A/N: Written for Cheeky's Weekly Drabble Challenge with the pairing BlaiseScorpius and the prompts yellow, sky and tree.
I have no shame. (Okay, maybe a little shame.)
Warning for language and smut (semi-smut?).
He's like watching the clock go back, like falling out of now and right back into then; he is Draco Malfoy all over again and he knows it.
"You want me," he smirks, and that fucking smirk, you are sixteen years old again and Draco has your wrists tied to the bedpost, his mouth on your neck, and you can feel that smirk, burning your skin.
That fucking smirk.
"You're a slut, Malfoy," you spit, because he is. He's a seventeen-year-old walking sex machine, dragging boys and girls and men and women to bed and wearing their love bites like trophies on his skin. He doesn't care who or how or why, just when and where because he's desperate for the touch of strangers, for acceptance. The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.
"Like father, like son, eh, Blaise?" His breath is hot on your cheek, burning your skin in that way only he could – Draco Draco Draco – and you see that he is a blurred mockery of the images burnt into the backs of your eyelids. He is white, white skin, bright yellow hair, sky-grey eyes and a smile like a doll's, all painted and pretty and painful to behold.
Scorpius Malfoy is not the man you want.
But he is the man you take to bed that night.
(this night that night every other night merlin save me)
He is the man you let touch you like no other before him – because Draco Draco he is Draco – the man you let love you like no other ever could.
"Draco," you moan, and bite down on his shoulder. "Draco."
"Shut up, Zabini," he growls, and tightens his palm around your throat, his nails burrowing deep into your skin, until you cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot do anything but feel and he's fucking you harder and harder and harder and –
And stars and moans and tender, tender kisses, and this isn't right and it never will be and oh, Scorpius.
"Like father, like son, eh, Blaise?" he says again, rolling from the bed. He laughs, pulls your shirt on over his head. He lights a cigarette, perches on the edge of your bed and lets the smoke billow from his lips.
"Yeah," you breathe. "Both fucking pricks."
He smirks again. "And you love it, you bastard."
(I hate him I hate you I love him I love you)
You roll over to find sleep, but you know it will never come with your ex-lover's son, your lover, your tormentor, sharing your bed.
"Goodnight, Scorpius."
"Goodnight, sweetheart," he says, and it sounds like fuck you, too.
You sigh softly.
It always has.