I own only my fantasies – and fantasies of Scorpius' fantasies (which I've written as an outtake from Sweet Corruption.)

Later James will ask him, do you cover your mouth to hide your moans as you bring yourself to ecstasy; and he won't know the half of it.

The ghost of a finger burns on his spine. Moonlight creeps on silver feet across stone floors. It slips through his drapes turning beads of sweat to jewels on naked skin. Only his quick breath breaks the silence.

James won't know that Scorpius wakes every night like this, his fists buried under the pillow, his legs spread and his bare flesh aflame.

Scorpius shifts onto his back, treating his full cock like some injury. The duvet tumbles to the floor and cold night air bathes his skin. His head falls back, his hair shivering like moonlight, his lips parted as though in pleasure. Sweat glistens in the hollow of his throat, on the swell of his chest; beads on the ridges of his stomach and the crease of his thigh. Half-memory, half-fantasy James' fingers trace their path. He arches and gasps. He can feel this memory. He can feel it down there and inside of him.

James won't know that Scorpius pulls his drapes aside and takes advantage of the fact James sleeps with his open.

The blonde boy swallows. James' face is turned towards him, smoothed across the pillow, all boyish handsomeness. His lips are parted softly, red-gold lashes resting on his cheeks. He's so damn Gryffindor, with scarlet hair and a strong jaw and his skin gold in the light of his bedside lamp. One hand is curled up by his face, his fingers long and bony; Scorpius thinks he can see a callous shining in the crease between thumb and forefinger. Sometimes Scorpius starts to touch himself as he looks at James. Just his fingertips first, delicately tracing the contours of his chest or the jut of a hip. Then the flat of his palm; splayed over his abdomen and slipping between his thighs. He closes the drapes at that point, rolls over and pushes up on to his knees.

James doesn't know of the long moments Scorpius spends like this, fingertips gliding over thighs and buttocks.

His hands smooth down his back, thumb reaching for hip bones, fingers for his spine. Like a dance, well-practiced yet never completed, one hand glides back over his wrist as the other slips past where his back splits in two. Smooth skin turns soft and downy, hard muscles to delicate indents. His breath slides past the trembling of his lips. He remembers the way James pushed into him, the depth he dominated and the size of him, so Scorpius felt he was more James than himself. Goose-flesh flourishes over his skin and the boy's brow is marred by the creases of determination. The hand that holds his wrists like it's another's and not his own flits round and grips. In moments his fingers are draped with threads of pearls. He asks himself this: since when did he ever deny himself pleasure?

This is what James does know: Scorpius has to cover his mouth to smother his moans.

Scorpius grits his teeth. It burns like the lick of a flame but not even half as good as James had. He admires the feel, with arrogance only Malfoy's can achieve. It's no wonder James was so lost inside him, he thinks to himself. Hard muscles to delicate indents to hard muscles and flames have turned to the fires of hell. One finger suffices. James had not simply sufficed.

James won't know that the moment he brushes that part inside of him he whines his name. "James…"

So, he hadn't imagined it then. It does feel good. And he fucking likes it. He desperately grasps for something to fuel his fantasies – the curve of a breast, red lips and long dark hair. But black bursts into scarlet, lips turn petal pink and wide and its muscles that he imagines that he sees. Above him the swell of a chest; around him the bulge of a bicep, against him the lean length of his thighs. Then, when he looks down, he sees James' eyes blinking back at him. Hazel, with his sweeping lashes; his cheeks flushed pink, his tongue wet and greedy. Oh, this is ridiculous. He imagines James' palms on his knees, spreading him wide, and his heated grin as he shoves into him. He imagines the head board creaking under his grip, then slamming into the wall as James takes him from behind. He imagines sitting astride his hips, pushing back onto James' cock, with fingers gripping his hips to keep him from entirely losing control. That was James' fantasy, whispered to him breathless. You, sinking onto my cock, swallowing every inch and fucking loving it.

James half knows this: Scorpius tumbles forward onto the bed; he takes a mouthful of his pillow and he muffles his moans of ecstasy.

His arm, bent awkwardly behind his back, pushes. He groans and his back arcs upwards, then curves under. He tries a knee, pulled up by his chest, he tries squeezing his thighs together, he tries to buck and writhe but he needs something more. He has the pleasure, now he needs pain. He wants to know James (the memory of James) is inside him. He has to know his insistence, his uncontrollable desire and the rawness of his lust. The power of him leaving Scorpius bruised, the strength of him leaving Scorpius aching.

James won't know that he shoves a third finger into himself just so it can hurt. His final cry, if someone had heard, sounds more like a sob.

Scorpius finishes panting and streaked with sweat; he tugs his hand back and the cold night air feels horribly like reality as it cools his feverish skin.
James won't know the best part – for Scorpius it's the worst part. He wants more.

Hey guys! I'm back home after an amazing summer travelling while these bad boys were floating around my head and i had nowhere to write down their adventures! So I've tried to write something – which is essentially Scorpius finger fucking himself – and make it not M rated. (It didn't work). Yeah so it's a different style of writing (a little bit try hard) but I'd be super grateful if you let me know what you think!