Archive of Our Own ^beta

The library smelled like dust balls and spilled coffee. Draco Malfoy traced a finger along the spine of a battered poetry anthology, pretending he hadn't noticed Ron Weasley glaring from the philosophy section.

Ron slammed a heavy tome onto the reading table. "Didn't take you for a book club type, Malfoy." His voice carried too loud for the quiet room.

Draco didn't glance up. "Didn't think you could pick a book without Granger’s help"

Their elbows brushed reaching for the same copy of *Magical Metaphors in Modern Lyricism*. Ron snatched it first, knuckles white. "Still a prick, then."

Draco's smile stayed cold, but his eyes dropped to Ron's throat. "Jealousy's an ugly color on you. Though that shirt's doing its best."

At the next meeting, Ron arrived late. Draco watched him fumble with his chair, cheeks flushed from running.

When discussion turned to erotic symbolism in elf liberation manifestos, Draco leaned close enough to smell cheap soap and sweat.

"Bit out of your depth, Weasley?"

Ron's knee bumped his under the table. Didn't pull away. "Sod off," he muttered, thumb rubbing circles on his own thigh.

Draco's tongue touched his lower lip.

Rain lashed the windows as others packed up. Ron lingered by the restricted section.Draco cornered him between stacks on defensive charms and goblin wars. 

"Still pretending you're here for literature?" Ron's breath hitched when Draco palmed the bookshelf beside his head.

"Piss off, Malfoy."

Draco's laugh was a low scrape. "That's not what your eyes say." He watched Ron's gaze dart to his mouth. "Go on. Ask."

Silence thickened. Shelves pressed close. Ron's fingers curled into fists. "Why do you keep—"

"Because you look at me like you want to devour me." Draco stepped closer. Their shoes touched. "And I'm bored."

Ron shoved him hard against the opposite shelf. Ancient texts rattled. "You don't know anything."

His hand fisted in Draco's shirt. Chests collided.

Draco gripped Ron's hip. "Show me, then."

Teeth clashed. Not a kiss—a collision. Ron tasted like rage. Draco bit his lower lip until Ron groaned. Hands clawed at belts.

Outside, thunder cracked.

Ron shoved Draco deeper into the shadows between the shelves, fingers clumsy and frantic on his belt buckle. 

Draco caught Ron’s wrist, nails digging into freckled skin. "Patience," he hissed, but Ron only growled, yanking Draco’s trousers down past his hips. 

The cold air of the library bit Draco’s skin, but Ron’s palm was hot and rough as it closed around him. 

Draco arched into the touch, a sharp gasp escaping him—half pain, half relief. Ron’s thumb swiped over the head, smearing precome, and Draco’s knees almost buckled. "Always knew you’d be desperate," Draco taunted, voice ragged. "All that pent-up… rage."

Ron dropped to his knees. His eyes burned—not with hatred now, but something hotter, darker. He didn’t hesitate. He took Draco deep, throat working, lips stretched tight. 

Draco tangled a hand in that infernal red hair, forcing him down harder. Ron choked, tears springing to his eyes, but his tongue pressed flat against the underside, relentless. 

Draco watched the rain streak the window behind Ron’s bent head, watched the lightning flash in his wet eyes. "Look at you," Draco breathed. "Perfect little whore."

Then Ron shifted lower. His mouth closed over Draco’s balls—hot, wet suction—and Draco hissed, spine slamming against the bookshelf. Ron sucked hard, tongue circling the sensitive skin, teeth grazing just enough to make Draco shudder. 

He pushed Draco backward until his hips hit the edge of a heavy oak study table. Books cascaded to the floor. 

Ron didn’t stop. He shoved Draco flat onto the scarred wood, cold against Draco’s bare back. Knees hooked over Ron’s shoulders, Draco was spread open, exposed. 

Ron’s spit-slicked finger pressed against his entrance—no warning, just pressure. Draco gasped, arching. "Fucking—Weasley—"

Ron buried his face between Draco’s thighs. His tongue stabbed in—rough, demanding—as his finger pushed deeper. Draco’s hips jerked off the table. Ron pinned him down with a forearm across his stomach, tongue working in cruel, rhythmic thrusts. 

Draco’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the table edge. Every lick, every curl of Ron’s tongue inside him, was a violation, a surrender. 

Ron pulled back just enough to bite the inside of Draco’s thigh, hard enough to bruise. "Louder," Ron growled against his skin. "You wanted this. Who else do you let fuck you like this. Do you scream for them too?"

Draco’s laugh was breathless, sharp. "Jealous, Weasley?" He tangled his fingers tighter in Ron’s hair, pulling him back where he needed him. "Maybe I like them desperate. Like you." 

Ron’s answering snarl vibrated against him. He shoved another finger in, stretching him wider. 

Draco gasped, back arching. "Fuck—" Ron’s tongue followed, relentless, wet and hot. Draco’s thighs trembled. The library air smelled of old parchment, rain, and sweat—and Ron, all cheap soap and want. Draco’s head thumped against the table. 

He didn’t care about the scattered books, the thunder outside. Only the scrape of Ron’s stubble against his inner thigh, the filthy, slick sounds between his legs.

Ron dragged Draco closer to the edge, hips tilting him up. His tongue lapped broad strokes before plunging deep again. Draco’s cock lay hard against his stomach, leaking. He didn’t touch it. Couldn’t. Ron owned every gasp now. 

"Still bored?" Ron rasped, lifting his head. His lips glistened. Draco’s hole clenched around nothing, aching. Ron’s thumb rubbed slow circles around the rim. "Or did I ruin you enough?" Draco hissed, bucking against the teasing touch.

Ron’s eyes were dark, triumphant. "Beg," he said, low and dangerous. "Beg for my tongue. My fingers. Anything."

Draco’s voice was raw silk. "You’d love that, wouldn’t you?" He hooked a leg around Ron’s waist, pulling him in. "But you’re the one kneeling." 

Ron’s hand tightened on his hip. Draco smiled, cold and sharp. "Go on. Finish what you started." 

Lightning flashed, illuminating Ron’s flushed face, the hunger there. He didn’t hesitate. He dove back in, tongue fucking Draco with brutal precision. 

Draco’s fingers scrabbled at the table. Close. So close. Ron’s fingers curled inside him, finding that spot— Draco cried out, the sound swallowed by thunder. 

Ron didn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Not until Draco shattered.

"Beg," Ron growled against his skin, the vibration making Draco’s thighs shake. "Say it." Draco’s pride warred with the desperate need coiling in his gut. Ron’s tongue flickered, cruel and perfect. 

Draco gasped. "Please—" The word tore from him. 

Ron paused, lifting his head. His gaze was molten. "Louder." 

Draco’s hips arched off the table. "Please, Weasley. Your tongue—now." 

A satisfied smirk touched Ron’s lips. "Who do you want?"

Draco’s eyes squeezed shut. "You." Ron’s tongue plunged deep again. "Only you," Draco gasped, the admission ripped from him. "Only ever—*you*—" The words broke as Ron’s fingers twisted inside him, his mouth hot and demanding.

The orgasm ripped through Draco like Fiendfyre. He arched violently, a choked scream tearing from his throat as he came untouched, ropes of white painting his stomach. 

Ron watched, transfixed, his own hips grinding helplessly against Draco’s leg. A low groan escaped him—shocked, involuntary—as his trousers darkened, wetness spreading across the front. He froze, mortification flooding his face crimson. 

"Fuck," he breathed, scrambling back, eyes wide with horror. He stared down at the damp stain, shame twisting his features.

Draco slid off the table, knees hitting the floorboards with a soft thud. He caught Ron’s trembling wrist before he could flee. "Look at me," Draco commanded, voice rough but strangely soft. 

Ron’s gaze flickered down, miserable. Draco’s fingers traced the wet patch, then lifted to Ron’s chin, forcing his eyes up. "This," Draco murmured, leaning close. "Is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen." 

He lowered his head, tongue flicking out—slow, deliberate—tasting the damp fabric. Ron shuddered, a choked gasp escaping him. 

Draco’s lips curved against the stain. "You came untouched," he breathed, the words hot against Ron’s trousers. "Just watching me." He licked again, a long, slow stripe. "Pathetic." Ron whimpered. "Perfect." Draco looked up, grey eyes blazing. "Mine."

The library door creaked open. Footsteps echoed—Madam Pince’s sharp heels on stone. Ron froze, panic flashing across his face. 

Draco shoved him backward into the shadows of the restricted section, pressing him flat against a shelf of cursed grimoires. "Quiet," Draco hissed against his ear. 

They stood chest-to-chest, breathing ragged, as Pince’s lamp swept the aisle beside them. Dust motes danced in the beam. 

Draco’s thumb rubbed circles on Ron’s hipbone through the damp fabric. Ron’s pulse hammered against Draco’s palm where it rested against his throat. 

The lamp paused.

Draco’s lips brushed Ron’s jaw. "Tell me," he whispered, barely audible. "Tell me how much you wanted me to touch you." Ron’s eyes squeezed shut. "Please," he breathed. 

The lamp moved on.

When silence returned, Draco pulled back slightly. 

His gaze dropped to Ron’s mouth, swollen and wet. "You’re filthy," Draco murmured, tracing Ron’s lower lip with his thumb. Ron flinched, shame returning. Draco caught his chin again. "No." His voice hardened. "Own it." 

He pressed his thumb into Ron’s mouth, forcing it open. "Suck." Ron hesitated, eyes wide. Then he obeyed, tongue swirling around the digit, cheeks hollowing. Draco watched, rapt, as Ron’s eyes darkened with renewed hunger. "Good," Draco praised, low and dangerous. 

He withdrew his thumb, slick with spit. "Now clean me."

He guided Ron’s head down, pressing his face against the sticky mess on Draco’s stomach. Ron groaned, low and desperate, and began to lick.

Outside, the storm raged. Inside, Draco tangled his fingers in fiery hair as Ron’s tongue moved over his skin—hot, reverent, claiming. 

Draco tilted his head back against the bookshelf, eyes closing. The taste of Ron’s humiliation, his surrender, was sweeter than any victory. 

When Ron looked up, mouth glistening, Draco hauled him to his feet. Their mouths crashed together—no collision this time, but a slow, deep claiming. Ron’s hands clutched Draco’s hips, pulling him closer. 

Draco broke the kiss, breathless. "Next Thursday," he murmured against Ron’s lips. "My manor’s library. Bring the elf liberation manifesto." He stepped back, adjusting his trousers.

Ron stared, flushed and disheveled. "Why?" The word cracked.

Draco smoothed Ron’s rumpled collar. "Because I want you in silk sheets, not dust." He traced the damp stain on Ron’s trousers. "And I want to watch you ruin them again." Ron shuddered. Draco turned to leave.

"Wait." Ron grabbed his wrist. "What if—" He swallowed. 

Draco’s eyes locked on his. "Just so we are both absolutely clear," he murmured, stepping back into Ron’s space. He traced Ron’s bottom lip, his gaze tracking the movement. "I’m yours." He ghosted his mouth against Ron’s, breath mingling. "And you are mine." The kiss was soft, possessive. Ron whimpered into it.

The library door clicked shut behind him. Ron stood alone, breathing in the scent of sex and old paper. He touched his lips. Still wet.