they say you can work through writer's block by writing a sex scene, but I just ended up with another semi-story idea. so I'm writing this instead of getting my work done.

one - the fourth floor corridor

She's not really sure how it started.

One minute they were arguing, alone, in the middle of the corridor about how of course they were the ones whose schedules were fucked up for nightly patrol. She had been cursing Susan Bones for getting sick snd leaving her to deal with him all night.

He had made a quip about Harry and how he was doing now that Sirius was dead. She snarked back, asking if he'd heard how his father was settling in to Azkaban.

Really, it wasn't like either one was asking to be thrown roughly against the wall and thoroughly snogged …

But suddenly his tongue is in her mouth and her hands are in his hair and her back is pressed against the cold wall and my god … she likes it.

She fucking likes it.

He must fucking like it too, because he kisses her that much harder when her nails scratch down his scalp and sink into the nape of his neck. His hands grip onto her waist like she's the last life preserver from the Titanic and pulls her body flush against him, his thigh slipping between her legs.

She moans briefly, her brain noticing the growing bulge that's deliciously pressed against her stomach and subconsciously deciding, yeah, this is happening.

He sinks his teeth into her bottom lip then smooths the bite mark with the pad of his tongue. She wants to do the same, to assault his mouth like he has hers, but he pulls away, eyes only opening after he hears her head land against the wall with a small thud. He's smug, like usual, but there's more emotion in his expression. He does well to hide it, but she can see it.

She opens her mouth to say something, she's not sure what, but the only thing that comes out is a gasp as his nose skims down the column of her throat. Goosebumps blossom across her chest and arms at the light touch. She can't help grind her hips against his thigh when his lips attach themselves to her collarbone. It's a frenzy of lips, teeth, and tongue, undoubtably leaving a deep purple mark, a mark that could barely be hidden by the collar of her shirt.

His hands, those large hands, move slowly and one cups her arse, encouraging her rutting against his thigh. The other hand rests at the nape of her neck, and he tilts her head back even more so he has access to the pulse point on her neck. Not surprisingly, her pulse is racing, not only noticeable by the rapid rise and fall of her chest, but as her pulse thuds against his mouth. He places open-mouth kisses on the spot on her neck, then sucks lightly.

His actions have reduced her to a moaning, whimpering mess. If they were going to do this, she should be an active participant, not just along for the ride.

She removes one hand from his neck and shakily travels lower and lower until it rests against his own arse. If he notices, he doesn't show it, but a small groan does escape his throat when she pulls his lower half even closer to her's and grinds down rougher.

His mouth returns to hers and he gives her quite possibly the dirtiest, hottest kiss of her life (not that there have been very many), and she melts into him. She moans loudly, her whole body moving against his, and she doesn't stop him when he starts to unbutton her goddamn shirt. She's so wet and she does not want this to stop.

Logically, it should. It shouldn't have even started.

But suddenly, her shirt is off. He's pulls down the cups of her bra and his hands are squeezing her breasts in the same rhythm as their hips are grinding together. She's so turned on, she wouldn't be surprised if she came right then.

Remembering that she has hands too, she reaches down and tugs on his belt until it slips free from his belt loops. She can pull his shirt out from its perfectly tucked-in position and slips her hands under it. Her fingers trace the lines and ridges on his body, causing his own goosebumps. He shudders slightly, and she takes note of that for later.

Later? What —

He latches his mouth on to one of her nipples and she makes an embarrassingly loud noise, thoughts of later forgotten. She can feel his smirk for a moment, and she enjoys the feeling of his tongue circling her nipple and sucking lightly. He looks up at her through his lashes, she dares to look down at him, and she unwittingly realizes that he is an exceptionally beautiful specimen. He's also very sexually talented. He hasn't even touched her, down there, and she's so ready to just … explode. She's aching with need and cannot bring herself to stop this insanity.

She pushes him back a little, and she swears he looks a little disappointed, but she yanks his sweater over his head and they get him out of his shirt quickly. He drops to his knees as she kicks off of her shoes. His hands run up her legs and under her skirt, squeezing her arse.

Spreading her legs, he whispers, "I gonna need some verbal consent, Granger."

Surprised by his statement, and so turned on she can't see straight, she can't seem to form a sentence and merely nods. He chuckles, stripping her of her stockings and panties, but reinforces his need, "Verbally."

The cool air of the castle hits her soaked opening and she inhales sharply. It soothes the throbbing, but only for a moment, and it comes back with a vengeance. She watches through hooded lids as he pushes up the hem of her skirt slowly and takes a deep breath. Her voice still cracks. "I want … you. So bad."

Man, if Harry and Ron knew about this …

He must be thinking the same thing because a smirk graces his face for a moment before he places her on the window ledge. Her skirt is up, her bra is off, and she tries to calmly breathe as she hears his pants come off.

The pants are off.

Good lord, would you look at that.

The last time she did this with someone, she didn't get a good look at the man in all his glory. This time … the only way to describe him is … well-hung. Unconsciously, she licks her lips.

She leans back against the window, which she briefly wonders if it opens because they were on the fourth floor and she would definitely die if she fell out the window (what a interesting way to go though). She doesn't do anything about it though, not when he grips her hips again and pulls her to the edge of the ledge, and certainly not when she feels two of his fingers probe at her pussy lips and push them apart. He swipes his fingers up and down quickly, groaning at how wet she is, and then grabs his dick to line himself up. He looks at her one more time, and she can barely nod her head, the anticipation killing her. He encourages her to wrap her legs around his waist, and then he enters her slowly.

The stretch burns a little, but it's a delightful type of burn. She gasps as he slides in, her hands flying out to hold something as he goes deeper and deeper. One hand grips the ledge while the other is holding on to his shoulder. She struggling to not hurt herself, not coil around him and take him all before she is stretched enough, but goddamn if he doesn't get moving, she will make it happen.

It takes a minute for them to find the perfect rhythm, but once they do, it's all groans and gasps and high-pitched moans and whispers of "please, more" and "oh god". He slides in and out of her with ease, but they both want more, they want it harder, they want it now.

He seems to be holding back, perhaps afraid of hurting her (although that didn't really make much sense as he has never been afraid of hurting her before). He is large, but her juices aide his journey in and out of her, and as they continue to fuck against the window, her legs wrap higher around him and she takes him in farther. They both groan at the feeling, and she's so close. He licks the sweat dripping down her throat and her chest, and her nails dig into him and scratch down his back roughly.

She continues to hold onto his shoulder and squeeze his hips in time with their thrusts, going faster and faster until she's gone.

She doesn't have any sense of time or space or anything as she bucks into him, her orgasm washing over like waves. She's shouting curse words he's never heard come out of her mouth before and her pussy is squeezing his dick like a vice. He smothers her mouth with his own, partly to make sure no one hears them, and also because he just wants to kiss her again. One more time before he comes and this whole thing is over.

He tightens around her and snaps his hips into hers a few more times before he's coming, and it's so good, falling apart, swearing and biting her collarbone.

Their hips stop moving together and she sighs as the final tremors from her orgasm ebb away. He groans, letting his forehead rest against her chest. It's slightly uncomfortable, resting on the ledge and leaning against a window, but neither of them move just yet.

Their legs almost go numb, that's what causes them to stand and clean up. He casts a spell, or maybe two, she isn't paying attention honestly, but for some reason she knows for certain he's helping, preventing … y'know.

They stand there for a moment, looking thoroughly fucked, physically and metaphorically. He shuffles his feet and she attempts to manage her wild hair, but it's useless.

"We probably shouldn't have done that," she whispers, not fully trusting her voice.

He nods and glances at his watch. 12:01. Patrol is over. "Probably not … probably shouldn't do it again either."

She agrees, although a little part of her is disappointed because wow, that was good sex. She is prepared for an insult to be hurled her way, or even a threatening stare, but he just looks at her, eyes roaming over her face.

"For what it's worth … I'm sorry about your father."

He looks at the ground, over to the window ledge where they had just been, then back at her. She wishes she could know what he is thinking. He sighs and nods a little. "Sorry about Sirius Black." She thanks him softly.

They part ways without saying anything else.

For the next two weeks, she waits with bated breath, expecting someone to spread the news that Granger and Malfoy fucked like rabbits on the fourth floor. She half-expects him to spread the gossip himself, but she also knows the repercussions of that information. She is a Mudblood: dirty, horrible, his enemy. He is a Pureblood: superior, perfect, her enemy.

While it would be funny for his friends to hear the story of how he reduced her to whimpers and moans, it wouldn't be good in the long run. She is inferior and allowing himself to touch her was a clear lapse in judgement.

She actively avoids that corridor on the fourth floor, taking the long way to get to her classes. She is having dreams about him, about their tryst, and despite their agreement to never do it again, she aches for him. Therefore, if he is in her proximity, she cannot look at him. She sits in the Great Hall looking away so she does not see the Slytherin Table. She sits in the front of the classroom so she cannot see him. She pretends to focus on a book in the library when he's there.

Sometimes she wonders if he's having the same struggles, but she can't imagine him being this flustered over her — a Mudblood.