A/N: As you have probably noticed, this is NOT my usual line of work. I don't do Dramione, and I don't do Drapple, but HogwartsKids on Twitter suggested that someone give it a go, and it sounded like an interesting challenge. This is a one-shot for now. If I get twenty reviews, I will write more. High goal, I know, but this is incredibly out of my comfort zone and I'm writing this at one in the morning. Cheers.
Their secret love was almost too much for him sometimes, reminding himself as he passed her in the corridor or watched her bob up and down in that swotty way in her chair in class – arm raised rigidly like his own appendage – of all the reasons their love was forbidden. She was a Mudblood. He was a pureblood. She was the best friend of Saint Potter. He was the offspring of Death Eaters. She would join the side of Potter and Dumbledore someday. He would bind himself to the Dark Lord, whenever that day came. They both knew these things. But they were all forgotten when they met in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom for their midnight trysts.
Blaise Zabini knew, of course, that something was wrong with Draco, that he was keeping secrets, but all he had said was not to let some silly girl, whoever she was, cloud his judgment. After all, what did Draco know about love at fourteen?
But Romeo and Juliet were fourteen, and they knew more about forbidden love than anyone. Said Hermione. Draco really didn't know who they were, but she mentioned them a lot when they bothered to talk. Mostly, they snogged and shagged. Words weren't really needed for those sorts of expressions and conversations.
Draco was incredibly happy with her. She made his heart light and fluttery, made him unravel with just a single look from those caramel eyes. And yet, he had known from the start that there was something missing in their love, he just couldn't place a finger on what it was. Everything between them had become so rehearsed, so clinical, even after two months of shagging like bunnies at every available opportunity. And her stupid friends thought she was in the library. HA.
And then, it happened. Draco hadn't wanted it to happen. He had just been leaving lunch, just as he always had, when a loan apple in a bowl at the end of the Slytherin table caught his eye. It was green, lush, perfect. The roundness was almost better than the swell of Hermione's breast, the color more appealing than the caramel of her eyes, and the scent… oh, he could almost taste it already.
Carefully looking around to make sure no one –especially not his beloved – was watching, he snatched up the apple and hid it away in his pocket, caressing it as he went, enjoying the feel of the silky skin under his fingertips. Forgetting all about his scheduled rendezvous with Hermione, he snuck back to his dormitory and lay on his bed, setting the apple before him, examining it more closely in this intimate, secluded setting.
There was not a blemish. Even magical apples had the occasional bruise from being bumped around by a pack of overzealous first-years. This apple had none. It was untarnished, unblemished, untouched, and yet, it seemed to ache to be touched, to be ripped into, to share its flesh with one who fully desired it. Oh to be desired so fully, to desire so fully… and Draco desired this apple so fully.
But it was so small, he realized. If he were to simply give into his lusts and have his way with the apple, it would be gone in a flash. He gently caressed its silky swell. If he were to savor it… not gently. No, never that, but perhaps, at length? To make love truly to this apple… not to simply take it in haste. That would be the key. No simple one-night stand would this be.
Class was coming soon… but he so desired that apple… Perhaps just a taste, a kiss, a tiny bit of foreplay for the wild excitement that was to come. To come…
Moving the fragrant, precious apple to his lips, he inhaled deeply, intoxicated by the scent. If someone were to catch him now, in this moment on which everything depended, his entire affair would surely be called to a swift end. He was lucky. No one entered and they retained their solitude.
Parting his lips ever-so-slightly, Draco ran them along the silky skin of his amazing apple. It felt like heaven, like satin, like he was ready to orgasm then and there. He restrained himself, however, allowing himself to merely run his tongue languidly across the surface, his hot breath causing a mass of condensation along the green satin. Unable to contain his lust, he let out a slow, hungry moan, grazing the skin with his teeth, skinning a small portion of the apple and causing a bit of its precious juices, its lifeblood, to escape the thin barrier and dribble into his mouth.
It tasted absolutely divine. He could feel his throbbing member harden, his face flush, his breath quicken. The erotic act he had just committed, this was what was missing in his relationship with Hermione. She would not allow him to scratch, bite, or taste her at all. Her juices were vanished before he ever had the chance to sneak a tiny taste. She was far too good of a witch for her own good, and the erotic dirtiness of the act Draco so longed to commit did not thrill her as it did him. She abhorred such things.
Until now, he had accepted this as a part of their love, a sacrifice for the good things in their forbidden romance. Now, however, he had tasted, he had scratched, he had bitten. There was no turning back anymore. With Hermione, he could never do such things, but if he couldn't get them with her, he could get them elsewhere, even if he would have to settle for less perfect apples in the future.
All through class, Draco had a hard-on, but it was not for eyeing his swotty mistress. Indeed, he did not look at her once. Instead, his hand went in and out of his pocket, massaging the wound he had made on his new lover and discretely bringing the wonderful taste to his lips, sucking his fingers in a way he hoped looked thoughtful and not orgasmic.
It was a Tuesday, he thought to himself at dinner, wondering when he would be able to commit his sinful act with his new lover. He and Hermione never met up on Tuesdays. It would be safe to use Moaning Myrtle's loo for his love-making. No one else would dare go in.
If he had been meeting Hermione, he would have left his dormitory at a quarter to midnight, but for his apple he could not wait. He left at eleven sharp. The bathroom was empty, even of Myrtle, which was indeed a blessing. He wanted no witnesses to the dirty, naughty, deliciously nasty things he was about to do with that apple.
At first, he taunted and teased the apple, caressing it with his fingers and tongue as he had done that afternoon, but he grew so hot that before he knew it he had stripped off all of his clothes, and now he and his apple were both in nothing but their needy skin. Carefully broadening the wound he had made earlier, drawing out more juices, he rubbed them greedily on his nipples, which grew harder than diamonds at the sensation. He moaned deeply, throwing his head back and closing his eyes.
Then he opened them as he ran the apple down his skin, watching the act in the mirror. The green against his pale flesh was beautiful, the perfect mating of the perfect Slytherin pair. Perhaps this was why the apple was such a perfect mate: it was Slytherin, taking his abuse, taking his pleasure, and giving abuse and pleasure in its own way in return. Hermione could never be like that. She truly was a Gryffindor and respected herself too much to let him abuse her. But he needed to abuse, to be pleasured by abuse and bring pleasure through it. Only he and the apple could truly understand the importance of this in their union.
The apple had reached his sex, circling the hard organ, teasing it with its silky texture and cool touch. His whimper could not be withheld, and there was nothing to withhold from the apple. It knew him. It knew his very soul in a way only an apple could. Draco might have been ashamed at himself at how little time he lasted, but he was too enamored, too enthralled, with the way the apple caught every last drop of his seed to possibly care how long it had been. In his mind, every second was an eternity, and yet everything seemed to be happening in one fleeting second, too quick to grasp.
Hungrily, he lifted the apple to his mouth, admiring the coarse texture of its flesh against his slimy seed. He bit, savoring how his bitter seed coated the already-bitter apple. It was delicious. It was glorious. As much as he had sworn he would make slow love to this divine piece of fruit, Draco could not help himself. In a quick, though sensual way, Draco devoured all the seed and flesh, down to the very core. Then, an idea, a wild, crazy, erotic idea, came to him as he examined the perfectly formed core.
He had put his seed in the apple, why could the apple not put its seed in him?
Never before had the thought of being penetrated appealed to him, nor even occurred to him, but in that moment, it seemed the only logical thing to do. Using his wand to cover the core with an oily lube he used with Hermione (that girl never got wet enough for him), bracing himself for the onslaught of pain, Draco carefully pressed one end of the stemless core to his virgin hole, recalling to mind the exquisite taste of the apple as he forced the core in with one fell thrust.
It was no use. He cried out in pain. His system had been temporarily shocked. However, knowing what he must do, he began to methodically thrust the core in and out until the pain turned to pleasure, only vaguely aware that his own blood was helping to lubricate the process. His cock was hardening, and he used one hand to thrust the core, the other to play with himself, moaning and sighing contentedly. A seed dislodged inside of him.
"Oh, yes," he moaned, his cock twitching at the sensation. "Spill that seed. Fill me. Oh, yes."
His eyes were closed once more in ecstasy. If they had remained open, he would have seen in the mirror that he was no longer alone, but at that moment it never occurred to him to remain on alert. All logical thought was hazy and unimportant. He felt amazing.
"Oh, goblins, yes," he sighed, "that's it. You're such a good apple, aren't you? Taking my abuse as I use you, disfigure you, deplete you. And then you give me such pleasure, don't you, love? All for me, it's all for me. You're the most unselfish lover. But I love you too much to leave you unsatisfied…"
He cried as two more seeds dislodged inside of him and a squirt of his own seed began to trickle down to the bathroom floor. He wasn't alive anymore. He had died and gone to heaven. This was surely the most blissful thing…
The voice was tearful, hurt, and coming from being him. He withdrew the bloody apple core, though continued to wank as he opened his eyes in shock and looked in the mirror.
Hermione was standing there, eyes full of anguished tears, her beautiful caramel eyes… She had seen… how much? What did she know? Everything? Clearly something, or she would not be crying.
"How could you?" she hissed. "With an apple, of all things, Draco. How could you do this to me?"
She knew. She knew him well enough that this wasn't just a passing fling, that he was truly cheating on her. She knew that a bit of his heart could never belong to her again. Judging by the tears streaming down her face, she wasn't taking it well.
He wasn't sure what this meant for him, for his love and sex lives, but he knew as she stormed out of the bathroom that one of his loves would be lost to him forever, not sure which it would be, which he wanted it to be. Suddenly, looking down at the bloody apple core in his hand, the reason she had been there dawned on him and his heart shed a tear (he was a Malfoy, after all, and did not cry).
It was their two-monthaversary. They had planned to meet here the month before, even though it was a Tuesday, to celebrate. And he had defiled that sacred day. The bloody apple core fell to the ground and a single tear rolled down the hard surface of his heart.