lalejandra taunted me, and serialkarma got her back.
Spin that perversion wheel!
Los Angeles was a no-go zone for magical law enforcement from every jurisdiction, and that led to a pretty dodgy wizarding community. Draco tended to avoid his own kind as much as he sneered at the muggles. He couldn't be sure who was out to skin him and use his epidermis as a book cover, and escaping Potter and his pack of Mudbloods and muggle-lovers only to fall prey to a wizard from Madagascar looking for a slave boy really wouldn't do at all.
Draco's hatred of muggles was in no way alleviated by his closer inspection of them. He detested California, swarming with indecently clothed and overly familiar muggles. The sunshine burnt his skin. The horrid atmosphere made him gag. His inability to navigate the transit system reduced him to staying within walking distance of his home. Draco fucking hated being an exile, but not as much as going to prison or being dead.
Truth be told, Draco's own prejudices and desires aside, he was hardly in reduced circumstances in California. He possessed two commodities that were prerequisites for a decent life in his unfortunate new home: looks and money. And Draco had more than his fair share of both.
What Draco lacked, however, were certain domestic abilities, such as how to cook or clean or in fact how to perform any sort of washing that did not include his body in a bath. He wore muggle clothes and incendioed them when they got a stain or scourgify wouldn't do the job anymore. He ate out for every meal.
Usually he wandered out of 1636 Fairfax and over to Sunset, watching the deranged muggles going about their useless and boring lives. He sometimes amused himself by cursing them randomly with Jellylegs or with a temporary engorgement charm that made them gain ten pounds. All these muggles were obsessed with their weight; diets were all he heard about when he was forced into their unwashed presence. How common to talk about such personal matters in public. Draco loathed them all.
He often took tea at some silly, muggle coffee and teashop near his home. The tea tasted like dregs unfit for a Weasley, no matter what flavor he tried. Draco decided that the water in America was some how contaminated by the muggles. He hadn't figured it out yet, but he was sure it was a complex plot having something to do with their so-called revolution and their subsequent prejudice against tea. The consolation Draco derived from poisoning himself in the tea shop was the over-flowing numbers of sublime humanity. If only they wouldn't speak. Or move so much. He usually remembered that muggles weren't fit to fuck, disease-ridden and poxed, when one of them would proposition him.
Before supper that night, Draco stopped by the Virgin Megastore to examine the shiny boxes the muggles seemed to covet in some strange manner. He had yet to see a virgin for sale, but he had an unending optimism when it came to that. He often ducked into the garish store with a faint hope in his heart to see muggles chained to the floor and a wizard bidding agent calling out prices.
Chi was busy as per always, and Draco liked it that way, far less chance of anyone bothering him when he sat at his table against the wall. The Confuddlement Curse didn't always deter people here. Too many latent and practicing magic users.
Draco had to fend off common rabble on a regular basis, so when the shadow loomed over his table, he didn't look up from Quidditch Quarterly.
"I'm not interested in starring in your film, television pilot, pornography, and no I wouldn't fancy coming back to your place or shagging in the loo. Please remove yourself from my general vicinity."
"Yo," The voice broke off laughing. "I ain't some kinda crooked talent scout trying to put no moves all over your skinny white ass. My friend wants to holla atcha right quick."
Draco looked up into the smiling face of a large black man. He wore the baggy clothing and spoke the unintelligible jargon of a variety of muggle that Draco rarely interacted with.
"You can tell your friend that I am otherwise engaged and would prefer to remain where I am." Draco shook out his paper to emphasis his point.
"My friend is Eminem, fool." The man crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his eyebrows.
"M and M? That is only one person? You're completely sure?" Draco thought muggles were absolutely ridiculous and fingered his wand as the man just gaped down at him. "Please leave now." Draco dismissed the man and went back to his summary of the Wasps and Cannon's match.
He was once again rudely interrupted shortly thereafter.
"Yo, what's your fucking problem?" Draco looked up into a strikingly familiar face. He set his paper aside and clutched his wand in his lap. The pointed nose and chin were disconcerting to say the least. The strange person laughed when Draco didn't respond.
"Shit. You look just like me, no lie." The man ran a hand through his close-cropped blond hair, and his bracelet caught the light, sparkling with a dangling pendant. Draco appreciated the platinum.
"Excuse me?" Draco could see the resemblance, but it galled him to think that this riff-raff was comparing himself to a Malfoy.
The man leaned back in his seat and tapped his fingers against the table, an annoyed expression marring his features. "I said you. look. just. like. me. You want an autograph?"
Draco thought that was quite an odd thing to say. "An autograph, is that some sort of machinery?"
"Bitch, who you kiddin'?" The man laughed, exposing dimples and muggley, blindingly white teeth. Draco shook his head to indicate he wasn’t, in fact, joking. "Where you from? England or some shit?"
Draco sighed. His meal was completely ruined. "Cast forlornly into a sea of American muggles. I should have gone to Australia."
The strange individual leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Yo, no way, you're a wizard?"
Draco had had a couple of these encounters since he'd come to L.A. Mainly he was extremely leery of other, real wizards here. "You appear to be exceedingly muggle to me. Your attire and your uneducated speech, reeks of muggle, and yet..."
"Don't be getting up in my face with your racist anti-muggle bullshit. They ain't all bad." The stranger looked angry, his fist clutched on the tabletop. He looked over his shoulder and gestured with his chin towards the man who had first approached Draco. The fellow strode over and laid a paper in front of him. "Sign that, dog."
"Why? And what is it?" Draco picked up the paper, but the ink wouldn't settle. The letters kept shifting off the page just as Draco thought he could sort of make out a word.
"Standard Non-disclosure Form, yo. Written up by my lawyer. You look like you need to get the wand outta your ass, and I'm about to bounce to The Liquorice Litmus, but you gotta sign that to come with."
"What is your name?" Draco looked up from the form, and from the corner of his eye he could read Under no circumstances or under pain of The Crucatius Curse will the undersigned ever disclose the magical status of one Marshall…, Draco looked completely away from the paper when the man laughed.
"Marshall, and damn if it don't feel good to haveta tell you that, dog." Marshall smiled, his freckles more pronounced as he leaned over to slap the pen into Draco's hand.
"Why the fuck not." Draco signed his name with a flourish, one that made his name completely illegible. "I will tell you now, however, that I won't hesitate to kill you if you try to hand me over to the Authorities of Great Britain or the Seychelles."
Marshall jumped to his feet, yanking Draco by the arm into the middle of a crowd of similarly clad men who formed a circle around him. "Knew you was a stone cold killer, bitch. You had to be to look like that." His smile was broad, and Draco thought that perhaps he was more out of his element than he had figured on.
The Liquorice Litmus was…
"A hip-hop wizarding club, yo." Marshall shouted in Draco's ear.
They sat on a black leather sofa on a second floor balcony while people twisted and writhed on a levitated dance floor behind them. Marshall looked bored, which Draco appreciated since he'd been cultivating that same look since he was ten. Below them, those not rated important enough shimmied and bounced, and Draco thought they looked like they were enjoying themselves far more than he was.
Draco drained his absinthe and redbull, and enjoyed the traces of light flowing off of the bodies on the dance floor.
"Did you ever think about fucking yourself?" Marshall's mouth skidded over Draco's ear, wet and slippery with shiny lip balm.
"Yes." Draco felt compelled to be honest, and he wondered in a fleeting way what else had been in his drink.
Marshall didn't wait for permission to pop the button fly of Draco's trousers or yank them open and as far off his hips as he could without Draco lifting his hips. Yes, Draco thought, This is the right way. Marshall's mouth latched onto Draco's neck, and he bucked his hips up high enough that Marshall could pull his trousers to his thighs. Draco kicked them off one leg completely so he could spread his legs, wide and lewd. He opened his eyes, and in the blur of the drugs and the red and blue light of the club, Marshall looked exactly like him, but with short hair.
"Hurry up!" Draco yanked Marshall's hand off his hip, wrapped it around his cock and pumped twice. He let his hand drop away when Marshall picked up his own rhythm.
"I have a snake tat like that on my hip." Marshall straddled him, his loose, muggle trousers pulled down his thighs. Draco pried open an eye and stared for a second, his own tattoo reflected back at him from Marshall's skin. Draco eased up his sleeve to his shoulder. The Dark Mark undulated on his bicep, the skull's jaw opening and closing in a snapping motion towards Marshall.
"Do you have one like that, though?" Draco dropped his head onto the back of the sofa, and groaned as Marshall shook his head and thrust his cock against Draco's belly.
Draco pulled Marshall down, pressing their mouths together. They both felt a strange slithering against their hips, a slide under their skin, and they both assumed it was the other man casting a breathless sex charm. The slithering continued, faster, harder, the odd itch under Draco's skin radiating from his hip, across his belly, into his cock. It felt like a thousand, tiny scaled tongues were licking him from the inside. He bit Marshall's neck, bit until his screaming was muffled and he drew blood, Marshall leaning into the pain, shaking hard as Draco broke the skin.
Draco came so hard he passed out, but later he blamed it on the absinthe. He woke up with his trousers refastened alone.
Whee, the wheel landed on incest!
Major shoutie to hackthis, girl, you asked me for Marshall months ago, I said I ain't even heard from his fucking skank ass in months. He called.
Beta by the above. Look, bitch, I been writing you this fucker for years, ante up and hit that shit back.
PS: Draco and the autograph thing is a joke. He thinks he's funny, a couple reading this story would not agree. Malfoys don't need your muggle appreciation of their humor.