, clear, and clearly possessive. I touch his eyelids. I can't explain this, I've never done this before, it's too soft and altogether not slutty enough to be me but I touch my index to his eyelids and I can't help but love the feel of them fluttering. Potter closes his eyes.

'I'm here to fuck you, Malfoy.'

My hand pushes the back pedal.

I step out of his embrace and look at him.

'Now,' he says.

God.

'Why me?'

I really don't want to know.

'I saw you at the bar, before we met.' I was snogging some bloke.

'Before the men's room.' I was getting fucked outside.

'You were taking at least six.' Fuck you, Potter.

'Why are you like this, Malfoy?'

'You're here to fuck me. You've got to like that I'm like this.'

'I'm concerned.'

'Fuck you, Wonder Boy.' He hates it when I call him that.

'Don't call me that.' He grimaces. Bloody Potter. 'I'm not anyone special.'

'Potter, what you are is fucking daft.'

'That's right; no one special.' Fucking git. His voice sounds so lost, but I don't give an inch.

'I wasn't agreeing with you, damn it. You are special. Defeated the Dark lord and-'

'Don't give me that shit, Malfoy. I thought you'd know.'

'Know bloody what, Potter? God, are you here for hatesex?'

He moves inside my flat. I'm a real disgrace.

'No, I'm not here for hatesex.'

I cross my arms and turn to him.

'What the fuck, Potter, are you doing in my flat?'

'I'm here for a fuck, Malfoy. I thought you'd comply.'

'You have no intention of fucking me.'

'I do.'

I move toward him, leaving barely any space, and touch his jaw. He winces. Coward.

'I disgust you, don't you even dare deny it.' Potter looks away. Good. He deserves this.

'You don't want to fuck me, you want to fuck me up.' I look down, and there's a bulge in his trousers.

'What you are is fucked up, Potter. You think I'm this depraved, disgusting slut who'll take whatever you give to me, just because that's all I am.' His hand moves, to hold mine away, put I clutch at his wrist and he lets both our arms fall. I grip his jaw tighter, trying to force him to look at me.

'You get fucking hard from this, from me, don't you deny it,' I spit, and that's when he looks at me, so fucking vulnerable. Fuck him. 'You're trying to delay it, aren't you? march into my house, claim you want to fuck, when all you want is someone to bloody understand you.' I've seen it. I'm seeing it now- I've hit a nerve. He feebly pushes at me and I push back. He's so much stronger- he's losing on purpose.

'I know you, Potter. You're not going to treat me like a one- timer. You're going to come back, come back again, because all I am is a depraved slut and you like it. Love it. I know you, I'm the only one you show this fuck- up of a self, and you know what? You'll fall in love with me.' This is all so true, so fucking true. I don't give a fuck about him, but I know him. and I'm perfect for him.

'So get the fuck out, Potter.'

He does push me now, with all his force, and of course I fall. He reaches for me and I let him. just like that.

'You know me,' he says roughly. He lunges at me with his hands, and I'm so fucking scared but I don't move , I don't show it, I just let him. his hand travel my back, so- so roughly. He's not thinking. He trails his hands over my chest, over my tattoo.

'What's the arrow supposed to mean, Malfoy?' fuck you, Potter. You don't deserve to know.

'This way to the slut.'

He moans a little, then reaches for my neck. I'm scared- I always am. He starts kissing me there, not long enough to mark me, but just there. 'Potter,' I manage.

He looks back, up to me.

'Not on the lips. Hard limit.' I won't let him question this- I know he will. I start undoing his shirt. He makes a sound, and I rub my hair against the beginning of his chest. He does something back, arcing into me, and I knew he'd like this.

'I've still got cum in my hair, Potter, from my last fuck. Does that shit turn you on?'

My nose is at his throat, and he dips his head so our noses touch. 'yes,' he murmurs, his voice still so lost.

'You're a kinky fuck, Potter, I'll give you that.'

His eyes are closed and he nods, and I remind myself that I'm only cheapening myself further, that I'm in this for myself.

I want to sit Potter down and choke on him while he tells me what's got him so lost.

The thought makes me want to wank and spit at the same time.

'Malfoy,' he says, breathless, eyes still closed.

'I need to lie down, I'm sorry. I don't feel… well. Just give me half an hour.'

I transfigure the couch to a bed and give Potter some blankets, wordlessly.

He's a fucking pussy.

There's not an ounce of Gryffindor bravery in there, I know it.

I don't fool anyone when I, after he's asleep in fifteen minutes, slide in next to him and fall into him.

We stay like that for less than five minutes, and Potter's up.

He tells me absently that he never sleep for over an hour at a time.

I don't respond.

He takes off his trousers and I scoff at him. I tell him he's pathetic, and when he agrees, just like that, just an absent nod while he stares off somewhere, I know he isn't alright. And I don't have an idea to what I'm supposed to do.

So I inspect his body. Lean, taut muscles everywhere- Auror Potter, Head Auror Potter- and scars. So many. All white, all healed but not vanished. There are old spells that did this- healed wounds but left scars. I'm sure Potter can wandlessly make these disappear.

His left arm, especially, is full of them.

I'm sure he covers them in public.

'Fuck me , Potter.'

'What do you need?' he asks me, and I need to know what he's been doing to himself, but I am indecent and indifferent, and I tell myself that till I manage to say, 'You.'