* How's Your Favorite Muggle? * (pepper__impps) wrote,
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pepper__impps

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The Opposite of Sex

Title: The Opposite of Sex
Chapter One: The Loss/Misuse/Treatment of His Sperm
Rating: NC-17 (cause it could get nasty)
Summary: Draco wants the opposite of sex. He just doesn't know it.

He felt the last of the tender hot spurts gently rock their pelvises and he crushed his primal urge to groan (crushed, like under the heel of his boot 'crushed') because he could not allow Granger to think that she'd beat him, just as she would never know that for the third time that evening a number silently entered his mind, this one a digit higher than the one before it and the one before which followed suit.

' -- One Hundred Sixty-Three.



*******


The Fourty-Eighth Wednesday.


' -- One Hundred Sixty-Two.'

Fuck.


He promised himself he'd stop, that even in his own head it sounded silly and disgustingly girlish and nothing he'd ever admit to if somehow cornered and confronted.

Ever.

But then the slick-firm walls of Granger came crashing beautifully down around him, all resolve (if he'd ever had any) went out the fucking window and his mind turned over like the slow precision click! of a digital clock turning over a fresh new hour.

But it was never anything about time that he was calculating so shrewdly in his mind. It was --

"Fuck, Granger," he growled softly, deciding that this was safe to utter, as it wasn't exactly the most eloquent of statements and could just as easily be misconstrued as a complaint. Except the look on his face -- which, of course, he could not see -- belied his post-coital surliness.

He quickly clamped his hands to her small, boyish hips, firmly anchoring her down. She always liked to move right after, right away, as if the speed in her suddenly imposed distance might undue the horrific fact that she'd just gotten done expertly gnashing her girls parts all over his guy parts.

But he liked for her to be still, needed her to because, well, he wasn't quite finished. Whatever the appeal of watching his cum cool on some girl's stomach or dribble down her chin, it was lost on Draco. He always felt highly and completely indignant about the loss/misuse/treatment of his sperm. There went millions of tiny possible heirs, sons no doubt, all who would have been devestatingly handsome. No, it was better this way, just as nature intended.

He felt the last of the tender hot spurts gently rock their pelvises and he crushed his primal urge to groan (crushed, like under the heel of his boot 'crushed') because he could not allow Granger to think that she'd beat him, just as she would never know that for the third time that evening a number silently entered his mind, this one a digit higher than the one before it and the one before that followed suit.

' -- One Hundred Sixty-Three.'


*******


Muggle London.

He absolutely detested it, with its garish buildings and overcrowding and, well, Muggles.

And he was getting that good old creepy "fish bowl" feeling that only came with leaving the comfort zone of Quidditch pitches and Apparating. Low muted conversation buzzed all around him like whispery accusations. He began a cool dismissive inspection of the low rent eatery, his upper lip slowly beginning to curl...

His gaze stopped dead in its tracks at two very brown and very fierce eyes glaring at him over the top of a battered menu.

He suppressed the irritable scowl lurking just below the surface of his smooth expression.

What the fuck, mate? Letting ole Mudblood call the shots now, are you? Soon she'll be leading you around by the nose and picking out your cloaks for you. I'm warning you, my friend, get out of this slowly and with your wand drawn and don't even think of turning your back on her. This cunt's gonna be the end of you.

He snorted out loud at this, rewarded with a very wary smile from a serving girl slowing down at their table, her pen and paper already jutted forward as if readied to start begging for spare change. He had a mind to leave her one of Granger's ugly copper-plated coins and a note advising her to find a better occupation.

The moist pink tip of Granger's tongue peeked between her soft bow shaped mouth, her brow furrowed heavily as she pondered, then debated the merits of the roast and potatoes versus the French onion soup and salad with the mousy waitress. Draco would have no part in digesting food -- however enticing the smell -- conjured by Muggles and from questionable sources, thank you very much. That, and he always found the list wanting and incredibly boring.

Where was the dullard's stew? Why was there no pumpkin juice? He knew there was no point in asking these things or using the loud and petulant tone he'd used when he and Granger braved their first post-poke outting. He was also on to her and her sharply pointed boots. This was how she'd kept Weasley in line. He was sure of it.

The waitress hesistantly pulled away with Granger's menu, throwing Draco a look as if certain he would change his mind the minute she made a break for the kitchen. But she was new so he tried not to be too much of an asshole when flashed her his patented dismissive 'Thanks, you've been a doll' smile. Not too bad. Her trembling lower lip quirked into a kind of attractive grin, her cheeks flushing rapidly.

Mm, too much. Draco dialed down his smile, allowing her to break contact first so as to be the one to bring an end to the things.

See, not such an incredible asshole.

He watched her flit off with Granger's order, her shoulders most definitely straighter than they had been before, her head tipped upwards. He felt Granger's quiet, laughing eyes on him, though when he turned to confront her, she was shuffling through papers with a busy quill.

To know Granger was to hate her overwhelming wholesomeness, to be utterly and completely turned off by the matronly prudishness she wore more proudly than a Prefect badge.

To watch her work was...intriguing. There was something solemn and fascinating in the way she could completely shut out the world and bury her mildly bushy head behind a thick, molding tome; how her hands would hover over the surface of a frail piece of parchment as if afraid it might crumble beneath her fingertips. Her brows alternately arched and smoothed and dipped, her mouth pursing and relaxing, but all the while there was the unbreakable silence. Silence. She never spoke until she was finished.

And to fuck her, well -- he'd once attempted to expound on this with a stream of inane banter running through his head as he tried to keep his thoughts off the mind-numbing service she was giving his prick. He'd gotten as far as -- shit, he couldn't quite remember how far his musings had gotten him. He did, however, manage to come up with a limerick which he found quite catchy:

'There once was a Gryffindor witch
Whom I always considered a bitch
She used to darn socks
But now she blows cocks
And gives mine a quite lovely twitch.'


He snickered, soliciting a very dark and penetrating look from Granger, one which promised absolute pain. Glorious amounts of it.

He became acutely aware of a chilling feeling that felt like it was leaking from his brain and sliding down the sides of his face in thick cold gloops, oozing into his collar, raising every goosebump on his body. He suddenly recognized with a certain dull panic the symptoms of a psychic breech and quickly sealed the tiny fissure she'd slyly been chipping along the stony surface of his mind.

Prying spying little bitch.

"My darling Mudblood," Draco drawled in his oiliest of tones. "Didn't anyone ever teach you it's rude to practice Legilimency at the table?"

Her soft pouty mouth slipped open, betraying her.

His words sliced back the thick tangle of her brain with the precision of a scapel. He could see her, at least ten years younger than the woman now sitting across from her once sworn enemy, the heels of her feet digging into the seat of a worn wicker chair as she balanced a yellow mildewed book on one scraped knee and a bowl of Muggle cereal on the other. A faint muttering rose up in the balmy summer heat of the kitchen. He heard the words porta and mens.

"Snape could've shown you a thing or two about Occlumency. Too bad you were hell-bent on being such a goddamned know-it-all."

He gave a very lazy shrug to the pure look of mortification that was contorting her face.

The server returned, intruding deftly with the dart of her arm between them, delivering a familiar dish which Granger seemed incapable of escaping: a pungent tuna salad sandwich and two quivering slivers of pickles.

"Can I get you anything else?"

The girl was suddenly pert, her floppy sunburnt hair now pulled back with a twist. She was asking Granger but leaning into Draco, smiling at him with lips that were newly wet and shiny. And predatory.

"No. Thank you. That'll be all." Granger's tone was as crisp, neat and polite as most everything else about her ('most' because her hair was still something of an abomination to him).

The girl quickly cut out without so much as a backward glance.

Poor Granger. Always putting up such a front, even when telling someone off. He knew that she was pratically seething beneath all that cool that a bigger pair of tits had nearly being mashed right in his face -- not that he didn't think much of Granger's tits. They were small and full and he imagined they'd probably fit perfectly in a tea cup. And no matter how stoic her expression, the ruby colored flesh pebbled instantly under the slightest bit of tongue and nip of his teeth.

She seriously underestimated men's fascination with pussy, boobs and ass -- all things markedly female and therefore worthy of male idolatry. If she'd realize the mystery that her own hips held; the power in the dip of her navel, that primly crossing her legs only made him visualize how far they went up, she'd probably stop doing a lot of things. Like immediately bundling every square inch of sheet and blanket around herself and scurrying into the bathroom after they'd fucked. Or padding her bra.

While he was throughly disgusted to sit there and watch her ingest her offensive sandwich, he did so patiently because he knew it was the mark of the end of their Thursday evening rendezvous, and despite her poor taste in restaurants, he was actually not in such a rush leave. The tangy sting of mayo and what smelled like eggs gone three days past bad whipped his nose, causing him to close his eyes. Still, he'd kiss her, even with his stomach churning. He wouldn't let a little thing like a fish-slickened tongue deter him from his mission. And he imagined even then that her reeking mouth had to taste better than Millicent Bulstrode's twat --

Thursday.

Which was tomorrow and not today, according to the earlier time stamp on his validated Thestral racing card.

"It's only Wednesday, Granger," he groused suddenly, completely thrown off tilt by this revelation. "What gives?"

This slowed her chewing, a limp piece of lettuce caught in the corner of her mouth. She neatly tucked it in with the tip of her finger. Swallowed.

"Busy on Thursday," she answered with a nonchalance he didn't like.

"Busy how?"

She gave him a casual flick of her eyes. "Busy busy."

No, sir, he didn't like it. She was pulling some kind of move on him -- or had actually already pulled it -- and his dick had only been too excited to compute that when she Apparated into the flat, it was indeed not Thursday, though it was their usually prescribed meeting time. No. He'd been too busy squeezing those neat little tits of hers through her crisp white shirt while he plugged her on top of the desk. And he most certainly didn't allow suspicion to creep into his head later, when she was rolling her clit all over him in the bed.

Even now she was besting him. He'd gotten too caught up in analyzing how much tighter her gash was than Pansy's to be properly pissed off.

"Why suddenly so busy this Thursday? Or do you not care that you're ruining a perfect attendance record?"

He hadn't meant to sound sulky. He wanted to seem as cool and unaffected as she was, like he was much too busy to obesess over a silly thing like rather he got sex on Wednesday or Thursday. And hadn't he heard Wednesday being referred to as "hump day"? So he supposed it was appropriate. More appropriate, perhaps, but still --

She was no longer chewing or swallowing, just staring at him in a dumb kind of amazement. "You...counted? Don't tell me you've actually -- "

He waved her off irritably, now feeling that bit of righteous anger. "Don't change the subject. What's going on that you can't be bothered to tell me? You know I'll find out -- sooner or later."

He had meant to sound menacing just then, but regretted it as soon as he heard --

"Harry," she murmured quietly. "The Ministry's beginning work on the memorial for Harry."

Fourty-seven weeks. Well, fuck him in a green kayak, but it was that time of year again. Time to wring out the wet sobbing masses, virgins and ginger wizards wailing in the streets and throwing themselves all over useless slabs to decorative marble. And speaking of redheaded poofs --

"Weasley?" His nose wrinkled in disdain, already knowing the answer.

Her response was stilted, as if it nearly pained her to say.

"Y-yes. I supposed he'll be there, too."




(The Opposite of Sex I)

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